Epilogue
Standing distant from the small clutch of guests that were busily tossing rose petals at the carriage that was pulling away from Norrington House, Raoul Charlebois leaned against the wrought-iron fence with a quiet sense of contentment.
There could be no doubting Ian’s shimmering happiness as he had stood at the side of Miss Mercy Simpson and proclaimed his vows. It had been obvious in his every lingering touch and the manner in which his gaze had never wavered from his new bride. Mon Dieu, the lovesick man had even been charming to the viscount and his mother to please his bride.
Raoul could have hoped for no better for his friend. There was the sound of footsteps, and, turning his head, Raoul watched Fredrick Colstone, the heir to Lord Graystone, approaching with two glasses of champagne in his hands. The slender gentleman with honey curls and silver eyes had arrived in London last eve along with his beautiful wife, Portia.
Raoul hid a smile as he caught sight of the smudge of grease on one ear and notepad that ruined the line of Fredrick’s Bottle Green jacket. He would lay odds that the younger gentleman had spent the morning in one of his damnable workshops and was forcibly hauled to the ceremony by his efficient wife. Fredrick was utterly devoted to Ian, but few things beyond Portia could actually distract him once he was working on his inventions.
Halting at Raoul’s side, Fredrick shoved the champagne into his hand and lifted his own glass in a toast.
“To the demise of the renowned Casanova.”
Raoul obligingly lifted his glass, a smile playing about his lips.
“A title I believe Ian has happily retired, although it is said that women all over England are wearing black to mourn his nuptials and that more than one gentleman found himself in utter ruin after betting that the Casanova would never wed.”
Fredrick rolled his eyes. “Somehow I am not at all surprised. He would not be Ian Breckford if his marriage did not cause a stir. I will give him this, he possesses excellent taste in women.”
“Have you mentioned this to your wife?”
Fredrick shrugged with the confidence of a gentleman secure in the love of his wife.
“Actually, she was the one to inform me just how fortunate Ian has been. She and Mercy are already fast friends.”
“And Portia is wise enough to realize that you are utterly besotted with her?”
“There is that.” Fredrick sipped his champagne, turning his head to watch the carriage disappear among the traffic. “Do you think that Ian will entirely forgive his mother for her deception?”
“I believe he already has, although it may be some time before his wounds are fully healed,” Raoul assured his companion. “He has even gone into business with the viscount. Some sort of investing scheme. Once they return from their honeymoon in Paris, I believe that he intends to open an office here in London, although he mentioned something of buying a house in Surrey so Mercy may be near her parents.”
“No doubt he will make a fortune. He always did possess the luck of the devil.”
Raoul drained his champagne, uncomfortably aware of a sensation that was perilously close to envy piercing his heart. Not for Ian’s impending fortune. Raoul had more than enough wealth to suit his needs.
No, this was . . . Mon Dieu. He did not know what it was. Only that it had been plaguing him since he had caught sight of Ian gazing with mindless devotion at his sweet Mercy.
“So all’s well that ends well,” he forced himself to mutter.
“Not quite.” Fredrick leaned against the iron fence, sliding a sly glance in Raoul’s direction. “There is still one of us who has yet to seek the truth of his legacy.”
Raoul laughed with sharp disbelief. “You cannot expect me to follow in your footsteps?”
“Why ever not? You desire to know the truth, do you not?”
“Really, Fredrick, I thought you a great deal more intelligent. Obviously marriage has rattled your wits.”
“That is a distinct possibility, since I haven’t the least notion what you mean.”
Raoul straightened, impatiently tossing the empty glass in a nearby hedge. He wanted to be away from Norrington House and the gathering crowd of gawkers across the street that had recognized him. Soon he would be surrounded, and he would be obliged to drive through London with a ridiculous parade of admirers trailing behind him.
With an impatient hand, he gestured toward his waiting carriage.
“Both you and Ian began your search as perfectly content bachelors and ended leg-shackled within a few weeks. You do not believe that I intend to follow in your footsteps?”
Fredrick chuckled, following in Raoul’s wake as he stepped toward the curb.
“There are worse things than discovering a woman who can offer you happiness beyond all dreams.”
“Perhaps, but I cannot think of one at the moment.”
“Fate is a strange thing, old friend. It tends to find you no matter how you might attempt to hide behind greasepaint and ridiculous costumes,” Fredrick warned. “Surely it is better to meet it face-to-face.”
It was a relief when his groom pulled the black carriage to a halt before him. As much as he loved Fredrick, his mood was oddly volatile. He would not risk punishing one of his few friends with his ill humor.
“We are no longer ten years old, mon ami,” he pointed out, pulling open the door to the carriage. “You cannot taunt and dare me into some ridiculous deed that I am bound to regret.”
Fredrick made a rude noise. “If you will recall, it was always Ian who was daring us into some devilish stunt, while I was the voice of reason. You, on the other hand, were the one to ride to the rescue when we managed to tumble into a scrape.”
“An endless and tedious duty, I assure you,” he said dryly, disguising the wistful pang that tugged at his heart.
Ridiculously, he missed those simpler days when both Ian and Fredrick had depended upon him. He had grown accustomed to protecting them, to tending to their needs, even bullying them when necessary. Though he would never admit it, there was an emptiness to his life that he hadn’t managed to fill since Fredrick and Ian had struck out on their own.
Perhaps sensing more than Raoul desired, Fredrick placed a hand on his shoulder.
“It is a duty that has now been taken from your hands. Perhaps it is time that you consider your own future.”
A strange chill of premonition inched down Raoul’s spine, and he hastily stepped in the carriage, as if he could outrun the unnerving sensation.
“By rushing off to my father’s estate to meet my destiny?” he mocked with a shake of his head. “No, I thank you, Fredrick. Return to your bride and your inventions. You have no talent for soothsaying.”
Closing the door, Raoul leaned back in the leather squabs and felt the carriage jerk into motion. Unfortunately, it was not before Fredrick managed to have the last word.
“Run if you will, Charlebois, but destiny is waiting for you.”