Page 96 of A Potion for Passion

Epilogue

May 1806, Oxenholme Park, Suffolk

Marriage to Lawrence gilded each day with a happiness Flora had never dreamed possible. The only doubt she’d harbored throughout their glorious months together was that her husband still didn’t know for certain who he truly was.

Now they were wed, surely they had nothing to lose by investigating further. Major Wilberforce had written to say he’d contacted the Vereys, who were eager to meet with Lawrence, whether he proved to be the long lost son, or no.

She knew it had been an enormous struggle for Lawrence to settle and to give up his dream of going to America. Perhaps, just perhaps, he would feel better about remaining in England if he were to find his roots.

It had taken her a long time to convince him to do it, but she’d finally got Lawrence to Oxenholme Park in Suffolk, the country seat of the Verey family.

She stood awkwardly in the hallway beside him as a footman relieved them of their outerwear. Lawrence looked uneasy when they were escorted into an enormous drawing room, but she knew his courage had always stood the test. It would be no different now.

It was late May, and the lowering sun made golden stripes on the ornate oriental carpet. Shafts of light stole the length of the room, gilding the marble fireplace and chinoiserie that ornamented it, and striking diamond-like sparks off a crystal decanter and glasses set out for guests.

Flora had never been happier. Not on the day she and Lawrence were married, nor on the day they’d nailed up the sign over the shop which read Campion and Campion, Purveyors of Fine Millinery and Remedies for all Ills.

Not even the day she told him she was pregnant with their first child.

Well, perhaps not happier than that day.

But she was thrumming with excitement because today Lawrence would meet his real family. He was about to find his roots and, for a man who’d been adrift most of his life, it was a huge step to take.

The door opened, and they both leaped nervously from their chairs. She reminded herself there was no need for anxiety. They’d come purely to establish his relationship with the Vereys—if there was one—not in search of financial gain or social standing.

The Earl of Oxenholme entered, a slender, elderly gentleman with a slight stoop. He was dressed in black, relieved only by a snowy white cravat pinned with a large pearl.

A younger man accompanied him. The viscount. Lawrence’s twin brother.

Flora’s heart all but stopped when she looked at him. He was the mirror image of Lawrence—other than the coloring. He had dark blond hair—close-cropped and stylish—with light skin and pale gray eyes. Despite these differences, no observer could be in any doubt that he and Lawrence were brothers.

Only the ticking of the mantel clock broke the silence as the three men stared at one another, tongue-tied.

For all she’d talked him into coming, she knew Lawrence hadn’t believed a blood connection with this family could be real.

Flora reached for his hand, squeezed it, then stepped forward and made her curtsy. “Delighted to meet you, my lords. I’m Mrs. Campion, and this is my husband, Lawrence.”

The older gentleman gave a stiff bow, then took her hand and kissed it. When she looked up at him, she saw a lined, troubled face and a hard mouth. But when she gazed into his eyes, they were softened by tears.

Wordlessly, she took the earl’s hand and placed it on Lawrence’s shoulder, bringing father and son face-to-face.

Lawrence gazed at him in silence for a moment, then let out a great breath of air. “My God. I remember you! I remember your face. Sometimes in dreams, I see you bending over me.”

The viscount stepped forward, bowed to Flora, shook hands with Lawrence, then stood to one side, observing him closely.

“It’s been a long time, son,” the earl said, his voice catching.

Lawrence needed no further invitation. He seized his father in a powerful embrace and rested his forehead on his shoulder for just a moment before releasing him.

“Welcome home, my boy,” the earl managed. “Tristan, are you finally convinced?”

The viscount gazed at Lawrence with narrowed eyes. “Hmm,” he said, quirking an eyebrow. “I think Arthur has let himself go, somewhat. I’d advise an immediate haircut and a good tailor.”

There was a moment’s stunned silence, then Tristan grinned, and it was Lawrence’s grin—dazzling and overwhelming.

Suddenly, Lawrence guffawed with laughter. There followed a joyous confusion of embracing, backslapping, and even a few tears, after which he asked, “Arthur? My given name is Arthur? I much prefer Lawrence, if it’s all the same to you.”

“My apologies, son,” said the earl with mock severity. “You must blame your late mama for that.”