Marriage Made in Hope(13)

He laughed, a throaty and hearty sound that held an edge of disbelief. ‘They call you the “angel of the ton”. Do you have any idea as to what they say of me?’

Frowning, she nodded. Indeed, she had heard of all the things that were told of him. Wild. Ill disciplined. Unlawful. Barbaric. Dangerous.

‘I stood trial in America for the killing of a man.’

The shock of his words was great. ‘Did you? Kill him, I mean?’

‘No. Not that time.’ All humour was gone now and in its place was bare fury.

‘Then I am glad for it.’

‘Why?’

‘I should not wish to be indebted to a murderer for the saving of my life.’

‘And are you...indebted?’

‘I am, my lord. When you came to me beneath the waters through the cold and the dark I thought you were like a god.’

He shook his head, but she continued anyway, the need to tell him all of it and without anything held back so desperate.

‘I’m to be married to a man who was also there on the bridge that day. The Marquis of Winslow. I am certain you know of him. He was the one on the riverbank who took me from you when you brought me to safety across the mud.’ She waited till he nodded. ‘But he did not jump in to save me. He did not risk his life for mine and I think...I think he was s-supposed to h-have.’

Horror marked her words, the truth of what she said to him out here in the blueness of the day so real and naked and terrible.

He touched her then, his hand gentle across her own, as though reassuring her. But it did none of those things because in the shock of his touch other truths surfaced, big important truths that Sephora could no longer deny.

She felt changed and heightened and alive. She felt unconstrained and sensual and womanly. It was as if in the company of the disreputable Francis St Cartmail she was someone else entirely, the person she might have been had she not let fear and propriety rule her.

I think I could fall in love with you.

My God, had she just said that out aloud? The horror of such a possibility kept her rooted to the spot waiting for his mirth. When his expression did not change she felt a relief so great she imagined she might fall down, down into a crumpled heap at his feet, clinging to his fine and well-polished boots.

The arrival of her sister, though, took the attention from such a dreadful possibility, Maria’s smiling and cheerful face so opposed to all that was transpiring here. Sephora was very glad when a warm arm threaded through her own.

* * *

He was making such a hash of this, but with Sephora Connaught half a foot away from him and her blue eyes pale and kind, all the things he had thought to say to her were gone from his head and he was left...reeling. She had not mentioned seeing him at the gardens and for that he was grateful, but his time alone with her was running out like sand through a glass, each grain precious and draining away.

Mr Adam Stevenage was drinking hard and Francis watched as the young man finished his next glass and came over towards him. The sister, Maria, looked stretched and tense as she gave Sephora her greeting.

He could usually read people easily, but Sephora Connaught held so many conflicting emotions upon her face and in her eyes, that in the end he could discern only a cloudy wariness.

When he had touched her a moment ago it was as if an electrical energy had been transferred between them, a jolt of such proportion he had seen her pupils dilate. He wondered if his had done the same.

He wanted to try it again. He wanted to take her in his arms and feel the warmth of her lips again under his...

‘Pardon?’ Stevenage had asked a question directly of him and he had no idea as to what had been said.

‘I just enquired, Lord Douglas, what you thought of the town in Georgia called Hutton’s Landing?’

‘Why would you wish to know this?’ Francis answered quietly, a sense of alarm growing.

‘My cousin was there, you see, last year. I hoped you might give me your account of the place.’

Could Adam Stevenage’s question really be this naive? Could a man with his own clear demons of drink not have heard the slander that circulated still about his time at Hutton’s Landing?

‘I think, sir, it is a town to be avoided altogether.’ Francis hated the anger in his voice and the flat tone of memory that slithered beneath. He hated, too, that Sephora Connaught had turned to observe him and was able to see exactly what it was that he had always hidden from others.

There was tightness at his throat and the need to gulp in large breaths full of air. His hands fisted at his sides and he couldn’t stop the shaking that emanated from them.

‘You asked me to tell you of the flowers here in the garden, my lord.’ Sephora’s voice came through the growing haze and when she shepherded him across the lawn to a small grove of shrubs and perennials he followed. Away from the others she spoke quietly.

‘Can I find you help? Your friends perhaps...?’

‘No.’

‘Then humour me whilst I try to discern the names of these plants, my lord, for whilst I am no true gardener it might at least give you a moment or two to recover your wits.’

‘Thank...you.’

He listened to her voice, soft and musical, describing the scientific classifications of the shrubs. Even he knew that a lavender bush did not quite look the same as the one she insisted it was, but she was most convincing in her feigned interest and teachings. Certainly Stevenage had given up on further conversation and gone inside as had the younger Connaught sister, leaving them alone again out at the far end of the lawn.

He felt better now, more in control. He could not believe that the panic had come on so quickly for it never had done that before.

God. She would think him teetering on the edge of madness and mental incapacity for he had also been like this on the bank of the river Thames.

He wanted to be sick.

‘I was buried...in mud on the side of the Flint River in Hutton’s Landing. Sometimes the memory of it comes back.’

He had barely told anyone of the experience and couldn’t believe he was now telling her. Still he could not seem to stop. ‘I got out, but my friend didn’t survive it.’

And he’d been hauled up for his murder, the rope around his throat and mud caked in his mouth, the hatred of the crowd of people who had gathered easily discerned. ‘Hang him. Hang him. Hang him.’

‘Do you think Adam Stevenage knows?’

This time his smile was more real. ‘Yes.’

‘Could he be dangerous...to you?’

Reason flooded back and he shook his head. He did not want Sephora Connaught pulled into his shadows. Out here with the light in her golden hair she did indeed give the impression of goodness and purity. The ‘angel of the ton’. He was beginning to realise just how aptly she was named.

‘Come, let us go inside.’

He was glad when she followed him in and even more glad when her sister crossed the room to stand beside her and garner her attention.

When Gabriel offered him a drink Francis took it.

‘She is very beautiful, this small and pale Lady Connaught.’

‘Yes.’

‘And sensible, too. Are you feeling better?’

Looking up, he caught the concern in Gabriel’s eyes. Gabriel had been a spy once and managed to see all that others thought hidden. ‘She was trying to protect you out in the garden and in her fragility there is also strength. She does not wear Winslow’s ring. I wonder why?’

‘Stop.’ The word came without hope for Francis knew exactly what it was Gabriel was doing and what he himself had thought to do. But it was all too dangerous and Sephora needed to be protected. He could not stay here. It was wrong and he did not wish to hurt her.

‘Will you give Sephora Connaught my goodbye? And also my thanks to your wife?’

‘Of course.’

‘And inform Stevenage I will see him tomorrow at my town house. At one. Tell him to make certain he is not late.’

* * *

When Sephora turned around again the Earl of Douglas was gone. Part of her wanted to simply walk out of the house and follow him, but she shook that thought away and concentrated instead on what Adelaide Hughes was saying.

‘When is your wedding to be held?’

‘In November, Lady Wesley. In London,’ she added and hoped no more on the subject would be said. But she was to be disappointed.

‘It must be hard on you, waiting so patiently for a man you love with all your heart and soul.’

Sephora could not get the next words out no matter how hard she tried to. Marriage to Richard would not be the ‘all heart and soul’ sort, she thought to herself. It would be far more ordinary than that. She would not see oceans or walk on different lands. She would have babies and get old beside the first man who had ever kissed her and that had been done without the passion she had imagined should have been present. It was as much as she could in all honesty hope for. The thoughts she had had of Francis St Cartmail earlier burned underneath her conscience and she shook them away with fervour.

* * *

Francis spent the afternoon in the alehouses along the banks of the Thames, drinking and listening and asking questions.

One man had heard the name of Clive Sherborne and he dredged up more as Francis offered him a few coins to jog his memory.

‘He always had a young girl with him, his daughter, I think, but he used to administer a sharp slap on her cheek every time she annoyed him and in the end she rarely spoke. He was selling cheap brandy, if I recall rightly, but I was not in the market for any of it as my wife’s the one who does the books and she’s a devout churchgoer. Nothing below the board, you understand, nothing that can lead to any trouble.