‘No.’
‘Were you?’
She shook her head, but that was not right for he held a vague memory of someone kicking her whilst she lay across him. When she leaned forward she did so with a good deal of stiffness.
‘Papa has sent over two men, one as a guard at the front of the house and the other one behind it just in case anyone should have the temerity to try to snatch her again. The place is like a fortress.’
* * *
Swallowing, Francis pulled the sheet up about his chin, a small protection of defence against the telltale marks at his throat. No doubt Sephora had seen them already, but still... His hand looked bruised, pointing to the days he had been in this netherworld of pain and semi-consciousness.
He had to regather strength and the will to decipher all that had happened. His wedding had been ruined. That thought bit into everything with a sharp truth.
‘I am sorry, Sephora.’
She frowned. ‘For what?’
‘Your wedding day was...spoilt.’
‘I hope I am not so shallow as to think that is more important than your recovery.’
He smiled, liking her honesty. ‘Thank you for keeping Anna safe.’
The anger at such an attack on his family consumed him and he was glad for her solid presence. He needed to be better and to be up dealing with things. He needed to find out who had hurt them all and what this meant. When he breathed in, he could smell violets on his wife’s skin and was comforted by the scent. But the blackness reached out again to claim him even as he tried to fight it.
* * *
He was asleep again and so suddenly. Sephora could see it in the even rise and fall of his chest. Such a repose needed to heal all the ravages the bullet had wrought upon him. Francis St Cartmail was not the father of Anna but her guardian and she was his cousin. The relief when he had told her that was still gathered inside her, bubbling upwards and making her smile.
His eyelashes were long and thick and sat against his cheeks in a dark soft swathe, though the old scar held only brutality and pain.
Contrasts.
He was an earl of the ton who knew how to use a knife in a way few men of his station did and the whispered secrets of his past were at direct odds with the respectability and solid history imbued in his family title.
Yet in the disparity Sephora could feel something inside herself shift and grow, a strength and fortitude returning as a life balanced in jeopardy forced her to appreciate all that was still left.
His ring on her finger caught the light and she turned it so that the face of it came within her palm. When she closed her hand she felt the gold warm inside.
She’d been living in a vacuum for so long now with Richard that she had forgotten what it felt like to be so vitally aware of both the good and the bad. To feel so deeply had its barbs, but it also held excitement and purpose and possibilities. Her whole world had changed from the utter boredom and ennui of a week ago to one where the terrifying pace of her adventures left her gasping.
But alive in a way she had never felt before.
‘Please, God, let Francis be better soon,’ she prayed, sitting quietly as the day darkened into dusk and a chorus of birdsong was heard.
Chapter Eleven
The story of the attack on the earl on the busy London streets was all over the broadsheets and the papers. Other stories had also surfaced about his past, the affair at Hutton’s Landing and a fight he had been involved in in Boston. It seemed as if every man who had once held a gripe against Francis St Cartmail was out in force making his voice heard, and Sephora could do nothing to stop the tide of growing complaints
Her parents came to see her the next morning, their faces twin countenances of worry and alarm.
‘There is still time to get out of this marriage, Sephora,’ her father said. ‘Non-consummation of the vows are enough of a reason for the dissolution of the contracts. Any judge would see to it.’
‘It is just so very awful,’ her mother continued where her father left off. ‘You have always been surrounded by beauty and fine living and now...now there is just base rumour and a danger from people who might attack you in the street in broad daylight. We worry for you. We want you to come home and to be with us, to be safe, and back where you belong.’
Her parents’ heartfelt litanies after nights of sleeplessness were daunting.
‘Richard’s mother came up to London the other day, too,’ Elizabeth continued. ‘Josephine says that her son thinks he has made a terrible error in his judgement and wonders if you might meet him again, to talk sensibly over all that has happened. Perhaps you could resolve your silly arguments and—’
‘No.’ That word was torn from absolute certainty. ‘I have no wish at all to go back to what I was.’
‘Then this is enough? This slander against your name. This uncertainty? It is said that it was Douglas’s illegitimate daughter who was being dragged away on the street. A daughter from an affair he had with some woman of the night.’
‘Well I can tell you now that is false. Anna St Cartmail is the earl’s cousin. He is her guardian and has brought in a well-thought-of relative to look after her. It was not his fault that she was in danger on the streets of London and I am certain that he will see to things once he is better...’
‘But will he be? I heard he had been shot at point-blank range. How does one survive that, Sephora, and live a full life afterwards?’
‘With resolve, Mama.’
Her mother extracted a handkerchief from her reticule and blew into it. ‘Maria said we should not be able to change your mind, but if you ever find yourself wondering what to do...’
‘I shan’t.’
‘Do you need money, my dear, to help you through this time?’ Her father’s words were quiet and firm.
‘No, Papa. We have more than enough.’
At that moment a filthy, huge, wet, grey dog tore around the corner of the salon, its matted mangy fur standing up against a bony spine and yellow teeth exposed. Before they could all leap out of their seats, though, the housekeeper was in the room, her clothes soaking and soap on her face.
‘Miss Anna and I are giving him a bath, my lady. Lord Douglas said to bring him in and feed him, but he was just so very unclean...’ She stopped as she saw Sephora’s parents and swallowed, but the dog leapt past her again, its paws skidding on the shining parquet floor into the direction of the kitchen, Sephora thought, and the answering shout from Anna St Cartmail told her that the guess had been correct.
‘Well, I think we have probably seen enough.’ Her mother was on her feet and her father beside her. ‘I can’t imagine what might happen next and I hope, Sephora, if you are honest with yourself, you may not be able to either.’ She sounded breathless and her words were tight, but at least she was no longer crying. Her father joined her and then they were gone, the silence of the room broken only by the howls of a dog who had obviously been dumped into a tub of water and was being cleaned spotless to within an inch of its life.
Francis was awake when Sephora looked into his room a few moments later. He was sitting on the side of his bed and had a shirt on, the thick wedge of bandage showing through the linen.
Several drawings of dogs were stacked on the bedside table. They were well executed, although the animal in pencil looked a lot more regal in bearing than the one she had just seen in the flesh.
‘Anna drew them for me. She came in to see me very early and when the dog howled close by I asked her to see it was given something to eat. It is the first conversation that has been pleasant between us since she came.’
‘She would be thankful you saved her, no doubt, and mindful of the fact that you nearly gave your life to do so. You seem better today?’
He gestured to a bottle of medicine. ‘The doctor left me something stronger for the pain and combined with the brandy Daniel brought in, it must be working.’ His humour was comforting.
‘And these?’ More drawings were in a pile on the coverlet, giving the impression that he had been shuffling through them.
‘My ward is doing her best to convince me the animal appears more attractive than I imagine he is. I said that she could feed it a bone from the kitchen, but I gather from the noise I just heard it has made its way into the house already and Mrs Wilson has seen it.’
‘It is being given a bath as we speak.’
‘What sort of dog is it?’
‘A large grey mangy one with yellow teeth and an old ill-healed wound right along its back.’
He smiled. ‘I don’t think you are convincing me to keep it.’
‘Mama and Papa arrived just as it came indoors, a wet and soaking pile of smelly fur. They left as soon as they could.’
‘Because of the dog or because of me?’
She could not lie. ‘Stories are swirling around London about your involvement in things that are...’
‘Dubious. Questionable. Suspect.’
‘Yes.’
‘And your parents are worrying how the “angel of the ton” has managed to get herself caught up in the less-than-salubrious affairs of a disreputable earl?’
Sephora smiled. ‘I doubt people call me that any more and I am glad for it.’
‘Glad?’
‘The pressure of being always good is probably as stultifying as the one you bear of being always wicked.’
He laughed and a hand went to his injured side, his breathing rough and quick.