Eleanor Webster - Married For His Convenience

With this thought, Sarah straightened her spine and hurried into the Eavensham kitchen.

* * *

Sebastian rolled his shoulders, trying to loosen the tension knotting his back. Goodness, the strain must be affecting him if he was reduced to accosting servant girls.

A branch cracked. Instantly alert, Sebastian slid noiselessly into the shadows. He heard a second louder crack and smiled. This was no French spy, or at least one very poorly trained.

‘You can come out, Kit,’ he drawled.

The foliage opposite trembled and swore. Sebastian clicked open his gold snuffbox. He took a pinch and inhaled. The ‘English Lion’ chose unlikely messengers and Sebastian would have lost patience with his eccentricities long ago, except his methods worked. The Lion had saved many lives from the guillotine.

Besides, Sebastian didn’t have the luxury of choice. Right now, the Lion was his son’s best hope.

His only hope.

Kit Eavensham emerged from the bushes. The young man wore a dark cloak clutched about his person and had pulled the hood low to cover his face and fair hair.

‘You got my note?’ He spoke in a hoarse whisper.

‘I could hardly miss it as it was in my chamber pot.’

‘I thought that a good place,’ the lad said.

‘A trifle obvious to the servants, but no matter—what is your news?’ Sebastian swallowed. His throat hurt and every particle in his being waited for Kit’s answer.

‘I met the Lion at Dover.’

‘Yes—and—my son?’ Sebastian pushed the words through dry lips.

‘The Lion contacted every source in Paris, but found no record of Edwin’s execution or evidence of his death.’

Sebastian breathed again. It seemed his heart had missed a beat and was now thundering like a wild thing. ‘And Beaumont?’

Kit shrugged, the thick cloth of his cloak rustling. ‘The rumours are true. He escaped the Bastille.’

A mix of hatred and relief twisted through Sebastian. Beaumont had seduced his wife and kidnapped his children. Sebastian wanted him dead and yet, conversely, his survival gave him hope.

‘We must find him,’ he said.

‘He has not turned up here? In England?’

Sebastian shook his head. ‘I have heard nothing. Your mother tried to help by befriending the French émigrés in London. Until she broke her ankle. I’ll have to find some other female now, I suppose.’

Sebastian sighed, for once regretting his lack of female relatives—other than a great-aunt who lacked tact, or basic civility, for that matter.

Kit nodded, raising his hand towards Sebastian’s shoulder as though to offer comfort but, perhaps seeing Sebastian’s expression, allowed his palm to drop with a soft thwack against his leg.

Then, nodding a quick farewell, he left.

Alone again, Sebastian scanned the darkening landscape; the garden was tranquil except for the muted clatter of pans from the kitchen and, overhead, the rhythmic, feathered movement of a bird’s wings.

‘No record of his execution or evidence of his death.’ He repeated Kit’s words, giving them rhythmic cadence. ‘No record of his execution or evidence of his death.’

There was hope.

And while it hurt to hope, the alternative was unthinkable.

* * *

When Sebastian entered the drawing room, he saw that Lady Eavensham sat alone beside the fire with her ankle propped on a stool.

‘Lovely to have your company, dear.’ She smiled her welcome. ‘Lord Eavensham is showing the others a painting of his new horse, but I chose to remain seated. Getting around is still not easy. Anyway, we’re not missing much as it is not a good likeness. Animals are so difficult to paint, don’t you know, and can look dreadfully stiff. Make yourself comfy and pour yourself a brandy.’

She spoke in a trumpet of a voice, her husband being many years her senior and going deaf. Sebastian complied, sitting close to the fire’s crackling warmth. His parents had been friends with Lord and Lady Eavensham until his mother had slept with Lord Eavensham, cooling the friendship. Of course, his father’s friendships had been largely cooled with everyone—except the bottle.

She was dead now—his mother, that was.

Sebastian had remained friends with Lady Eavensham, but had seen her most frequently in London. He hadn’t been to the country estate for years, but felt an instant familiarity with the place. It typified all that was good in a country house: the huge fireplaces, shabby comfortable chairs, worn rugs, thick curtains and the mingled smells of food and smoke and dog hair.

A mirror hung over a massive stone mantelpiece and ubiquitous cupids decorated the ceiling, all pink-skinned legs and plump bellies.

‘The leg is improving?’ he asked, belatedly remembering his manners. ‘And you are not finding the country too dull?’

She shook her head. ‘I do not miss London. The conversation at the salons is not nearly as lively as in my young days. In fact, I have determined to spend more time here. There are more horses and really I find them much better company than most people.’

‘Doubtless.’

She glanced at him, her blue eyes sharp. ‘Do I detect a smile? Lud, I remember when you always had a joke and ready wit.’

‘Those days are past,’ he said.

Her rosy face puckered at his tone. ‘Sorry, that was thoughtless. You have little to smile about. By the by, how is Elizabeth?’

He stiffened at this abrupt mention of his silent child. ‘Physically well.’

‘And the governesses?’

‘Resigned or dismissed.’

‘Oh, dear, was that wise?’

‘Yes, when they think disciplining a frightened child will make her speak.’ He spoke grimly and felt a tic flicker across his cheek.

‘Maybe I should look for someone suitable? It’s so hard for a man.’

‘Thank you, but, no.’ He spoke too curtly, he knew.

Lady Eavensham did not take umbrage. She reached forward, patting the arm of his chair with a plump hand, her rings flickering in the firelight. ‘Be patient, dear. Heaven knows what the poor child endured in that dreadful prison or wherever he kept her.’

He flinched. The pain was physical, so sharp it winded him. He shifted, needing to distance himself, to guard his emotions even from this kind well-meaning woman.

With relief, he saw the door swing open as Kit and several ladies entered.

Three ladies, in fact, although one slipped unobtrusively towards the back of the room. Indeed, her obvious desire to remain unnoticed caught his attention. Her appearance was so jarringly drab juxtaposed to the other ladies’ finery, her hair mousy and her face kindly, but certainly not in the first flush of youth.

He felt a start of recognition. The rabbit girl, without the rabbit.

The light made the plainness of her face and gown all the more evident. Her hair was scraped into an unforgiving bun. She had high cheekbones, straight, dark eyebrows and a mouth too wide for fashion.

Lady Eavensham smiled in her direction. ‘Ah, Miss Martin, let me present you to our guests. Miss Martin is the Crawfords’ ward and lives nearby.’

The ladies turned, nodding and smiling, their movement so uniform as to appear choreographed.

‘Mr Crawford’s ward? Mr Leon Crawford, I presume. I never met him. Will he be here tonight?’ the elder lady questioned.

‘That would be difficult. He is deceased. I live with his widow, Mrs Crawford, now,’ Miss Martin replied.

Her dress, a grey muslin, looked years out of date and hung loose as though it were second-hand and poorly altered.

Yet she had something, he thought. Poise—that was it—and a certain irrepressible quality as though, despite its hardship, she found life a humorous affair. There had been a time when he might have shared the philosophy.