Epilogue
The christening took place three months later, in the newly restored chapel at Blackthorn Manor. Matilda Margaret Blackthorn, dressed in ancient lace that had somehow survived the fire, slept through the entire ceremony, which everyone agreed showed excellent judgment.
"She's already smarter than both of us," Arabella observed.
"She's sleeping through a social obligation. She's a genius," Lucien agreed.
The gathering was small but eclectic—Julian standing as godfather, Cordelia as godmother, Margaret there to represent Matilda's memory, even Lady Potts, who'd become an unexpected friend.
"No Cassandra?" Julian asked innocently.
"She's in Italy," Lucien said. "Permanently."
"How do you know?"
"I may have provided her with funds to stay there."
"Blackmail?"
"Incentive."
"Same thing."
"Different thing, but equally effective."
"And Harrington?"
"Transportation to Australia. The judge was very understanding about attempted murder and arson."
"How understanding?"
"Seven years' understanding."
"That seems light."
"It seems like seven years we don't have to think about him."
"Fair point."
The ceremony ended as peacefully as any event in the Blackthorn household ever could; which was to say, not entirely without chaos.
The guests had barely finished applauding when a triumphant bark rang out, and Thistle came charging down the aisle with the ceremonial cushion clenched proudly in his teeth.
Cordelia sighed in amusement, folding her arms. “You know, I think he’s actually getting predictable. I can almost tell what he’ll steal next.”
Lucien shot her a warning look. “Don’t say that out loud. He’ll take it as a challenge.”
No sooner had the words left his mouth than Thistle returned, tail wagging furiously, carrying something decidedly more alarming, something that looked suspiciously like the vicar’s wig.
The vicar blinked. “I don’t wear a wig.”
Arabella turned slowly, scanning the crowd until her gaze landed on Morrison, who was looking peculiarly self-conscious and a good deal barer about the head. “Morrison,” she said, fighting back a laugh, “is there something you’d like to tell us?”
The butler cleared his throat. “It’s for special occasions, my lady.”
Arabella raised a brow. “And Thistle, naturally, thought it needed liberating?”
Morrison inclined his head gravely. “Apparently so, my lady.”
Lucien crouched down, retrieving the offending object from Thistle. “Good dog,” Lucien said with great seriousness.
Arabella blinked at him. “You’re praising theft now?”
Lucien straightened up, unrepentant. “I’m praising consistency. He steals from everyone equally. It’s a rather democratic approach to mischief.”
Arabella gave him a look of mock disbelief. “That’s not democracy, Lucien.”
“In a dog, it’s talent,” he replied cheerfully.
“In our dog.”
She shifted the baby in her arms, trying not to smile. “And what exactly do you imagine he’s going to teach our daughter?”
Lucien’s mouth quirked. “Everything he shouldn’t.”
“Perfect,” she said with a fond sigh. “You’ve changed, you know. The infamous Beast of Blackthorn, now praising criminal behaviour and bad manners.”
He smiled faintly, looking uncharacteristically content. “The Beast is retired. I’m just Lucien now.”
“Just Lucien,” she echoed teasingly, “who happens to own a burned-down manor miraculously rebuilt from the ashes?”
“Just Lucien,” he corrected softly, “who happens to be hopelessly in love with his wife.”
Arabella’s expression softened. “That Lucien,” she said, brushing her thumb along his jaw, “is my favourite.”
He arched a brow. “Better than the Beast?”
“The Beast had his charms,” she admitted, lips curving.
“Such as?”
“Brooding,” she said thoughtfully. “A touch of danger. The dramatic scarring. The way he glared at anyone who dared to breathe too loudly.”
He grinned. “I still have the scars.”
“More now,” she countered. “But they’re not battle scars anymore.”
He tilted his head. “No?”
“Love scars,” she said softly.
Lucien’s smile gentled. “Same thing for us, isn’t it?”
Arabella nodded. “Everything’s the same thing for us.”
“Chaos and happiness?” he suggested.
“Crime and family?” she added.
For a while they stood together, watching their guests mingle across the garden—the sunlight glinting off the newly polished windows of the rebuilt house, their daughter sleeping peacefully in Arabella’s arms, and Thistle now proudly wearing Morrison’s wig as though it were a crown.
Lucien slipped an arm around her waist. “No regrets?”
She leaned against him, her eyes still on their child. “Never.”
“Not even about the fires?” he murmured.
“Especially not about the fires,” she said. “They brought us together. They tested us. And we passed.”
Lucien smiled. He looked down at her, at the peaceful mess of their world, and whispered, “Like our life.”
Arabella met his gaze with a tired, radiant smile. “Exactly like our life.”
Matilda stirred, opening eyes that were already showing signs of her father's dark intensity.
"She's awake," Lucien said unnecessarily.
“She’s judging us,” Arabella said finally, her voice somewhere between amusement and mild despair as she glanced down at the bundled infant in her arms. The baby’s tiny brows were furrowed in what looked suspiciously like disapproval.
Lucien leaned against the door frame, arms crossed, watching both of them with a lazy grin. “She’s three months old,” he reminded her, as if logic could possibly apply in their household.
Arabella turned the baby slightly, so that the full effect of that unimpressed stare was visible. “She’s still judging. Look at that expression.”
Lucien tilted his head, squinting. “It is not.”
“That’s judgment,” Arabella countered immediately, her tone firm.
Lucien arched an eyebrow. “From our daughter who was born during a fire?”
Arabella adjusted the blanket and kissed the baby’s head with exaggerated solemnity. “Exactly. She has high standards. Comes with the territory of dramatic entrances.”
“She has criminal influences,” Lucien said, glancing pointedly toward the corner of the room.
Both of them turned in unison to where Thistle was proudly adding the collection plate to his growing pile of “treasures” on the floor: a silver spoon, a pair of gloves, and what might have been a half-eaten tart.
“We should stop him,” Arabella said after a long pause, though she didn’t sound particularly motivated.
Lucien nodded gravely. “We should.”
Neither of them made the slightest move to intervene.
After a moment, Arabella sighed and leaned her head back against the chair. “We’re terrible parents,” she observed, though her tone was affectionate rather than remorseful.
Lucien sank into the seat beside her, resting his elbows on his knees. “We’re interesting parents,” he corrected, flashing her a crooked smile.
Arabella laughed softly, the sound blending with the baby’s small gurgle. “She’ll be fine,” she said, tracing a gentle finger over the infant’s cheek.
Lucien’s gaze softened as he looked at the tiny face between them. “She’ll be chaos,” he said with something like pride.
Arabella smiled, eyes bright. “Our favourite thing.”
Lucien leaned over, pressing a quick kiss to her temple. “Forever our favourite thing.”
The sun broke through the clouds then, streaming through the restored windows, painting everything golden. It was, Arabella thought, rather like that first day at the lake—bright, full of possibility, slightly chaotic.
And as if in agreement, Matilda laughed for the first time; a bright, perfect sound that made everyone stop and smile.
"She laughs like you," Lucien said softly.
"She scowls like you."
"Perfect combination."
"Perfectly imperfect."
"Like everything about us."
"Wouldn't change a thing."
And life, Arabella thought as she watched her husband, her daughter and Thistle, was absolutely perfect in its imperfection.
Just the way it should be.
Just the way it would always be.
Chaos, crime, and all.
***
The weeks following the christening settled into a rhythm that was, for the Blackthorn household, remarkably peaceful. Which should have been everyone's first warning.
"It's too quiet," Arabella said one morning, nursing Matilda while Lucien read correspondence.
"It's peaceful."
"It's suspicious. Thistle hasn't stolen anything in three days."
"Maybe he's reformed."
They both looked at the dog, who was sitting by the fire looking angelic.
"Now I'm worried," Lucien said.
"You should be. He's planning something."
"How can you tell?"
"Mother's intuition."
"You're not his mother."
"I'm his criminal mastermind's mother. Close enough."
"Our daughter is not a criminal mastermind."
"Not yet. But look at her influences."
Matilda, as if understanding, gurgled happily and grabbed her father's finger with surprising strength.
"She's going to be perfect," Lucien said with the blind devotion of a besotted father.
"She's going to be chaos."
"Organised chaos."
"Is there such a thing?"
"There will be. She'll invent it."
"Heaven help us all."
Julian arrived then, breezing in without knocking as had become his habit.
"Good morning, proud parents. Still pretending your child won't become a master thief?"
"She will not..." Lucien began.
They were interrupted by Cordelia bursting in, looking flushed and excited.
"He's here!"
"Who?" Lucien asked suspiciously.
"Lord Ashby's son. James. The one who breeds spaniels."
"I said no."
"You said no to him calling. You didn't say no to him accidentally encountering me in the village."
"Cordelia..."
"We've been accidentally encountering each other for weeks."
"What?!"
"He's very nice. And his dogs are well-behaved."
"Unlike ours," Julian observed.
"Focus," Cordelia interrupted. "James wants to meet you properly."
"No," Lucien said.
"Lucien," Arabella said in a warning tone.
"What? We agreed. No suitors."
"We agreed no unsuitable suitors."
"All suitors are unsuitable."
"You were a suitor once."
"I was never a suitor. I was a rescuer who got trapped into marriage."
"Trapped?"
"Strategically maneuvered into marriage."
"Better."
"Still accurate."
"Still romantic."