rel="nofollow" href="#ulink_507838a6-cf01-5cf4-9544-f9f5f453d3a4">Epilogue Aix-en-Provence, France
Six weeks later Eleanor wore a dress of the lightest yellow to be married in, because the colour suited her mood exactly and because Cristo said that whenever he saw her it was as if the sun had come out.
Her groom wore a jacket of dark blue cloth, his waistcoat embroidered with the Wellingham crest.
Florencia wore gold and so did her cousins, the numerous little bridesmaids and pageboys making a line around her. Even the weather cooperated as they stood to one side of the small chapel, a row of cypress trees sheltering them from the light breeze.
Cristo had leased a beautiful country villa with blue shutters and expansive gardens for the Wellingham party and the wedding took place on the third day after they had arrived in the town where Paris had been buried all those years ago.
She could see his headstone from where she stood beside the front steps of the chapel, white marble newly carved with all the love and pride befitting a cherished first born.
Smiling, Eleanor tipped her head in her son’s direction and with Beatrice-Maude on one side of her and Emerald and Lucinda on the other, she thought that she had never felt quite like this.
Young. Free. Alive. In exactly the place that she should be!
The beginning of a life that stretched on into the years before them. She could barely stand still with the promise of it.
‘Well, now,’ Beatrice said, her eyes alight with mischief. ‘All three of the Wellingham brothers are now most satisfactorily married.’
Emerald cleared her throat. ‘But we have one wedding still to go, Lucinda.’
Cristo’s sister was careful in her reply. ‘I have long since given up on finding a man who lives up to all my expectations, Emmie.’
‘Cristo might have said the same, Lucy, but when love comes it takes no mind of what has been or of what is to come. It only focuses on the now.’
As if on cue the men joined them, the pin of gold on the lapel of Cristo’s jacket catching the sun: a gift from the French side of his family when they had stopped in Paris to make peace with the past.
She felt his fingers slide into hers, one tracing the ring on her left hand.
Semper veritas—Always truth—engraved in the fine gold.
Placing her other hand across the flat of her stomach, she knew another truth, and when she caught the turquoise eyes of her sister-in-law upon the gesture, knew that she felt it, too.
A full circle. Like the seasons. A time to be born and a time to die.
Paris. Florencia. And now this child.
With the French sun overhead and her husband and children beside her, Eleanor knew that she, too, had finally come home.
A Wicked Liaison
Lady Folbroke’s Delicious Deception
Christine Merrill
CHRISTINE MERRILL lives on a farm in Wisconsin, USA, with her husband, two sons, and too many pets—all of whom would like her to get off the computer so they can check their e-mail. She has worked by turns in theatre costuming, where she was paid to play with period ball gowns, and as a librarian, where she spent the day surrounded by books. Writing historical romance combines her love of good stories and fancy dress with her ability to stare out of the window and make stuff up.
Christine Merrill
To Maddie Rowe, editor extraordinaire.
You make this so much fun that I forget I'm working.
Anthony de Portnay Smythe sat at his regular table in the darkest corner of the Blade and Scabbard pub. The grey wool of his coat blended with the shadows around him, rendering him almost invisible to the rest of the room. Without appearing to—for to stare at his fellows might prove suicidally rude—he could observe the other patrons. Cutpurses, thieves, petty criminals and transporters of stolen goods. Rogues to a man. And, for all he knew, killers.
Of course, he took great care not to know.
The usual feelings of being comfortable and in his element were unusually disconcerting. He dropped a good week’s work on to the table and pushed them towards his old friend, Edgar.
Business associate, he reminded himself. Although they had known each other for many years, it would be a mistake to call his relationship with Edgar a friendship.
‘Rubies.’ Tony sorted through the gems with his finger, making them sparkle in the light of the candle guttering on the table. ‘Loose stones. Easy to fence. You need not even pry them from the settings. The work has been done for you.’
‘Dross,’ Edgar countered. ‘I can see from here the stones are flawed. Fifty for the lot.’
This was where Tony was supposed to point out that they were investment-grade stones, stolen from the study of a marquis. The man had been a poor judge of character, but an excellent judge of jewellery. Then Tony would counter with a hundred and Edgar would try to talk him down.
But suddenly, he was tired of the whole thing. He pushed the stones further across the table. ‘Fifty it is.’
Edgar looked at him in suspicion. ‘Fifty? What do you know that I do not?’
‘More than I can tell you in an evening, Edgar. Far more. But I know nothing about the stones that need concern you. Now give me the money.’
This was not how the game was to be played. And thus, Edgar refused to acknowledge that he had won. ‘Sixty, then.’
‘Very well. Sixty.’ Tony smiled and held out his hand for the money.
Edgar narrowed his eyes and stared at Tony, trying to read the truth. ‘You surrender too easily.’
It felt like a long hard fight on Tony’s side of the table. Tonight’s dealings were just a skirmish at the end of the war. He sighed. ‘Must I bargain? Very well, then. Seventy-five and not a penny less.’
‘I could not offer more than seventy.’
‘Done.’ Before the fence could speak again, he forced the stones into Edgar’s hand and held his other hand out for the purse.
Edgar
