epilogue
One year later
ONLY A FEW days were left before Keith would finally marry Violante. He’d wanted a proper and traditional one-year engagement, so the long wait was his fault, really. The past weeks had been a blur of activity but hadn’t flown as quickly as he would have liked. Never mind. His waiting was nearly over. He’d waited one bloody year to marry her, but it’d been his making. He wanted a proper wedding with the banns, invitations, guests, and a ridiculously fancy banquet, and he’d bloody have it.
Sitting at his desk, he sorted out all the letters and calling cards from people who requested his presence and that of his fiancée. After a year from the bizarre events in Bakewell—the rumours about a duel, the arrest of Sir Nigel Glenister, and the capture of a dangerous mobster—people still wanted to hear the story from Violante and him. Not that he minded. Besides, all the questions and invitations were an opportunity to promote his youth centre. Any publicity was good publicity. Especially after the fiasco with the count. Keith hadn’t found a suitable place for a new centre in St. Giles yet, but at least the count hadn’t sold the building to anyone and no one had been evicted.
“Are you busy?” Violante inched the door open and stuck her head inside.
“Never for you.” He opened his arms, and she ran to sit on his lap. She fit perfectly in his embrace. He kissed her cheek, neck, and lips.
She giggled. “Wait, we need to talk.”
“About what?” He kissed her neck again, right where her vein kicked.
“I’d like to invite the boys from your centre to our wedding reception.”
He paused kissing her. “You’re the most brilliant woman I’ve ever met.”
She blushed. “Actually, my mother suggested it. I told her she should rest more and not spend all her time at the centre, but she enjoys it.”
“I’ll be forever in her debt, especially since she brought you into this world.”
She cupped his cheek. “That’s so nice of you.”
“I don’t want to be nice. I want to be wild in bed with you.” He was about to lift her skirts when there was another knock on the door. He exhaled as Violante rose from his lap. More’s the pity.
“Come in,” he said without enthusiasm.
“My lord,” the butler said, “Count Bassini-Verdelli is here to see you.”
After Keith had given the sack to Murray and Mrs. Collins, he’d employed a few people from his centre. Maybe less experienced, but more trustworthy than his former servants.
“Goodness.” Violante took the chair next to Keith. “I didn’t expect that.”
“What is he doing here?” Keith said.
“Keith.” Violante gave him that pointed look that never failed to make him feel like an idiot.
“Fine. Let him in.” He exchanged a glance with her who nodded.
After the disastrous trip, Keith hadn’t heard a word from the count. The newspapers had followed the drama of the count and his wife’s personal life, splattering their private affair on the front page. After that, the count had retired from the public eye, understandably so.
Keith stood up, wondering what would happen. “Count Bassini-Verdelli, what a surprise.”
Violante curtsied. “My lord.”
The count removed his hat and swallowed hard. His gaunt face matched his dull grey clothes; they were of the finest quality, but the suit didn’t spark for its colours.
“Lord Ashford, Miss Sharpe, thank you for seeing me even though I didn’t send a card,” the count said in a low tone.
Keith stretched out an arm towards the chair in front of his desk. “Please.”
The count plonked down onto the seat with a huff after Violante sat. “These past months, the whole year to be precise, have been rather difficult for me.”
“I can imagine,” Keith said.
The count lowered his gaze. “I just wanted to tell you that I spent that time thinking about my mistakes. I owe you an apology. Both of you.”
