Cecelia did not feel like dancing so she went to the refreshment room, ate a piece of cake without tasting it, then took a glass of wine and went to sit down on a couch next to her mother. Lady Hatherington was talking to Mrs Astley and Major Godfrey. The topic was French lace. Lady Hatherington was trying to persuade Mrs Astley to write to her son who was in Paris and have him smuggle some French lace back for her. Mrs Astley was applying to Major Godfrey for the best advice on how to sneak it past customs. Major Godfrey was trying to persuade them to declare it. Major Godfrey lost, but it didn't matter anyway. Mrs Astley did not think it right to apply to Mr Astley for Lady Hatherington's sake.

"A shame it is that your son-in-law did not bring any back for you," Mrs Astley said. "That would have been almost proper."

Lady Hatherington never spoke poorly of Sebastian in company, so she merely smiled. "He's a lovely boy, but a little forgetful," she said.

"But is he lovely?" Mrs Astley opened her eyes wide. "My daughter danced with him and I was a little nervous of that, for we know so little about Mr Price. He is very mysterious, really, being away in Paris all this time."

"Oh he's very sweet," Lady Hatherington said vaguely. "But a little shy."

Shyness explained any number of sins, but Seb wasn't, not really. Cecelia stood up and walked listlessly back and forth behind the couches. Seb, shy. No. He was very sure of himself. He knew his place, he knew what people thought of him, and he didn't take it to heart. He just shut them out. Put them where they couldn't hurt him.

Behind her, the conversation continued.

"A well-spoken boy," Major Godfrey conceded. "And I did notice, as handsome as they say."

"Well, yes," Mrs Astley agreed. "Not that I don't prefer dark men myself—" her eyelashes fluttered in the major's direction "—but often one hears these rumours, you know, and then the man turns out to be nothing more than an overdressed skinny toad!" She laughed shrilly. "But anyway, young Mr Price is not so bad, not so very bad at all. I think, on balance, that it is true."

Lady Hatherington frowned. "That what is true?"

"Oh." Mrs Astley covered her mouth with her fan. "I forgot he was your son-in-law."

"That what is true?" Lady Hatherington repeated.

"You have not heard?" Mrs Astley looked nervous now. "I— I don't know that it's my place to say..."

No one seemed to be looking at Cecelia at all, and she had suddenly the idea that no one ought to be. She stood very still in a dark corner by the fireplace, her heart racing.

"Major Godfrey, do you know?"

"I have heard some rumours about Mr Price," Major Godfrey said carefully. "That he is handsome, yes. There were rumours he was very good looking."

"That the women were after him," Mrs Astley burst. "That was it."

That was very obviously not it. Lady Hatherington was not stupid either. She narrowed her eyes.

"Whose wife was it then?"

Only silence answered her.

"Well go on, tell me. It's not true, you know. The boy didn't do it. I'll promise you that. He's honourable."

She spoke with anger, not conviction. Cecelia hoped the others in the room did not know the difference. Major Godfrey leaned forward and spoke a name low in Lady Hatherington's ear. She went white.

"He did not," she repeated. "He absolutely did not."

"Then why was he shot?" Mrs Astley asked. "Why else would the ambassador shoot him?"

Cecelia's fingers trembled on her untouched wine.

"Don't be stupid!" Lady Hatherington was all contempt. "Sir William would never shoot anybody. Never Mr Price. He is very fond of the boy. He writes and tells Lord Hatherington such wonderful things of him that we can hardly believe them."

Cecelia had not known that. Her parents had never said.

"That may be so," Major Godfrey said. "It does seem strange, you know. But people were wondering why the ambassador's secretary came back so suddenly, and then it got about that he was shot—"

"—He was ill," Lady Hatherington corrected.

"Because he was shot," Mrs Astley said. "Well, if you say it is a lie, I am sure you must know. But it is what's getting about, you know, that Mr Price and Sir William duelled over Sir William's wife, and Sir William got the best of Mr Price and expelled him!"

"Nonsense!" A curt, angry voice spoke from the doorway. "What on earth is this, Anne? My brother shoot Sebastian!? It never happened!"

Cecelia peered out from her corner to see Lady Peyton standing in the doorway, looking furious.

"I can't imagine why you'd let people say such things about your son-in-law in your presence!"

"I wasn't letting," Lady Hatherington said. "I was listening. I had never heard these rumours — they must stop.

"But it is what everybody is saying," Mrs Astley said.

"Everybody is wrong," Lady Peyton said firmly. She wasn't lying. Lady Peyton didn't lie.

"There," Lady Hatherington said. "There can be no truth in it."

"But it true, you know, that a doctor treated an Englishman for a gunshot wound at the ambassador's residence," Major Godfrey said. "I know it's true, for Colonel Rashbourne told me. He was in Paris until a week ago. The doctor's assistant showed the bullet in a tavern and boasted about how he'd helped remove it from an Englishman that morning. It might have been mere boasting, but Colonel Rashbourne asked Sir William about it and Sir William would say nothing. If it weren't true, he would have denied it."

Lady Peyton was flicking her fan open and shut with impatient anger. Lady Hatherington frowned.

"It's very unfortunate about Mr Price," the major added, "but it's what everyone is saying."

"Everybody is wrong," Lady Hatherington said. "It could not be Mr Price who was shot—"

"It was," Lady Peyton said. "But not by my brother!"

Cecelia, who had been expecting denial, felt a sudden wave of unreality sink over her. Fear followed it, chill and black.

"Who shot him?" she asked, but her voice was too thin and no one heard.

"He was a brave, brave boy," Lady Peyton said. "And it's a damn shame they had to keep it quiet, what he did. But it would have been a nightmare if it got out — we didn't know, then, if the poor boy would live or die—" the room spun around Cecelia, and Lady Peyton's voice seemed to come from a great distance "—and if he died we might have had another crisis on our hands. It definitely would have been, if the assassin had shot the ambassador, but Sebastian, you see, he got between the two of them—" Lady Peyton's voice was tinny now "—got shot instead. Saved my brother's life. Almost died."

Then the ground was rushing up to meet Cecelia and something shattered — her wine glass, on the floor — and the last thing she heard was Lady Peyton saying, "My god, the poor girl's fainted."

────

The day after they married, Cecelia woke to the sight of the bluebells wilted in a jar on the chair by the bed and Sebastian's arm around her. For a moment, it was perfect, then she became aware of the coarseness of the fabric beneath her bare flesh and a deep itch on her ankle. She shifted slowly, trying not to wake him, but he stirred and gave her a sleepy smile.

She smiled back and scratched her ankle. As she scratched it, she became aware of another itch on her back, and another on her bottom, and then she saw a small black flea leap from pillow to sheet and screamed.

She scrambled from the bed, and in her scrambling became aware of aches and pains — aches between her legs from what they had done last night, and pain in her back from the lumpy mattress. By daylight the bedding was stained brown and grey and pink in patches. Cecelia trembled and snatched on her shift. Sebastian crawled out of bed, pulled his shirt on, and hugged her.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"There's fleas. It's dirty." She trembled, suddenly terrified and very much missing home and cleanness. Her mattress was not lumpy. There were no fleas in it. She scratched at a bite on the back of her neck and broke into sobs. Sebastian pulled her into his arms and kissed her hair.

"It's not so bad," he said. "I promise you, darling, I've stayed in worse."

That only made Cecelia sob harder. She could not imagine what worse was like. "I don't like it here."

"We won't be here long. We can leave today." Sebastian rocked her against him. "We'll go back to England, to London. I'll get a job and keep you in comfort."

"A j-job."

"As a clerk, or an usher in a school."

Sebastian's father had been paid eighty pounds a year. It was less than Cecelia's pin money. She could not imagine what a clerk earned. Less. It would be less. She shivered. She hadn't thought about money until now. She had only thought about Sebastian, that he loved her, that she loved him.

"Sebastian..." she said. "Sebastian... I want to go home."

His arms stiffened around her. "Cece, sweet, I don't think that's a good idea. Not yet. Why don't we write your parents a letter? We'll let them know you're safe and that we are married. But I think we should wait until they ask for us to come back. They're going to be very unhappy with us."

"No. I want to go home." She clung to him, pressed her face into the crook of his bony neck. "I don't like it here. I'm scared."

"I'll keep you safe. I promise, I'll keep you safe."

"But I want to go home." She kissed his collar bone pleadingly. "Please, Seb, take me home. Please. I don't want to go to London. I want to go home."

He put up a fight. He really did, but he didn't shout. He just kept telling her it wasn't a good idea and asking her to go with him to London. And she kept asking him to take her home, and in the end, that was what he did.

────

Cecelia came to with her mother sitting over her and the acrid smell of vinegar in her nose. Her head hurt. When she shifted, it throbbed.

"You hit the floor hard," Lady Hatherington explained when Cecelia touched her face. "How do you feel?"

Cecelia could not bring herself to speak.

"Cecelia?"

"Where's Sebastian?" she said. Then she realized that was stupid. He was halfway home by now, no doubt. She had sent him away.

And he had been shot. And not told her. That was worse than any of the rest of it. She began to cry, silently, pathetically, the room blurring around her. Someone took her pulse — Lady Peyton.

"Best carry her to bed," she advised. "If she's not better by morning, send for the doctor. That was quite the knock she got."

"I can walk," Cecelia said. "I can walk."

When she tried to stand, she found she could not. Major Godfrey stepped forward and very gently scooped her into his arms. That was the moment Cecelia realized that he really had given up on her. If they had still been flirting, he would have had plenty to say about it first. As he carried her out the door, Lady Peyton called, "And someone find Mr Price."

Lady Hatherington directed the major to Cecelia's old bedroom and then he discreetly absented himself. Cecelia lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. It was spinning, but very slowly. Her mother busied herself lighting candles and giving orders to a maid then sat down on the bed and patted Cecelia's hand.

They sat in silence until the maid returned with a steaming tisane and told Lady Hatherington that Mr Price could not be found.

"He went home," Cecelia said weakly, managing to sit up so she could drink. "He walked."

Lady Hatherington frowned. "Why on earth did he do that?"

Cecelia shrugged.

"I'll send him a message — you will have to stay the night."

She wanted to be anywhere but here, but it seemed too much effort to protest. Besides, her mother would not listen anyway. The maid disappeared, then a more ponderous step sounded in the hall and Lord Hatherington walked in.

"How is she?" he asked.

"She's getting better. A bit of a knock to the head. Do you know, Hath, have you heard? Young Mr Price saved Sir William's life."

Lord Hatherington blinked. "Did he?"

"Well I suppose he did." Lady Hatherington turned to Cecelia. "Is it true?"

"I suppose it is," Cecelia said wearily.

Lord Hatherington pursed his lips. "Humph. The boy may make something of himself after all."

"So it seems," Lady Hatherington said. "Lady Peyton always seemed very impressed by him, but I didn't put much stock in it. Now if he makes a name for himself, it might not be so bad. He has no money of course, but Sir William is something in the way of a connection. You were very clever, my lord, in putting him up with Sir William. It seems to have turned out very well indeed."

Lord Hatherington smiled thinly. "We shall see, my dear. We shall see."

"He almost died," Cecelia snapped. "What is good about that!? He could have died!"

"He did not." Lady Hatherington. "And everyone will know soon exactly what he did."

"And you sent him away. You sent him away from me. He doesn't love me anymore because you sent him away."

"What else could we do?" Lord Hatherington said impatiently. "We were protecting you, Cecelia. From your own folly. Keeping him around — no position, no family, no name, and a marriage over the anvil in Scotland! You would have been a laughing stock! You threw so much away on him. We've managed to take some of it back."

There hadn't been anyone to protect Sebastian. His mother and father were dead. And Cecelia, his wife—

She remembered suddenly the morning they had returned. Climbing up the steps, Sebastian holding her hand. Lord Hatherington answering the door with black fury on his face. "What did you do?" he had demanded. "What did you do, boy?"

Sebastian, white-faced but untrembling, answered, "I married your daughter."

From beyond, Lady Hatherington screamed. "The thief!" she shrieked. "The seducer!"

Sebastian had not denied it. He had not denied anything her parents had said, nor protested their accusations and temper. But nor had he ever apologized. He had not been sorry. He had been afraid of them, but never sorry that he had married her. And she had sat silent through all of it, scratching the flea bites fading on her flesh. She had said nothing in his defence. She had let her parents believe every word they said of him.

She was the only one who could have protected him. And she hadn't. She had let her parents send him away.

She brought her knees to her chest and pressed her face into them. "Go away!" she shouted. "Oh, go away and leave me alone! I want to be alone!"

*