“For you, then.”
“You’re a good man, Oliver Phillips.”
“After we get back from Scotland,” he said firmly. “Maybe.”
“Are you going to tell her that before we go?”
He looked at her and scowled, but that didn’t last long. He smiled briefly, leaned forward and kissed her not quite as briefly, then sat back and sighed.
“You’re persuasive.”
“I understand what it’s like to be rescued from my terrible life by the Duke of Birmingham.”
He laughed briefly. “I suppose she’ll have to settle for the older brother she doesn’t know.”
“Then it will be a happy new beginning for her,” she said.
He smiled. “I suppose so. And I think we do have a few cousins scattered around the isle. She might prefer refuge with them until she finds her feet, though I’m not sure what sort of life skills she has.”
“Sam and I will take her to John Bagley’s when we’re in Scotland.”
“The saints preserve me,” he muttered in Gaelic.
She laughed at him, kissed him sweetly for his trouble, then rested her head on his shoulder and happily watched him as he held her hand between his, stroking her thumb with his as was his habit. She’d originally thought it was to either soothe himself or remind her he was there, but she had come to suspect over the months that it was that he wanted to remind himself that she was there.
Because he loved her.
She closed her eyes and permitted herself a bit more thinking about the state of things.
It had taken time, but she’d eventually read her book of memories that her Victorian scribe had so faithfully recorded. It had taken less time than she’d feared to become used to the letters, and she’d endlessly ignored the feeling she’d had that whispered that she’d learned those letters in a different time and place. which had led quite naturally to an investigation—gingerly, of course—of Master Sinclair McKinnon’s other offerings. She’d happily tucked her tale into the safe in Oliver’s flat, then gone with him to negotiate the proper curation of Sinclair’s best works.
She hadn’t been entirely surprised by how a small card with the Cameron name printed so boldly upon it could have earned them such respect, but she had put on a dress and Oliver had looked perfectly scrummy in his black suit and tie over his crisp white shirt. If she’d been buying any of his goods, she would have immediately handed over all her money and thanked him for the pleasure of it.
Her life, quite obviously, had not turned out in any way to be what she’d thought it would. She’d spent so many years wondering how she might escape her straits when all it had taken was an insertion into her life of a certain man at the right moment in time. Not even Mistress Constance Buchanan could have imaged up anything that would have suited her more perfectly or given her such endless joy.
She was very blessed, indeed.
Epilogue
Oliver Phillips stood in thekitchen of his London flat, leaning back against a rather lovely range he’d had installed because his wife fancied a contained fire, and looked at the state of his life.
Actually, he looked for the woman who had come into his life and stayed to fill it with so many things he’d never expected, but since that was one of his favorite things to do, he decided to stick with it.
There was a little snug adjacent to the kitchen that contained a couch, a television, and a coffee table piled high with books on everything from medieval metal-smithing to Victorian cookery. The cozy little room also contained his favorite person who was currently wearing headphones and grooving to some 70s rock band for which he was certain he owned at least one t-shirt. She was wearing jeans, which she only did when her favorite pair of black cargo trousers were in the wash, and dusting when she wasn’t simply standing there and singing with a heart-stoppingly lovely voice that was, he was happy to say, perfectly on key on every note.
She was also just as likely to don a lovely evening gown and go weep through Rachmaninoff or Chopin at the Royal Albert, or watch with delight whatever Drury Lane had on tap at any given time, which also made him ridiculously happy.
He was, as it happened, simply ridiculously happy about his surprisingly wonderful life.
He was still doing the job he loved, of course, trotting out his title of Vice President of Snoopery and Skulduggery as often as necessary to remind his mates that he wasn’t a man to be trifledwith—nor zip tied and hauled off to the wilds of Scotland and abandoned. Mairead had early on offered herself as a perfect candidate to be his assistant on his business assignments, complete with conservative business attire and librarian’s glasses that made him absolutely crazy. He generally kept his hands to himself and merely watched in awe as she smoothly discussed the pernickety details of any given transaction with a finesse that even Cameron admired.
If all that working and finessing required a regular schedule of naps in the afternoon in the privacy of their own home, well, he liked to indulge her as often as possible so she would smile at him equally as often.
She’d also insisted on braces, which he’d provided without hesitation though he didn’t think she needed them. Her smile was perfection because it was hers and he was happy to be the beneficiary of it as often as possible.
He jumped a little when he realized she’d taken out her earbuds and was simply watching him with a smile on her face. He considered, then lifted his hand, pointed his pointer finger at her, then turned his hand over and used that same finger in a way that could only be taken as a motion beckoning her to come to him.
She put down her duster, raised an eyebrow, and crooked her finger athim.
