Epilogue
“Knowledge of the disposition of the enemy can only be obtained from other men.”
Sun Tzu, L’Art de la Guerre (The Art of War)
After their afternoon spent selecting books, Brendan lingered in the entryway, watching Lily ascend the staircase to change for dinner.
The fading light from the tall windows cast a golden sheen on the polished banister, and for a moment, he allowed himself the indulgence of watching her silhouette disappear around the landing.
So much had changed.
Turning to head toward the library, he was halted by the soft clearing of a throat behind him.
He pivoted on his heel. “What is it?”
Michaels, unusually hesitant, stood with his hands folded. His usually impassive face bore a crease between the brows. “The study is ready, milord.”
Brendan blinked. “The study?”
“We have … managed to clean the floors,” the butler said slowly. “And a new rug has been placed. I took the liberty of moving the furniture and rearranging the objets d’art to …” He faltered, the final words lost in a vague motion of his hand.
Despite the uncharacteristic awkwardness, Brendan understood what was being conveyed. The traces of blood. The shattered statue. The final breath of the late baron. All had been erased or hidden beneath layers of polish and new fabric.
He lifted a hand to his temple, rubbing absently before catching himself. The old tension was back, coiling behind his eyes.
“I see.” He had not stepped foot in the room since the night he had found the body. Perhaps it was time. Time to reclaim what was his.
“After you.”
Michaels offered a short bow and turned toward the west wing. Brendan followed him down the corridor lined with gilt-framed portraits, the hush of the house swallowing their footsteps.
At the threshold, Michaels opened the door but did not enter, stepping aside with silent deference.
Brendan crossed the threshold alone.
The study was softly lit, the oil lamps casting a warm flicker over shadowed corners.
The heavy damask drapes had been drawn back, allowing the last of the afternoon sun to brush over the furnishings.
His mahogany writing desk, which once faced the east windows, now stood on the far wall, facing west. A new rug—Persian, from the look of it—had replaced the old one.
Rich reds and deep indigos grounded the room in fresh color.
The arrangement atop the mantel had been altered. Bronze busts now flanked a clock he did not recognize, and the shelves between the tall windows had been restocked, their spines aligned with a precision only Michaels could muster.
Brendan stood still, taking it in.
“It was an excellent idea to rearrange the furnishings,” he murmured. “I do not think I could have walked in to find everything …” He hesitated. “To find it exactly as it was that night would be macabre, to say the least.”
Michaels nodded. “It was a sad day for Ridley House, milord. I have no wish to think of it each time I enter the room.”
Brendan turned slowly toward him. “Are you … holding up? It must be difficult to take a man’s life.”
Michaels pressed his lips together, his gaze straying to the window. For several seconds, he stood in contemplative silence before replying.
“It would have been inconceivable to allow Lady Filminster to come to harm. Her ladyship is a vibrant mistress, one who will shape the next chapter of the Filminster title. I find myself quite looking forward to … the progression of the Ridley family.”
Brendan’s lips twisted into a wry smile. The butler’s oblique reference to Lily’s future procreation stirred a warmth in him that he, too, anticipated with fondness.
With a discreet bow, Michaels turned and left, closing the door quietly behind him.
Brendan crossed the room and approached the desk—his desk now. He ran a hand across its polished mahogany surface, his fingertips trailing the edge where delicate scrollwork had been carved into the wood. The shape was familiar. Solid. Steadying.
Dropping into the chair, he stretched his legs out, one boot tapping lightly against the rich wool of the rug. Deep reds and blues gave color to the otherwise somber room. Michaels had done well refreshing it. Even before renovations could begin, the space already felt less haunted.
Leaning back, Brendan’s hand found the carving beneath the lip of the desk.
He had always enjoyed journaling, though his thoughts had remained unwritten since the baron’s arrival.
His fingers moved along the groove with practiced ease, finding the hidden clasp.
His mother had once shown him a similar drawer in the matching desk at Baydon Hall, so he had known what to look for.
With a muted click, the hidden compartment released.
Inside was his well-worn leather journal. But just beside it, half-tucked into the shadows, lay a loose page. His hand stilled.
Frowning, he carefully extracted the page and the quill that lay beside it, ink-stained and still slightly tacky at the tip. He placed them on the desk along with the journal, staring at the page as comprehension slowly dawned.
The scrawl was unmistakable—his uncle-father’s angular hand, hastily looped and impatiently crossed.
Brendan’s pulse quickened. It appeared the old man had been interrupted while writing, for the page bore scattered droplets of ink that obscured sections of the text like black teardrops.
The pen had spattered. In his panic, the baron must have swept the unfinished letter into the drawer and closed it, sealing it away, perhaps in his final moments.
A dreadful weight settled in Brendan’s chest. This could be the answer. Or it could be something worse.
His breath grew shallow. For a long moment, he stared without truly seeing, his mind tightening around the implications.
The letter existed.
The mystery was not done.
A soft knock broke his trance, and he flinched.
The door opened, revealing Lily—now refreshed, her gown silken and her curls refreshed. She paused just inside the threshold, her gaze falling instantly to his face.
“What is it?” she asked, crossing the room in swift, graceful strides.
Brendan shook his head slowly. “I think I found the letter.”
She gasped, rushing forward to his side. “What? How?”
“There is a secret drawer,” he said quietly. “Where I keep my journal. When I opened it … I found this.”
He lifted the letter with fingers that trembled slightly.
He had never truly believed it would surface. Despite all their efforts—Briggs, Michaels, the endless search of Ridley House—he had considered it a rumor. A hope.
Lily wrapped her arm around his shoulders in a close, protective embrace.
“It will start everything up again,” she said softly.
He nodded.
“But eventually,” she whispered, “this story will end. And we shall have our lives ahead of us.”
Brendan turned his head to look at her. “We shall see what the baron had to say, then.”
Drawing a breath, he lifted the page and held it steady, her arm still draped across his back.
“It is addressed to the Home Secretary. Some of the words are obscured by the ink that soaked into the paper.”
Sir Robert Peel
London, July 19, 1821
Sir,
It has come - - my attention that the true heir to Lord - - - - - - - - has not been acknowledged.
I was speaking with his lordship before the coronation, and he informed me of his recent bout of ill health.
He spoke fondly of his youngest brother, informing - - of his strength, intelligence, and wit at great length.
There was no mention of his lordship’s middle brother, Peter, who you may be aware died near twenty years - - -.
Peter and I attended Oxford together, - - - his death was tragic - - - unexp- - - - -. I have thought of him often over the years, which is why I feel the need to pass this information - - - - - -u.
Before departing England, Peter married a wom- - of Catholic descent.
She convert- - - - - - - - - were married - - - - - Church of England, before leaving our shores.
I maintained correspondence with him until his death.
He had written just months before his death to inform me of the birth of his son.
I cannot say for certain where the boy and his mother are - - - - - all these years, but he would be the true heir and I implore you to look into th- - matter. - - - - - - - - - is the true heir to the title of - - - - - and his father’s legacy cannot be ignored.
I understand the trials of being a second son, and I cann- - allow this matter to stand.
Whether - - - - terrible injustice is a mistake due to ignorance of the child Peter sired, or a deliberate obfuscation of the facts, I must speak on my friend’s behalf.
His son is the true heir and must be found immediately.
I will locate our shared correspondence when I return to Somerset and have them forwarded to - - - - - - - - - - -
J. Ridley, Baron of Filminster
Lily stood frozen, mouth parted in disbelief, as Brendan lowered the letter to the desk.
“This truly must be the reason the baron was killed!” she exclaimed. “Do you think the false heir is the one who did it?”
Brendan did not answer at once. His thoughts churned, slow and heavy.
Inheriting a title was not merely a matter of honor. It could involve estates, tenancies, seats in the Lords, and wealth beyond ordinary imagining. A hidden heir, a lost son—it all sounded like something from a dramatic novel, and yet here it was, spelled out in the scrawled hand of the late baron.
It could explain everything.
The late-night visit. The panic. The choice of weapon. The sudden violence.
It was a theory as logical as it was chilling.
“We do not know enough,” he said finally.
Lily threw up her hands. “What are you saying? We have everything we need right here!”
Brendan shook his head. “We do not even know the identity of the lord he spoke with. Do you know how many peers have at least three sons? That the second son is named Peter narrows things only marginally.”
“But we know Peter died about twenty years ago. He married a Catholic woman, she might have been from the Continent. And he left England before his death. That must reduce the number of possibilities by … well … quite a bit?”
Brendan reached up to cover her hand where it still rested lightly on his shoulder. “You are correct. It is simply … a great deal to absorb.”
He looked back at the letter, its smudges and blotches now imbued with cruel weight. “The baron’s death suddenly seems almost trivial in light of this. It was a matter of chance. Someone must have come to silence him without even knowing this note would give them away.”
“I suppose,” Lily said, her voice low as she rested her chin against his hair, “you shall meet with Briggs and the others to discuss where this takes the investigation.”
He nodded.
“The baron’s murder was a tragic event,” she continued softly, “but it led us to each other. It is dreadful to ponder the reason we are now married, but I cannot bring myself to regret that we are wed.”
Brendan turned in his chair to look up at her. Her face was serene, yet her eyes sparkled with fierce conviction.
“No regrets,” he said, his voice quiet but firm.
“None at all,” she agreed and pressed her cheek gently to his temple.
Brendan felt a smile tug at his lips despite the unsettling revelation of the letter. Without thinking, he reached over and drew Lily gently into his lap, cupping her face as he pressed a kiss to her soft mouth.
“Despite how all this came to pass,” he murmured, his forehead resting lightly against hers, “I regard myself as most fortunate to have married such a singular and intriguing woman.”
“Intriguing?” Lily asked, her breath warm against his cheek.
“Absolutely captivating. Endlessly amusing. Ravishing in spirit and wit.”
Her arms twined around his neck, and Brendan felt the lingering tension in his chest finally begin to ease.
“Thank you,” he whispered. “For standing beside me. For helping me navigate this ordeal. For believing in me.”
“For keeping you out of prison?” she teased, her tone light.
He chuckled. “Indeed. That, most especially.”
Lily tilted her head, her eyes soft, and deepened their kiss in a way that was sweet and certain. Brendan lost himself in her affection, grateful beyond measure. Her presence anchored him more than any title, more than any inheritance.
Their closeness mounted like a slow-burning flame, and Brendan held her tightly, brushing a hand down her back in reverence. He thought, fleetingly, how much he would like to lift her into his arms and carry her upstairs, simply to hold her uninterrupted.
A knock at the door startled them both. They sprang apart slightly, laughter in their eyes as Brendan smoothed a curl behind her ear.
“Dinner is served, milord.”
Michaels stood in the doorway, his expression serene and focused on a point somewhere beyond the far wall. His composure was exemplary, considering he had clearly interrupted a moment of newlywed intimacy.
“Thank you, Michaels,” Brendan replied, mustering more dignity than he felt.
The butler nodded and withdrew, shutting the door with quiet efficiency.
Lily turned back to him with sparkling eyes before succumbing to a sudden, irrepressible fit of giggles. Brendan laughed in response, then drew her into his arms for one final embrace.
“Come now, Lady Filminster,” he said with mock solemnity as he helped her to her feet. “It is time to dine.”
Lord Aidan Abbott investigates Mr. Smythe but compromises his daughter, Gwen, at a ball in front of a crowd of important guests. Find out what happens next in Miss Smythe and the Midnight Lord!