Always in April

II.

Miss Astley gaped surprise, while guilt flashed across Major Godfrey's face. At any other time, Cecelia would have laughed at them both. Now, she drained the last of her champagne without tasting it, trying to counteract the dizziness that had come over her at hearing his name.

"I did not know you were married." Miss Astley's tone contained a hundred unasked questions.

"For some years. My husband works abroad." Cecelia slipped her empty glass onto a passing footman's tray. She was not going to explain more than that. Not now, not to Miss Astley. By the guilt still lingering on Major Godfrey's face, there would be less to explain to him, perhaps nothing at all. He had known her longer. He had certainly known she was married, though they had never had cause to talk of her husband — not until now.

"If you'll excuse me," Cecelia said. "Our dance will have to wait for another night, Major Godfrey. I have a matter to attend to."

As she walked away, she heard Miss Astley beginning to press urgent questions upon Major Godfrey. Even if the major did not answer them, others in the crowded ballroom would no doubt be eager to repeat what they knew and invent what they did not. Cecelia's heart sank. It was old gossip by now, but it would still hurt to have it dredged up again.

Upstairs, the hallways were in darkness, but Cecelia followed the sound of voices until she came to a lit room. Lady Peyton was making a bed, with the brisk competence that exposed that she had not been born into the wealth she now possessed. Her husband's fortune and title had been earned on the naval battlefield, and she had been there with him, or as close as she had been allowed to get. Sebastian was slumped in an armchair, still in his greatcoat, his hand over his eyes as though to shield them from the dim light of the candles on the mantelpiece.

"...I'll have beef tea sent up," Lady Peyton was saying. "Nothing like beef tea on a damp night."

"Excuse me?" Cecelia said.

Lady Peyton turned and Sebastian dropped his hand from his eyes. Lady Peyton was the first to react, setting down the pillow she held and moving to the door.

"I suppose you do need to talk about it," she said. "I'll leave you alone then. You call for whatever you need, Sebastian."

"Thank you," Sebastian said, his voice rasping with tiredness. Then his eyes shifted back to Cecelia, and she felt again frozen.

She stepped into the room and shut the door behind her. Despite her shock and surprise, she didn't feel much emotion at seeing him again. There was no rush of anger. There was certainly no rush of love. She was perhaps a little anxious, because this was very odd and she liked her life well-ordered, and perhaps a little irritated, because Sebastian had made a scene and Cecelia hated scenes.

"What are you doing here?" Her voice, she was relieved to hear, sounded normal, not too nervous.

"I needed a place to stay while I was in London."

It explained nothing, but then Sebastian had always been like that, half-answers and half-questions and a whole world within unspoken. Having a conversation with him was like a swordfight in a stageplay: a lot of noise and movement but no blood drawn.

"What are you doing in London? Where is the ambassador?"

"Paris."

Never ask two questions at once. Not with Sebastian. Cecelia tried again.

"What are you doing in London?"

"Sir William sent me."

Even one question was useless. Cecelia took in the weary lines around Sebastian's eyes and gave up. Maybe in the morning, when he was rested.