Epilogue
The Domus did, in fact, close its doors.
But only for renovations.
And entirely at Rose’s instruction.
The crimson walls had been softened, the heavy draperies removed, and every lock, bellpull, and hidden panel inspected and improved. Most importantly, the receiving rooms upstairs had been converted into private bedchambers for women and children who needed somewhere safe to stay.
But that was only the beginning.
Where gentlemen had once wagered fortunes beneath clouds of cigar smoke, long tables now stood beneath tall, uncovered windows.
Shelves lined the walls, already filled with books on history, philosophy, mathematics, and trade.
Women could learn to read there, keep accounts, study a profession, or simply sit somewhere warm without being required to earn the privilege.
The Domus was no longer a brothel.
It was a house of refuge and instruction for women who needed safety, opportunity, and time to decide what came next.
Nell and Mr. Huxley had matters well in hand.
All of it was rather exceptional, really.
Rose stood in the center of the former gambling room, studying a stack of newly delivered books, when strong arms slipped around her waist.
“You are distracting the proprietor,” she said.
“My wife owns the building. Surely that entitles me to certain liberties.”
“You do make an excellent point.”
“I have another.”
Reginald pressed himself against her from behind, then kissed his way slowly down her neck.
Rose smiled and leaned into him.
His affection came easily now. So did hers. Neither gesture demanded payment or promised pain. Love could be offered without caution—and trusted once it was given.
They were both still learning that.
And the Phantom Gale?
It had sailed the morning after their engagement, with Mr. Dyer as her new captain. Reginald had not returned to command her.
He had discovered another way to remain near the water.
While Rose oversaw the transformation of The Domus, Reginald purchased a small shipbuilding and repair yard. He claimed he could not be expected to remain idle while his wife terrorized architects and disputed the price of wallpaper.
In truth, he had taken to the work immediately. Repairing damaged hulls. Rebuilding masts. Returning ships to the water stronger than they had been before.
Rather like The Domus, Rose sometimes thought.
Reginald turned her in his arms.
“We have not yet had a proper honeymoon,” he whispered.
Rose’s smile softened.
They had married by special license three days after his proposal, and Reginald had taken her home to the townhouse he had leased for them. Since then, they had spent a rather shocking number of nights—and mornings, and entire afternoons—tangled in its bed linens and in one another.
“We have not?” she asked.
He chuckled. “That was not the proper part. I’m referring to the corresponding journey a couple usually embarks on together.”
“Oh?”
“You have spent the first months of our marriage supervising builders, disputing invoices, and preventing Nell from scaring off the plumbers.”
“They didn’t deserve her wrath.”
“That’s debatable.”
Reginald took both her hands. There was laughter in his silver eyes, but something more tender beneath it.
“Will you come away with me?”
“I would love to.” Rose smiled. “What did you have in mind?” Anywhere, for a girl who’d spent her entire life within a one-mile radius in London, would be a journey.
His mouth twitched.
“There was an old brig at the yard when I purchased it. She’d been neglected, but her bones were sound. And while you’ve been busy here, I’ve spent the past few months restoring her.”
And then he added, “She is waiting at the wharf.”
Rose narrowed her eyes. “She is waiting? For us?
“The vessel. She is the Compass Rose.”
A small sound escaped her.
Reginald lifted her fingers to his lips.
“She requires christening,” he said. “And a maiden voyage.”
Understanding dawned slowly.
“Nell and Mr. Huxley have everything under control,” he continued. “And if they require anything, Melanie will be happy to assist.”
Melanie—the Duchess of Malum—who had suggested the project in the first place and had since become one of its most involved planners.
The fact that Rose now called her Melanie still felt rather remarkable.
“Unless you aren’t ready yet.” Reginald took her quiet for hesitation.
Rose smiled despite the sudden pressure behind her eyes.
“Ask me again,” she said. “Properly this time.”
Reginald held her gaze, his expression softened.
“Rose, my love. My wife. Will you christen our ship and sail away with me?”
Once, he had asked her to abandon her home and step blindly into his life.
Now she had a home that belonged to her. Work that mattered. People who would remain standing when she left—and family who would welcome her when she returned.
Reginald was not asking her to escape with him.
He had built something new and was asking her to make it theirs.
“To where?” she asked.
“Anywhere you choose.”
Rose pushed onto her toes and kissed him.
“Yes,” she whispered against his mouth. “Take me everywhere.”
The Rake Review
September, 1822
LONDON’S MOST INFAMOUS ESTABLISHMENT TO CLOSE ITS DOORS