Epilogue
May 1821
Yorkshire
It was a tidy lane, dotted with a few small but neat houses, surrounded by carefully tended patches of garden. They had left the carriage at an inn in town and walked the rest of the way, not knowing the exact house they were seeking, but Alec’s eyes immediately snagged on one dwelling. It wasn’t surrounded by the usual English primroses, but by crimson blooms on tall stems. He hadn’t seen carnations that bright since the Spanish campaign.
“This is her last known residence,” said James Peterbury.
“It is,” said Alec quietly. “Right there, I’d wager.” He indicated the bright red flowers. “Carnations are everywhere in Spain,” he told Cressida.
“They’re beautiful,” she said.
Alec smiled. “I always thought so. My mother would like them.”
A few children ran by them, herding a handful of geese along with the help of a barking dog. One of the boys stumbled over a rock and dropped his biscuit almost on Alec’s boots. “Beg pardon, sir,” he said breathlessly, snatching up his snack and brushing the dirt off it.
Behind him, James inhaled sharply. Alec felt the same shock. It was Will’s face peering up from under the mop of dark hair, darker and smaller but unmistakable. The boy had inherited his mother’s Castilian coloring, but every feature was his father’s. Cressida pressed his arm in worry, but he put his hand over hers in reassurance. “Are you Master Lacey?” he asked, recovering his voice.
The boy’s dark eyes shone up at him, innocent and unsuspecting. “Yes, sir. Who be you?”
Alec went down on one knee to face him. “I’m an old friend of your father’s.”
A surprised smile burst over the boy’s face. “Truly?”
“Yes. My name is Alec Hayes, and this lady is my wife.” He gestured at James. “And this is Sir James Peterbury. Sir James and I grew up with your father in Hertfordshire. We’re very pleased to meet you.”
The lad looked between them, then turned and ran down the street. “Mama, Mama!” he shouted. “There’s some men here—friends of my papa! Mama, come!”
A slender woman with olive skin emerged from the house with the carnations, shading her eyes as her son raced toward her. For all that she was older and had obviously suffered some hardship, Isabella Lacey was still lovely. Alec recognized her at once. He had last seen her at the Duchess of Richmond’s ball, the night before they marched out to meet the French. That night she had been a young bride, deeply in love with a man who adored her. It must have been their last night together.
“At last,” breathed James. He and Alec exchanged a glance; at last, indeed. It had taken them months to find her. Isabella had moved about frequently after Waterloo, and even the two private agents they hired to trace her had struggled at times.
She watched them approach, her aristocratic heritage evident in her proud posture if not in her appearance. Her son started to run back to them, but she admonished him with a word and he returned to her side, only dragging his feet a little.
“Mrs. Lacey?” Alec removed his hat and bowed.
“Yes.” Her wary eyes darted between the two of them. She put one hand on her son’s shoulder, drawing him even closer to her. Beyond her Alec could see the interior of the house, neat and clean but tiny. Her hands bore the calluses of hard work, and her clothing was faded and much mended. He felt again the sharp guilt that he hadn’t been able to keep his promise to Will to take care of them, tempered only by the knowledge that the Laceys would never want for anything again.
“I am Alexander Hayes. May I present my wife, Mrs. Hayes, and Sir James Peterbury.” James also doffed his hat and bowed. Cressida curtsied, murmuring a polite greeting. Mrs. Lacey returned it, but most of her attention remained on the men. “Peterbury and I were friends of your husband, Will,” Alec said. “The three of us grew up together in Hertfordshire and served in the army together.”
Something sparkled in her gaze, the memory of old joys and the remembrance of enduring sorrow. “He has been dead several years now,” she said softly. “Since Waterloo.”
“We know, and are very sorry for it,” said James. “But we have brought you some news. Your son has inherited a legacy from his grandfather.”
Her lips parted in shock. Her son crept closer to her side. “What’s a legacy, sir?” he asked.
Alec smiled at him. “It can mean many things, young man, but in this case it means money.” He looked at Isabella, still standing in mute amazement. “Ten thousand pounds.”
“Blimey,” exclaimed the boy. “Mama, we shall be rich!”
Alec grinned; the boy was just like Will. “Yes, indeed.”
Later, after Isabella had recovered from her shock enough to invite them in, they talked about Will. Her son, named for his father, asked dozens of questions, and as James and Alec shared their memories, silent tears began to flow down Isabella’s cheeks.
Cressida made tea, keeping out of the way. As they reminisced and laughed, she sensed a subtle easing of the last tension in her husband’s shoulders. He needed this—he deserved this, she thought fiercely. After he had discovered the truth about Will Lacey and her father last summer, Alec had been fully exonerated; the Duke of Wellington acknowledged the error and publicly denounced the rumors of treason. Suddenly it was as if no one had ever believed Alec guilty, or so it seemed from the number of people who came to call. Alec bore it all with a wry twist to his smile, and told her he almost preferred being a pariah.
But not a word of Will Lacey’s true actions was ever uttered. Will had been buried a hero, and Alec had loved him too well to reveal the truth. He told only his family and James
