returned to one in particular. Her heart missed a beat.
In the center of the window, larger than the other offerings was hung a print of Alex and his cousins in their imperial finery. They appeared incongruous in the center of London society because the printmaker had dressed them in the style of their namesakes. So Alex had a breastplate and Roman kilt and his cousin Julius a purple-edged toga.
Alex’s family was an important one. Even someone in a provincial town like Leicester would know who they were. They didn’t need the joke explaining to them.
Finally the death knell tolled on her hopes. She had no chance of attracting such exalted figures and no right to expect it.
The man she’d met and dallied with wasn’t for her. She didn’t move in his circles, wouldn’t know how to conduct a dinner discussing events of the day, events the guests would have direct involvement in. She couldn’t swan around a ballroom pretending to be one of the great and the good. Alex would marry a woman who could do all these things and she’d be a credit to him. Not for Connie the fate of being caricatured for the amusement of the nation. Few people knew who she was, or would, once she married Jasper. Mrs. Dankworth, even Lady Downholland couldn’t evoke that kind of attention.
Her mood plummeted. She was going to London to marry Jasper then she’d retire with him to Yorkshire, or her home in Cumbria, and take her place in local society. She’d never see Alex again.
The prospect filled her with a numb sorrow. Until now, she hadn’t realized what Alex had done to her. He’d spoiled her for other men.
Saxton tugged her shawl. “They won’t wait for us, missus. We have to go now.”
She’d turned, slightly dazed, and headed back to the inn and the hated coach.
That she’d met him seemed a dream. That she’d kissed him seemed impossible. Alexander Vernon, Baron Ripley, heir to the Earldom of Leverton. No, not her, not him.
She’d put him behind her with all the strength of will she could muster.
When they reached London, she assumed it wouldn’t take long to reach the Belle Sauvage on Ludgate Hill, where they were disembarking.
However London proved much larger than she’d supposed and it took an hour for the unwieldy coach, weighed down with travelers inside and on the roof, to reach the center of the city. The travelers separated into two groups, the ones who had been before and took it all in with an air of weary cynicism and the ones, like her, who watched, fascinated, as the city passed the windows in all its variety.
They passed through a couple of hamlets first, villages with a prosperous air and modern, well-constructed houses, any of which would have provided a suitable dwelling for a lady of her style and circumstance. The road led into the main part of the city, past dilapidated buildings of disreputable appearance, half falling down and propped up with beams and then rows of neat houses, small but with an air of comfort and well-being. Every building bore streaks of soot. Something she hadn’t expected but should have done. So many houses belching smoke all day must produce this kind of appearance. She’d have had her house scrubbed every month but perhaps the battle was too much for the people who lived here.
Finally, they swung up Ludgate Hill and the magnificent dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral towering majestically over the buildings clustered around it. Its classical magnificence and its sheer size dwarfed and scorned everything else around it. Breathtaking.
She promised herself a visit there, as well as the Palace of Westminster and the Banqueting Hall, all that remained of the old palace of Whitehall, which had burned down seventy years before. Her spirits lifted at the thought, more, to her shame, than at the thought of meeting Jasper again.
She recalled the history of London from her books, the books she’d spent the nights before her trip poring over. Anything but remembering how close Alex was to her here, how she could pay a visit and see him again. But she would not.
How would she cope with that? From what Jasper had said in his letter, he’d started to move in those circles. She couldn’t avoid Alex. She had to steel herself to the possibility of meeting him, pretending a slight acquaintance. Anything more would appear encroaching. And the chance of seeing him with a woman, one who could claim him for her own. Perhaps he’d offer for Louisa, pretty, young and rich, everything Connie wasn’t.
She suffered from an infatuation, she assured herself, as she had many times before. Nothing more. It would pass. It had to pass.
* * * *
Connie had become adept at climbing down the tiny steps of the coach on to the cobbled yard of yet another coaching inn. Except this one was the last in her journey and the last she’d need to face for some time. She felt cramped, tired and ready for bed, although it was barely four in the afternoon. Food didn’t appeal. She was too weary to eat. Not that Saxton felt the same way, if her rumbling stomach was to be believed. Connie ought to take pity on her maid.
“Let’s eat something while we wait to hear from Mr. Dankworth.”
Saxton nodded. “I’ll see the bags unloaded first, missus.”
Connie had almost forgotten them.
Saxton snagged a passing ostler by the simple expedient of grabbing the waistband of his breeches and waving a shilling under his nose. She barely came up to the man’s chest. “That trunk and that bag.”
The man climbed up to get them down.
Connie went inside and headed for the nearest unoccupied table.
A man dressed in plain but serviceable clothes stopped her. “Mrs. Rattigan, is it?”
“Why? Who wants to know?” She was dressed plainly, her pearl necklace tucked under her fichu. She could have been anyone from a shopkeeper to a lady.
The man handed her a folded note addressed in her future husband’s handwriting.
Dearest,
The man who gives you this is one of my servants. You may trust him. He will take you to the Downholland’s house after you’ve eaten and refreshed yourself. I am looking forward with eager anticipation to seeing you again. We will marry as soon as possible. I can hardly wait. - J
A brief note and to the point but Jasper’s care for her touched her. She smiled up at the man, her spirits lifting. “Yes, I’m Mrs. Rattigan.”
“Are you alone?”
“My maid is in the yard, supervising the luggage. She’ll join us shortly.”
The man gave a brief nod. “There are some private parlors here. I have bespoken one of those for your comfort. If you’ll come this way, I’ll return for your maid.”
“That sounds good.” She followed the man to the parlor, which was small and comfortable. He furnished her with a glass of wine from the decanter on the table.
She eyed the basket of bread with more avidity than she’d imagined she could have a few moments before. Jasper’s note had relieved her growing tension and worry that she might have to fend for herself and her maid for at least a night.
The wine tasted good enough and she’d downed the first glass without really noticing, wondering if she could put her feet up on one of the stools and relax for an hour. She wondered where her maid had got to when the latch rattled.
The world rocked under her feet. As if her perception had suddenly developed an echo and followed her rather than coming with her. She heard the man saying the same thing twice, saw blurred double images of him. More tired than she’d thought. With a sigh, she sank back on to the hard wooden settle. Her senses telescoped and unconsciousness washed over her.
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