When He Was Wicked: The 2nd Epilogue

by Julia Quinn

  Miranda shot him a doubtful look.

  “Oh, very well, do you want to know why I really think you should keep a journal?”

  She nodded.

  “Because someday you’re going to grow into yourself, and you will be as beautiful as you already are smart. And then you can look back into your diary and realize just how silly little girls like Fiona Bennet are. And you’ll laugh when you remember that your mother said your legs started at your shoulders. And maybe you’ll save a little smile for me when you remember the nice chat we had today.”

  Miranda looked up at him, thinking that he must be one of those Greek gods her father was always reading about. “Do you know what I think?” she whispered. “I think Olivia is very lucky to have you for a brother.”

  “And I think she is very lucky to have you for a friend.”

  Miranda’s lips trembled. “I shall save a very big smile for you, Turner,” she whispered.

  He leaned down and graciously kissed the back of her hand as he would the most beautiful lady in London. “See that you do, puss.” He smiled and nodded before he got on his horse, leading Olivia’s mare behind him.

  Miranda stared at him until he disappeared over the horizon, and then she stared for a good ten minutes more.

  Later that night, Miranda wandered into her father’s study. He was bent over a text, oblivious to the candle wax that was dripping onto his desk.

  “Papa, how many times do I have to tell you that you need to watch the candles?” She sighed and put the candle in a proper holder.

  “What? Oh, dear.”

  “And you need more than one. It’s far too dark in here to read.”

  “Is it? I hadn’t noticed.” He blinked and then narrowed his eyes. “Isn’t it past your bedtime?”

  “Nanny said I could stay up an extra thirty minutes tonight.”

  “Did she? Well, whatever she says, then.” He bent over his manuscript again, effectively dismissing her.

  “Papa?”

  He sighed. “What is it, Miranda?”

  “Do you have an extra notebook? Like the ones you use when you’re translating but before you copy out your final draft?”

  “I suppose so.” He opened the bottom drawer of his desk and rummaged through it. “Here we are. But what do you wish to do with it? That’s a quality notebook, you know, and not cheap.”

  “I’m going to keep a journal.”

  “Are you now? Well, that’s a worthy endeavor, I suppose.” He handed the notebook to her.

  Miranda beamed at her father’s praise. “Thank you. I shall let you know when I run out of space and need another.”

  “All right, then. Good night, dear.” He turned back to his papers.

  Miranda hugged the notebook to her chest and ran up the stairs to her bedroom. She took out a pot of ink and a quill and opened the book to the first page. She wrote the date, and then, after considerable thought, wrote a single sentence. It was all that seemed necessary.

  2 MARCH 1810

  Today I fell in love.

  Chapter 1

  Nigel Bevelstoke, better known as Turner to all who cared to court his favor, knew a great many things.

  He knew how to read Latin and Greek, and he knew how to seduce a woman in French and Italian.

  He knew how to shoot a moving target while atop a moving horse, and he knew exactly how much he could drink before surrendering his dignity.

  He could throw a punch or fence with a master, and he could do them both while reciting Shakespeare or Donne.

  In short, he knew everything a gentleman ought to know, and, by all accounts, he’d excelled in every area.

  People looked at him.

  People looked up to him.

  But nothing—not one second of his prominent and privileged life—had prepared him for this moment. And never had he felt the weight of watchful eyes so much as now, as he stepped forward and tossed a clump of dirt on the coffin of his wife.

  I’m so sorry

  , people kept saying. I’m so sorry. We’re so sorry. And all the while, Turner could not help but wonder if God might smite him down, because all he could think was—

  I’m not.

  Ah, Leticia. He had quite a lot to thank her for.

  Let’s see, where to start? There was the loss of his reputation, of course. The devil only knew how many people were aware that he’d been cuckolded.

  Repeatedly.

  Then there was the loss of his innocence. It was difficult to recall now, but he had once given mankind the benefit of the doubt. He had, on the whole, believed the best of people—that if he treated others with honor and respect, they would do the same unto him.

  And then there was the loss of his soul.

  Because as he stepped back, clasping his hands stiffly behind him as he listened to the priest commit Leticia’s body to the ground, he could not escape the fact that he had wished for this. He had wanted to be rid of her.

  And he would not—he did not mourn her.

  “Such a pity,” someone behind him whispered.

  Turner’s jaw twitched. This was not a pity. It was a farce. And now he would spend the next year wearing black for a woman who had come to him carrying another man’s child. She had bewitched him, teased him until he could think of nothing but the possession of her. She had said she loved him, and she had smiled with sweet innocence and delight when he had avowed his devotion and pledged his soul.

  She had been his dream.

  And then she had been his nightmare.

  She’d lost that baby, the one that had prompted their marriage. The father had been some Italian count, or at least that’s what she’d said. He was married, or unsuitable, or maybe both. Turner had been prepared to forgive her; everyone made mistakes, and hadn’t he, too, wanted to seduce her before their wedding night?

  But Leticia had not wanted his love. He didn’t know what the hell she had wanted—power, perhaps, the heady rush of satisfaction when yet another man fell under her spell.

  Turner wondered if she’d felt that when he’d succumbed. Or maybe it had just been relief. She’d been three months along by the time they married. She hadn’t much time to spare.

  And now here she was. Or rather, there she was. Turner wasn’t precisely sure which locational pronoun was more accurate for a lifeless body in the ground.

  Whichever. He was only sorry that she would spend her eternity in his ground, resting among the Bevelstokes of days gone by. Her stone would bear his name, and in a hundred years, someone would gaze upon the etchings in the granite and think she must have been a fine lady, and what a tragedy that she’d been taken so young.

  Turner looked up at the priest. He was a youngish fellow, new to the parish and by all accounts, still convinced that he could make the world a better place.

  “Ashes to ashes,” the priest said, and he looked up at the man who was meant to be the bereaved widower.

  Ah yes

  , Turner thought acerbically, that would be me. “Dust to dust.”

  Behind him, someone actually sniffled.

  And the priest, his blue eyes bright with that appallingly misplaced glimmer of sympathy, kept on talking—

  “In the sure and certain hope of the Resurrection—”

  Good God.

  “—to eternal life.”

  The priest looked at Turner and actually flinched. Turner wondered what, exactly, he’d seen in his face. Nothing good, that much was clear.

  There was a chorus of amens, and then the service was over. Everyone looked at the priest, and then everyone looked at Turner, and then everyone looked at the priest clasping Turner’s hands in his own as he said, “She will be missed.”

  “Not,” Turner bit off, “by me.”

  I can’t believe he said that.

  Miranda looked down at the words she’d just written. She was currently on page forty-two of her thirteenth journal, but this was the first time—the first time since that fateful day nine years earlier—tha
t she had not a clue what to write. Even when her days were dull (and they frequently were), she managed to cobble together an entry.

  In May of her fourteenth year—

  Woke.

  Dressed.

  Ate breakfast: toast, eggs, bacon.

  Read

  Sense and Sensibility, authored by unknown lady. Hid

  Sense and Sensibility from Father. Ate dinner: chicken, bread, cheese.

  Conjugated French verbs.

  Composed letter to Grandmother.

  Ate supper: beefsteak, soup, pudding.

  Read more

  Sense and Sensibility, author’s identity still unknown. Retired.

  Slept.

  Dreamed of him.

  This was not to be confused with her entry of 12 November of the same year—

  Woke.

  Ate breakfast: Eggs, toast, ham.

  Made great show of reading Greek tragedy. To no avail.

  Spent much of the time staring out the window.

  Ate lunch: fish, bread, peas.

  Conjugated Latin verbs.

  Composed letter to Grandmother.

  Ate supper: roast, potatoes, pudding.

  Brought tragedy to the table (book, not event).

  Father did not notice.

  Retired.

  Slept.

  Dreamed of him.

  But now—now when something huge and momentous had actually occurred (which it never did) she had nothing to say except—

  I can’t believe he said that.

  “Well, Miranda,” she murmured, watching the ink dry on the tip of her quill, “you’ll not achieve fame as a diarist.”

  “What did you say?”

  Miranda snapped her diary shut. She had not realized that Olivia had entered the room.

  “Nothing,” she said quickly.

  Olivia moved across the carpet and flopped on the bed. “What a horrible day,”

  Miranda nodded, twisting in her seat so that she was facing her friend.

  “I am glad you were here,” Olivia said with a sigh. “Thank you for remaining for the night.”

  “Of course,” Miranda replied. There had been no question, not when Olivia had said she’d needed her.

  “What are you writing?”

  Miranda looked down at the diary, only just then realizing that her hands were resting protectively across its cover. “Nothing,” she said.

  Olivia had been staring at the ceiling, but at that she quirked her head in Miranda’s direction. “That can’t be true.”

  “Sadly, it is.”

  “Why is it sad?”

  Miranda blinked. Trust Olivia to ask the most obvious questions—and the ones with the least obvious answers.

  “Well,” Miranda said, not precisely stalling for time—really, it was more that she was figuring it all out as she went. She moved her hands and looked down at the journal as if the answer might have magically inscribed itself onto the cover. “This all I have. It is what I am.”

  Olivia looked dubious. “It’s a book.”

  “It’s my life.”

  “Why is it,” Olivia opined, “that people call me dramatic?”

  “I’m not saying it is my life,” Miranda said with a flash of impatience, “just that it contains it. Everything. I have written everything down. Since I was ten.”

  “Everything?”

  Miranda thought about the many days she’d dutifully recorded what she’d eaten and little else. “Everything.”

  “I could never keep a journal.”

  “No.”

  Olivia rolled onto her side, propping her head up with her hand. “You needn’t have agreed with me so quickly.”

  Miranda only smiled.

  Olivia flopped back down. “I suppose you are going to write that I have a short attention span.”

  “I already have.”

  Silence, then: “Really?”

  “I believe I said you bored easily.”

  “Well,” her friend replied, with only the barest moment of reflection, “that much is true.”

  Miranda looked back down at the writing desk. Her candle was shedding flickers of light on the blotter, and she suddenly felt tired. Tired, but unfortunately, not sleepy.

  Weary, perhaps. Restless.

  “I’m exhausted,” Olivia declared, sliding off the bed. Her maid had left her nightclothes atop the covers, and Miranda respectfully turned her head while Olivia changed into them.

  “How long do you think Turner will remain here in the country?” Miranda asked, trying not to bite her tongue. She hated that she was still so desperate for a glimpse of him, but it had been this way for years. Even when he’d married, and she’d sat in the pews at his wedding, and watching him meant watching him watch his bride with all the love and devotion that burned in her own heart—

  She’d still watched. She still loved him. She always would. He was the man who’d made her believe in herself. He had no idea what he’d done to her—what he’d done for her—and he probably never would. But Miranda still ached for him. And she probably always would.

  Olivia crawled into bed. “Will you be up long?” she asked, her voice thick with the beginnings of slumber.

  “Not long,” Miranda assured her. Olivia could not fall asleep while a candle burned so close. Miranda could not understand it, as the fire in the grate did not seem to bother her, but she had seen Olivia toss and turn with her own eyes, and so, when she realized that her mind was still racing and “not long” had been a bit of a lie, she leaned forward and blew out the candle.

  “I’ll take this elsewhere,” she said, tucking her journal under her arm.

  “Thankthsh,” Olivia mumbled, and by the time Miranda pulled on a wrapper and reached the corridor, she was asleep.

  Miranda tucked her journal under her chin and wedged it against her breastbone to free her hands so that she could tie the sash around her waist. She was a frequent overnight guest at Haverbreaks, but still, it wouldn’t do to be wandering the halls of someone else’s home in nothing but her nightgown.

  It was a dark night, with nothing but the moonlight filtering through the windows to guide her, but Miranda could have made her way from Olivia’s room to the library with her eyes closed. Olivia always fell asleep before she did—too many thoughts rumbling about in her head, Olivia pronounced—and so Miranda frequently took her diary to another room to record her ponderings. She supposed she could have asked for a bedchamber of her own, but Olivia’s mother did not believe in needless extravagance, and she saw no reason to heat two rooms when one would suffice.

  Miranda did not mind. In fact, she was grateful for the company. Her own home was far too quiet these days. Her beloved mother had passed away nearly a year earlier, and Miranda had been left alone with her father. In his grief, he had closeted himself away with his precious manuscripts, leaving his daughter to fend for herself. Miranda had turned to the Bevelstokes for love and friendship, and they welcomed her with open arms. Olivia even wore black for three weeks in honor of Lady Cheever.

  “If one of my first cousins died, I’d be forced to do the same,” Olivia had said at the funeral. “And I certainly loved your mama better than any of my cousins.”

  “Olivia!” Miranda was touched, but nonetheless, she thought she ought to be shocked.

  Olivia rolled her eyes. “Have you met my cousins?”

  And she’d laughed. At her own mother’s funeral, Miranda had laughed. It was, she’d later realized, the most precious gift her friend could have offered.

  “I love you, Livvy,” she said.

  Olivia took her hand. “I know you do,” she said softly. “And I, you.” Then she squared her shoulders and assumed her usual stance. “I should be quite incorrigible without you, you know. My mother often says you are the only reason I have not committed some irredeemable offense.”

  It was probably for that reason, Miranda reflected, that Lady Rudland had offered to sponsor her for a season in London. Upon receiving t
he invitation, her father had sighed with relief and quickly forwarded the necessary funds. Sir Rupert Cheever was not an exceptionally wealthy man, but he had enough to cover a season in London for his only daughter. What he did not possess was the necessary patience—or, to be frank, the interest—to take her himself.

  Their debut was delayed for a year. Miranda could not go while in mourning for her mother, and Lady Rudland had decided to allow Olivia to wait, as well. Twenty would do as well as nineteen, she’d announced. And it was true; no one was worried about Olivia making a grand match. With her stunning looks, vivacious personality and, as Olivia wryly pointed out, her hefty dowry, she was sure to be a success.

  But Leticia’s death, in addition to being tragic, had been particularly ill-timed; now there was another period of mourning to be observed. Olivia could get away with just six weeks, however, as Leticia had not been a sister in blood.

  They would be only a little bit late in their arrival for the season. It couldn’t be helped.

  Secretly, Miranda was glad. The thought of a London ball positively terrified her. It wasn’t that she was shy, precisely, because she didn’t think she was. It was just that she did not enjoy large crowds, and the thought of so many people staring at her in judgment was just awful.

  Can’t be helped

  , she thought as she made her way down the stairs. And at any rate, it would be far worse to be stuck out in Ambleside, without Olivia for company. Miranda paused at the bottom of the stairs, deciding where to go. The west sitting room had the better desk, but the library tended to be warmer, and it was a bit of a chilly night. On the other hand—

  Hmmm…what was that?

  She leaned to the side, peering down the hall. Someone had a fire burning in Lord Rudland’s study. Miranda couldn’t imagine that anyone was still up and about—the Bevelstokes always retired early.

  She moved quietly along the runner carpet until she reached the open door.

  “Oh!”

  Turner looked up from his father’s chair. “Miss Miranda,” he drawled, not adjusting one muscle of his lazy sprawl. “Quelle surprise.”

  Turner wasn’t certain why he wasn’t surprised to see Miss Miranda Cheever standing in the doorway of his father’s study. When he’d heard footsteps in the hall, he’d somehow known it had to be she. True, his family tended to sleep like the dead, and it was almost inconceivable that one of them might be up and about, wandering the halls in search of a snack or something to read.