She took his hand and squeezed it. “Dear Sebastian, do not worry about me. All will be well.”

“I cannot help worrying,” he said. “I have loved you for a long time.”

“As I love you and my sister. If you wish to do anything for me, mend this rift with Beatrice.”

“I cannot,” he said, his voice low as if to conceal what he admitted. “I cannot help thinking of her with Conyers and then I am so angry I cannot see anything.”

Her brows quirked together over her short nose. “She does not love him, Sebastian.”

“Then it is worse than I thought.” He sighed. “Leave it be, Ceci. You cannot make it right.” He kissed her forehead, and then stepped beyond her and embraced John. “I am glad you are home, John. I could wish you had not had such news to bring with you, but I am glad you came before Ceci was utterly ruined. Your parents have kindly given me leave to stay here while I am in London, so I shall see you again later.” He bowed to John’s wife, still silent at his side, then turned and left the hall, walking behind the screen without a backward glance.

The ordeal of facing the earl awaited.

Only the busk in her pair-of-bodies kept Beatrice from hunching over to soothe the pain slashing across her abdomen. This could not be happening to her, not after everything else.

Pushing away from her bedchamber door, she crossed the room to kneel at the prie-dieu against the far wall. What shall I pray for? Shall I pray for mercy, for aid? Or shall I pray for answers, answers that will not come?

She could find no peace, no matter where she turned. Instead she found despair, as if her heart were under a cold, steady rain. Despair was a sin and she was weary of sin. Would it never end? Was this awful grayness clouding her heart never to be lifted, even if she did all her duty? She gripped the railing of the prie-dieu and leaned her forehead against her knotted hands.

She feared that she would spend her life struggling to do right, only to find that she had failed despite all her effort. She was weary, so tired of fighting for peace and a clean heart that sometimes she half wished the sweating sickness would swoop down and carry her away. But her wish was not much better than self-destruction, blackening her soul with yet another sin.

And now this. Trapped in another marriage, once more at the mercy of a man who would have none. Were her sins so terrible they warranted such punishment? She had done penance for the sins of the past year. Surely that had been enough…

Someone tapped on the door and opened it, the hinges creaking.

“Leave me be,” Beatrice said without looking to see who it was. She could not bear company, did not have the strength to pretend a calm she did not feel.

“It is I, Beatrice,” Cecilia said.

Beatrice lifted her head and stared at her across the width of the room. Cecilia gasped at whatever she saw in Beatrice’s face, slipping into the room and closing the door behind her.

“I do not want your pity,” Beatrice said. Her voice, in the quiet room, was harsh and unwelcoming. Please do not go, do not leave me. “I said, leave me be. Do as I bid you.”

“I shall not.” Cecilia sat down on the chest at the end of the bed and folded her hands in her lap.

How obstinate they were as a family, how determined, each of them, to have his or her will. Beatrice did not have the strength to fight her sister. Marriage to Manners had stripped her of stubbornness, leaving her as passive as a feeble-minded nun.

“I am trying to pray,” she said.

“Only trying?”

Beatrice’s breath caught. “I cannot pray if you watch me.”

“I worry about you,” Cecilia said.

“Do not. There is no need.” I do not deserve it.

“I do not like to see you and Sebastian at such odds. And now that you are married—”

“Do not speak of it!” She could not talk about it, not to anyone. “It would be better for everyone if he married you—”

“Not for me, Beatrice, never for me,” Cecilia said, stiffening. “Do not think that.”

“Why not? You have always been good friends, much at ease with one another. You would deal well together and both of you could do worse.” It was easier to talk of Cecilia’s problems and heart than of her own.

“I cannot marry Sebastian. I was wrong to think I could.” Cecilia clamped her mouth shut.

What now? Beatrice rubbed the shelf. The kneeler had no cushion and was hard even through the layers of her petticoats. The window above the prie-dieu was open to the July afternoon. Below, in the garden, men murmured together and then laughed. The sound was loud in the silence between her and Cecilia and made her think of gardens and gardeners. Would Sebastian let her tend his gardens, or would he forbid it, as Thomas had done? I will not think of it. She dared not hope.

She opened her mouth to ask Cecilia to leave. “Do you ever pray and think God and the saints are not listening?” Tears came out of nowhere and filled her eyes; her heart felt as though the words had been torn out of it.

“No,” Cecilia whispered. “Do you feel so alone?”

“Yes.” Beatrice put her head down on her hands and wept.

Her sister was beside her in a moment, strong arms wrapped tightly around her as if she would hold all the demons at bay.

“Hush, my honey, hush. Hush, dearling.”

Beatrice rested against her, sobs shaking her. She was weary of this, as well, the tears that brought no relief. Finally the weeping subsided, leaving her with swollen eyes and an aching head.

“I have no more strength left, Ceci,” she murmured. “I have no strength to be married.”

“You will not need strength, lovedy,” Cecilia replied, rubbing Beatrice’s back with long, firm strokes. “Sebastian will care for you.”

If only she could believe that. He had never harmed her, but she had never been in his power before. I cannot endure any more. It will kill me.

“Will he?” she mumbled. “He hates me.”

“He loves you,” Cecilia said. “Let me unlace you and then you lie down and rest. Anyone who thinks God does not listen when she prays is too weary to think clearly. You will be better for sleep, I promise you.”

Beatrice straightened, laughing without amusement. “But I do not sleep, Ceci. I have not slept in years.”

Cecilia stiffened, as if Beatrice had surprised her, then rose her feet. She took Beatrice’s hands and pulled her up. “That does not mean you will not sleep now. Shall I play for you? It will only take a moment to bring my lute from the solar.”

“No. I thank you, no. I shall lie down, as you bid me, but only if you leave me in peace.”

Cecilia frowned. “Are you certain of this?”

“Yes. Grant me peace, I beg of you.”

“Very well. I do not like it, but if that is what you want.” She still frowned, eyes sharp with worry.

“It is. Go, Ceci. Please.”

After unlacing Beatrice, Ceci left. Beatrice lifted the edge of her bodice and untied her busk lace. She pulled the busk out and laid it beside her on the bed. It was a good one, made of ivory and carved with saints and animals, flowers and plants. Thomas had given it to her; she hated it.

She rolled away from it and curled herself into a ball, letting the tears fall once more.

T he Earl and Countess of Wednesfield had left for Coleville House by the time Sebastian reached Westminster. Cursing his luck under his breath, he dropped a few coins into the usher’s outstretched hand and returned to the water stairs. Please God the tide had not turned. Otherwise he would be trapped here for an hour or more, if not all night.

“My lord is in a great hurry,” his gentleman, Ned, observed.

“Hold your tongue and find me a boatman,” Sebastian said, frowning at him. The last thing he wanted or needed was a clack-tongued fool yammering in his ear.

Muttering, Ned shoved his way through the crowd at the bottom of the stairs. He disappeared for a moment and then reappeared, bounding like hound to Sebastian’s side. “I have found the man, my lord. But it will cost you.”