A Bride by Moonlight

by Liz Carlyle

  She looked at him with a quizzical smile, and arched one eyebrow.

  “Perhaps, my dear, you’ve forgotten?” he suggested. “You left them in my office the day you came to give me my awful thrashing. I believe they were brand new.”

  Recognition dawned, and with it came embarrassment. “No, you will never let me forget,” she said again. “Indeed, they are mine. I’d owned them for all of a day, I think, having lost mine and bought new ones outside Liverpool Station.”

  “And now,” he said quietly, “they are mine. I show them to you merely as—”

  “Trophies of conquest?” she said on a laugh.

  “Ah, but a gentleman may not claim a true conquest,” he replied, “until the lady says yes, or . . . yes.”

  “Ah, well then,” she said, flinging the gloves aside. “I believe it had better be yes. Those are quite nice gloves, and I think the only way I’ll get them back again is through the Section Three, Paragraph Six of the Marital Properties Act.”

  Napier started to tell her there was no such thing in England—that he knew she was just making up tales again, and that he was going to possess her body and soul until the end of time—but Lisette was already kissing him, and the throbbing pain in his arm was finally subsiding. Or rather, moving.

  To a location a good deal south of his right arm . . .

  EPILOGUE

  A Case of Good Champagne

  Autumn was edging around Mayfair, the trees along Hyde Park merely hinting at the blaze of color to come. The breeze had turned pleasantly crisp, requiring Lisette to laughingly clap a hand to her hat as her husband spun their open carriage around the corner into Belgrave Place.

  He cut an affectionate glance down at her, then, as if on impulse, bent his head to kiss her lightly on the cheek. “You look radiant this afternoon,” he said.

  Hand still on the hat, Lisette turned her face up and felt her breath catch. Napier’s eyes today were dark as indigo—and as always, just a little inscrutable.

  Then suddenly, he smiled and her heart melted. “By the way,” he said, “what did Jolley give you just now?”

  “Oh, yes. Some sort of letter.” Lisette rummaged in her reticule for the envelope Jolley had pressed into her hand on the way out. “Heavens, it’s from Gwyneth!”

  Napier cut a swift glance down at the address. “Ah,” he said quietly. “Is she still in Bordeaux, then?”

  Swiftly, Lisette ran her eyes over the lines. “As of Friday last, yes,” she answered. “The hospital, she writes, is more of a . . . a sort of convalescent facility, run by a group of Carmelite sisters. It is in the country, she says, and very peaceful. And look at this—Diana is learning embroidery and tapestry restoration—that must be a quite valuable skill on the Continent?”

  “It does sound hopeful,” Napier murmured.

  Lisette was still reading. “And—yes, here is the most promising part of all—Diana has begun to talk a little about what happened. She understands about Lord Hepplewood—that he was her father, I mean. Gwen thinks the truth is comforting her a little.”

  “I gather she loved him very much.”

  “And he loved her, I think,” said Lisette quietly. “Insomuch as a selfish man can love, he provided for her, and tried in some measure to care for her.”

  They had all agreed, with Dr. Underwood’s concurrence, that it was best in the end that Diana leave England. She was still liable to be charged with attempted murder should the truth become known beyond the family. Moreover, it was not expected she would ever be entirely well again. Diana’s delicate mind, according to Underwood, had shattered under the strain, the grief, and ultimately, her own guilt.

  With Diana’s parentage exposed, Mr. Jeffers had bitterly surrendered his post at Loughford and made it plain he wished no further contact with Diana or his cousins.

  At the thought of a criminal proceeding, Miss Willet had recoiled with all the horror Napier predicted. Like Hepplewood’s departing steward, she wanted nothing more to do with her former fiancé or his family. Lady Hepplewood returned to her son’s estate in Northumberland, and Tony resumed his life of debauchery in London, and to a rapidly worsening degree.

  Surprisingly, it had been Gwyneth who had stepped up to do the family’s duty. She, along with a nurse chosen by Dr. Underwood, had escorted Diana to France. And there Gwyneth remained.

  “She means to return to England next week,” said Lisette, carefully refolding the letter. “We must keep them both in our prayers, and trust we’ve done the right thing.”

  “We have done the merciful thing,” Napier reassured her. “And sometimes, mercy is all one can hope for. At least Diana has a measure of peace—and who knows. Perhaps she will recover someday.”

  They fell into a comfortable silence as Belgravia became Mayfair, and reached Upper Grosvenor Street shortly thereafter to find the crescent-shaped drive in front of Ruthveyn House empty. The drapes, however, were drawn wide and the front steps appeared freshly swept as if in preparation for morning callers.

  “I think they must be at home,” said Lisette, giving her husband’s thigh a reassuring pat. “Are we ready?”

  “Utterly,” came the calm reply, followed by the sidelong flash of Napier’s smile. It was meant, she knew, to reassure her; to pledge not just his troth, but his strength.

  After lifting his wife down, Napier gave instructions to his tiger before going up the stairs to drop the knocker. His steps, she noted, were as ever swift and certain; he was not a man who blanched in the face of duty.

  They were admitted by a fresh-faced footman who cheerfully took their cards. Before he could so much as turn around, however, Lady Anisha swept into the entrance hall attired in one of her flowing tunics, her arms outstretched in welcome.

  “Napier!” she said, coming forward to kiss his cheek. “And Miss Ashton!” She paused to grin almost mischievously. “But wait—you’ve altered your name, I think, since last we met?”

  “Twice, actually,” Lisette admitted, feeling a little heat rise to her cheeks. “How do you do, Lady Lazonby?”

  “Anisha,” she said chidingly, returning her attention to Napier, who had thrust a beribboned bottle of wine at her.

  “With our compliments,” he said, making her a neat bow, “in belated celebration of your marriage, Anisha—as I believe I promised some months past.”

  She took it, glancing at the label. “Heavens, Perrier-Jouët!” she said. “My, you do take your promises seriously.”

  “I couldn’t bear the thought of Lazonby choking on cheap champagne,” said Napier dryly. “My tiger is taking the rest of it round back.”

  “How kind you both are. Please, won’t you come back to the conservatory?” She had already set off, speaking over one shoulder as the gossamer scarf floated in her wake. “Lazonby is in the garden with Tom playing ringtaw—and as credibly as any street urchin, I vow. I’ll call him in.”

  “I beg you will not disturb him,” said Napier.

  “Nonsense,” Anisha replied, throwing open a door to a sunny, vaulted room. “But first I’ll find us some tea. Do go in and be comfortable.”

  With Napier at her side, Lisette waded into the lush, cavernous space. Above her head, a green parrot perched, preening his feathers amidst a twining vine that had wrapped around one of the rafters. Below, the room was furnished with deep rattan chairs set amongst fanning palms and feathery ferns. And through the walls of glass one could see a fine vista of the rear gardens.

  “What the devil?” Napier uttered.

  She turned a little, and caught sight of Lazonby through the glass.

  The gentleman crouched on all fours in a patch of lawn, his head cocked at an odd angle, hindquarters aloft, and one eye set low to the ground. Before him, a bit of pavement had been laid and chalked with a large circle. A worthy-looking opponent knelt opposite—a tow-headed lad of perhaps eight years, his arms flung resolutely across his chest.

  “Anisha’s youngest,” Napier murmured.

  His li
ne of sight properly assessed, Lazonby shot his taw into the ring with a mighty flick, smacking a second marble and sending both off the patch of pavement and into the lawn. Lazonby thrust a fist in the air. The lad fell back into the grass. Then the bickering broke out, along with a bit of good-natured gesturing.

  Lisette cut a sidelong glance up at her husband. “And that,” she said wryly, “is the murderous Mr. Evil Incarnate. Funny, he does not look all that wicked shooting marbles.”

  Napier grunted. “Ah, well!” he said, setting an arm about her shoulders. “There’s no one I’d sooner eat crow with, my dear, than you.”

  Just then Anisha appeared beyond the glass, having apparently gone out the kitchen door. Upon seeing her coming across the garden, Lazonby rose, shook the boy’s hand, and followed his wife inside.

  “All hail the mighty conqueror,” announced Anisha good-naturedly as she returned through the conservatory doors.

  Lazonby followed, attired in a disheveled cravat, and no coat at all. “I beg your pardon, Lady Saint-Bryce,” he said, bowing elegantly. “One ought not receive a newly minted baroness one’s shirtsleeves and dirt. I shall just go and change.”

  “I beg you will not,” she insisted.

  “Oh, I think we need not stand on ceremony,” said Anisha. “Do draw up a chair, everyone.”

  Sweeping her skirts neatly around, their hostess settled herself on the rattan chaise. Almost at once, however, a pewter-colored tabby leapt into her lap, pressing down the lady’s silk tunic rather tellingly. Lisette’s eyes must have widened.

  Anisha flashed a smile. “Oh, dear! Satin has given up my secret,” she murmured, blushing faintly. “And unless I miss my guess, I’m not alone?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Lisette cut a furtive glance at her husband, but he was distracted by situating his chair on the uneven flagstone.

  “Quick, give me your hand,” Anisha murmured, a trio of thin bracelets jangling as she reached out.

  Lisette did so uneasily, remembering what had happened the last time. Anisha turned her hand palm up, and began to study it.

  “So,” said Lazonby, turning his attention to Napier. “I hear you mean to retire from government service.”

  “I gather they mean to sack me if I do not,” said Napier, his mouth twitching a little.

  “Really? Hmm. A pity.” Lazonby shifted in his chair. “Well. What do you make of the weather, then?”

  “Sunny and breezy out front,” said Napier dryly. “Any different out back?”

  “Actually . . . no.” Lazonby winced. “Aye, dashed awkward, isn’t it, old fellow, after all our years at one another’s throats? Wait—am I to call you Saint-Bryce now?”

  “Lord, I don’t care,” said Napier wearily. “Look, let’s have it right out, Lazonby, shall we? I’m late in saying it. I beg your pardon for repeatedly calling you a liar. And for refusing to listen to your claims of innocence. And for my father’s perfidy in—”

  Lazonby threw up a hand. “Oh, no, my good fellow! You’re no more responsible for that one than I am for . . . well, whatever mischief my wife is making just now.” He cut Anisha a suspicious glance, then returned his gaze to Napier. “As to the other, well, I apologize for repeatedly calling you a hatchet-faced bast—well, a great many things one oughtn’t repeat in front of ladies.”

  Napier thrust out his hand.

  Lazonby took it, and gave it a firm shake.

  Lisette drew her hand from Anisha’s grasp, and half turned in her chair to face him. “I, too, owe you an apology,” she said quietly. “I treated you abominably, Lazonby. And I regret it.”

  “And I regret I led you into the rookeries and abandoned you,” said Lazonby, giving her a little bow from the neck, “and that I slammed you against the wall—er, twice, I think?—and tried to strangle you.”

  “You tried to strangle her—?” Anisha turned to gape at her husband.

  Lazonby shrugged a little witheringly. “Amongst other things,” he admitted, “such as rifling her flat a couple of times and trying like the devil to have her sacked at the Chronicle.”

  “And I bribed your footman,” Lisette admitted morosely, “and set your curricle afire.”

  “What?” Lazonby sat up very straight. “Was that fire your doing, by Jove? Well done! I never guessed.”

  “Remind me,” said Napier, turning to Anisha, “never to cross either of them again.”

  “Yes, it might be best,” said Anisha, still glowering at Lazonby.

  He was twisting uncomfortably in his chair. “Restraint isn’t my strong suit, Nish,” he reminded her. “Don’t whinge over it now, for you knew it when you married me.”

  “So I did,” she acknowledged, setting her palms serenely together. “And now here is what you—what we all—must do. We must seek a state of kshama—of peace and forebearance—and show only kindness to one another. In this way we can negate, in some small measure, all our bad actions of the past.”

  “But you’ve never done anything bad,” said her husband, grinning. “It’s just the three of us that are out-and-out rotters.”

  She looked at him chidingly. “The teachings of the Vedas are somewhat metaphorical,” she said. “And bad actions include bad thoughts.”

  “Do you have bad thoughts, old girl?” Lazonby teased.

  “Sometimes,” she said tightly, “I do.”

  Just then, the fresh-faced footman reappeared with a tea tray, saving Lazonby a further scold. The next quarter hour passed pleasantly as Anisha poured a strong, dark tea and facilitated an amiable conversation.

  Despite the faint dread that had followed Lisette here—dread she’d been loathe to confess to her husband—she knew this meeting was something she needed in order to put the dark days truly behind her.

  And they were behind her, she realized, instinctively resting a hand on her belly, suddenly grateful for Napier’s strength—grateful for the new life his love had given her. Lisette felt as if she had somehow returned to herself—as if she’d become again the ordinary person she had been before everything had gone so terribly awry.

  She was stirred from her introspection when laughter broke out in response to something Lazonby had said.

  Her worst fears, she saw, were to go unrealized. The gentleman was simply too easygoing—and too happily married—to hold much of a grudge against anyone.

  Suddenly, Anisha reached across the table and lifted the cover from a tray of sandwiches. The strong odor of salmon assailed her, and Lisette felt a sudden, barely restrained lurch of nausea.

  Anisha’s eyes flared wide with understanding. She dropped the lid back at once.

  “I beg your pardon,” said Lisette abruptly. “I feel we’ve kept you too long.”

  “Not at all.” But Anisha came at once to her feet. “Still, I know you must be going. Newlyweds always have too many social obligations. Perhaps you might come back for dinner? In a few months, of course.”

  Lisette shot her a look of undying gratitude, and soon they were standing in the front hall awaiting Napier’s carriage.

  But on the threshold, Napier turned back to address their host. “I wanted you to know, Lazonby,” he said, “that I’ve spent the last two months sorting through my father’s old case files.”

  “Good God, man!” Lazonby feigned a look of horror. “One hopes a newly married man might have passed the time doing something a good deal more pleasant.”

  Nerves still a little unsettled, Lisette gave a snort of laughter.

  “Ah!” Lazonby’s dark brows flew aloft. “The wife makes no complaint, I see. My hat is off to you, old fellow. You’ve been devilish busy.”

  “Do hush, my dear,” said his wife. “Napier is trying to make a point.”

  Napier smiled. “I am, at that,” he said. “And my point is, Lazonby, that so far as I can make out, you were the only victim of a malicious prosecution. I have looked very carefully.”

  “Ah.” The laughter left Lazonby’s eyes. “Just me, was it?”

 
; Napier shook his head. “No, for I fear it likely a great many cases were not prosecuted that should have been. But there are no files for those sorts of cases—and no way I can make them right.”

  “Ah, well,” said Lazonby. “I shouldn’t worry. The guilty rarely sin once. Most of them were likely caught again.”

  “It is to be hoped,” said Napier.

  And then Anisha was kissing them—both of them—and everyone was saying their good-byes.

  In the drive, Napier helped Lisette back into their carriage, his dark, speculative gaze holding hers. But he said no more until they had drawn up before the house in Eaton Square and gone inside to the blessedly quiet front hall.

  “Well, that’s done!” she said, pulling the pin from her hat. “I am inordinately relieved.”

  At that, Napier pulled her a little roughly into his arms. “I’m glad someone is,” he said darkly. He lowered his mouth to Lisette’s, kissed her very thoroughly, then set her a little away, dipping his gaze to catch hers.

  It was that look.

  Napier’s black glower of interrogation.

  “What—?” she said.

  “Out with it, my dear,” he said warningly. “Am I to worry? Or not?”

  “Oh, Royden!” She managed to smile. “I don’t know. But I think . . . yes, I think perhaps you should worry.”

  “Ha!” he said, picking her up by the waist to spin her around. “I knew it.”

  “And your friend Anisha knew it,” said Lisette when he’d set her back down again. “How does she do that?”

  “I’ve no idea.” Napier grinned hugely, then kissed her again. “Well, get packing, my love.”

  “Really?” She blinked at him. “Where do we go?”

  “Back to Burlingame,” he said. “The air is cleaner, the environs more restful, and once again you are about to make me—and perhaps even Duncaster—the happiest of men.”

  About the Author

  A lifelong Anglophile, LIZ CARLYLE cut her teeth reading gothic novels under the bedcovers by flashlight. She is the author of over twenty historical romances, including several New York Times bestsellers. Liz travels incessantly, ever in search of the perfect setting for her next book. Along with her genuine romance-hero husband and four very fine felines, she makes her home in North Carolina. You can contact her via her website at www.lizcarlyle.com.