Epilogue: THIS MUCH IS TRUE
This Much Is True: Epilogue
by Vivienne Lorret
*This content is the copyright property of Vivienne Lorret and should not be copied, posted, or redistributed for any reason. Please enjoy this exclusive “read only” epilogue for THIS MUCH IS TRUE, book 3 in the Liars’ Club series.
Epilogue
The Highwayman’s Last Ride… ?
Act I
“Places, everyone. Places!” the stage manager shouted, clapping smartly. While the slender dark-haired man possessed a commanding yet elegant bearing, he also had an unfortunate grating accent that identified him as an American, of all things.
If that wasn’t bad enough, a series of ragamuffin cast members answered the summons, scurrying to find their marks, and more than half of them still shrugging into their costumes.
“Amateurs,” Sir Kellum Archer grumbled from the wings just before a bewigged page boy tripped over his own feet, then barreled into him before dashing off without a word of apology.
On a scoff of indignance, Kellum looked down at his attire. The brief collision smothered the lapels of his black superfine and his silk waistcoat in wig powder. “And lice as well, no doubt. Filthy little urchin.”
Brushing himself off, he stiffly turned… then ran smack into the stage dressing.
Stunned, he stumbled back, hand flying to his forehead as he grimaced at the tree. Strange. He was sure it hadn’t been there an instant ago. But since that sounded rather insane, he darted a quick glance around. Then, satisfied that none of these worthless cretins had witnessed the episode, he squared his shoulders and walked on, reminding himself of the reason he was there.
This was to be his grand return to London after three years abroad. The past years in Paris had only reaffirmed his rightful place in society as a legend.
He deserved all the acclaim, which he’d never have lost if not for the whining Althea Hartley and her miserable family. She should have been grateful that he’d made Bumbleton such a roaring success. After all, her play would never have seen the stage if not for his name on the script. He despised that ungrateful harridan and her interfering family.
The Hartleys, he thought, bitter disdain coating his tongue. Who did they think they were anyway?
The baron and baroness had been nothing more than strolling players in their day, their paltry talents befitting rustic village squares rather than any true stage. Therefore, it absolutely infuriated him that they’d somehow managed to keep all the most noteworthy actors from working for him. Which, in turn, forced him to leave London three years ago in order to find a theatre worthy of having his name on the playbill.
Not that it mattered any longer, he reminded himself, tugging sharply on the cuffs of his sleeves. He’d done fine in Paris.
Even so, he resented the inconvenience of having to find new patrons, wealthy enough to keep him in the manner in which he deserved. And when he’d told his sad tale of a being the victim of a scheming, vindictive shrew, who’d concocted all sorts of unfounded lies in order to sully his stellar reputation, his new patrons had lapped up his truth like kittens crowded around a saucer of cream.
Now, he was back in London and by royal invitation, no less.
Turning, he peered through the tormentor curtain toward the audience. At the sight of a packed house, he filled his chest with a self-satisfied breath.
“Take that, Baron Hartley, you miserable untalented rube,” he muttered to himself as he let the curtain fall. The Hartleys may have turned the more acclaimed actors against him, but clearly the ton still recognized his genius.
Fluffing his cravat, he turned to find the correspondent from The Post breathing down his neck. Again. Ever since arriving at the theatre this evening, the older man had clung to him like a barnacle to a skiff.
Paper in hand, Mr. Bard’s spectacles inched down the considerable length of his nose toward gray mustachios so voluminous that they blended in with his side whiskers like a garland over a mantelpiece. “What was that, sir?”
“Nothing worthy of note,” Kellum bit out. “As I said before, there is no need to hover. Never fear, I will tell you what to write in your article.”
The correspondent nodded, then pushed up his spectacles with the blunt end of a pencil. “Of course, sir. It’s just that The Post readers will want your every word for the story of your return to the London stage after the scandal of Bumbleton and all.”
“There was no scandal!” he barked. Yet, when several pairs of eyes turned his way, he smiled and hastily added, “No sandals? How terrible! What will we do with the costumes now?”
When the actors and stage crew went back to preparing for the curtain, he issued a patient smile to the reporter. Then, taking him by the elbow, he steered him deeper into the wings, carefully lowering his voice. “There was no scandal. Do you understand? It is utterly ridiculous to think that the daughter of a family of hackneyed, strolling players could have written a play as successful as Bum—” he broke off, jaw clenching. “Don’t write that down! I’m trying to explain something that should be obvious to you and to everyone.”
The older man stilled his pencil. “And that is?”
“Reputation, my good man,” he offered with the genial charm that had bespelled many a reporter in the past. Kellum splayed a hand over his own breast. “One simply has to look at my extensive catalogue of great achievements to know the truth. That you may write down.”
The old man scribbled, slowly muttering “extensive catalogue…”
“Yes, yes, of great achievements. There. I trust that matter is settled. After all, London has heard nary a peep from the former Miss Althea Hartley, have they?”
He wouldn’t have returned otherwise.
Apparently, after tasting only brief success with her highwayman play, Althea realized that Kellum been right all along. That she did not possess the je ne sais quoi required to achieve greatness.
He snickered at the thought. Let the little wife and mother stay at hearthside. As far as he was concerned women only had one purpose in a man’s world.
“Then you’re not concerned about the acclaim achieved by the playwright Nathanial Hay Altree?” the reporter inquired as the curtain parted and the play began behind him.
Kellum slid a glance over the motley crew of actors, trying not to allow his anger to show. He didn’t like being reminded that, in his absence, his fame had been usurped by Altree. Not only were the mysterious author’s plays running in the better playhouses, but they were in four different playhouses simultaneously. Four!
Not even he had achieved that, Kellum thought testily. “’Altree,’ did you say? Never heard of him. Apparently, he isn’t famous enough for Paris. As for me, I’m certain that tonight’s play will reestablish my name as one of London’s greatest playwrights next to Shakespeare.”
A pair of bushy gray eyebrows arched over keen blue eyes. “Shall I write that down, sir?”
Kellum smiled and fluffed his cravat. “You will soon see for yourself.”
He knew this play was good. It had already achieved acclaim in Paris with standing ovations for the playwright. And as far as anyone knew, he was the playwright.
As luck would have it, he’d procured a number of winning manuscripts from a sycophant fresh out of university. The timid young man, a certain A. A. Rathley with a spotted complexion and a provincial air, had begged for Kellum’s advice.
Oh, and he’d given it.
Kellum smiled at the memory of Rathley’s hopeful expression… and the way it suddenly shattered into despair when he was told his plays were rubbish. It was almost comical. But if the fool chose to simply hand over his life’s work to a stranger, what did he expect?
Honestly, it was like taking ha’penny comfits from a child.
Hearing the cheers already coming from the audience, Kellum knew that his return to London society would be legendary.
Take that, Baron Hartley and your entire brood.
Sidling up to him like a damnable shadow, Mr. Bard cleared his throat. “Um… Sir Kellum, there appears to be a problem.”
“What problem?” he snapped.
“Someone is shouting accusations, sir.” Bard poked the air with the tip of his pencil in the direction of the balconies.
Hearing that what he thought were cheers was actually the tail end of a rant, Kellum parted the curtain just enough to see a gentleman with a monocle and dark Vandyke beard, standing in the box with the Duke of Sherborne beside him.
The rotund little man held the playbill rolled up in his fist as he raised it above a balding pate. “Stop at once! This is my play! I tell you, this is my play! Show me the mountebank who dares claim it as his own.”
“Good line,” Bard murmured and jotted it down.
“Ignore that buffoon,” Kellum ordered. But only then did he notice that the actors had all stopped, their uncertain gazes veering toward him. The audience soon followed, until every eye in the house was trained on the part in the drapes at the far side of the stage.
Kellum dropped the curtain. Then, gesturing to the players with an impatient whisking of his hand, he commanded, “Get on with it. You are paid to act, not to gawp.”
But the shouting and accusations continued. Murmurs swept through the audience until the actors just stood in place, exchanging confused shrugs.
Kellum was livid. Professional thespians would never stop in the middle of a scene.
He growled. “Take down every name of these vagabond players, Mr. Bard. I’m going to ensure they never have a future on the stage. Mark my words, this will be an end to all their careers.”
“Perhaps you should say something, sir.”
“I? No, indeed. I—the very man who is being honored this evening, the very man who is here by royal invitation—need say nothing to these unwarranted accusations.”
“Well, it appears as though the Duke of Sherborne believes him for he is sending a pair of footmen down.”
Just then, Kellum saw two burly men in dark blue livery approach the stage.
“This is ridiculous!” Kellum strode out, center stage. Outraged, he pointed up to little man in the balcony. “Take that man in arms. He is a lunatic. Escort him out at once!”
“There you are, serpent! You cannot hide in the grass and slither away without standing trial for this crime against me. You have stolen my play and attempted to pass it off as your own.”
“You are quite mistaken,” Kellum said with a disparaging laugh. “Clearly you have no idea who I am. I am an acclaimed playwright whose work has been proven time and time again by filling theatres to the rafters.”
“And clearly you have no idea who I am or else you would not be trying to disguise my play as your own.”
No, he didn’t know who this man was. And, frankly, he didn’t care. But he did know that it wasn’t A. A. Rathley and that was enough to embolden him to charm the audience.
“I suppose I should not have asked the Fates to provide me with such a memorable evening. This man, this nobody, seems to think that it is his evening.” He rolled his eyes and swept an unconcerned hand through the air, gratified to hear titters of laughter in response. “I can assure you, there is only one of us here by royal invitation and”—he cupped a hand to the side of his mouth and continued sotto voce—“it isn’t him, whoever he is.”
More laughter rang out. It was music to his ears.
Then the man in the balcony spoke. “I happen to be Nathanial Hay Altree.”
And with that, the crowd fell silent.
~Act II~
As Thea watched Kellum squirm on the stage, trying to gain acolytes as he had done so many times before, she wondered if he had any idea how much worse his evening was about to become.
Likely not, considering he’d never been able to see a whole story through to it’s entirety.
Kellum stood with casual confidence, one hand on his hip, the other gesturing dismissively. “So you are Altree, hmm? And now I begin to see how you’ve commandeered so many playhouses. You’ve done it through these infantile tantrums and by crying wolf.”
“I can assure you, and everyone here, that I have earned my place,” Altree replied. “And it is not wolf that I cry, but a far more villainous act—murder.”
“You’re mad!” He laughed. “I’ve never murdered anyone in my life.”
“Haven’t you? Haven’t you tried to kill the soul of every playwright you’ve encountered? Little did they know that the only way a serpent can put others beneath them is to sink fangs into their dreams, releasing the venom disguised as advice until they fall, their souls withering from your nasty bite. A fact of which I’m certain A. A. Rathley can attest.”
At the mention, Thea could have sworn fear of discovery flashed across Kellum’s features. But he recovered quickly and began to shout in outrage.
“All this talk of serpents and murderers is absurd! I am here by royal invitation. Here, to be honored for my unimpeachable catalogue of work that has entertained the masses. This is my evening.” Kellum beat a fist against his chest. “My play. Not yours. And not some nobody’s whose name isn’t even worthy of note.”
“Zat would be A. A. Rathley,” a voice richly accented from a French province called out from the floor seats. Then they stood, slender-framed in tailcoat and Cossack trousers, their blond hair tied back in a queue, and with a complexion that, one might say, was artfully spotted. “Surely, you can remember me now, seer. It was only tree weeks ago zat we met in Paris, after all, non?”
There was no mistaking the widening of Kellum’s eyes this time.
“I—I’ve never seen this young man before in my life. And I demand that he—that both he and Altree—be removed from the theatre for making unfounded accusations that are clearly designed to slander a dignified member of society. I am here to be honored,” he repeated, his color rising.
The hold on his control slipped a degree more as he tugged at the stiff pointed collar around his throat. Beneath the heat of the stage lights, the flamboyant knot of his cravat was beginning to wilt.
The audiences gazes swung between the three of them—one on the stage, one on the balcony and one on the floor—as if they were watching acrobats performing at a circus.
Thea thought it was perfect.
The Duke of Sherborne’s men remained on the stage, which only agitated Kellum further until he was pacing back and forth like a caged hyena. Only, he wasn’t the one laughing.
“You do not recall?” Rathley said. “Alors, perhaps I shall remind you. When I ask for advice—oui, about my play, the very play that ‘as the audience hanging on every word—you said it was… how you say? Trite. Commonplace. Bah! De la merde, you said! Then you told me to stop wasting coin on paper and ink and to return to my ‘ovel where I spend my days digging up les pommes de terre, like some peasant in the mud!”
As if it were scripted, a potato went sailing toward the stage.
Kellum barely slithered out of the way in time, only to crash into the branch of a stage tree. He cursed, hand flying to his forehead as he staggered back. “Who put this here? I could’ve sworn…”
With a shake of his head to clear his confusion, he must have realized that he was center stage again. All eyes were on him. His gaze darted over to the tree that blocked the exit stage left, then to the guards standing sentinel stage right.
Pointing an accusatory finger at Rathley, he declared, “There! There! Did you not hear? That young man all but admitted to stealing from Altree, then passing it off as his own.”
“And you just admitted to stealing it from him, you worm,” Altree declared.
“I did no such thing. You’re twisting my words. I—” He broke off, finger hooked into the neck of his collar. “I don’t have to stand for this.”
“Actually, you do,” the Duke of Sherborne said. “I seem to recall a similar allegation regarding the play, Bumbleton.”
Kellum lifted both hands to his temples and squeezed, jaw clenched. “Would that I had never heard the name Hartley. It has become the bane of my existence.”
“Then you admit to stealing the play written by the former Miss Althea Hartley.”
“No. I do not. Bumbleton achieved raving success all because of me. Me! Don’t you understand?”
“And yet, even you admitted that writing the comedy of Bumbleton was a departure from your usual work. It is my understanding that it grossed more than all your previous plays.”
“Bumbleton. Bumbleton. Bumbleton,” he snarled. “I’m sick of hearing the name. I’ll have you know that it was nothing without me.”
“Because you signed your name to an unknown’s play?” the duke asked, conversationally. “As you said, without your name, a new playwright likely wouldn’t have had the opportunity.”
Kellum expelled a breath, his shoulders sagging in relief. “Precisely. No one would even know her name without me. She is nothing. Just as her family of hackneyed strolling players are nothing. You don’t see any of them on a London stage, do you? No, it is only those with true genius that can command an audience, who wouldn’t know true art if it bit them on the arse. As you can clearly see, Your Grace, this has all been a misunderstanding.”
“I think not.” The duke inclined his head toward his men and they began to advance.
“Wait! Wait! Let us not forget that Rathley admitted to stealing Altree’s play.”
“Ah, yes. Rathley, what do you have to say for yourself?”
“Oui, it is true,” the young man said with an unconcerned shrug and the audience gasped. “I stole ze play from the most talented playwright I ‘ave ever known.”
Altree laid a hand over his heart, a tear glinting in his eye. “Do you mean it?”
“Would I have gone through all this if I didn’t?” Rathley asked. But the thick French accent fell away as a decidedly feminine laugh bubbled out. Then he—or rather, she— slipped her pale hair from the queue, shook it out and proceeded to pluck the false spots from her cheeks as she continued. “Not to mention leaving the twins with Oscar. He’ll be gray by the time I return to the abbey.”
As the young man known, up until this point, as Rathley spoke, Thea’s sister Honoria was gradually emerging as every remaining trace of artfully applied stage makeup was wiped away with a dampened handkerchief. Which left her, as always, beautiful and glowing, and with the men around her openly admiring her costume. At least, until they were nudged in the ribs by their companions.
“What is this deception?” Kellum demanded, taking a step back only to be barricaded by Mr. Bard and the stage manager. He stood his ground and pointed again. “That is not Rathley.”
“Well, it is and it isn’t,” Altree explained. “That’s actually my sister and I gave her the play to see if you would steal it, as I suspect you’ve done for your entire career. And you did.”
Kellum shook his head. “It cannot be. You cannot be one of them—an insufferable Hartley. The brother, no less.”
“Not exactly,” Altree said, tucking his monocle into the pocket of his waistcoat. “You see, every member of the Hartley family has certain talents. Honoria is a marvel with costumes and make up.”
Climbing up to the stage, Honoria turned and curtsied with the ends of her tailcoat. “Thank you.”
While Altree continued, his voice took on a more feminine lilt. Then he—or rather, she—began to carefully strip away her disguise. First went the Vandyke beard, but with a wince as the gum paste smarted. “My father knows every Shakespearean play inside and out and can play any part with utter conviction.”
“’All the world’s a stage,’ my dear,” Mr. Bard said, bowing with a flourish and earning a smattering of applause from a confused—though enthralled—audience.
Altree’s jowls went next. “Then there’s my mother, a great actress in her own right, a most exceptional stage manager, and the woman who taught all her children that we have greatness inside of us. We are made of ether and iron…”
“…the heaven’s and the earth,” the stage manager added, her American accent vanishing as she pressed fingertips to her lips and blew a kiss to the balcony.
“Then there’s Truman,” Altree continued. “My brother is also a splendid actor but he prefers architecture. In fact, he made the tree that has been plaguing you all evening.
“Which brings me to my oldest sister. There’s never been anyone who hates the stage more, but she is always, always willing to do whatever it takes to support her family. Verity,” Altree called out, “I’ve never seen a better portrayal of a tree in my life.”
An echoing laugh responded from behind the bark. “You’ve finally written the perfect part for me!”
By the time Kellum looked up toward the balcony again, Altree’s bald cap was stripped away to reveal a coiled plait of rich mahogany hair. Still remaining were the bushy brows and rounded belly. But she’d take care of the former later when she could safely remove them without losing any of her own eyebrows. As for the latter, well, that would take another month before her and Jasper’s second child would arrive. Or third, counting Roly. He was really their first and was the best big brother to his little sister, Freya.
“Althea Hartley,” Kellum said in stupefaction.
“Trueblood, actually,” she supplied with alacrity. “However, I do write under my maiden name—Althea Anne Hartley. Quite similar to A. A. Rathley, if you think about it. Then, of course, if one were to take all the letters and jumble them up, one could create the anagram Nathanial Hay Altree.”
She smiled, rather pleased with herself as another series of gasps followed this announcement. Then came a round of applause, the audience rising to their feet on a chorus of “Bravo! Bravo!” and then “Brava! Brava!”
It was an evening no one would soon forget.
“Stop this! Stop this at once!” Kellum ranted, red-faced with outrage. “They’re all just…just Hartleys! Foolish, untalented strolling players. They are nobodies, while I am here by royal invitation!”
Honoria stepped off to the side of the stage and cupped her hand against her mouth as if she were part of a Greek chorus, imparting a secret to the audience. “And wouldn’t it be a shame if that turned out to be an exceptional forgery?”
A roar of laughter swept through the theatre as Kellum blanched ghostly white in understanding.
In the balcony, the duke gave a signal to his men.
But by the time they reached the culprit they would haul away, Kellum recovered. He sprang forward, leaping down from the stage, then running up the center aisle as if hellhounds were on his heels.
He likely didn’t realize that no one was in pursuit. And Thea had no doubt that he would find a waiting carriage and driver willing to take him away from London as fast as possible.
After all, Truman had always been fond of racing a team of horses. And that was the least of the surprises yet to come for Sir Kellum Archer.
Thea wondered if she should feel a trifle guilty for what was about to befall London’s former premier playwright. After all, there were times in a woman’s life when it should be enough to have the strength to walk away from a vain, overbearing and cruel despot with her head held high, and knowing that she had the support of the ones she loved around her.
And yet… there were also times when a woman just needed the bastard to pay.
~Act III~
“A silver moon hung low over the trees as the speeding carriage veered onto the secluded lane, the wheels stirring up a cloud of dust in its wake as our villain made his escape out of London,” Erik Trueblood said to his rapt audience of younger cousins, all sitting cross-legged on the edge of The Pit stage at Hartley Hall. Even at seven years old, he had a way with a script, as his besotted mother often told him. “But the forest lane held its secrets, and in the distance the low cry of a wolf pierced the night air.”
He cupped a hand to his ear and waited. And waited.
When the sound didn’t come, the narrator huffed, blowing out a breath that disturbed the hank of dark hair that fell across his brow as he looked to the stage manager.
“I’m on it,” Roly said, crossing the stage to speak to his distracted actor. “That was your cue. How many times do I need to tell you to learn your lines?”
In the middle of a good scratch against a prop tree, Thumper instantly sprang to attention and licked Roly’s face from ear to ear. His tail wagged wildly as the noble stage director broke out into helpless giggles.
“Yes, yes. Who’s a good boy? You’re a good boy,” he crooned, hugging the giant three-legged wolf for an instant before he stepped apart. Then he waggled a finger. “Pay attention this time.”
Thumper offered a woof in response.
After Roly offered a thumb’s up, Erik spread his hands and gestured dramatically as he repeated his line. “But the forest lane held its secrets, and in the distance the low cry of a wolf pierced the night air.”
Thumper dutifully arched his neck and issued a bone chilling howl.
Jasper never thought he’d grow accustomed to calling his dog anything other than Garmr. But that name had been part of the highwayman’s life, not the life of a family man. And as he stood with an arm wrapped around Thea’s waist, her head resting on his shoulder as they watched the children’s play from the terrace of Hartley Hall, he thought it wasn’t a sacrifice at all.
He never touched his uncle’s fortune unless it was to help others. To his mind, he already possessed all the riches in the world. He had a loving, talented and beautiful wife. Together they had four children—Roly, Freya, Erik and little Olympia napping in the nursery. They were surrounded by her entire family and his own. And Truman had even helped him rebuild the St. James estate, which honored the noble legacy that Jasper’s father and mother established in him.
What more could a man ask for?
And yet, there was more. Because as his gaze traveled to Tempest, who was standing in front of her husband with his arms wrapped around the gentle protrusion of her middle, he knew that the same kind of love that had healed his own scars had healed hers. She was happy, healthy and full of light.
Of course, his fiery-tempered cousin could still summon her inner termagant if he ever forgot to wipe his boots before he stepped into her house, Jasper thought with a grin.
A clatter drew his attention back down to The Pit where the carriage stumbled onto the stage, the horse tripping over feet he hadn’t grown into yet.
“I see that our son has acquired his acting ability from me,” Verity said with amusement to Magnus. To which he replied with a fond smile, “Then that makes him all the more perfect, just as he is.”
Standing beside the pair, Honoria looked down to her sister’s damp hem. “I see someone has been to the river again. I guess that explains the glow you’re both sporting.”
“Hush now,” Verity said, her cheeks a guilty pink as she flicked a glance to their parents.
Roxana slipped her arm around her own husband. “Believe me, each of our children acquired their passion quite naturally.”
And with that, Baron Hartley swept his wife back in an arch and planted a lusty kiss on her mouth. Then he straightened with a grin. “And you’ve got many years ahead of you to surprise each other.”
“One can only hope,” Oscar murmured to Honoria with a waggle of his brows.
“With two sets of twin terrors running in an out of every room in the abbey, ‘surprise’ seems a very apt word whenever we try for a moment alone.”
Standing nearby, Truman chuckled as he passed a commiserating look into his wife’s laughing eyes. The same look passed between Iris and her husband. And, much to Jasper’s dismay, between his aunt Clara and her husband of these last five years, Addlewick’s local doctor.
Wanting to wipe that image from his mind, he turned his attention back to the play, just as the highwayman, garbed in a black cloak and riding a broomstick destrier, withdrew a sword.
“That was not part of the original story,” Jasper muttered into Thea’s ear.
She responded with a shrug. “Poetic license.”
“Prepare to be gutted like the swine you are, Archer!” the highwayman shouted, sword raised.
“No. No. No,” Erik said in exasperation, marching into the scene. “That isn’t the line I wrote.”
“Then maybe it should have been,” his older sister said.
Then the older twins started in on each other. “I want to play the villain. It’s my turn!”
“No, Erik said you’re the driver.”
“But the driver doesn’t have any lines.”
Roly being the eldest of the lot and the most sensible and scholarly—at least, according to him—quickly intervened. “Ernest, you were the villain last time, as I recall. Now, I don’t know what you promised Erik—”
“His cake,” the playwright interjected, matter of fact as he scribbled notes onto the script.
“But it is only fair that Marina have a turn,” Roly continued before turning with an exasperated sigh. “And Frey, what did I tell you about being so bloodthirsty? Remember, you are a noble highwayman—”
“Highwaywoman, if you please,” Freya cut in, whipping a plait of dark hair over her shoulder.
“Be that as it may, you are not a commonplace malcontent. You are after justice, not blood.”
“What if I want both?”
As the children continued their squabbles, Tempest came up to Jasper and patted his shoulder with a laugh. “Like father, like daughter.”
He never spoke of the night when he’d stopped the carriage and hauled Archer out by the throat, instructing Truman to drive on. At least, not to anyone other than Thea. But his fierce daughter’s threat was surprisingly close to the promise he’d presented to Archer.
A satisfied grin tugged at the corner of his mouth as he remembered when Captain Summerhayes, whom he’d come to consider a friend these many years, had informed him that the former playwright had accidentally found his way aboard a ship bound for Australia.
“Peculiar,” Lady Broadbent mused from a cushioned bathchair, placed near the balustrade. “I don’t think I’ve heard another word regarding Sir Kellum Archer after that night.”
Jasper spied an uncanny gleam in those wizened eyes as she scrutinized him.
“I really couldn’t say, my lady,” he replied, all innocence. “Though, I suspect he must have decided that showing his face in England, or the continent for that matter, wasn’t worth the risk to his… longevity.”
Lady Broadbent nodded, her lips pursed in speculation. “I’ve often wondered if that was the highwayman’s last ride.”
“Oh, I’m certain of it.”
Coming up to stand on his other side, Truman clapped him on the shoulder and chuckled knowingly. “We’ll see how certain you are when the young bucks start courting your daughters.”
At that, all amusement drained away from Jasper and dread washed in.
“Fear not, my love,” Thea said, rising up to her toes to press her lips against his cheek. “Your highwayman’s costume is safely tucked away in the garret at home.”
And that was just one more reason why he loved his wife and the life they’d created together.