The Greatest Challenge of Them All

by Stephanie Laurens

  Now, they strolled the battlements hand in hand, looking out over the Wash, watching the westering sun streak the shimmering expanse in a palette of pastel hues.

  They halted at the northwest corner. He drew her around, settling her back against his chest, angling his body so his bulk protected her from the worst of the wind and wrapping his greatcoat about them both.

  She relaxed against him, and they looked out over the wild and desolate, yet hauntingly beautiful view.

  After a moment, she murmured, “You and Albert were so very right to push for a trial.”

  Nagle had faced the court just after the turn of the year. As he didn’t hold a seat in the Lords, he wasn’t entitled to a trial there but instead had faced proceedings like any other criminal.

  Drake lowered his chin to rest on her bountiful black curls. “It was worth every tithe of the effort.”

  He, ably assisted by the other five, had spent long hours working alongside Inspector Crawford detailing the case—the full litany of crimes that could be laid at Nagle’s door—and assembling and clarifying the evidence supporting the charges.

  As Drake had hoped, Nagle hadn’t been able to resist arrogantly elucidating for the judges his reasons for acting as he had, and as Drake had predicted, their lordships had taken a dim view of Nagle’s justifications. They’d sentenced Nagle to a traitor’s death, and everyone—led by his family, who, as Louisa had warned, had disowned and denounced him—had applauded the decision.

  Nagle was no more.

  Reflecting on the ultimate outcome of Nagle’s scheme, Drake continued, “The reassurance to the public that the law will prevail, even in the case of perpetrators such as Nagle, was essential. And the boost to Scotland Yard’s reputation—with the public, with higher society, and within the various arms of government—will stand everyone in good stead. On top of that, the revelation of Nagle’s inspired attempts to manipulate existing prejudices—in his case, against the Young Irelanders and the Chartists—to maneuver the state into reacting in a manner which would, in fact, have been against the Crown’s and the people’s best interests was a warning long overdue.”

  Drake paused, then went on, “From whispers our fathers and others here have heard, it seems that point has finally struck home to those in Parliament and, even more importantly, those inhabiting the corridors of Whitehall. Unthinking prejudice is a weakness. Acting on it is outright folly.”

  “Speaking of those inhabiting the corridors of power”—Louisa twisted her head to look back at him—“I assume you’ll continue to act for the Home Secretary on occasion.”

  He studied her eyes, but for once couldn’t read her direction. “Would you rather I didn’t?”

  Her eyes widened. “Oh no. I can’t imagine anyone more qualified for the task, and as we’ve just proved with this latest mission, yours is a vital role that someone suitable must fill.” She wriggled around to face him, her hands rising to grasp his lapels. “Neither Greville nor Waltham—nor, indeed, any of their minions, much less Scotland Yard—would have had any chance of foiling Nagle’s plot. If it hadn’t been for you, me, and the other four, the country would now be in dire straits.”

  Understanding bloomed. “Ah. I see.” Drake realized he should have foreseen her tack. “You want to be involved.”

  She blinked her huge, peridot eyes at him. “Well, as I’m sure you’ll admit, my help was essential in outwitting Nagle.”

  He could hardly argue that. More, the events of the last months had opened his eyes on several fronts, not least to the contributions she, Antonia, and Cleo were capable of making whenever investigations veered into those domains in which they were expert—more expert than he or any other gentleman. Slowly, he nodded. “There will, no doubt, be further missions in the months and years to come.” He met her eyes. “And I agree. The sons of the nobility are stronger and more able when the daughters of the nobility join them.”

  For a second, she stared at him, then she beamed. “I never thought I would hear you admit that.”

  He grunted. “I might be domineering, arrogant, and autocratic, but I’m not foolish enough to deny that I’m stronger and more able with you than without you.”

  Her smile took on a richly satisfied edge. “We’re going to be a very powerful team.”

  She was right. She might be female, might be soft where he was hard, weak where he was strong, yet when it came to mindset, to wielding inherent and inherited power and possessing ruthless, unrelenting inner resolve, she was as warrior-born as he. Varisey and Cynster. And soon, through them, their houses would be linked.

  “You do realize that once they’ve had a chance to absorb and assimilate our news, the ton is going to grow just a tad nervous over the degree of combined power, inherited and otherwise, we’ll have at our disposal.”

  “I daresay.” Her brows rose haughtily; her eyes were fixed on his. “But they’ll just have to get used to it. We’re here, we’re together, and no power on earth will ever succeed in pushing us apart.”

  He looked into her eyes, then slowly smiled. “My thoughts exactly.”

  He bent his head, and she rose on her toes, and they sealed that declaration—one of intent and commitment—with a soul-deep kiss.

  CHAPTER 64

  SATURDAY, MARCH 15, 1851

  SOMERSHAM PLACE, CAMBRIDGESHIRE

  They were married at Somersham Place, in the chapel in the grounds of her family home—a chapel that had seen countless other marriages throughout the centuries. Marriages that, if the tales told were true, had all been founded on love.

  Surrounded by a vast gathering of family and friends, of connections and acquaintances, along with representatives of the other great houses, the royal family, and ministers of state, Drake and Louisa recited their vows in voices that, even in that setting, rang with their respective strengths, with the power they commanded, and the resolution each possessed.

  And thus, two of England’s most powerful dukedoms were joined.

  Her hand in Drake’s, her fingers gripping his, in a gown of shimmering ivory silk overlaid with gilt-edged ivory lace, as the minister, a benevolent smile on his face, pronounced them man and wife, Louisa felt, deep in her chest, a resonance as if a bass gong had been struck.

  An acknowledgment, perhaps, that this was fated—that Fate had triumphed and claimed them as her own.

  And that in this setting, in that moment, love was made manifest. That through this ceremony, their love was recognized and accorded its due.

  Because she, most certainly, was marrying for love, and she knew it. And no matter what he did or did not say, so was he.

  And as, with a sidelong glance, he met her eyes, read them, and his fingers squeezed hers more tightly, she saw in the golden depths of his eyes that he knew that, too.

  For several seconds, she could not have spoken as emotion, unbidden, rose and swamped her.

  But then the minister gave Drake permission to kiss her, and he drew her into his arms, and all she could see was him.

  Her anchor, her protector—her never-failing challenge.

  In that second, he read her eyes and, apparently, saw all she was feeling. His lips curved as he bent his head and, quite deliberately, stole her thunder. “Finally!”

  Refusing to be outdone, she flung her arms about his neck. “At last!”

  Those near enough to hear—her brothers and sisters-in-law and the poor minister—had to smother their laughs while he and she engaged in a suitably restrained kiss.

  Then Drake released her and took her hand, and smiling more delightedly than either ever had, they turned and walked up the aisle. Congratulations and felicitations rained upon them, then someone started to applaud—was it her grandmother or Lady Osbaldestone?—and the entire congregation and all those surrounding the chapel started clapping.

  The insistent uplifting beat followed them as, laughing, they swung out of the door and, hand in hand, led the wedding party and all the guests over lawns strewn with rose petals
back to the sprawling mansion, to the ballroom and the wedding breakfast the staff were waiting to serve.

  Later, after the meal and the toasts and the speeches were done, and Drake and Louisa had led the company in the first waltz, and they’d subsequently enjoyed several more, he stood beside her before one of the huge arched windows and looked over the sea of heads.

  She’d wound her arm in his; he could sense her eagerness—her enthusiasm for plunging into their future—like a tremor of happiness coursing through her.

  He glanced down at her—and as was now usual, she felt his gaze and looked up and met his eyes. Briefly, he studied hers, then murmured, “How are you feeling?”

  Her smile bloomed, radiant and joyous. “I told you—I feel utterly wonderful! Not every lady wilts at such a time.”

  The notion of her wilting, even given the cause…he had to admit he couldn’t imagine it.

  “And”—she leaned closer to whisper—“I’m fairly certain Antonia is expecting, too, and what’s more, Cleo as well.” She held his gaze, amusement shining in hers. “We’re all so busy playing our cards close to our respective chests, I’m half inclined to organize an event—just for the six of us—at which the truth will out.” She looked at the company, all chattering and exclaiming and talking nineteen to the dozen. “Can you imagine what the interest will be when the news gets out?”

  “I really don’t think I want to imagine it,” he dryly replied.

  She grinned at him. “Yes, but…” She tipped her head, her expression teasing. “I would think you three males will be exceedingly interested in one particular aspect.”

  Feigning aloofness, he arched his brows. “Boy or girl?”

  She laughed. “No. Which baby arrives first!”

  “Ah.” After a second, he inclined his head. “I take your point.”

  Still laughing, she tugged on his arm, then caught his hand. Walking backward, with her eyes fixed on his in quite scandalously open and evocatively sultry challenge, she drew him through the guests—who parted like the Red Sea—and onto the dance floor.

  Smiling—and he fervently hoped his expression wasn’t besotted—Drake went.

  By the ballroom wall, Devil and Honoria stood with Royce and Minerva. All four had watched the interplay between their recently wed children who were now whirling down the room in a waltz, oblivious to everyone and everything around them.

  “Well,” Minerva stated in her most duchessly voice, “that’s those two taken care of.”

  Honoria sighed, the sound redolent of the utmost content. “And so very straightforwardly—or at least so it seemed once they’d finally undertaken to grapple with reality. Helena and Therese always maintained that this—the pair of them wed—was how it was supposed to be, and that once they were a couple, above all others, these two will shape their world.”

  Minerva nodded. “And they decreed that nearly a decade ago. Do you remember?”

  “Indeed,” Honoria replied. “It was the day following Louisa’s come-out ball, after they’d watched Louisa and Drake waltz.”

  Over their wives’ heads, Devil and Royce exchanged a glance. Then Royce shifted and said, “You were right in labeling this time—marked by these three weddings—as a changing of the guard.”

  Devil nodded. “You put it well today—that our generation’s era of dominance is waning, and it’s time for our children to step forward and take over the mantle of guiding the country.”

  “Their turn to take on the responsibility.” Minerva linked her arm with Royce’s.

  “And ours”—Honoria looked up at Devil as she took his arm and smiled rather more understandingly than Devil would have wished—“to accept their rise and step back.”

  Both Royce and Devil frowned near-identical frowns.

  Minerva and Honoria exchanged a knowing glance and, laughing, led their spouses to the dance floor.

  When the waltz eventually concluded, at the far end of the floor, Louisa wound her arm in Drake’s and, with a bright and eager smile on her face, determinedly steered him to one of the chaises at the very end of the ballroom.

  Drake looked ahead and inwardly sighed. He’d hoped to avoid the occupants of that chaise, but resigned, he hid his reluctance and pretended to go willingly. While standing in the receiving line alongside Louisa, he had, of course, greeted and briefly spoken with her grandmother and her grandmother’s even more ancient friend, Lady Osbaldestone. That exchange had necessarily been brief. He had hoped he wouldn’t be called on to sustain any further exposure to the elderly ladies; in his admittedly limited experience, such exposure was always an unnerving experience.

  “Grandmama!” Louisa halted before the elderly Dowager Duchess of St. Ives.

  Apparently blithely unaware of his antipathy, Louisa shifted her bright gaze to Lady Osbaldestone, then back to the Dowager, and said, “I wondered if either of you had any advice for us.”

  Drake nearly closed his eyes and groaned…then he realized Louisa almost certainly meant socially. Social advice, which, arch-grandes dames that they indubitably were, the pair were supremely well qualified to give.

  He started to breathe easier, then noticed that both beldames had fixed their eyes—one pair a similar shade of pale green as Louisa’s, the other obsidian—on him.

  They didn’t give him a chance to retreat.

  “My advice,” Louisa’s far-seeing grandmother stated, “is to never forget what brought you together.”

  He knew perfectly well she wasn’t referring to the mission.

  Lady Osbaldestone nodded sagely. “That’s sound and wise counsel, to which I will add”—her black eyes narrowed on Drake’s face—“when aggravation strikes, try harder.”

  Drake stared at the ancient old lady, and she stared unwaveringly—challengingly—back at him.

  He didn’t need telling; he already knew—had already accepted—that love and, even more, loving Louisa was and always would be the most exciting, most distracting, most exacting, most scarifying, most satisfying, and inevitably, the greatest challenge he’d ever faced.

  The greatest challenge of them all.

  That realization, his acceptance of it, allowed him to smoothly incline his head to both ladies. “I will endeavor to remember.” He glanced at Louisa and reached for her hand. “And if I don’t, I’m sure I can rely on my wife to remind me.”

  That comment put a glorious smile on all three ladies’ faces.

  With an elegant bow to the two older grandes dames, Drake looped Louisa’s arm in his and led his own grande dame away—into their future, into whatever adventures and intrigues Fate might send them, into a life ruled by mutual passions and desires, by shared goals and shared challenges, by family, by loyalty, by honor and purpose, presided over by the one immutable power that held sway over all.

  Love.

  The old ladies were correct. Life began with, was sustained by, and ultimately was ruled by love.

  CHAPTER 65

  M uch later that night, in the sumptuous apartments of the Duchess of St. Ives, slumped beside her husband of nearly thirty-two years in the shadows of the huge four-poster bed, despite Devil’s best efforts, Honoria was still wide awake.

  Raising one hand, she poked Devil in the ribs. “I still can’t believe it! We’ve married off all three—extremely well, if I do say it myself—and all in a matter of months!” She turned her head on the pillow to study his face. “Do you have any idea just how remarkable that is?”

  His face half buried in the pillow, Devil raised one heavy lid. After several seconds of staring back at her, he ventured, “I thought they made up their minds on their own.”

  “Well, of course, they did! But it’s getting them to that point that’s so tricky.” Honoria flung out her arms. “And we’ve managed it without having to push, or steer, or take any action at all.”

  Devil snorted and turned over. “Frankly, in the matter of you or anyone else pushing, steering, or manipulating any of our three in even the most minor way i
n that arena, I would have given a small fortune to watch.”

  “Huh.” After a moment, Honoria said, “Well, it never came to that, and now they’ve all flown, as it were…” She turned and met Devil’s eyes. “You said it yourself, when we were talking with Royce and Minerva and in your speech at Sebastian’s wedding. It’s their turn to run things now. You might still be the duke, but you’ve trained Sebastian from the cradle—there’s no reason he can’t take on more of the daily chores.”

  Devil allowed his eyes to feast on the face he had never grown tired of seeing beside him. “If he did—and I’m sure he would if we asked—what would you like to do?”

  She sighed and looked up at the canopy. “I’ve always wanted to travel. Remember? That’s what I intended to do before I met and married you.”

  Before he’d seen her and seized her as his bride. The years rolled back in his memory. “Egypt.” He glanced at her. “We could go and explore that country if you like. See the pyramids and all the rest. Float up the Nile. Visit Cairo and Alexandria.”

  She found his hand with hers and gripped; when she turned her head and met his gaze, her brown eyes were bright. “Yes! I’d love to see those sights—and finally doing so after seeing all our brood wed will be like coming full circle.”

  Abruptly, calculation overtook her eagerness. She frowned slightly. “But if we’re to go, we’ll need to go soon—we have to be back by the beginning of summer at the latest.”

  He frowned. “Why?”

  The look she bent on him was the equivalent of telling him not to be stupid. “Because we need to be here, back at home, when the next generation—our grandchildren—are born.”

  “Good God! Already?”

  “You’re one to talk. By my calculation, any time after June, and they might well be starting to arrive.”

  Staring up at the canopy, a strange smile playing over his lips, Devil slowly shook his head. “I hadn’t thought that far.” His tone carried a hint of wonder. “Yet another generation….”