Epilogue
Perseus took the turn into Wentworth Crescent without pause.
Carriages lined both sides, lamps glinting off lacquered panels, the air thick with horse sweat and chatter.
Fitzwilliam kept a loose hand on the reins.
The Friesian moved straight down the centre, steady as a clock’s pendulum—broad-chested, black as glass, and entirely untroubled.
“Sir—your horse—there’s a line!” cried the porter at the gate.
Fitzwilliam did not slow.
“Oy!” the man barked as Perseus passed the stone arch, hooves ringing like measured blows.
Two coaches stood nose to tail near the steps, so close their lamps nearly touched. Fitzwilliam guided Perseus between them. The gap was a stall width.
Perseus took it without hesitation.
A tall figure in full livery detached himself from the nearest carriage—white wig, long coat, hat cocked at a hauteur that had seen better centuries. He drew himself up as Fitzwilliam approached.
“Sir,” he said, nasal and officious, “the entrance is for carriages. You are—ah—mounted.”
Perseus stared at him.
“I must ask that you dismount elsewhere. Guests arrive by—”
Fitzwilliam prompted Perseus forward. One step.
The man retreated a step. “I say, sir, the horse cannot—”
Perseus exhaled once, mist curling past the man’s hat. Fitzwilliam did not move.
Another footman hurried down the stairs; he whispered into the tall man’s ear. The color left the man’s cheeks as if drawn off by a surgeon.
He straightened. “My apologies, Captain Fitzwilliam. Of course. I would be honored to hold the reins while you—ah—enjoy your evening.”
Fitzwilliam dismounted. He unlashed his sabre and buckled it at his side.
The man’s mouth opened, then closed.
“Problem?” Fitzwilliam asked, his gloved hand resting on the hilt.
The man swallowed. “Not for you, Captain.” He gestured towards the entrance.
Heat struck as soon as the doors opened—a wall of perfume, wax, and breath thick as smoke. The air shimmered beneath chandeliers hung low with candlelight.
No receiving line remained. The ball was in full course. Servants merely took his cloak and gloves, then stepped aside. He moved forward.
A ripple passed through the nearest groups—whispers traveling faster than sound. He felt them without listening. He was used to that hum.
A mirror caught him in passing—navy, brass, steel—ready for war. He glanced about. All the men his age wore waistcoats that belonged on schoolroom children.
From across the floor, he saw them at once—Darcy and Ellie, pale and precise, moving through the set with the calm of someone who hated attention but endured it well.
Darcy more than Ellie.
Where was Phoebe?
He found her, standing apart, her head turned toward the dancers, the Matlock smile fixed upon her lips. He slid behind a column and watched—Darcy and Ellie moving together, Phoebe working her fan.
A man unknown to him stepped to Phoebe’s side. Fitzwilliam disliked him at once—the mustard coat, the elephants, the man.
“I am unsurprised to see you are without a partner,” the man was saying, his tone slick with amusement.
“I suggest you take your leave before my family returns,” Phoebe answered evenly. “We are a protective lot, I daresay.”
The man laughed, loud enough for nearby couples to hear. “Yet here you stand, all alone—just as one would expect. I shall set the example—”
“You are revolting.”
The man gripped Phoebe’s hand. Fitzwilliam stepped away from the column.
His vision narrowed.
“Who let that animal in here?” the man hissed.
“That animal is Captain Richard Fitzwilliam. My brother.”
Fitzwilliam caught both their hands. His grip settled—precise, inescapable.
The music ended. The crowd’s murmur changed pitch—awareness passing through it like current. The man’s mouth worked soundlessly. Fitzwilliam felt the tremor.
He drew Phoebe behind him with one motion.
“Problem?” he asked, tightening his grip. Darcy had moved in behind the man, silent and immovable.
The man jerkily shook his head. Fitzwilliam released all but the forefinger. He twisted counterclockwise. The young man squeaked.
“Problem?” he repeated.
The peacock again shook his head back and forth, tears in his eyes.
Fitzwilliam snapped his fist clockwise. A bone popped.
“Problem?” he said, his tone low.
“No, sir,” he whimpered.
Fitzwilliam released him. The man moaned and staggered away; his damaged hand pressed to his breast.
“Problem?” mimicked Darcy.
Phoebe fanned herself, colour rising. Fitzwilliam glanced at her.
She inclined her chin.
Darcy held his hand out to Phoebe. She took it, and they moved towards the dance floor together.
Fitzwilliam gestured for Ellie’s hand. She gave him hers, stepped closer, and kissed his cheek.
“You hurt him,” she said. Her voice carried no accusation.
He looked down at her. “Was it too much?”
The first four chords played.
Phoebe stepped forward. Darcy met her in the middle.
Their hands met, smiles wide, the line closing neatly with them.
Ellie’s fingers caught his chin and turned his face back to hers.
Her blue eyes held him.
“It was perfectly done, brother.”
Ellie slipped her arm through his. She gestured towards the dancers.
Phoebe turned under Darcy’s arm.
Fitzwilliam did not move.