An Honorable Deception (The Imposters #3)

Epilogue

Three months later

T he penitent’s side of the confessional opened, and Yates strained to see through the screen as a man entered, closed the door behind him, and sat. Thanks to the dimness, he couldn’t make out much about him. The shape of a bowler hat and maybe, perhaps, fair hair beneath it.

“‘We know what we are...’” the man said, tone even and syllables cultured.

“‘...but know not what we may be,’” Yates finished, opting today for Scouse inflections. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, good sir. Mr. A.”

He’d just that morning reminded one of Barclay’s irritated sisters that educated people only ever said “ How do you do?” so his own choice of greeting made him grin.

The man breathed a short little laugh—odd. Potential clients didn’t usually begin interviews like that. “What a coincidence. I’m Mr. V.”

Something prickled the back of his neck, making him ease deeper into the shadows. “We must be related. Part of the same alphabet.”

Another low, knowing laugh. “I daresay we are, Mr. A. I daresay we are.” The way the bench creaked, he too must be leaning back, perhaps even resting against the rear wall of the booth. “I was quite impressed with that show you put on in September. Quite impressed, indeed. You saved me and mine a fair spot of effort.”

The prickle grew to a full-fledged shiver. “Show? ’Fraid you seem to have got the wrong of us. We’re investigators, sir, not a theater troupe.”

“You’re both—and thieves, too, it seems. A combination of which I quite often find myself in need.”

Strange how offense could ball up in his chest, even though he’d had quite a few thieves dining at his table a mere hour ago. “Not thieves—not the Imposters. We just know a few.”

“Handy people to know from time to time. But noted.” A beat of silence. “One point of clarification—Lord Babcock’s supposed suicide last month?”

In each even syllable, Yates could hear the test. This was a man who valued skill in investigations and even thievery, but he had no respect for violence. “Genuine, so far as we know. Certainly had nothing to do with us, though I cannot speak for Barremore. According to our sources, his rage with his brother-in-law hadn’t dimmed any with the passing of a few weeks.”

Not that Scotland Yard had done more than question the former viceroy, and likely had done so only to justify their proclamation of suicide. Babcock had, after all, suffered a curious turn of his fortunes when every last one of his business dealings went sour. He wouldn’t be the first “rich bloke” to end his life rather than face that reality.

Victoria Rheams’s family, too, had opted to keep her husband’s sins private, understandably. Though her parents had welcomed the truth of her death—and her life—with grateful tears.

Mr. V hummed. “Very well. Your retainer, then, will be for the straight investigations. I’ll hire these thief friends of yours directly for the more questionable jobs. And trust that murder is understood to be always off the table.”

“Retainer?” It was all he could do to keep his Scouse in place. Forgetting the shadows, he leaned forward to try to see through the grate. “Who in blazes are you?”

“Oh, that’s hardly sporting, is it? And really, you don’t need to know. Let it suffice to say your brother-in-law has crossed my path a few times, and your soon-to-be father-in-law as well.”

The implications were clear. And fascinating. They’d thought they were writing some aspirational fiction when they let those Empire House men believe they had the weight of the Crown behind them.

Seemed the Crown might not have been so far behind.

Yates smiled. And let the accent drop. “Let’s get back to this talk of a retainer.”

“I’ll leave an envelope behind with the first month’s installment—though I do realize that this particular month you’re not likely to have time for much by way of investigating. That is understood. In the new year, though, I’ll be in touch.”

Thought himself quite clever, this Mr. V. That was all right. Yates could appreciate clever. “Happy Christmas to you, then,” he said, though the holiday was weeks away yet.

“And my felicitations to you and your bride. Speaking of which, haven’t you a train to catch?” On that, he swung the door open again and stepped out.

Yates opened his too. Why not? This chap already knew who he was. But all he saw was a grey bowler and matching overcoat, which could have been any number of men. And yes, silver-and-gold hair peeking out beneath it. He strode quickly enough that his coat flapped around his legs as he walked. Then the cathedral door opened under his hand, and he vanished into the blustery winter morning.

James jogged into sight from the direction of his office, exasperation loud on his face as Yates was collecting an encouragingly fat envelope from the bench. “Yates! I heard the door but thought it couldn’t be you. Dash it, man, you’re getting married today—in Northumberland! What are you doing in London still?”

Yates slid the retainer into the inner pocket of his overcoat and reached for the hat he’d left on his own bench. “Do relax, James. Plenty of time. Wedding’s not till six.”

His old friend gave him a look that questioned his sanity. “Lavinia’s going to have your head if she realizes you’re not even in the right county yet.”

Yates laughed and put his hat on his head. “Lavinia would have my head if I’d passed this opportunity by.”

James sighed, a look on his face that said the vicar was about to deliver a personalized sermon.

Not that he was opposed to sermons. But he did have a train to catch. “Some other time, old boy. Getting married today, you know—better get myself to Northumberland. Coming?”

Lavinia paced the chamber, holding up her white skirt as she went so she didn’t step on it, her eyes straying once more to the clock. It had scarcely moved its hands from the last time she’d looked, and yet was so much closer to six o’clock than it should have been.

Marigold tsk ed her disapproval, though Lavinia didn’t know why until she intercepted her and repined a curl that must have fallen. “Do sit before you bring our hard work tumbling down. Look, you’re leaving a trail of beads too.”

There were two beads that had scattered. She’d heard them clatter and had a feeling they were two that she had sewn on. Zelda’s wouldn’t have the audacity to fall off. “Where are they?”

“They’ll be here any minute, I imagine.” Though Marigold glanced at the clock, too, let it be noted. And then smoothed a hand over her gown as if to cover it. What society ladies were waiting in the church would no doubt note with envy that mere weeks after giving birth to sweet little Lawrence, her figure was as trim as ever—though granted, it was because the woman never ate anything even remotely unhealthy and hadn’t stopped her training but for a few days. The neighbor ladies wouldn’t know that. They’d simply whisper about how lucky she was.

And if only they’d seen her on the trapeze last week with Yates. Then they’d really have something to talk about.

Lavinia’s lips turned up at the thought, and she reached to twirl the Fairfax emerald on her finger. A trapeze had played a part in that too. Marigold had positioned her in the sand beneath it the morning they got back to the Tower, and Lavinia had watched Yates’s solo routine with a smile wider than any she’d worn before. That vantage point was unlike any other. It didn’t allow her to measure the full height of his swings quite so well, but she could feel the wind of his movements.

Then he’d dismounted, flipped and spun, and had landed so close to where she stood that she couldn’t help but scream a bit, jump, and then laugh in delight. He’d grinned up at her—up, because instead of straightening into his dismount like he usually did, he’d dropped to one knee. It had taken her a moment to realize that his hands were out before him, and that the twinkle of sunlight on gold was from the ring he held before her.

“Lavinia,” he’d said, “my love. I can’t promise you our life will be easy, but I can promise you it won’t be boring. Will you live it as my wife?”

She’d tried to make a show of considering, but Penelope had her own ideas. She’d jumped onto Yates’s shoulder and lunged for the ring, and Lavinia had had to act quickly to snatch it first.

When Yates had oh-so-innocently suggested a trapeze entrance to their wedding, though, she’d put her foot down. Her grandmother would faint dead away if he tried it.

Running footsteps signaled that her wait was finally over, bringing her back to the present, and she swung toward the door as it burst open. Alethia ran in, pink-cheeked, Samira behind her. Both were smiling.

A knot unraveled in her stomach. “You got her there safely?”

They both nodded, and Samira moved forward to adjust something on Lavinia’s sleeve. “Saanvi is taking care of her until I return. She is in bad shape—we had to call the doctor in. But she will survive. And we will remind her every day that she is loved.”

Lavinia let out a long gust of breath. She didn’t know who had sent the note alerting them to the young maid being so terribly abused by her employer. But they knew who to contact when someone needed help, and that was what mattered. One more woman out of the reach of her own monster. One more sheep rescued from the wolves. Thank you, Lord.

Marigold gusted out a relieved sigh. “I’ll send a wire to Gemma after the ceremony. She has been praying, I know.” And given that she’d given birth to twin girls yesterday, her own plans to attend the wedding had come to a delightfully screeching halt.

Lavinia missed her and Graham, but mostly she couldn’t wait to see the little blessings that had joined the Wharton family.

Alethia moved behind the dressing screen with her gown that matched Marigold’s. “Sorry to have cut it so close! When the train was delayed, I nearly abandoned it and started walking.”

Lavinia laughed, along with Marigold and Samira. “We’ll know not to let you do the meeting when it’s your own wedding so near at hand.” She and Xavier, however, still had six months of betrothal—and both seemed to be enjoying every moment.

But then, the two of them hadn’t known each other all their lives. For her own part, she was more than ready for the chapters where she never had to leave the Tower—or Yates’s arms—again.

Alethia emerged in her gown a moment before Papa poked his head in the door, smiling broadly when he spotted Lavinia. “Ready? The organist gave the signal. And Yates is pacing like a lad before the headmaster.”

New butterflies took to flight in her stomach, but these weren’t anxious ones. They were happy ones. Aerialists on their silks and hoops and trapezes, ready for the show to begin. She nodded, exchanged a grin with her bridesmaids, and let her father lead her down the stairs.

She couldn’t have said what faces filled the pews of the familiar church in Alnwick. She couldn’t have said what music spilled out, or how beautifully the lights twinkled on this dark winter eve. All she saw was the way Yates’s smile lit up the whole front of the church when he spotted her. The way his chest swelled as he drew in a deep breath.

Finally, she stood before him, her father blinking back tears, clearing his throat of what she knew was deep emotion. She knew James was there beside their usual vicar, but she didn’t look their way either. Only at Yates. Beautiful Yates. A man unlike any other in the world.

The smile on his face now wasn’t for the crowd. It was just for her. He made a little flourish with his hand and offered her a single white flower, small and perfect, like the ones that grew wild around his home in the springtime. “Zelda said the day wouldn’t be complete without this.” He reached up and tucked the flower into her hair.

She blinked back a few tears of her own. His heart was hers. It had been since they were three years old, Zelda had said, when he gave her a flower that she wore like a crown. She learned forward now, up on her toes, and kissed him on the cheek.

It was a fair exchange. Her heart was his too. And would be for the rest of their never-boring lives.