Epilogue
ONE YEAR LATER
London glittered beneath crisp, brilliant winter sunlight.
Penelope stood outside a charming, narrow bookshop on Bond Street, pulling her velvet-trimmed cloak tightly around her shoulders against the biting December chill.
Beside her, Nicholas had his small nose pressed so flat against the glass display window that his breath left large, fogged patches on the pane.
Hector sat directly at his heels, his heavy chestnut-and-white frame upright with the solemn, immovable dignity of a royal footman guarding the crown jewels.
“Papa,” Nicholas announced loudly, tapping an insistent finger against the glass. “I require this specific volume immediately. It is an absolute necessity.”
Malcolm stepped up beside the boy, the sheer breadth of his broad shoulders blocking the wind. He peered down through the glass, his rugged features twisting with an amused, dark brow lifted. “Naval Warfare and Heroic Battles of Europe?”
“Yes.”
“Nicholas, you are eight years old.”
“Which is practically ancient, Papa. I am practically a grown man.”
Penelope let out a soft, melodic laugh, the sound rising like mist in the winter air, and tucked her hand more firmly through the crook of Malcolm’s powerful arm.
One whole year had passed since the terrifying afternoon in the old glasshouse.
One year since the shadow of Charles had threatened to swallow their newfound peace whole.
Now, looking at Nicholas bundled snugly in a tailored dark blue wool coat, chattering endlessly about topmasts, brigantines, and hunting hounds, Penelope felt a profound sense of gravity settle into her chest.
Home no longer felt like a fragile, translucent thing that could shatter at any moment. It felt real. It felt permanent.
Malcolm looked down at the book again, his deep baritone rumbling. “If I remember correctly, you already own three separate volumes detailed entirely with naval battles.”
“Yes, but this one has hand-colored illustrations of the sails,” Nicholas countered with grand, theatrical hand gestures. “And a complete map of the Mediterranean.”
“Ah. Hand-colored sails,” Malcolm murmured dryly. “Then clearly, it is entirely essential to your education.”
Nicholas grinned triumphantly, his honey-brown eyes flashing with victory. Penelope watched Malcolm surrender to the boy’s persistence with poorly concealed amusement as the massive Duke ushered both the ecstatic child and the lumbering hound into the warmth of the shop.
The sheer sight of them still caught at her chest sometimes, bringing happy tears to her eyes.
The Duke of Brigrock—once whispered about in the glittering ballrooms of Mayfair as a savage, deformed recluse who hid from society—was now patiently listening while an eight-year-old argued naval military strategy over pastry crumbs.
The moment they crossed the threshold, the little bell chiming overhead, Nicholas immediately vanished into the labyrinth of shelves toward the adventure and travel section, Hector trotting faithfully and heavily behind him.
The elderly bookseller behind the counter looked up, his eyes widening in immediate alarm at the sight of a massive hound navigating his narrow aisles of precious leather and parchment.
“Hector,” Malcolm said mildly, not even raising his voice.
The great dog sat at once, his front paws perfectly aligned, his tail giving a single, polite thump against the floorboards.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” the bookseller whispered faintly, visibly wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead.
Penelope hid a bright smile behind her muff, leaning closer to her husband. “You have domesticated them both quite beautifully, Your Grace.”
Malcolm glanced over his shoulder toward the aisle where Nicholas’s dark head was visible. “The hound is domesticated. The boy remains highly questionable.”
Nicholas looked up instantly from an atlas. “I heard that, Papa.”
“You were meant to hear it, rascal.”
Penelope wandered away toward the poetry shelves, her skirts swishing softly against the floor, while Malcolm began negotiating with the bookseller over three different volumes that Nicholas absolutely did not need but would undoubtedly receive.
A deep, enveloping warmth spread through her chest at the rhythmic sound of their voices echoing behind her.
Then a heavy, incredibly warm palm settled gently against the small of her back.
Malcolm.
She looked up at him, her heart swelling. Time and happiness had softened nothing essential about Malcolm Balfour.
He was still broad-shouldered and intimidating enough to clear entire corridors of London society when he was irritated. But now, there was an unmistakable warmth in him.
A visible, radiating light.
The servants at Brigrock House no longer startled or dropped trays when he entered a room; they smiled.
Hector slept on the expensive Persian carpets in the drawing room without a single fear of reprimand.
Nicholas regularly climbed onto Malcolm’s lap during serious estate meetings, remaining there with a toy boat while tenants and stewards discussed drainage problems and crop rotations.
And Penelope slept every single night wrapped securely in the heavy, protective circle of his arms, knowing no harm could ever reach her again.
Malcolm’s thumb brushed absently across her waist through her heavy winter cloak.
That evening, Brigrock House practically glowed with the warm light of a hundred beeswax candles, echoing with laughter and the clink of crystal.
Benedict arrived first, striding into the drawing room and immediately declaring himself half-dead from absolute starvation, despite having consumed a full luncheon at his club only hours before.
“I know your gluttonous habits, Benedict,” Malcolm informed his friend as he poured him a glass of brandy. “You eat like a wolf.”
“And yet you still invite me to your table year after year. A true testament to your generous, long-suffering spirit, old man.”
“You are entirely impossible,” Penelope said, stepping forward to press a welcoming kiss to Benedict’s cheek.
“I am not impossible, Your Grace. I am charming.”
“You are exceptionally loud,” Amelia corrected sharply from the doorway, stepping into the room with her usual crisp, elegant poise.
Benedict brightened instantly, turning on his heel with a theatrical bow. “Lady Amelia. Every year that passes, you become more utterly devastating to my sanity.”
Amelia removed her long evening gloves leisurely, not a single hair out of place. “And every year that passes, Lord Hayward, you become more completely ridiculous.”
“Cruel, cruel woman.”
“But you continue to return to our dinners.”
“Hope is the ultimate tragedy of my life,” Benedict sighed dramatically, raising his glass.
Violet arrived moments later, wrapped in a breathtaking gown of silver silk and heavy winter furs, already laughing softly at something Lord Giltbury murmured under his breath as he escorted her in.
Nicholas came tearing down the grand marble staircase at the sound of their voices, with Hector racing in a joyous blur of fur right beside him.
“Aunt Violet!” the boy squeaked.
“Good Heavens, child,” Violet said with a warm laugh as Nicholas collided directly into her silver silk skirts, hugging her tightly. “You grow larger every single time I see you. What are they feeding you in the north?”
“I am nearly as tall as Papa now,” Nicholas declared proudly, puffing out his chest.
Malcolm looked down at the boy from his height by the hearth. “In approximately ten years, perhaps.”
Nicholas grinned widely, entirely unbothered by the correction, and ran off toward the dining room before anyone could stop him from surreptitiously stealing sugared almonds off a silver tray.
Dinner stretched long and beautifully into the evening.
The grand dining room glowed a rich gold beneath the massive crystal chandeliers, while servants moved with practiced quiet between the decadent courses.
Outside, a soft winter rain tapped rhythmically against the glass windows, making the interior feel like a safe, impenetrable fortress.
Halfway through the supper, Benedict raised his wineglass dramatically into the air, the crystal catching the candlelight.
They all ate and drank. As she lowered her glass, Penelope caught Malcolm watching her over the rim of his own wine. The sheer, intense look of devotion in his dark eyes still made a delicate, intoxicating warmth climb slowly beneath her skin, making her heart flutter.
Violet leaned forward slightly, her expression turning slightly serious. “Have there been any further legal appeals from Charles’s solicitors in London?”
The grand table quieted instantly. Nicholas stopped kicking his feet under the table, looking up curiously at the mention of the name.
Malcolm’s expression cooled into a mask of hard iron in a fraction of a second. “No.”
“Good,” Amelia muttered darkly into her wine.
Benedict’s mouth flattened into a hard, serious line. “The high magistrate made the sentence absolute and permanent last month. There are no loopholes left for him to exploit.”
Penelope set down her silver fork carefully, her fingers steady but her mind drifting for a brief second.
Life imprisonment.
Even after a year, the words felt heavy, strange, and monumental.
Charles had raged like a caged beast through the entire trial in London.
He had threatened the judges, threatened the constables, and lied badly on the stand.
He had tried to accuse the Duke of Brigrock of manipulating the courts and fabricating evidence.
But the servants had spoken up. The young, guilt-ridden footman Thomas had confessed completely to accepting the bribe for the forged note.
And most damning of all, Penelope’s dark bruises had still been vividly, terribly visible on her neck and cheek when she stood before the court to give her testimony.
“He shall remain exactly where he belongs until his final breath,” Malcolm said quietly, his voice a low, gravelly vow that brooked no argument. “In the dark.”