Epilogue
The fire in Drayton’s study burned low, its embers pulsing like the last stubborn breath of a dying thing.
Beyond the tall windows, London lay muffled in fog and distance.
The city had begun, as it always did, to settle back into its routines.
The scandal had flared—blazed bright enough to scorch reputations and stir Parliament itself—and now, already, it was being folded away.
Tucked into drawers. Buried beneath fresh ink. Smothered by the next outrage.
Drayton sat in his chair with a glass untouched at his elbow, his gaze fixed upon nothing at all. He looked, as ever, the very image of a gentleman at ease in his own domain.
His man stood several paces away, half in shadow, as though unwilling to test how far his master’s mood might reach.
“It ended cleanly enough,” the man said at last. “Not as you intended, perhaps. But ended.”
Drayton did not turn his head. “Yes. It’s done,” he agreed, tasting the word as though it were a dull wine.
“The house is abandoned,” the man pressed. “The barges are gone. The fellows who attended? Some are frightened out of their wits. Others have left town. The papers are still sniffing. It will take coin to silence certain mouths.”
Drayton’s mouth curved faintly.
“Then spend it,” he said.
The man hesitated. “The Floralia drew in a tidy sum. But with the disruption—”
“Our wealth will not suffer,” Drayton cut in smoothly. “It never does.” His fingers tapped once against the arm of the chair, unhurried. “The Floralia was merely one enterprise. A season. A spectacle.”
“And the next?” the man asked. The question held no warmth, only calculation.
Drayton finally looked at him.
“There will always be a next,” he replied.
The man accepted that answer with a nod. Silence swelled again, punctuated only by the soft hiss of the fire.
Then, cautiously, he said, “And the lady?”
Drayton’s gaze sharpened.
“What of her?”
The man chose his words. “Lady Rosalynd. She interfered more than was wise. She risked your—our—interests.”
A delicate pause.
“Would you have me see to it?”
Something dangerous stirred behind Drayton’s composure. Not anger. Not quite amusement. Something less manageable.
“No,” he said quietly.
The man’s brow furrowed. “No?”
Drayton rose with sudden grace and moved toward the sideboard. On its surface lay a scattering of objects: a silver knife, a letter opener carved from ivory, a pair of gloves that had never seen the street.
His hand did not reach for any of them.
Instead, he unlocked a drawer and drew out a pistol.
Even in the firelight, it was unmistakably a gentleman’s piece—well-made, balanced, expensive. Not the crude sort favored by cutpurses and thugs. This was the sort a man might keep in a desk for protection, or carry in a fine carriage when the roads ran dark.
Drayton turned it slowly in his hands, examining the gleam of the barrel with a kind of reverence.
The man watched him. “You kept it.”
“Of course I did.” Drayton’s tone suggested there could be no other choice.
He angled the pistol so the firelight caught the engraving.
A crest.
A rose twined about a flowering sprig—delicate, aristocratic, and entirely damning.
“A family piece,” Drayton murmured. “A gentleman’s piece.”
The henchman’s mouth tightened as understanding dawned. “Rosehaven’s.”
Drayton’s eyes gleamed. “Yes,” he said softly. “The Earl of Rosehaven.”
He lifted the pistol, sighting down its length as if he could already see its future. Then he lowered it again, thoughtful.
“She is remarkably stubborn,” Drayton said, the words almost indulgent. “Remarkably fearless. A lady who refuses to remain in her proper sphere.”
“A lady who could become troublesome,” the man said flatly. “Dangerous, even. Emotion makes men careless.”
Drayton smiled then, faint and cold.
“Do you mistake me for careless?” he asked.
The henchman held his gaze. “No. But you’re human.”
For the first time, a flicker of irritation passed over Drayton’s face. It vanished at once.
He replaced the pistol with careful precision, as though laying a jewel into velvet. His fingers lingered on the crest a heartbeat longer than necessary.
“She is not to be eliminated,” Drayton said.
The man’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
Drayton shut the drawer and turned the key.
“Because she is useful,” he replied. “And because she will suffer far more when she is forced to watch the consequences fall upon those she loves.”
He crossed back to the hearth and stood before it, hands clasped behind his back. Firelight gilded the edges of his half-smile.
“One day,” he said, voice almost conversational, “the pistol will be found.”
The man said nothing.
Drayton’s gaze did not waver as he spoke the final words.
“And when it is, it will point straight to her brother.”
London is quiet, for now. But at the Royal Opera House, murder takes center stage.
Join Lady Rosalynd and the Duke of Steele in their next gripping adventure—A Murder at the Royal Opera, Book 4 in the Rosalynd & Steele Mysteries.
A blade in the dark. A death in the third act. A royal secret that could shake the throne.
London. 1889. When the Duke of Steele invites Lady Rosalynd to share his box at the Royal Opera House for a performance of Rigoletto, neither expects the evening to end in blood.
But as the doomed Gilda breathes her last onstage, a killer slips into the adjacent box—and Sir Edmund Hale, one of London's most ruthless industrialists, falls to a stiletto blade.
Both Rosalynd and Steele witness the shadowy figure flee, yet can do nothing to stop the crime.
Steele expects to hand the matter to Scotland Yard and be done with it.
But a summons to Windsor Palace changes everything.
The victim's widow had been conducting an indiscreet affair with the Prince of Wales, and Queen Victoria will not see her son's name dragged through scandal—or worse, suspicion of murder.
Steele and Rosalynd are commanded to find the killer quietly, before speculation can reach the press.
But the Queen's summons comes with an unexpected complication.
Victoria has heard the whispers about Steele and Rosalynd's unconventional partnership, and she does not approve.
If they are to work together so closely, Her Majesty insists, they must do so respectably—as husband and wife.
Now they must solve a murder without risking Her Majesty's displeasure—or surrendering to her demands.
As they delve into the industrialist's world of risky ventures, bitter rivals, and shadowy secrets, they uncover a conspiracy far more dangerous than a single murder. Someone powerful wanted Sir Edmund silenced—and they will not hesitate to kill again.