Epilogue
One Month Later
The carriage crested the rise overlooking Lobelia Hall just as the sun slipped past the western hills, gilding every window in molten gold. The old manor appeared to glow from within, as though awakening to the new life Graeme Lockwood and his family would breathe into it.
Graeme adjusted his starched shirt points with the mild irritation of a man not yet accustomed to tailoring that cost more than his entire tradesman’s wardrobe.
The deep navy superfine suited him well—too well, Phoebe had voiced more than once with a tease of her eyelashes—and the silver-thread embroidery along his waistcoat made him look, and feel, every inch the Earl of Collumby.
“It is utterly unfair that you look more handsome in a few hours as an earl,” Phoebe said, trying, and failing, not to grin, “than you ever did in all the weeks you spent pretending to be a solicitor.”
“I’ll have you know,” Graeme replied, tapping his signet ring, “my clerk attire was the height of modest practicality. Very respectable. Very dignified.”
“And very drab.”
He chuckled.
Across from them, his mother dabbed at the corners of her eyes with her handkerchief.
“You look splendid, my dears. Both of you. I still cannot believe it—my son, an earl, and me with a daughter-in-law to be!” She sighed.
“I wish your father could be here for the turn of events. He never did have the opportunity to see the ancestral family home.”
Graeme’s sister, Harriet, leaned towards Phoebe conspiratorially. “He’s been rehearsing with his ring all morning. I think he believes it gives him gravitas.”
Phoebe chortled, obviously delighted at the visual of Graeme twisting, tapping, and flashing the ring in a variety of aristocratic poses.
Next to Graeme, a bespectacled gentleman cleared his throat.
Mr. Brant Ellison, the real Mr. Ellison, folded his hands primly over his leather folio. “For the record,” he drawled, “I frown on theatrics. Case in point, I would like it known, I never push up my spectacles every third sentence as though they were attached to a spring.”
“I would claim artistic liberties,” Graeme defended, “but I truly do need spectacles to read, and I never accustomed to the snugger frames.”
Phoebe snorted. “I found him convincing, Mr. Ellison. Uncanny resemblance to a solicitor. Never would have suspected otherwise.”
“You missed your calling for the stage, Graeme,” Harriet said with a titter.
“I demand a full accounting of what he got up to playing me,” Mr. Ellison complained nasally. “My reputation may never recover if he played me poorly.”
Trying not to laugh outright, Phoebe said to Graeme, “I warned you that someday you would have to answer to the man whose name you borrowed.”
“And now I have. He shows no mercy,” he said solemnly.
The carriage slowed as they reached the final curve of the drive.
Below, the household staff gathered in neat rows, the butler at their head, the housekeeper beside him, all standing straight-backed and visibly tense with anticipation to meet the long-awaited new Earl of Collumby, accompanied by the earl’s family, the earl’s betrothed, and the familiar Mr. Ellison.
Fluttering with excitement, Phoebe whispered for his ears only, “Do you think they’ll recognize you?”
“Not a chance. The tailoring and pomade have made me a different man entirely. Besides, they never looked past my spectacles.”
Smirking, she pressed, “Care to place a wager on that?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
The carriage rolled to a stop.
When the door opened, and Graeme and Phoebe descended, the butler stepped forward and bowed with flawless dignity. If the man was shocked to see the former solicitor emerge from the carriage in full aristocratic splendor, he hid it expertly.
Graeme’s gaze swept the staff in search of reactions as the real Mr. Ellison descended next before offering Harriet and Wilhemina a hand.
The butler bowed again, this time to Brant Ellison, and said, “Welcome back, Mr. Ellison. A pleasure to see you again.”
Graeme murmured to his solicitor, “Your reputation precedes you after all.”
Mr. Ellison puffed out his chest.
Behind the butler, he could see Mrs. Redshaw’s lips pressed together. He could not read her expression.
Leaning close to Phoebe, he said, “They’re fooled.”
Phoebe shook her head almost imperceptibly. “On the contrary. They know.”
“Preposterous.”
“They’re only pretending.”
“You’re just greedy to win the wager,” he teased. “Fortune huntress that you are.”
Moving her lips within inches of his ear, she whispered, “You may pay whatever forfeit you choose.”
He hoped his face did not flush for all to see.
Mrs. Redshaw stepped forward, curtsying deeply. “My lord. Welcome home to Lobelia Hall.”
Unexpectedly, his heart gave a joyful leap. Home. From the way Phoebe squeezed his arm, he knew her joy ran far deeper. Her fingers curled around his sleeve as he guided her forward, ascending the front steps, the staff parting like a tide.
As they crossed the threshold into the great hall, Graeme bent his head. “Are you ready, my darling?”
“For what?”
“Everything. This house. This life. My family. Our family. Our future.”
She rose on tiptoe and kissed him, light as a promise. “I want everything, but mostly you.”
Behind them, a murmur rippled through the staff.
When he turned to welcome his mother and sister into the great hall for the grand welcome to their new home, he heard the housekeeper mutter to the butler, just loud enough for him to catch in the breeze: “I knew that clerk weren’t a clerk.”