They’d halted before another door. Cynthia studied Hartley’s face, then gripped his hand more tightly, reached past him and opened the door, and towed him into the room beyond—his bedroom.
She waited until Hartley, his gaze on her, closed the door behind them, then she stepped into his arms. Twining hers about his neck, leaning back against his hands as they rose to splay across her back, she captured his gaze. “It’s over. It’s done. Fate intervened, an accident occurred, and now it falls to us to chart our way forward. Tomorrow, we’ll bring our families together, and together we’ll survive the ordeal of the funeral. After that, it’ll be up to us all, but most especially you and me, to determine how our families fare. To aid and assist, and ensure that each member has whatever help they need to go forward and make the most of their lives.”
Hartley looked into her face for several moments, then nodded and simply said, “Yes.”
That was all Cynthia needed to hear. Stretching up, she set her lips to Hartley’s, and with a sigh that was borne more in the release of the tension that had had him in its grip over the last days, he responded. His lips closed over hers with the ease of familiarity, with masculine confidence laced with the intoxicating first stirrings of passion.
The other members of her family had retreated across the square; other than Primrose, watching over Monica, the rest of his family were abed. About them, the house was silent and still.
Faint moonlight gilded them as she stepped closer, pressed closer, and his fingers flexed on her back.
The kiss deepened. They supped and rejoiced, tongues tangling, lips melding. Desire flared as the embers of passion, so often for them in recent times left stoked and smoldering, were finally given air and erupted into flame.
Into flames that incited and enticed.
Breaking the kiss only to tip her head to the side and with his lips trace her jaw, before sliding his lips along the taut column of her throat, eliciting a crystalline shiver, Hartley murmured, “Should we go to one of the guest rooms?”
On the words, he closed his hands about her breasts.
On a stifled gasp, one tight with burgeoning need, Cynthia replied, “Geraldine will guess where to find me.”
That was all the information—all the confirmation—he required.
They’d become lovers the year before, during the unexpected, year-long wait brought about by the feud, but in recent times, with him back in this house, their passions—their need for each other—had of necessity taken second place to his family’s need of him.
Now, tonight, they finally felt free to indulge their senses again.
To glory in the give and take, in the bestowing and receiving of caresses that grew increasingly heated, increasingly intimate, increasingly laden with a passionate hunger that swelled and drove them wild.
Drove them to shed their clothes with abandon, to seize the heady delight of the moment, to drink in the joy of two passionate hearts united with no insurmountable barriers remaining between them and their goal.
Both shivered and closed their eyes, the better to appreciate the unadulterated, senses-stealing thrill of that moment when naked skin met naked skin.
And then the deeper jolt to both senses and emotions when they joined.
They paused, eyes opening to look into the other’s, to drown in the passionate yearning. Swollen lips parted, their breaths mingling, they grasped the moment to wordlessly communicate. This was who they were, as they were in this fused togetherness, this place where there were no barriers, no screens, no possibility of veils or guile.
They were as one in every sense—of word, of deed, of thought.
As one as their hearts thudded in a heavy, synchronous beat.
As one as, lids falling, they moved in concert, and the storm of their passions closed around them and the pinnacle of their desire rose swiftly before them.
And they gave themselves up to the driving rhythm, to the relentless glory, to the cataclysm of their senses and the wondrous oblivion that lay beyond.
To the unfettered fusion of not only their bodies, not only their hearts, but of their lives—now and in the years to come.
* * *
Penelope lay on her back in the big bed she shared with Barnaby and, with her limbs all but boneless, held him as he lay slumped, sated and spent, upon her.
Her body still thrummed with the fading glow of ecstasy. Breathing rarely seemed important at this point; her wits were still scrambled, her senses still waltzing to the symphony of pleasure he and she had wrought.
And if there had been a honed edge to their lovemaking, born of that moment by the river when she’d trusted in him, in his abilities and in his unwavering protectiveness, and had leapt and reached for Monica, there had also been a bone-deep recognition that all had held steadfast and true—and that together they had triumphed; they’d seen the fraught minutes through and were now sailing amid the calm of peaceful waters once more.
Contentment, deep and indisputable, lay heavy upon her.
Along with him. Wracked by their passions, he was heavy, too.
Not that she cared. She secretly delighted in these moments that were the outcome of his surrender to their passions.
But eventually, he stirred. Lifting from her, he collapsed in the bed alongside her. After a moment, he reached for her, tucking her against his side. She turned to him and snuggled beneath the arm he draped over her.
From under heavy lids, through the screen of his lashes, Barnaby studied Penelope’s face. Although the lamps were unlit, he could see her features reasonably clearly in the glow cast by the moonlight streaming in through the windows flanking the head of the bed.
As was their habit before retiring, they’d checked on Oliver. As usual, their son had been sleeping soundly—the sleep of the innocent; every time Barnaby saw his son slumbering so blissfully in his cot, he comprehended what that phrase truly meant.
With the vise that, earlier in the evening, had locked unforgivably about his heart finally exorcised, and the memory largely erased courtesy of their passions—courtesy of the way she gave herself to him so unstintingly every time—he was, at last, at peace.
Shifting, he turned onto his back, raising his arm to allow her to wriggle closer against his side and, as she often did, to pillow her head on his chest.
Settling with one hand resting over his heart, she sighed.
Closing his arms about her, he felt all tension leach from her limbs, yet sensed she remained awake. Dipping his head, he looked into her face.
As he’d suspected, his devastatingly logical wife of the exceedingly busy mind was thinking.
Several heartbeats later, she glanced up and met his gaze. Held it for a moment, then asked, “Do you ever think that, sometimes, a victim simply reaps what they’ve sown?”
He could guess what path her mind had taken, but by now he knew his role. She wouldn’t sleep until she’d examined and accounted for every nuance of their recent case, philosophical and social as well as factual. He arched his brows. “How so?”
“Well, for instance, in this case, the entire sequence of events that culminated in Lady Galbraith being struck dead grew out of just one thing—out of one decision she herself made and subsequently adhered to despite all the evidence that it was a bad decision, and that she should alter her course. She had warnings aplenty, but she refused to retreat. It was almost as if she rushed headlong to her death.”
Penelope paused, then went on, “Marjorie Galbraith was obsessed, but her obsession wasn’t merely to acquire Lady Latimer’s shoes. That was a symptom, but that wasn’t what her obsession was actually about—and I’m fairly certain that both Lady Latimer and Lord Galbraith understood that.”
Barnaby frowned. “If she wasn’t truly set on getting those shoes—”
“Oh, but she was. She wanted those shoes, but the reason why she wanted them? That was her obsession.”
Somewhat wryly, he admitted, “I thought I understood it, but now you’re goin
g to have to explain.”
Her lips curved; shifting her head, she dropped a kiss on his chest. “Lady Galbraith’s obsession arose out of the nature of her longstanding friendship with Lady Latimer. Lady Galbraith was the bright, vivacious one, and Lady Latimer was the quiet, reserved one. Marjorie was outgoing, while Hester was retiring. Marjorie grew to expect that, of the pair of them, she would be the one who would always socially shine, that her social star would always eclipse Hester’s, and that she—Marjorie—would be the more socially prominent. To Marjorie, that was probably a very important element in their friendship—she needed that prop. It was most likely vital to the way she saw herself.
“Marjorie would always have been touchy about who was more socially prominent, her or Hester, but given Hester’s character, I’m sure that wouldn’t have mattered to Hester, and she would always have been happy to, socially speaking, play second fiddle to Marjorie, so everything went along smoothly. Until recently, when Lady Latimer’s shoes gave Hester, and more specifically her daughters, a telling advantage in the crowded marriage mart. That altered the social balance between Marjorie and Hester—in Marjorie’s eyes, in the wrong direction. Aided by Lady Latimer’s shoes, Hester’s daughters formed highly eligible alliances. Marjorie’s daughters had yet to receive an offer. Marjorie needed to restore the social balance between herself and Hester, and that, to her mind, meant securing her family’s advancement over and above what the Latimers had achieved.
“That was her obsession—regaining her relative social prominence over Hester Latimer. Getting access to the shoes was one part of her strategy, but managing Hartley’s marriage was an even more urgent avenue, and second to that came Geraldine and Primrose. Monica didn’t impinge on Marjorie’s mind at all because Monica is as yet too young to marry—Monica offered no immediate prospect of advancing the family socially, so she simply didn’t matter to Marjorie. That’s what Monica felt and reacted to—the lack of even figuring in her mother’s thoughts.”
Penelope paused, then went on, “In essence, this was all about Marjorie Galbraith herself, and her need to be socially dominant with respect to Hester Latimer. Without that dominance, Marjorie probably felt threatened and, almost certainly, in an odd way, cheated. Her being second to Hester wasn’t the way things had ever been—to Marjorie, Hester’s social success with finding the shoes and settling her daughters simply wasn’t right. And if you need proof that what’s happened has been all about Marjorie and not actually about her daughters, I got the clear impression that none of Marjorie’s other children—not Hartley, who had moved out of home, or Geraldine and Primrose—felt content and happy over the way Marjorie had treated them, certainly over the last year or so. They didn’t complain—and once Marjorie was dead, how could they?—but they would have sensed that she saw them as pawns in her bid to one-up Lady Latimer. Given their closeness to Hester Latimer, that wouldn’t have been a pleasant feeling.”
After another brief pause to order her thoughts, Penelope continued, “Marjorie’s initial and most obvious way forward was to try to wrest the secret of the shoes from Hester. She pushed and pushed—and when it came to the point of rupturing a bond that, as we’ve seen, went very deep and was supportive to both families, Marjorie had no qualms over sacrificing the others to her cause. But creating and then enforcing the rift between the families—even when it must have been plain that all the other members of both families mourned the loss and were hurt by it—was a truly selfish act. And, if you consider it, much that subsequently happened occurred because of that.”
Penelope’s voice grew crisper, more hard-edged as she expounded on her theme. “It was the rift that forced Hartley and Cynthia to keep their attachment and eventual betrothal a secret. It was the rift that forced them—the two most driven to protect their families—to plot and plan to secretly meet and discuss how to heal, overcome, or counter it. It was Marjorie’s fixation on directing Hartley’s marriage that had her following him outside. Her obsessive focus on social advancement had already caused her to dismiss Monica from her thoughts, to withhold attention from her youngest daughter at the very time when Monica, about to make her come-out, needed maternal support the most. That led Monica, when the chance offered, to seize on the one sure route guaranteed to gain her mother’s attention—getting a pair of Lady Latimer’s shoes. But not knowing or caring what Monica had to show her, Marjorie dismissed her youngest daughter yet again and sent Monica off with a flea in her ear…” Penelope paused, then went on, “If she hadn’t done that, if Marjorie Galbraith had behaved toward her daughters and her son in a supportive rather than an exploitative way, she wouldn’t be dead.”
Transfixed by Penelope’s ability to dissect the motives and emotions that drove others, especially those living within the hothouse of the ton, Barnaby had been following her argument; he took a moment to digest the implications, and discovered that he didn’t disagree. “As you said”—he murmured the words against the soft silk of her hair—“she reaped what she sowed.”
After a moment more of dwelling on that, chest swelling, he drew a deeper breath and glanced at Penelope’s face. “Now that Lady Galbraith is gone, perhaps the Galbraiths can bring themselves about.”
“And the Latimers.” Penelope looked up at him. “It’s sad that it had to come to this—for Lady Galbraith to have to die to allow the families to combine again—but she took that position herself. It was of her own making.”
Barnaby nodded. “I sensed that Cynthia and Hartley are the future there.”
“Indubitably.” Penelope’s lips curved, then she settled once more in his arms. “They’re committed, not just to each other but to bringing their families peace again. And despite a year and more of discord driven by one person, the link between the two families runs so very deep, really is so strong, that I don’t believe the happenings of this time have materially damaged what years of togetherness had forged.”
“Hmm.” Barnaby thought of his own family, and of Penelope’s. They were both younger children of large broods; neither he nor she could truly imagine not having the ready and freely given support of all their kin.
As their limbs grew heavier and sleep beckoned, he settled his arms more comfortably about her, then lightly rubbed his jaw against her hair. “So…our latest mystery is solved, two families have been reunited, two lovers are now free to marry, and a young girl has been hauled back from the brink of taking her own life due to misplaced guilt. All in all, an excellent result.” Looking down, he met Penelope’s dark eyes. He hesitated, then softly said, “I’m exceedingly proud of you for following your instincts, of having the conviction to speak even when what your instincts were urging didn’t seem logical.” He felt his lips lift in an irrepressible, entirely understanding smile. “I appreciate that, for you, that was exceedingly difficult, yet I’ve noticed that when it comes to matters of life and death, and especially of family, your instincts are invariably sound.”
She heard the compliment for what it was, for the understanding and encouragement it contained. Her answering smile warmed his soul.
“Why, thank you, kind sir.” Delighted with the accolade and knowing that he, wise man that he was, intended it in a much wider context, Penelope stretched up and touched her lips to his.
A warm, gentle kiss, a giving and a sharing, an acknowledgment of all that together they were.
Drawing back, she met his eyes, then sighed and snuggled down again. “I in no way regret deserting my translation to follow up the question of Lady Latimer’s shoes, but tomorrow I’m going to have to write an exceedingly apologetic letter to the museum’s head librarian. My translation is going to be woefully late.”
Lifting the hand she’d laid over his heart, Barnaby placed a kiss in her palm, then set her hand back as it had been. “Just tell him that your time was unexpectedly taken up by what even he would agree to be a very good cause.”
Penelope softly snorted. Sleepily, she advised him, “Librarians don’t think like that.
To them, the wisdom of ancient scholars stands far above the mundane matters of modern life.”
Closing his eyes, Barnaby smiled. There had been a time in her younger days when she herself might have clung to that maxim, but her heart was too big and her understanding too expansive to allow her to turn her back on her fellows, especially those in need of her particular and peculiar expertise.
And that, he had accepted, was how it should be.
Which was why he foresaw a long life ahead of them, investigating whatever came their way.
Side by side. Hand in hand.
Together.
EPILOGUE
The funeral of Marjorie, Lady Galbraith, was held at St. George’s in Hanover Square. The subsequent burial and committal service was held at the new cemetery at Kensal Green.
With Barnaby, Violet, and Griselda, Penelope attended the church service as well as the burial. She was quite clear in her own mind that her purpose in doing so was to support the living rather than mourn, much less honor, the dead. As she murmured to Barnaby as they took their seats in the upper gallery of the church, “I’m finding it difficult to muster any sympathy for a lady who so signally failed to extend that sentiment to her nearest and dearest.” After a moment, she added, “And who was so silly as to not value the best things in life.”
Barnaby’s lips twitched, but he didn’t reply.
The coffin was already in place before the altar. From her perch in the gallery, Penelope observed those congregating in the nave below. Stokes’s announcement had appeared in all the major news sheets that morning; from the myriad snippets of conversation floating up from the crowd—along the lines of “I say, did you see…?” and “It was an accident after all”—most of those in attendance had caught up with the news.
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