Wicked Epilogue

Two months later

“You are fortunate your husband is so strong,” Joshua said, as he wheeled the barrow through the flower beds to their little statue of a laughing angel, Bobbin and Buckle bouncing eagerly at his heels.

In deference to the summer sun—inasmuch as Joshua paid deference to anything—his shirtsleeves were rolled to the elbow, showing the bronzed skin over his corded muscles. He caught her looking and leered at her playfully, and Cassandra laughed with delight at the moment: the warm, humming air, the black-and-white puppies tumbling on the grass, the man whose mere presence enriched her days.

Being Joshua, he could not simply place her gardening cushion on the grass, but had to spin it high in the air first. He took her hand as she lowered herself to kneel on it. She didn’t need his help to kneel, being in excellent health and well habituated to the constant standing and kneeling that was part of gardening, but Joshua did such small things for her now without even thinking, as though his awareness of the world had expanded to include her comfort. Oh, but it was lovely, having someone always looking after her and expecting nothing in return. And it was just as lovely to have someone to care for too.

He dropped onto his knees at her side. “Forget-me-nots, did you say? I know them. They’re the blue ones.” He poked at the small patches of soil around the foot of the statue. “There’s not much space left.”

“We’ll sow the seeds to fill up these last places.”

“Excellent. Enough chattering, then. Let’s get to work.”

He handed her the fork and trowel, and twisted to grab the watering pot to pour at her command. They worked in harmony now, Joshua doing the lifting and watering, Cassandra turning over the soil and pressing the seeds into the soft, rich earth.

Choosing the statue had been a solemn occasion, but they had agreed, without hesitation, to have their little angel joyous. In the weeks since, they had made regular expeditions, during which Cassandra planted sweet William, Canterbury bells, fleabane, and wallflowers, and now forget-me-nots. Joshua was right: Not much space remained at the little statue’s base. That was all right. Enough time had passed; enough joy filled her days. The sharp edges of her grief had softened. She no longer needed to plant any more.

The planting done, she stood before the statue and let peace ripple through her heart. Joshua wrapped his arms around her from behind, and she leaned back against his chest.

“How are you feeling, my love?” he asked.

“Very well. How are you?”

He brushed his lips over her temple. “I am well, and very happy to have you all to myself. I’m even getting used to the quiet. You don’t regret not going to the seaside?”

“Not at all,” she said, and refused to indulge that habitual pang of guilt at being pleased not to have to worry about anyone for a while.

Mrs. Newell had invited Emily to join the Newell family at the seaside, but everyone was so taken with the idea that Mama, Emily, Isaac, and Miss Vincent had all gone. Every letter from Mama was a balm to Cassandra’s heart. With the sea air, change of location, and new company, Mama was sounding more like her old self, Emily was reportedly in high spirits, and even Isaac’s leg was growing stronger, thanks to his long daily swims. Miss Vincent was the perfect governess for Emily, Mama declared, despite her youth, mysterious past, and unexplained familiarity with the theater. Furthermore, Mama reported, Emily had found a firm friend in Jane Newell, who was as placid, good-natured, and sensible as her father, the perfect foil to Emily’s sensitivity and dramatic tendencies.

Lucy had scorned the seaside, instead accepting an unexpected invitation from their grandmother. The annual Sherbourne midsummer fair was renowned, but it demanded considerable effort from the duchess, and their grandparents had decided it would do Lucy good to help oversee the elaborate arrangements. Neither grandmother nor sister had written, which, Cassandra and Joshua agreed, could only mean no disasters had yet occurred.

“Listen, though,” she said. “A summer’s day is never completely quiet. You can hear the birds singing, and the bees humming.”

“The birds and the bees,” he repeated, in lascivious tones. “See, that’s what I like most about this garden. Never know when I’ll get a good ravishing.” His hands roamed over her. “What are the chances I’ll get one now?”

She laughed. “Behave. It’s time for your dancing lesson. I mean to show you off at the summer ball next week, but you still dance too fast.”

“I never dance too fast. They play the bloody music too slow.” He spun her in his arms. “Come, my lovely wife, dance with me now.”

He held her as if for a waltz and she sang softly to keep time, but he only moved faster and faster, until they were whirling around the small garden, heads thrown back with laughter, breathless with dizzying, dazzling delight. Bobbin and Buckle, thinking this was excellent sport, gamboled around them.

Perhaps it was the puppies getting underfoot, or the heat, or—most likely—Joshua up to his mischief, but somehow Cassandra was tumbling breathlessly to the ground, her husband catching her and lowering her gently onto the grass. Side by side, they regarded the blue sky, with its few fat dollops of creamy clouds.

“Oh dear, it’s too hot for that,” she puffed, her skin prickling from the heat.

He propped himself up on one elbow and leaned over her. “Shall I get the watering pot and water you? Or…” That wicked glint lit his eyes as he trailed a finger over her collarbone. “I shall dump you in the barrow and wheel you down to the river and toss you in.”

“A swim would be lovely. But you must behave yourself and do not toss me into the river in my clothes. I’ll sink like a stone.”

“Mrs. DeWitt! The very idea that I would do such a thing! I shall personally ensure you’ve not a stitch on you before I throw you in.”

“Oh, you are wicked.”

“I’m wicked? You’re the one insisting we go swimming in the nude.” He grinned. “Are you complaining, Mrs. DeWitt?”

“Not a bit, Mr. DeWitt.” She lifted her head and pressed a loving kiss to his smile. “I have no complaints at all.”

The following spring

Gravel crunched and harnesses jingled.

Hearing the sounds on the drive, Cassandra pressed a hasty kiss to Joshua’s temple and left him with the drawings of baby Charlie. She dashed out the front door of Sunne Park to watch the carriage arrive, just as Emily came tearing around the corner of the house, the dogs at her heels.

They waited like a receiving line as Lucy stepped down from the carriage. She paused to pose in her impossibly fashionable outfit, only to ruin her own effect by pulling a comical face, then sweeping Emily into her arms and planting a big, noisy kiss on her cheek.

With slightly less enthusiasm, she submitted to Cassandra’s embrace.

“Traveling!” Lucy groaned, as the three sisters jostled their way inside. “Traveling is so boring.”

“Another failed Season,” Grandmother had written, in a letter that oozed so much disappointment it dripped off the page and burned little holes in the floor. “At least she didn’t cause a scandal this year or get herself cast out of Society. But I fail to see how we shall ever get that girl married if she refuses every offer. It has become a great game among some of the younger gentlemen, and I fear that sooner or later some blackguard will kidnap her for a wager, and then she’ll truly be courting ruin.”

Joshua barreled into the foyer, clutching a handful of the drawings. “Not kidnapped, then?”

“If only someone would kidnap me.” Lucy might not have acquired a husband in London, but she had managed to acquire a new, world-weary drawl. “What I wouldn’t give for a man with some actual gumption.”

“Grandmother wrote that you refused twelve marriage offers this Season,” Emily said, helping Lucy out of her fancy London bonnet and pelisse and flinging them carelessly aside. “I’m writing a play about you.”

“I am portrayed as a beautiful princess, naturally.”

“Naturally! ’Tis based on a folk tale that Miss Vincent told me. A princess refuses to marry, so her father the king sets a quest, and whoever completes the quest wins her hand. I am tearing my hair out in frustration, though,” she added, with one of her theatrical sighs. “The play just isn’t working.”

“Of course it isn’t working,” Lucy said impatiently. “It’s not her story. While this man runs off on the quest, what’s your princess doing? Sitting at home polishing her fingernails?”

Emily’s eyes widened. “You’re a genius. She’ll dress as a boy, like Shakespeare’s Rosalind or Viola, because of course a woman cannot have an adventure unless she pretends to be a man. She’ll join our hero on his quest, but he won’t have the foggiest idea who she is.”

“It’s hardly realistic for a beautiful princess to pass as a man. Not if she has a figure like mine.”

“Then she can be thin like me. But anyway, it’s the theater,” Emily added with a dismissive wave. “No one cares if it makes sense, so long as they have a good time. I must write this now!”

And off she dashed.

Joshua slipped his free arm around Cassandra’s waist. She leaned into him with a contented sigh, enjoying the theater her own sisters provided.

Lucy raised a single eyebrow at them—another skill she had acquired in London, apparently. “Home not ten minutes and already I have solved a problem. Perhaps I am not entirely useless.”

Cassandra smiled. “Not entirely.”

“Then make yourself useful now.” Joshua shoved the drawings at Lucy. “Juno Bell drew Charlie for us. Which one should we have made into a painting?”

Lucy took the sheaf. At the first drawing, a fond smile touched her lips, but as she leafed through the score of pages, her expression gradually shifted to one of bemusement.

“Good heavens, Cassandra,” she finally said. “How many babies did you have?”

“Just the one, I assure you.”

Cassandra shot Joshua an amused look.

“What?” he said. “What?”

She laughed. “Joshua insisted Juno draw Charlie from a thousand different angles and in different poses, despite her protestations that little babies do not have many poses in their repertoire. Poor Juno finally fled back to her studio in London. She said she had commissions to fulfill, but I think she was terrified that he’d lock her up and make her draw Charlie every day for the rest of his life. Did you see Juno in London?”

“Only at the Royal Academy exhibition. There was some passing gossip about her and the Duke of Dammerton. They say he means to choose a bride this Season, but he still hasn’t.”

“Dammerton!” Joshua snapped his fingers. “You can marry him! Surely he’s desperate enough by now to marry even you.”

Lucy made a disdainful sound. That sound wasn’t new, but she had improved it. “Have you seen the duke’s clothes? I could never marry a man who dresses more prettily than I do.” She handed back the drawings. “I want to meet my new nephew. Where is Mama?”

“In Birmingham with Isaac,” Cassandra said, taking Lucy’s hand to lead her up the stairs to the nursery, secretly rejoicing when her sister didn’t pull away. “Isaac’s investigation business is doing so well he bought a townhouse, only to discover he hasn’t the faintest idea how to manage one, so Mama is helping him furnish it and hire staff. Will you tell us about London?”

Lucy dropped her hand and, just as quickly, dropped back into that affected world-weariness. “London was boring. The music was boring, the balls were boring, and the men! One fears for the future of England because every man in London is so abominably dull.”

Unseen behind her, Joshua rolled his eyes in an impression of Lucy. Cassandra elbowed him in admonishment. He responded with an unrepentant grin.

“I fear our Charlie will prove a great disappointment then,” Cassandra said cheerfully. “You are likely to find a baby boring too.”

“Exceedingly boring,” Joshua agreed. “The boy is a terrible conversationalist. In all the time I’ve known him, he’s never had anything intelligent or interesting to say.”

“And he never dances.” Cassandra feigned gossipy horror. “Even when there is a shortage of gentlemen to partner with the ladies.”

“Not to mention his dreadful manners,” Joshua said. “Time and again, I’ve told him, ‘Charlie, a gentleman must stand when a lady enters the room,’ but that wretched boy does not even lift his head. Really, Mrs. DeWitt, I am shocked that a son of yours has so little respect for etiquette. I shall put him to reading your conduct books.”

“But he never studies either,” she lamented. “Really, Mr. DeWitt, I am shocked that a son of yours is so lazy. I tell you, Lucy, that boy has never done a day’s work in his life. He just lolls around, demanding food and sleep. He will not even rouse himself enough to dress.”

Cassandra was enjoying herself immensely. By the time they reached the nursery door, even Lucy appeared to be fighting a smile, until her jaded air reasserted itself.

“No manners, no conversation, a complete idler who cannot dress himself and wants nothing but food and drink?” she summarized. “My baby nephew sounds exactly like every gentleman in London. At least Charlie won’t try to grab handfuls of my body.”

Cassandra and Joshua exchanged another look. “Well, actually…” she said.

But Lucy’s determined grip on cynicism weakened as she approached the cradle and gazed down at Charlie. The baby gurgled at her happily and kicked his little feet with the energy he had inherited from his father.

Lucy touched his hand, and he gripped her finger in his dimpled fist.

“Good afternoon, Charles James Lightwell DeWitt,” she said softly and bent to plant a soft kiss on his pink, sweet-smelling head. “I’m your aunt Lucy. I shall be your guide and make sure you grow up to be a right terror and make trouble for your mama and papa every chance you get. What do you think of that?”

What Charlie thought, apparently, was that Lucy’s finger should go into his mouth.

“You like that idea, don’t you?” She grinned down at him. “Charlie DeWitt: heartbreaker and troublemaker. I shall teach you everything I know.”

After Lucy left in search of food, drink, and a change of clothes, Cassandra and Joshua lingered over the cradle.

“London is so full of fools, you’d think one of them would take her,” he said.

“The trouble is, Lucy is too smart to take them.”

“The trouble is, Lucy is bored and restless and angry about something.”

“I just wish I understood what.” She sighed as they both looked down at their little wonder. “The other trouble is, she’s looking for trouble and I don’t think she’ll be satisfied until she finds some.”

“Maybe I can hire someone to kidnap her.”

“Or maybe we just keep on loving her until she finds what she needs.”

“We could do that too.”

Charlie seemed to agree with this decision, judging by his merry chortles and eager kicks.

“I tell you, my love,” Joshua said, “there isn’t a manufactory in the world that could make anything so marvelous at this little fellow.”

“He probably will be a heartbreaker and troublemaker, even without Lucy’s help.”

Joshua brushed a thumb over Charlie’s forehead, as if bestowing a benediction. “May you grow up to be as clever and handsome and strong as your papa, and as kind and beautiful and loving as your mama.” He shot her a grin. “And wicked, of course, like both of us put together.”

Cassandra pressed a kiss first to her son’s cheek and then to her husband’s. “Wicked in the very best of ways.”