The Diamond Key (25 page)

“Then you do believe in luck? I know you said it was foolish of me to believe in Fate, but could it not be possible that we truly were meant for each other, that some grand plan had decided we would suit?”

“How can we know, love? But just to make sure, I will make a contribution to the church, and lay flowers at the feet of the Cupid fountain you have in your garden. I will burn incense and sacrifice a hen at a standing stone. I’ll do whatever it takes to give thanks, for giving you to me. And to you, for letting me love you.”

It was a good thing the horses were beginning to recognize the way home and wanted their feed, for no one’s hands or minds were much on the ribbons.

After an interval that would have sent the lady’s father into apoplexy, Torrie withdrew the gold and diamond key from the chain at her neck. “Here,” she said, tucking the charm into Wynn’s pocket. “I will not need this anymore. You unlocked my heart, forever.”

“And you are the key to mine, my love.”

Somehow, and just before Lord Duchamp sent the soldiers out again to look for his cattle—and his daughter—they reached Duchamp House.

“Home,” Torrie said with regret.

The Grosvenor Square mansion was not Wynn’s home. Neither was the Kensington place, nor yet Ingram House or his country seat. But for the first time since he could remember, in Torrie’s arms, Wynn was home at last.

The wedding was perfect, all blooms and birdsong and tears of happiness in the Keyes family chapel in Dubron, Yorkshire. A little dog with a bow around his neck waited by the door. The groomsman leaned on his crutches by the altar, smiling at his friend’s nervousness. Troy had been through the same thing not so long ago. “She’ll come, Wynn. Stop worrying.”

Then there she was, his bride, his love. Wynn did not wait for Lord Duchamp to reach the alter. He met them halfway down the flower-strewn aisle, and took Torrie’s hand in his, so Cousin Deanna’s husband could perform the short ceremony.

It was a small affair, in consideration of the bride’s mother’s condition. And the groomsman’s wife’s condition. And the groom’s housekeeper’s condition. And the vicar’s wife’s condition.

“Lud, I hope it is not contagious,” Marissa whispered to Solicitor Castin’s handsome new assistant, who had recently been her deceased husband’s handsome valet. Redding, who rocked back in his seat, had agreed with Wynn that a man of affairs was a somewhat less scandalous affair—less scandalous escort, that is—than a mere valet. “Heavens,” Marissa continued, “I must be one of the only females in the chapel who is not breeding, except for dear Torrie’s spinster aunt Ann. And the bride.” She squinted toward the altar, mistrusting that glow her new sister-in-law wore. “I hope.”

“You have never looked more beautiful, my love,” Wynn murmured to Torrie during Howard’s brief sermon.

“I have never been more happy, my love, my husband, my hero.”

Lady Duchamp gave birth to twin boys in October. Lord Duchamp was so overjoyed his heart almost burst with pride, but he could not let it. He had to stay around to watch his sons grow into fine men, like his new son-in-law.

That same month, Ruthie and Young Cyrus had a daughter. They named the babe Young Ruth, in the family tradition.

Barrogi and Rosie, in their own wisdom, had named their
bambino
Ace, for luck.

A few months later, Bette Campe, formerly Lady Lynbrook, had a son, and so did the vicar’s wife.

Torrie and Wynn’s first child was a girl, an exquisite cherub with her father’s dark curls and her mother’s nose, thank goodness. The ecstatic parents called her Fancine, after one of her grandmothers. And if she arrived in this world precisely nine months from the wedding, well, who was keeping score?

They saved the gold and diamond key for her, hoping that someday it would help little Fanny open her own heart to an everlasting love, just like theirs.

To all the WTC heroes, including the rescue dogs

Barbara Metzger is the author of over three dozen books and a dozen novellas. She has also been an editor, a proof-reader, a greeting card verse-writer, and an artist. When not painting, writing romances or reading them, she volunteers at the local library, gardens and goes beach-combing and yard-saling.

Her novels, mostly set in Regency-era England, have won numerous awards, including the Romance Writers of America RITA, the National Reader's Choice Award, and the Madcap award for humor in romance writing. In addition, Barbara has won two Career Achievement Awards from Romantic Times Magazine.

You can visit her website at www.BarbaraMetzger.com/.

Copyright © 2003 by Barbara Metzger

Originally published by Signet (ISBN 0451208366)

Electronically published in 2012 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94117-4228

http://www.RegencyReads.com

Electronic sales: [email protected]

This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.