Page 87 of The Duke and the Darkness

“You said you loved me,” he reminded her as he folded both hands around hers and slowly rose to his feet. “You meant it. So did I.”

A knot filled her throat, and she began to tremble.

“So we should spend the rest of our lives proving it, don’t you think?” He raised her hand to his lips and placed a tender kiss to the back of her fingers. “I can’t think of any better way to put the past to rest than to focus on a new future. Together.” He paused, then took a deep breath and asked again, “Will you marry me, Peyton Chandler?”

The burden of loneliness and fear she’d carried for too long lifted from her shoulders, and the hollow in her chest vanished. With every beat of her heart, they soared away into the distance. In their place came hope, purpose…love.

She nodded as a tear slipped down her cheek. “Yes,” she whispered, her voice shaking with the enormity of the new life rising up before her. With this man she loved. “I will marry you.”

He murmured her name as he took her into his arms and held her, loved and protected, against him. So much affection and trust blossomed between them that she warmed from it, all the way down to her toes. His embrace tightened around her, and as she nestled against him, she knew this was exactly where she was meant to be.

In his arms.

Epilogue

October 1817

Devlin paused inthe open French doors leading out onto the rear garden terrace of Dartmoor House and smiled to himself.

The autumn harvest party to benefit Brechenhurst was in full swing. The festivities had taken over the rear gardens, the terrace, and the ground floor reception rooms, with the guests enjoying themselves with this bit of country fun transported to the city. For once, the English weather had cooperated and given them an unseasonably warm afternoon, and now the light from the setting sun fell in golden hues across the property and gave the gathering even more of an autumnal flavor.

A small fair filled the garden, with wooden stalls set up across the narrow patch of lawn and down the garden path. Manned by the children of Brechenhurst, the booths held various games and foods, including roasted chestnuts and hand pies. On one end of the stone terrace, a large half barrel had been filled with water and bobbing apples for anyone brave enough to try to capture one, while on the other sat a puppet theatre where wooden marionettes bounced back and forth on strings to the delight of both laughing children and adults. There was even a small dog performing tricks, a fortune teller in a tent, a trio of musicians, and a special booth where guests and patrons could purchasetoys for the children—along with pillows, bedrolls, soap, and more, all donated immediately back to the shelter.

Inside the house, the reception rooms were only a bit less chaotic, with more sophisticated refreshments and none of the autumn decorations that filled the garden. The inside rooms had become the refuge of elderly dowagers and statesmen needing escape from the rambunctious children. But even there, the importance of the shelter could not be ignored. Every bit of the day’s event was carefully planned to benefit Brechenhurst as much as possible, to help even more children find better lives away from the streets.

“This is all your own fault, you know,” Lucien Grenier, Duke of Crewe, warned in a low voice as he came up beside Devlin and followed his gaze across the garden. He nodded at the trick dog.

Devlin frowned as the dog rose onto its hind feet and turned a perfect pirouette. With a tiara on his head and wearing a pink dress, the mutt looked uncannily like Queen Charlotte at a palace ball. “How is this my fault?”

“Everything was going along just fine when you were pretending to be Mr. Hunter and keeping your involvement with Brechenhurst secret. But then you had to let everyone know that you’d been helping the shelter, and that led to this.”

Both men paused to stare, speechless, as the dog curtsied.

“This just goes to prove what I’ve said all along,” Lucien drawled.

Devlin arched a brow. “That men face consequences when they keep secrets?”

“God no!” Crewe looked aghast at the suggestion. “That men shouldn’t ever let their secrets be known. Oh, it starts off with the best of intentions only to end up with…” He waved a mug of hot cider at the garden and muttered, “Dancing dogs.”

Devlin grinned and shook his head. “Secrets aren’t for me. Not anymore.”

Revealing his connection to Brechenhurst was simply one more step in that direction. He hadn’t made any grand announcements about his role; he’d simply stopped referring to himself as Mr. Hunter and allowed his true identity to become known to the staff and children. Mrs. Martin hadn’t been surprised in the least. She had simply shrugged at the news and hurried off to clean the kitchen before the children arrived for the night. His family hadn’t been any more surprised, and they’d supported him in his desire to turn the shelter into a full-fledged charity. Their work with the children proved more healing for them than he ever would have imagined.

So was the help they were trying to give to the victims. Together, they were working to find the people who were harmed by their father’s criminal enterprise. It was slow going, with many of the leads given to the detectives coming to nothing.

Yet they’d sworn not to give up until every last person who could be found was contacted and reparations made, however they could.

Speaking of missing people… Devlin turned back to Crewe. “Any information from Chase about Betty Proctor?”

The woman never resurfaced in London. She had simply disappeared, fleeing the night of the explosion and undoubtedly running for her life when she learned that her partner, Wilkins, had been killed. Any more news Chase discovered, no matter how slight, wouldn’t bring Peyton any comfort. Ultimately, she had lost another person she loved, someone she should have been able to trust.

But perhaps news of Proctor’s whereabouts would finally allow her to stop blaming herself for Wilkins’s betrayal. They had been chameleons, leading double-lives even when working for the Chandlers, and no one could have known Wilkins was related to Horrender or the deceit he and Proctor werecapable of committing. Peyton had no reason to think they were anything other than dedicated servants. Until they weren’t.

Crewe frowned down into his cider with distaste, as if just realizing that it wasn’t spiked with rum. “I don’t think Betty Proctor will be a concern.”

Devlin’s eyes narrowed at that unexpected answer. “You think she’s dead, then?”

“I think too many people have come back from the dead lately to say for certain one way or the other.”