Marriage Made in Hope(16)

* * *

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 drew 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.