Epilogue
One month later…
“A fine meal, Mrs. Quincey, and a welcome, if somewhat belated, introduction to your home,” Reverend Pettiman said as Nell escorted him into the gaslit hall.
Miles followed, with Lady Summers on his arm. A stately widow in beaded gray silk, she was one of the Academy’s chief benefactresses.
She and the reverend were the last of the dinner guests to take their leave. The others had already departed into the night.
Nell signaled for Mrs. Bright to fetch the stragglers’ things, all the while maintaining the same demure but gracious smile she’d been wearing since the evening had commenced.
She refused to let it falter, no matter that her face was aching from the strain of it.
Tonight had been too important to let her pride take precedence.
It was her and Miles’s first dinner party as husband and wife.
Not only had Pettiman and Lady Summers been in attendance, but several of Miles’s colleagues from the Courant, too.
It had been a delicate juggling act, presiding over such a gathering.
Nell had been fretting over it for weeks, planning the event down to its very last detail.
Now it was over, she owned to a distinct feeling of success.
Not one of them could accuse her of having failed in her duty as hostess.
She’d wined and dined the lot of them, deferring to Miles through the whole of it like the modest, obedient—yet still elegant—society wife she was purporting to be.
“My husband and I have been honored by your presence,” she said to Reverend Pettiman. “My only regret is that it’s taken so long to set your mind at ease.”
Mrs. Bright approached with the reverend’s hat and overcoat.
“Indeed,” Pettiman said as the housekeeper assisted him into his things. “However, given what I’d witnessed, and the sinful inclinations of many females, you will agree that my concerns were amply justified.”
Nell most assuredly did not agree. She limped forward, urging her guests to the door. The full skirts of her velvet dinner dress rustled softly over her petticoats and crinoline. “I trust we can put it behind us now, for the sake of the charity school.”
“Quite so, quite so.” Pettiman’s florid cheeks were redder than usual—a result of the many glasses of wine he’d imbibed at dinner.
It had been an expensive vintage, and one he hadn’t refrained from enjoying to the fullest. “Marriage and family are a cure for every ill. As I told Miss Corvus when last we met, ‘Miss Trewlove may have strayed from the path, but she appears to have found her way back to it again through the sanctity of matrimony. We must let her be an example to the girls.’ ”
“My wife is an example to all women,” Miles said gallantly, coming to join them.
Nell’s smile curved with genuine warmth as she met her husband’s eyes. He was strikingly handsome in his black dinner suit, with its cream silk waistcoat and matching cravat. She’d delighted in looking at him this evening, and in listening to him as he’d talked with the other newspapermen.
He’d been in his element. So knowledgeable. So confident. And very much in the good graces of the paper’s senior editors and advertisers since writing his shocking series of articles on Baron Amstead. Following publication of the first installment, the Courant’s circulation had nearly doubled.
As for Amstead, after a protracted investigation, he had only this week been arrested and charged with murder and conspiracy.
It was largely owing to the public outcry from the articles, and to the dogged efforts of Inspector Garrick.
According to him, there was every reason to believe that the baron would be brought to trial.
“Mrs. Quincey is certainly an exemplary hostess,” Lady Summers agreed. She permitted Mrs. Bright to assist her with her cloak. “If this evening’s entertainment was an illustration of how expertly she ran her classroom, I cannot wonder that Miss Corvus was so grieved to lose her.”
“Miss Corvus hasn’t lost me, ma’am,” Nell said. “She never could.”
Artemisia Corvus had been a mother to Nell in her own way. And more than a mother. She’d been a mentor, a guide, sparking the very fire that now burned within Nell’s breast, encouraging her to think, to plan, to dare.
There was no forgetting that. And no distancing herself from it, either.
Nell and Miss Corvus were still in regular communication.
She kept Nell informed about the school, its most promising students, and the continuing progress of Flora Brent, who was, by all reports, thriving in her new environment.
Nell’s relationship with her real mother was a different matter.
She only saw Lady Belwood occasionally in passing.
They exchanged civil nods in Bond Street and wordless salutes in Hyde Park.
Silent but meaningful gestures, typified by their emotional restraint.
I see you, they seemed to say. I know you.
It was enough for now.
“And there’s nothing to grieve, is there?” Pettiman said. “Not when Mrs. Quincey has been so admirably replaced in the form of the new sewing teacher, Miss Jean.”
“Ah yes, Miss Jean!” Lady Summers agreed. “Now, she is an exemplar. So modest and unassuming. So exceedingly proper.”
Nell exchanged a speaking glance with Miles.
Miss Jean was nothing of the sort. She was a stubborn cockney minx, who—when called upon—could wield an iron as capably as a needle.
She’d only agreed to come to the Academy as a means of securing her safety in the aftermath of her assault on Silas.
But once there, Miss Jean had lingered. Nell hoped she’d ultimately decide to stay.
“The school is fortunate to have her,” Nell said.
Albert, the footman, opened the front door, letting in a gust of cold air. Lady Summers’s carriage awaited her in the street amid the swirling fog, with Pettiman’s hired coach queued close behind it.
Miles came to stand beside Nell as they bid their guests a final good night. Nell tucked her hand in his arm, grateful to be near him again. They’d been obliged to sit at opposite ends of the table at dinner. It was the fashionable way of things.
“You can stop now,” Miles said after Pettiman and Lady Summers had departed and the door was shut firmly behind them.
Mrs. Bright and Albert withdrew, leaving Miles and Nell alone in the hall.
“Stop what?” Nell asked, turning to face her husband.
“Smiling,” Miles said dryly.
Nell was surprised into a rueful laugh. “Were my efforts that obvious?”
“To me? Yes.” His hand lifted to cradle her face. “I know every shade of your smiles.”
Warmth pooled in her belly. She turned her face into his touch. “I daresay you do.”
He stroked the curve of her cheek with infinite tenderness. “I don’t require it, you know.”
“Require what?” Nell was losing the thread of the conversation. How could she not when he caressed her like this?
“Obedience,” he said. “Blind agreement. Whatever it was you were aiming for at dinner.”
She leaned into him. “I was endeavoring for perfection.”
“Ah. Now, that you already have.”
“Foolish. I’ve told you I’m not perfect.”
His arms came around her, gathering her close. “You’re perfect for me,” he said gruffly.
Nell melted into his embrace. “Oh, Miles,” she breathed. “I do love you so.”
As they held and kissed each other, a looming shadow spread over the hall. Miles’s and Nell’s heads turned in unison to discover that it was cast by Shadow herself. The little tabby was padding cautiously down the stairs.
The cats had made themselves invisible during the dinner party, as they always did when strangers were about, but now the last guests had gone, they emerged one by one. Horus descended the steps behind Shadow. Virgil and Absalom crept out of the library, and Smoke materialized from beneath a chair.
“It’s all right,” Miles told them. “You’re safe now.” His mouth hitched briefly as his gaze returned to Nell’s. “They’re relieved to have the place to themselves again.”
Nell encircled his neck. “They’re not the only ones.”
In a short time, the house in St. James’s Square had become her home. The place where she truly belonged.
But it wasn’t the house.
It was Miles.
He was her home. Her whole world.
“Shall we retire, Mr. Quincey?” she asked.
Miles’s smile spread into a swift grin. “An excellent idea, Mrs. Quincey.” And sweeping Nell up in his arms, he carried her up the stairs.