Epilogue
Five years later
“Buongiorno, mia donna,” Patrick murmured, stretching his arms over his head as he lay in bed. Morning light bled in from around the drapes, and he knew it was past time he rise for the day.
Armenia snuggled closer, one arm draped over her husband’s chest. “Not yet,” she whispered drowsily.
“I must get to the office, preferably before noon,” he replied.
“Or you could retire,” she murmured.
He chuckled and leaned over to place a kiss on her head. “Not yet, but soon.”
She opened her eyes. “Really?”
“Probably,” he hedged. “I’ve received word from England that McAdams’ Textiles have the exclusive contract for all the wool from a huge flock of sheep somewhere in Oxfordshire.”
Armenia sat up and stared down at him. “From whom?”
He lifted a shoulder. “Well, I’m not really sure. Something about an earldom—”
“Gisborn?”
Blinking, he considered the name a moment and nodded. “Sì. Do you know of it?”
“Don Randy Forster—David’s cousin—is the heir to the Gisborn earldom. They were all on their Grand Tour together. Remember?”
“He was the one whose wife was an archaeologist?” he guessed.
“That’s the one.”
Patrick narrowed his eyes. “When Penton was here last month, he hinted he might be acquiring more sheep, but I thought he meant for the flock on your nephew’s lands,” he said.
Armenia tittered. “That flock is almost too large for the D’Avalos farms,” she said. “Edoardo told David he’ll have to buy him more land to accommodate next year’s lambs.”
“Will he, do you suppose?”
“He already did. Bought it in Vittoria’s name since he still claims they are her sheep. The neighbor was happy to sell since he needed the money.”
“Don Penton does spoil her,” he teased.
Armenia displayed a grimace. “I don’t consider buying land for sheep spoiling her,” she countered.
“I was referring to all the other things he bought for her whilst they were here. And for all those children.”
“They only have four,” she said.
“In what? Five years?”
“Well, I’m sure Vittoria was already with child before the bishop allowed them to marry,” she countered. “Who would have ever thought David would have to beg for a special dispensation? He was a viscount, and she’s a D’Avalos, after all.”
“If you’ll recall, I had to beg as well,” he reminded her.
She leaned over and bussed him on the cheek. “Only because you insisted on us marrying in the Pantheon,” she reminded him.
“Well, of course I would. It’s where we shared our first kiss, under all those perfect numbers,” he reminded her.
“I remember,” she whispered thoughtfully. “Would you do it again?”
“Marry you?” he asked, his eyes wide. “In a heartbeat.”
She sighed contentedly. “And what sort of ring would you give me?” She held up her left hand, the ruby and diamond ring glittering when it caught a beam of light from the window.
“Oh, I see what this is about,” he said, chuckling. Leaning over, he opened the drawer in the nightstand and pulled out a wrapped package. “I was saving this for our anniversary, but I believe now is a better time to put it on your other hand,” he said, giving her the box.
She inhaled softly, her gaze going from him to the box and back again. “You remembered,” she whispered.
“Of course I remembered,” he replied. “How could I forget the second best day of my life?”
“Second best?” she repeated, scoffing softly.
He saw her look of hurt and grinned. “The first was the day you accompanied me on the tour of all those fountains. The first day I kissed you. The first day I made love to you,” he said. “Before that, I would have had to say it was the day my son was born.”
She dipped her head, her attention on the box. “I am honored,” she murmured.
“You can open it. I think you will like it,” he said, motioning to the ring box.
Armenia opened the hinged box as if she thought whatever was inside might jump out at her. She gasped. “A sapphire ring,” she said in awe. “It’s enormous.”
“With diamonds,” he said, arching a brow. He grinned as she slid it onto the fourth finger of her right hand. “I wanted you to have a gemstone that matched your ruby but in a contrasting color,” he explained.
“Oh, Patrick,” she said on a sigh. “It’s gorgeous,” she said, holding up both hands with her thumbs pressed together. She wiggled her fingers. “You do realize you’re not going to the office in the next hour,” she said as she climbed back onto the bed.
Patrick chuckled and settled back onto the mattress. “Do your worst, mia donna,” he whispered.
“Oh, I intend to do my best, Signore McAdams.”
It was noon before Patrick made it to the office.
Meanwhile, at Devonville House in Mayfair
Will regarded the pile of correspondence on the silver salver his butler had set on the edge of his desk and sighed.
Although he and Barbara enjoyed the entertainments available now that they were living in Mayfair, there were times he wished they could simply remain at Devonville House and enjoy a quiet evening with Nancy.
The girl had excelled at learning English and had taken a liking to her piano-forté lessons, the lively notes of her practice reaching him despite the music room being at the opposite end of the house.
He pulled a missive from the pile on the salver, immediately recognizing the even print of his oldest grandson.
It wasn’t addressed to him, though, but rather to Nancy.
The thirteen-year-olds exchanged letters on such a frequent basis, he had been forced to ensure David budgeted enough to cover the postage—for the letters from Antony as well as for those Vittoria received from Nicoletta and Armenia.
About to call for the butler to have him deliver the letter, he discovered he didn’t need to—Nancy was standing on the threshold to his study waiting to gain his attention.
Since their initial return from Rome, she had grown at least twelve inches and wore her hair in what could only be described as a tumble of dark curls.
Although Barbara frequently fussed over its inability to stay put in a coiffure, he continually reminded her the girl was only thirteen.
She doesn’t need to look as if she’s attending her first ball when she comes to dinner, he would say, only to be met with sighs of frustration.
And neither do you. If Barbara wasn’t quick on her feet, he would have enough pins pulled from her graying hair so her locks would fall past her shoulders, leaving her complaining about her ruined hair even as she tittered in delight when he attempted to nibble her ear.
What came after had him grinning with self-satisfaction.
“Pardon, Papa, but is there news from Catania?”
Will chuckled and held up the letter. “Indeed. There’s one for you from Antony,” he said, holding it out in her direction. “I haven’t even had a chance to read it,” he added, implying he regularly read her correspondence before giving it to her.
She ran to his desk and plucked the missive from his hand. “Far better that you don’t,” she said.
Giving a start, Will asked, “Is my grandson writing impertinent notes these days?”
Nancy screwed up her face into look of confusion. “Impertinent?” she questioned, her dark brows furrowing. “I don’t know what that means.”
“Good,” Will said. “I feared the marchese might already be sending you love notes,” he added, his manner rather jovial. He pursed his lips and made kissing noises.
“Love notes?” she repeated, her manner entirely serious.
“Yes. With claims of how much he wishes to kiss you when you next see one another,” he said, pulling another missive from the pile.
He didn’t notice her expression of guilt when he added, “Here. Give this one to Nonna. It’s from Nikky,” he said.
“Probably word of another impending grandchild,” he murmured, secretly glad for his oldest son.
Donald enjoyed fatherhood as much as Nicoletta did being a mother.
Nancy took the note from him, dipped a curtsy, and hurried out of the study.
She would have to let Antony know to be careful in what he said in his love notes.
Meanwhile, at the Devonville townhouse in London
David Slater, Earl of Bellingham, sat back in one of the parlor chairs and watched as his three sons pretended to play a game of pall mall despite there being no wickets standing in the Turkish carpet.
The mallets they wielded only hit the ball on occasion, sending them sailing over the parlor carpets until they either collided with the feet of furniture or hit the baseboard moldings.
In the crook of his arm, he held his week-old daughter, her face scrunched up in an expression that suggested either a wail would soon ensue or her nappy would require changing.
The memory of a vivid dream came to mind, and he inhaled softly before he allowed a chuckle.
“What are you laughing at, Father?” William asked from where he leaned on a mallet that was far too tall for his four-year-old grip.
“You,” he replied. “All of you,” he added, when Donald and Eduardo looked up from where they were lining up their balls.
William furrowed his dark brow, which made him appear as if he had already taken a seat in the House of Lords and was experiencing a case of heartburn. Since he was the next heir to the Devonville marquessate, David thought it rather fitting.
“What did I do that was funny?”
David shook his head. “Nothing, my lord,” he said. “I am simply amused on this day,” he added.
He was imagining what Patrick McAdams might think when he learned he had the exclusive contract for wool from the flock of sheep that he had talked Randy into buying for the fallow land surrounding the Gisborn farmlands.
Although the heir to the Gisborn earldom had resisted the plan, he soon capitulated when Diana informed him it would make it easier for her to excavate the land to continue her search for Roman ruins if sheep cleared it first.
She had already unearthed a treasure trove of Roman coins and evidence there had been a Roman settlement on the lands north of the River Isis at some point in the past. The neighboring lands would no doubt yield more finds, further enriching the Gisborn coffers.
Only the day before, he had received the deed to land adjacent to the D’Avalos farmlands, a necessary purchase given Vittoria’s flock of sheep had grown much larger since the couple’s wedding.
He had arranged for the purchase to be as if she had paid for it, so Vittoria’s name was on the deed.
He hadn’t yet showed her the document, but thought to give it to her on their fifth wedding anniversary along with another ring as part of a sapphire parure.
He glanced down at his daughter, Barbara Armenia Nicoletta Slater, and wondered if she would ever be of a mind to ask for a flock of sheep for her tenth birthday.
He hoped not.
Lifting the bundle to his shoulder, he realized he was being watched and grinned.
“Here you all are,” Vittoria said, her hands on her hips.
David couldn’t help the way his manhood reacted.
Despite it only being a week since the birth of Barbara, Vittoria was already slimming down, even if her breasts seemed to enlarge with every babe.
“Hello, my love,” he said, coming to his feet.
He hurried over to take her hand to his lips.
“Are you sure it’s not too soon for you to be up and about? ” he asked in worry.
She lifted herself onto tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “I merely gave birth,” she countered. “I’m not ill.”
“You’re certain you don’t wish to hire a nurse?” he pressed. Every other English aristocrat’s wife employed a wet nurse to see to their babes, but Vittoria had insisted she see to feeding her own babes.
“I am sure,” she said, taking the baby from him. “I’m surprised she’s not complaining,” she murmured.
“Not yet,” he replied.
“She likes it when you hold her. They all do,” she said quietly.
David kissed her forehead. “Your Prozia Adeline has sent word she wishes to meet the newest addition to the family.”
“I already sent word I would pay her a call with Barbara on the morrow,” Vittoria replied. “Zia Adeline is terribly old. I fear this may be the last time I see her.”
David grunted. “You said that when you took every other one of our babes to meet her,” he reminded her.
His own mother had been the first to pay a call at the townhouse, insisting—as she had with the boys—to be able to hold the babe between feedings.
His father had spent far less time with the children, his duties as the Marquess of Devonville consuming most of his time despite David continuing his role as man of business for the marquessate.
Vittoria grinned. “So our babies prolong her life,” she said.
Chuckling softly, David watched as she took her leave before he turned his attention back to his sons.
“Well, boys, what shall we do before you have to take your afternoon naps?” he asked.
A cacophony of responses ensued, and he glanced over at the card table. “Cards, it is,” he said.
The three boys cheered and clambered up onto the chairs surrounding the green felt-covered table, and David proceeded to shuffle and deal.
Any day now, he expected he would win a hand.