by Sophia James
‘His money. There was either a lot of it or none.’
‘And he couldn’t count it himself?’
‘Some people can’t. It doesn’t mean they are dumb, it just means their brains are better at other things.’
‘What was Clive better at?’
She didn’t answer for a long time and then changed the topic completely.
‘Clive said if you dug hard enough anyone could be buried. He said the old earl dug shallow holes.’
Blackmail, Francis thought. It came in the most unexpected ways and explained a lot about the many boxes the old earl had kept. His cousin had been the pawn in it, her whole life an extension of other people’s greed and shame. But not his.
‘I have my own collection of rocks, Anna.’ She looked up at his use of her Christian name and he saw a look he had not seen in her dark eyes before. Hope.
‘I shall find them tomorrow and you would be most welcome to have them. Some are valuable, but most are there because I like them.’
‘I do that. I collect what I like, too.’
A shout from further afield had her turning and his young cousin’s maid, looking less than happy, came into view.
‘I am sorry, my lord. I just saw her bed was empty and I have been looking everywhere...’
The servant looked as though she would burst into tears at any moment and his own expression was probably not helping either.
He wished he had had more moments of uninterrupted conversation with Anna. He wished she might have said more so that he could place the pieces of her life thus far with an added certainty into a pattern.
She liked counting. She enjoyed collecting rocks and he would bet his bottom dollar on the fact that she knew Clive Sherborne was being paid well to keep her. She had never once spoken of her mother and that omission in its own right was telling, too.
As the maid hurried her off Anna tipped her head at him before she turned and his heart warmed at the faint expression of acknowledgement and communication.
* * *
Francis saw Lady Sephora Connaught by chance seven days later dressed in the deepest of blacks and standing with the new Duke of Winbury and his mother next to a carriage pulled up in front of the St Pancras Parish Church in Euston Road. Perhaps it was some sort of remembrance service, he thought, for he had heard the old duke’s body had been taken back to the family estate for burial, the night funerals of London deemed too dangerous.
Sephora’s hand was upon Winbury’s sleeve, close and intimate, and he was leaning down slightly to speak with her, the sun in her golden hair contrasting against the hue of their clothing as their heads almost touched. Francis felt the heated stab of jealousy consume him.
A man of the church hurried out to meet them, his gestures indicating the gentle sorrow only men of God seemed so very adept at—being neither patronising nor false.
Lord, what if they were here to be married a few days after the old duke had gone to his grave and whilst still in mourning? Was that possible or even allowable? He was not certain of all the many and convoluted rules of the ton, but he did not imagine it could be thought of as remotely good form.
Another man had joined them and the group turned to mount the steps of the church, the older woman taking Sephora’s hand on the other side and giving a perfect picture of familial harmony and solidarity.
Sephora Connaught looked small there between the larger-built Winburys as they all disappeared into the narthex of the church and then were gone.
‘Hell.’ He hated the fear in his voice and the feeling of hopelessness. He wanted to simply exit his own carriage and follow them up the steps to see what it was they were doing, to stop the wedding, if that was what was happening, to drag Sephora away and talk some sense into her, and say what?
Marry me instead?
Follow me into the dark corners of my life and understand my demons? He moved his head sideways and pulled on the stock at his throat. The ghost rope was there again. Too tight. He could not breathe.
Lifting his cane, he banged on the roof of the conveyance and was glad when it started to move, out into the row of traffic and away. These dreams were not for him. He had forfeited such luxury when he had shot Ralph Kennings from a distance. Three shots. All on target. The clouded eyes of death followed him even here amongst the mannered and gentle world of the ton, watchful and accusing.
* * *
He met Lady Sephora Connaught again the following week, this time at a small private gathering in Mayfair in Adam Stevenage’s town house. The Winbury party was swathed in black though the sister, Maria Connaught, had managed to find an unusual shade of violet for her attire. A half mourning, Francis supposed, since she was not so intimately associated with the new duke.
Sephora looked the palest he had ever seen her, the whiteness of her countenance caught against the heavy dark of her clothes. Richard Allerly had his arm tied through hers and stood in his usual position at her shoulder, the newly acquired ducal title stamped into his bearing and authority.
Francis wondered why Winbury had deigned to come at all to such a small soirée, but Stevenage was wealthy and money talked, he supposed, to a man with grand and political aspirations.
Adam came over to meet him, a knowing smile on his face, and Francis’s heart sank. If this was his way of getting him and Sephora Connaught together he’d done a poor job of it, his mind going over their last conversation at White’s. If he had known that she was going to be here he wouldn’t have come, but it was too late to simply turn tail and leave. When he’d looked at her left hand he’d seen that there was no ring at all on her third finger and a part of him had been more than relieved to find it thus.
‘I hope you approve of my list of guests, Douglas. After your help the other week I thought I should return the favour.’
Francis could barely believe Stevenage to be serious, but as the host was called away from his side Richard Allerly turned to observe him. His greeting was cold.
‘I had no idea you were a friend of Stevenage, Lord Douglas.’
‘He is more of a recent acquaintance, Your Grace.’
Francis did not look at Sephora at all, but felt her there as her hand pulled away from Winbury’s sleeve.
‘If you will excuse me, Richard.’ Her words were quiet and she left, threading her way across the room to stand with her sister. He was glad that she had gone.
‘Lady Sephora and I are hoping to move our nuptials forward. My father’s death...’ Winbury stopped and for the first time Francis saw a glimpse of true emotion.
‘I was sorry to hear of your loss.’ It was the least he could say, this trite phrase, to fill an awkward social meeting.
‘And I am sorry that we should have to cross paths like this, Douglas. I hoped I had made it clear in my letter that I did not want you anywhere near my wife-to-be ever again.’
‘Well, Your Grace, if you had jumped into the damned river yourself I wouldn’t have had to be closer to her in the first place.’
The gloves were off, though Francis moderated his tone given the social setting in which they stood.
‘My bride’s indebtedness to you is misplaced and foolish.’ Now this was new. ‘She does not know of the reputation you have garnered and she is a woman to whom wickedness and evil are unknown qualities.’
He almost laughed, but he didn’t for the duke’s tone had risen and all around people were stopping to watch. This was neither the time nor the place to instigate a conflict with the grief of a lost father so very present and with many ladies in the room.
‘It has been interesting,’ he replied and tipped his head before moving away. Lady Maria Connaught came to stand beside him a few seconds later as he was pouring himself a brandy.
‘You probably like the duke as little as I do, my lord.’
‘Pardon?’ When he glanced up he saw Sephora Connaught watching them over her sister’s shoulder. He also saw Winbury walking back to claim her, one arm again tucked through his as he dre
w her away.
‘The Duke of Winbury thinks a husband should own his wife and direct her in all her actions and thoughts.’
‘Unfortunate, then.’
At that the girl laughed, her dark eyes flashing. ‘My sister is not happy. I think they would have parted company had the funeral not happened. As it is now Richard is using all his grief and sadness as a weapon. It is hard for Sephora to abandon such unhappiness, but I like to think she is just waiting for her chance of it.’
‘Why are you telling me this?’ he asked quietly, turning so that others might not come to encroach upon their conversation.
‘Because you saved her once, my lord. Perhaps you might do so again?’
With that she left to rejoin her sister and when he caught the glance of Sephora Connaught upon him all he saw was fear and worry.
* * *
They had departed early, giving their apologies to Adam Stevenage and going home, Maria most upset to be leaving in such an unseemly rush.
‘I would have liked to at least remain for the afternoon tea,’ she grumbled as the horses wound their way into a row of heavy traffic.
‘Then you should have had the good sense not to have conversed with Douglas quite so freely and you might have had that chance, Maria.’
‘People are allowed to speak with whom they wish, Richard. This is England.’
Sephora’s reprimand was sharp, she knew it, but the behaviour of her husband-to-be ever since sighting Francis St Cartmail had appalled and worried her. She didn’t know what it was they had said to each other, but she had heard him raise his voice and knew Richard well enough to recognise his ire, an anger that continued to ferment even now, half an hour after the event.
‘Douglas should be drummed out of the ton, for goodness sake, and would have been had he held a lesser title.’
‘Mr Stevenage did imply the Earl of Douglas was almost as rich as he was. Perhaps that might be a part of the reason the ton does not shun him.’ Maria said this calmly and Sephora took in her own breath before Richard could answer.
‘It should not matter how much money he has,’ she said, ‘or what his title is. The Earl of Douglas saved me from certain death and for that I shall always be grateful.’
‘Of course, my angel,’ Richard muttered and took her hand.
‘I do not particularly like that endearment, Richard,’ she returned. ‘It seems silly and inappropriate somehow for a woman of almost twenty-three.’
Her eyes met his, the dark anger in Richard’s making her grit her teeth. She’d always humoured him and allowed him his way, but suddenly here in the carriage wending their way home she had had enough.
An ordinary Wednesday and a short and familiar journey. She could not truly understand what had just changed and broken between them, but it had, the two halves that had previously fitted together now beyond any point of reconciliation.
Smiling at the two sets of eyes turned towards her in surprise, Sephora simply stared out of the window and laid her hands in her lap, avoiding the action of wringing them together in concern.
She felt dislocated and scattered, seeing her life before her in no more than the space of seconds and minutes. Even hours seemed too far, too exhausting. She had no energy apart from the concentration needed to breathe into the next moment of her being.
She counted her breaths now often, because when things slipped out of control it gave her a small authority back, a will that was not being bent by others. Sometimes, though, she wondered if she might just slip into the space between reality and madness and never return.
Chapter Eight
Two evenings later Sephora sat and wrote another letter to the Earl of Douglas because she thought if she even left it for one more moment she would decide not to and by then it would be too late.
She asked Francis St Cartmail to meet her at Lackington’s in Finsbury Square, in the back room behind the spiral staircase. That part of the Temple of the Muses was always deserted, housing most of the old and dusty treatises that were seldom lent out. Nobody would disturb them.
She set down a time and a place. The day after tomorrow at two o’clock in the afternoon. With all that had happened, she knew Mama would insist on a nap and she could use those hours to quietly escape. She had two books that needed returning and the library was one of the places she visited on a regular basis. No one would ask questions.
Of late, she had seen her mother watching her with a sort of veiled pity, the look one might give a wounded animal or a simple child. Once or twice Mama had even enquired whether she was happy with her betrothed, the questions phrased in a way that did not require any answer as she always added some anecdote of the material gains such a marriage would entail. New gowns. A beautiful house. A place in the ton that was almost unequalled. A title. Sephora, the new Duchess of Winbury.
In the past she had largely ignored these sorts of comments and got on with life. But now she found she couldn’t. Richard was also pressing her for a wedding date and he wanted it to be a lot sooner than she had hoped for now that his father had passed away.
Without a great array of close girlfriends and with her sister away on a short holiday with their aunt, Sephora felt isolated and alone. Her life had stalled somehow into a shadowy place, the gloom of death, the sadness of grief, the inability of Richard to extricate himself from an ever-deepening hole of grief. The colour of black consumed her.
She was constantly fidgeting and was always scared—of saying something, of not saying anything, of waiting until a good time to break off untenable promises. She had got so worried by it all that she had come out into welts of hives, all over her arms and her back, the red and swollen itchiness making her irritable and impatient.
And right there and then, in the quiet of a late evening, Sephora felt exactly as she had when she had fallen from the bridge into the river all those weeks ago, breathless and cold, her world receding into darkness.
Suffocating.
This is what it felt like to die inside and yet still live. The realisation was so dreadful she could not even cry out.
* * *
She sat that way until the dawn when the first pink light of morning came and she knew, with every single part of her being, that she would die here if she stayed silent even for another hour.
It had been so long since she felt alive, so long since she had laughed or loved or lived. Properly. When she had seen Francis St Cartmail walk into the Stevenage town house the small flicker of something she’d thought dead inside her had been surprising. Vitality. Vigour. Desire. Pushing against all that was numb and frozen and telling her she could wait no longer. Picking up her letter, she ripped the sheet into a hundred pieces and hid them under other paper in her drawer. A letter would not do it. She would go and see him herself.
When her maid finally came to her room as the hall clock struck nine in the morning, she instructed the girl to find her navy day dress and her cloak and hat. Then with her hair put up and her cheeks rubbed into colour, Sephora simply walked down the stairs and out of the house before anyone at all would miss her.
* * *
Francis was coming from his library as the butler opened the door and he wondered who on earth would be calling in on the household at such an hour.
Lady Sephora Connaught stood there in a fine blue dress and cloak, a small purse in hand and her cheeks so pale, he thought she might simply fall over before he could reach her.
‘Lord Douglas,’ she said and then stopped, taking a breath and beginning again. ‘I need to speak with you privately, my lord, if you would be kind enough to allow me the time.’
‘You are alone?’ He took her arm and looked around. No one else was in sight. The sleeve of her cloak had fallen back and a large welt of redness was easily visible.
‘Has somebody hurt you?’ His heart began to thump as quickly as hers did, for he could feel the rapid beat of blood under his fingers.
‘Pardon?’
‘Your arm? Who did this to
you?’ When he pulled the sleeve up further there were more welts, barely a piece of skin unmarked.
She began to cry even as he looked at her, huge tears simply pooling in her pale eyes and falling down her cheeks.
‘They...are...h-hives. I get...them when I am...scared.’
Swallowing down fury, Francis took her through to his library and shut the door. Just at that moment he cared nothing for propriety or the rule of manners. All he wanted to do was to take Sephora into his arms and hold her safe, but he made himself stand still. Why had she come here so early and so alone and why the hell was she so scared?
He made certain she sat in the most comfortable wing chair by the fire. It was cool this morning, the June temperatures diving after a warm spell. Bringing her a drink, he waited till she took a sip and then coughed.
‘Wh-what is it?’
‘Whisky. It fortifies the spirit.’
Carefully she took another sip and swallowed it. Her mouth puckered in distaste, but still she took a third.
‘I need as much of...this as I can g-get, then.’
The fourth, fifth and sixth swallows had him leaning forward and taking the glass from her.
‘It’s usually not imbibed with such rapidity, especially if you aren’t used to it, and it’s a damn strong brew.’
She sat back at that, leaning her head against the leather and closing her eyes, the silence between them as perplexing as her appearance here. After a few moments though her glance caught his own and she smiled.
‘You are very beautiful, Lord Douglas, but then I suppose many women tell you that. I am a woman, after all, and I am telling you that.’ She hiccupped and her hand covered her mouth.
Hell. She was tiddly and fast becoming properly drunk. The whisky had been a poor idea.
‘I cannot marry Richard Allerly, the Duke of Winbury. I have come here to say this. To you.’
She was well in her cups and he should not play the game that she had somehow started. He should bundle her up right here and now, ply her with strong coffee and have her taken home before things got completely out of hand. But he couldn’t. The gentleman in him twisted across desire and lust. ‘Why do you not wish to marry him?’