Epilogue
It was three weeks before Christmas. Lucien, who'd lingered at breakfast after the others had made their excuses, was sipping his coffee and contemplating how to straighten out Andrew — as he had so cleverly straightened out Gareth — when a footman brought in a silver platter bearing the morning post, and presented it to His Grace.
He went through it with his usual lack of interest. Nothing out of the ordinary, here. Bills, investment opportunities, loan requests from friends and charities, invitations to social events, and ah! — his brows rose in interest — two letters. He tossed the other post aside and slit the seal on the first one. It was from Gareth and Juliet, full of recent news: about Charlotte, who was now walking; about Gareth, who'd recently been elected the local Member of Parliament; about Juliet, who was expecting their second child. The letter ended with an invitation for the whole family to spend Christmas at Swanthorpe.
The duke leaned back, thoughtfully stroking his chin. Outside, it was one of those rare days in an English winter when the sun, low in the sky and still weak, had managed to burn through the clouds and turn the sky the color of bluebells.
Christmas at Swanthorpe. He smiled. Hell, why not?
He folded the letter, basking in the satisfied glow he always got when he considered his part in bringing Gareth and Juliet together.
The Wild One all squared away. Time to get to work on Andrew, the Defiant One.
Ah, yes. Now there would be a challenge....
Still grinning, he picked up the other letter, bearing the postmark of some town in America he had never heard of. The writing on the front looked oddly familiar. Frowning, Lucien turned the letter over, broke the seal — and began to read:
28 October , 1776
My dear brother, Lucien...
What?! Lucien came half-way out of his chair, nearly upsetting the table. "My God! He's alive!"
He cursed his eyes for their inability to travel as fast as his excitement as he raced through the rest of the letter:
... I do not quite know how to begin this letter, especially knowing what you must believe — and what you will think of me, after you have read it through. I hope to God my family has not wept for me, as I do not deserve your tears, your concern, not even your forgiveness. I have much to say, and much to explain as regards my absence and the unhappy fact that everyone seems to have believed me dead — but I dare say that a letter is not the place to do it, and there are things I would speak to you about only when I am back in England with my family.
To that end, I will be taking passage home in two weeks, and hope to be with you all for Christmas. Please discard all memories of the man you once knew me to be; illness and circumstance have made me but a shadow of my former self, and you should not expect too highly of me when next we meet.
I look forward to seeing you all soon. May God bless and keep you.
Charles
Lucien sat there for a moment, stunned. Then, the letter clenched in his hand, he strode hurriedly from the room, bellowing for Nerissa and Andrew.
Work on the Defiant One, it seemed, would just have to wait.
The Beloved One was coming home.
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