Page 72 of Every Rogue Has His Charm

“Maxim…”

“Oh, I know. Both you and Mrs. Horn were kind enough to inform me that ladies are better off not reading such silly, romantic books. But when I met you, you were reading one, and I—I can’t help but think that if you hadn’t been, you might never have seen anything in me worth having.” She favored him with an expression of mild annoyance and disbelief, but he went on speaking before she could correct him. “We can’t go back to the beginning, I know, but I want you to have everything you were denied, or denied yourself. All the things that bring you pleasure.”

She pressed her lips together and shook her head, then stretched up on her tiptoes and kissed him lightly. “Are you not worried they will distract me from my wifely duties?” she teased.

“Not in the slightest,” he replied, bending toward her for a more thorough kiss. Her arms came up around his neck. “I’ll even read them aloud to you, if you’d like.”

“Oh, my love,” she said a few moments later, breathless and pink cheeked. “Thank you. I predict this is a gift we will both enjoy.”

“Only a fraction of what you deserve, Caro. And nothing compared to the gift you’ve given me.” Reaching behind his head, he caught her hands and brought them forward, planting a kiss on her knuckles. “My grandfather told me I was unworthy of being the Duke of Hartwell, because I would never be whole and could never be contented.”

The answering shake of her head was almost pitying. “Some people have no imagination.”

“But I fear he would have been proved right—I could never be those things, without you.”

“And some people want to leap to all sorts of ridiculous conclusions without waiting for the end of the story,” she chided.

“The end of the story?” He turned her hand in his and pressed his lips to the delicate skin of her inner wrist, relishing the leap of her pulse.

Anticipation—of his further touch, of their future—trembled in her voice. “The happily ever after, of course.”

Epilogue

July 1815

Helen Scott had long been a novel reader, the more spine tingling and hair raising the better. But she could not ever remember feeling such a rush of excitement at the prospect of starting a new chapter.

Not, of course, that Zebadiah’s retirement would mean completely setting aside his duties in favor of a life of relaxation. He would always be General Scott, someone with knowledge and experience to be consulted on matters of grave importance to the nation. Nevertheless, the end of the war—the true end, this time, not the brief peace of ’02 or that silly business of trying to contain Napoleon to Elba—had opened a door and her husband had stepped through it. No more long days at Whitehall or visitors to their home on Audley Street that she was supposed to pretend to know nothing about. Just the two of them, together, with time and leisure they had never had in almost forty years of marriage.

Even now, nearly a month after he had told her his plans, the thought of it still made her heart beat with anticipation.

Today’s celebration, a garden party at the Richmond home of Sir Langley and Lady Stanhope, was the last and least public event marking the occasion of Zebadiah’s retirement. The majority of the guests were intelligence officers—former intelligence officers, Zebby had corrected her more than once. She had never met most of them, but she knew them, knew the work they had done to keep the nation safe.

She was not supposed to know them, however. Or their work. Zebby had made such a point of shielding her from it. He had never spoken of such matters over dinner or in the privacy of their bedchamber, had not confided in her in times of either triumph or trouble. But she had always known, all the same.

Particularly about the matchmaking.

Behind the Stanhopes’ charming stone manor house, a lush lawn descended in broad, easy steps to the banks of the Thames. Every level was dotted with couples, brought together by her husband’s machinations. And though she was proud of all her husband had accomplished in his years in military intelligence, it was this—his determination that love would win in the end—that made her heart threaten to burst.

She knew also that most of these men, though no longer serving in any official capacity, had continued to provide vital information to the Crown. Most interesting of all, some of their wives were not just aware of their husbands’ work as shadow intelligence agents, but fully involved themselves.

Take Lady Stanhope, for instance. Helen turned toward the tent beneath which her host and hostess stood together, surveying the scene with satisfaction. Lean and stern-featured Sir Langley still had the erect posture of an officer; his wife was softer, more willowy. Some might describe her as flighty. When the former Lady Kingston had married Major Sir Langley Stanhope, the reserved knight and the reclusive widow had stunned society by making something of a career of hosting lavish house parties. Given their experience, Helen had been confident everything would be elegantly arranged today.

But she had also long ago guessed that the Stanhopes’ house parties were not mere entertainments. After all, such gatherings would also be excellent opportunities for overhearing things, important things. And for all Lady Stanhope’s supposed propensity for chatter, Helen guessed she was more than capable of listening.

Just as she stepped toward the Stanhopes, she spied Zebby moving through the crowd in the same direction. When she looked at him, she saw both the distinguished general in his midsixties and the young man she had married. His hair had been red then, and his rank considerably lower; silver hair had come early, well before the promotions. Always clever, he had used the premature appearance of an absentminded old man to his advantage, playing the part to great effect with certain of his officers, and once, with the king himself.

Of course, she wasn’t to know any of that, either.

“Mrs. Scott,” he exclaimed as he drew closer. With a familiar twinkle in his blue eyes, he extended an arm to her. “Can I tempt you to take some refreshment?”

“I should like very much to thank our host and hostess,” she replied, linking her arm with his, tamping down her nervousness. She was about to do the unthinkable in a gathering of spies. But it was time to have everything out in the open.

Sir Langley bowed and Lady Stanhope curtsied as they approached.

“You’ve managed everything to perfection, Lady Stanhope,” Helen said. “Even the weather.” A playful breeze made the warm sunshine pleasant, sending puffs of white clouds scurrying across a blue sky.

Lady Stanhope acknowledged the praise with a dip of her head. “It has been our sincere pleasure, ma’am. Everyone was eager to gather together to honor the general.”