She felt her smile deepen as, on Devlin’s arm, she walked across the huge old hall and sensed all around her that most precious of commodities—love, open and true, made manifest in every action, in every expression. That emotion now bound them so much more tightly than it had before, spilling its glory onto every small task, filling every moment.
This was the life she and Devlin now shared. She slanted a glance at him. Even though he was conversing with Martin, the change in his face was obvious to her. He was happy, truly happy, now that they’d embraced their love and blossomed into their new reality.
She looked ahead and determinedly steered her husband and brother toward the drawing room while, in her mind, she contemplated the certainty, unshakeable and absolute, that now lived in her heart and reached deep to her soul.
For her and Devlin,thiswas their heaven on earth, and now they’d claimed it, neither would ever let go.
Epilogue
December 27, 1851. Somersham Place, Cambridgeshire.
Devlin lounged by the side of the large, third-floor nursery of Somersham Place, principal seat of the Dukes of St. Ives. With his hips propped against an old sideboard, he watched with fond amusement as Therese, seated on a battered chaise, kept a close eye on their three children, sprawled on the rug before her. All three, Horry included, were attempting to play with—or perhaps lead astray—the Carrick girls, who were two-year-old twins, four or so months older than Horry. Therese’s cousin Lucilla, the twins’ mother, sat beside Therese and also observed the group. Judging by the expressions that flitted over Therese’s and Lucilla’s faces as they exchanged low-voiced comments, they were swapping anecdotes and predictions, as fond mamas were wont to do.
Elsewhere in the large, comfortably furnished room were no less than five babes in arms, although the eldest, Richard Cynster, first child of Marcus Cynster and his wife, Niniver, was making a determined bid to walk under his own steam. Marcus and Niniver hovered, trying not to laugh at Richard’s stubborn bid to master the elusive skill of balancing on his sturdy legs.
Next in age came the ducal grandson, Sylvester Gyles Cynster, currently perched on the hip of his mother, Antonia, and evidently fascinated by the pearl choker circling her throat. His father, Sebastian, in between chatting with his wife and his heavily pregnant cousin, Prudence, tried to distract his son, but Sylvester was having none of it; pearls were clearly more interesting than his papa.
Ensconced in one of the large armchairs, Thomas Carrick, the twins’ father, jiggled his heir, Manachan Carrick, who was only days younger than Sylvester, on his knee. Thomas was chatting with Cleo, Michael Cynster’s wife, who was standing by the armchair and rocking her sleeping daughter, Katherine Louise, in her arms. Katherine was barely three months old, but she wasn’t the youngest there. That title belonged to Andrew Royce Varisey, who was not quite two months old and presently draped over the shoulder of his mother, Louisa, and sound asleep.
Given how powerful Andrew’s lungs had earlier proved to be, everyone was grateful for that.
Devlin raised his gaze and surveyed the room. A gaggle of nannies and nursemaids was clustered at the far end, ready to resume responsibility for their charges when the parents were summoned downstairs for the massive celebratory luncheon. The huge, sprawling house was packed to the rafters with family and connections; the Somersham Place Cynster family Christmas gathering was not an event one missed, not if one wanted to remain in the good graces of Honoria, Duchess of St. Ives, and her socially powerful, grande-dame cronies, chief amongst whom was Therese’s mother, Patience.
On Devlin’s left, Christopher, Therese’s older brother, was chatting to Michael, the current duke’s second son, while on Devlin’s other side, Deaglan Fitzgerald, who had married Prudence Cynster earlier that year, was swapping tales of—of all things—goats with Ellen, Christopher’s recently acquired wife.
While 1851 might have been a year of births within this group, there were already three more happy events slated for the year to come. Deaglan and Prudence were preparing to welcome their first child in February, and Christopher and Ellen hoped to do the same in the middle of the year. Added to the son or daughter Devlin and Therese anticipated adding to their brood, plus the likelihood of further additions to the tally as the months rolled on, the coming year looked set to further expand the ever-widening circle of the family.
Drake Varisey, Marquess of Winchelsea, ambled up. He nodded to Devlin and turned to stand beside him, ostensibly surveying the room. Devlin wasn’t surprised when, after Drake confirmed that his wife, Louisa, was engrossed in a discussion with Marcus and Niniver, Drake shifted his gaze to Devlin and asked, “How’s your brother?”
Devlin smiled. “Enjoying his customary untrammeled health and his equally customary unfettered existence. He’s taking his ease at the Priory at the moment. Or at least, he was there when we left.”
“Melrose is how old now?”
“Twenty-nine.”
“What are his interests?”
“I’m not sure he has any.” Devlin grinned. “At least, none that would be of much use to you.”
Drake sighed. “It’s been made clear to me—by several forces of nature I would rather not cross—that I should limit my recruiting of eyes and ears to those of our ilk who are yet to marry. Consequently, I’m forced to go fishing.”
Devlin was a few years older than Drake, but prior to his own marriage, he’d helped Drake out by trawling for information on certain secretive business deals and the movement of monies that had bordered on the treasonous. He knew what Drake and his band of helpers—the “sons of the nobility,” as Louisa had dubbed them—did, because he’d been one of them.
Leaning against the old sideboard alongside Devlin, Drake went on, “I have Toby, but given he’s already worked so many missions, I have to be cautious over what spheres I use him in. It’s not helpful if those I’m seeking information on recognize him as one of mine on sight.”
“I would have thought the Cynster horde plus your own relatives would supply you with enough agents.”
“Up to a point. But then there’s the matter of their surnames, and even if they try to conceal those, most of them are recognizable as belonging to one or other of the families.”
Devlin couldn’t help his grin. “The physical traits do tend to breed true, at least among the males.”
“Exactly. So I’m widening my net.” Drake met Devlin’s eyes. “I heard that Child has returned.”
“He has, but if you have ambitions in that quarter, you’d better act quickly, because Therese has plans for Child come next Season—and that assuredly means your fair wife will get involved as well.”
Drake narrowed his eyes on his wife. “I’m going to have to have a discussion with Louisa over her edict of me using only bachelors while, meanwhile, she does her damnedest to marry them all off.”
“Have you spoken with Martin yet?”
