The gardens at Vauxhall had been popular for some time now—Alec had seen them on a London visit before the Jacobite Uprising had made his life hell. He led the ladies through an open gate in a thick wall, where an acrobat in a backbend scuttled past to encourage them inside.
A long avenue took them to the center of the gardens, where a silken tent in the Turkish style held food, drink, and musicians within its red and black striped walls. More walks led from the central area, some lined with trees, others with elegant colonnades containing marble statues in arched niches, directing visitors down a grand promenade.
The Spring Gardens were free to enter, and the paths were already full. The wine, ale, and food within had to be purchased, but anyone in London could stroll in and enjoy the open garden not far from the stuffy city.
Nature under control. This was the philosophy of English gardeners of the day, especially Lancelot Brown, who busily removed real nature so he could carve landscapes around great houses, and hauled away rocks and woods to put in sweeping parks. Alec had studied his drawings and those of Brown’s colleagues to help spark his ideas for the gardens at Kilmorgan Malcolm had asked him to design.
Mal had already laid out the groundwork for a grand house that would take the place of the now-ruined castle. He’d begun having stones quarried when the Jacobite rebellion had disrupted their lives and driven them into exile. Mal, with his characteristic stubbornness, carried on planning the house from afar, urging Alec to continue with his schematics for the garden. The Runt would have his way in the end, Alec was certain. Mal had a knack for it.
Lady Flora’s masked guests quickly surrounded her, wishing to show they were intimates of one of the most interesting women in London. Only Mrs. Reynolds saw Alec slip away into the darkness, watching him go without a nod.
Celia’s plan to speak to Lady Flora about calling upon her evaporated when she beheld the crush that surrounded her and Mrs. Reynolds. Lady Flora must have invited every single person in her social circle tonight—Celia had never seen so many costumes from the commedia dell’arte in one place in her life.
Lady Flora was Columbine, the lover of Harlequin and as full of schemes and japes as he. There were a quite a number of Harlequins trying to sidle next to her. Many older gentlemen came as Punchinello, each with a different sized hump on their backs. A few ladies were dressed as Pierette, as Celia was, in white velvet gowns trimmed with black braid and pompons. Many of the women wore dominos—a short silk cloak with a hood and a mask that covered the eyes.
Celia’s mother staunchly wore no costume but had consented to a domino. Celia wore a black mask and hat, as anonymous as the others.
Celia would have been excited to be at such a gathering earlier this year, at the height of the Season. She’d have fallen in with her friends, whispering and laughing with them about nonsense, thrilling when a handsome gentleman asked to escort or dance with one of them.
Now she watched as an outsider. Most of her friends had already married, or at least were engaged and had returned to their father’s estates. Celia hadn’t been entirely shunned since the Disaster—her parents were far too powerful for society to risk cutting their daughter completely—but she was avoided and talked about.
Celia wasn’t as bothered about society’s opinion of her tonight, because her thoughts were all for Alec. She found herself looking for him—had he persuaded Lady Flora to bring him along? Was he even now in a Harlequin costume, lingering at the edges of Flora’s crowd?
None of the Harlequins seemed right for him—some of the gentlemen had good physiques but not Alec’s height. No, dressing up and hovering around Lady Flora wasn’t right for Alec. He must be at home with his daughter, or possibly in the studio alone, drawing or painting.
She imagined him in his linen shirt which gaped open at the neck, his eyes focusing as he leaned to the easel to paint something beautiful. He’d absently wipe his cheek, leaving a streak of color on it. Celia’s heart gave a painful throb.
“There he is,” her mother said into her ear.
Celia jumped, and then sucked in a breath, knowing her mother could not possibly mean Alec. “Who?” Her voice cracked.
“Your brother, of course. Edward. There.”
Celia turned in confusion to where the duchess pointed, the image of Alec dissolving. “How can Edward be here? He’s in France with his regiment.”
Her mother heaved a sigh worthy of Lady Flora. “Well, now he is here. He is granted leave once in a while. He wishes to speak to you, Lord knows why.”
Celia hadn’t seen Edward since the Disaster, when he’d made it clear he thought her a fool. She’d hoped one day she could make him see her side of things, and they’d be friends again.
She rose on tiptoes to peer eagerly over the heads of the crowd. “Where?”
“Down that walk. He is dressed as Pierrot. Go on—be quick about it.”
The duchess pushed Celia in the direction of a tree-lined walk. Not many lanterns hung there, and deep shadows pocketed the way. But if Edward had come, wishing to speak to Celia away from Lady Flora’s crush, she’d brave the darkness.
She gathered her velvet skirts and hurried down the path.
When the first shadow closed over her, Celia halted, common sense cutting into her excitement. Why on earth would her mother arrange a meeting between the disgraced Celia and her darling Edward? If Edward wanted to speak to Celia, he’d simply come to the house, or have accompanied them to the gardens. Why don a costume and skulk about in a dark lane? There were easier ways of meeting with her.
Her mother was up to something, wasn’t she? The man waiting would not be Edward, but Lord James, and Celia would be caught alone in the dark with him by Lady Flora and all her friends. Once again, Celia would be forced to either agree to marry a gentleman or let herself be shamed.
Being found in yet another man’s embrace would clinch the opinion that she was a wanton harlot. Only marriage would save her from being completely ostracized this time.
In rage, Celia swung back. She’d thwart the duchess’s scheme and give her a scathing dressing down, never mind her upbringing to honor her parents. Her mother needed to learn a few things about honor.
A gloved hand came out of a black shadow and dragged her from the path. Celia drew a breath to scream, but another hand pressed over her mouth, and a voice sounded in her ear.
“Stop squirming, blasted woman.”
Chapter 15
Celia ceased struggling as Alec half dragged her more deeply under the trees. He wore a kilt belted at his waist, and his coat was red, that of a British soldier—most puzzling. A black tam rested on his head, a dark ribbon fluttering to his neck.
“I thought tartan was banned,” was the first thing out of Celia’s mouth.
“Not in the regiments,” Alec said, words clipped. “I borrowed this from a friend. It’s a costume, ye ken?”
Celia kenned nothing at the moment. “My mother is busy trying to disgrace me again. Mr. … Finn … will you escort me home? I’d like to speak to you.”
“No.”
She blinked. “I beg your …”
Alec tightened his grasp on her arm and guided her to a narrower walk, plunging them into darkness.
“Home won’t be safe for ye. I’m pulling ye out of this game. ”
Celia inwardly cursed her high-heeled satin slippers, beautiful to look at, horrible to walk in, especially when she had to move swiftly to keep up with the long-legged Alec. “Where else can I go? If you take me to any of my friends, they’ll simply send me back to my mother. They’ll regard it their duty.”
Alec halted and turned her to face him. “I asked you to trust me, aye?”
“And I have decided to. Rather against my common sense, but I feel you can be trusted Mr. … Oh dear, I don’t even know your real name.”
“Ye flatter me, but it’s time for me to decide whether I can trust you. You’ve done me well not rushing home and telling your father a Highlander had s
wooped down on Mayfair, but will you continue to keep quiet? I want to help ye, but I can’t at the expense of my family, or my own life. I have a daughter to look after.”
“I would never betray you.” Celia looked up at him through her mask, the black silk cool against her cheeks. “I have met cruel men, and you are not one.”
“Tell my brothers that.” Alec cupped her cheek, his leather glove warm. “If I trust you, and you trust me, we’ll go from here and be well out of it. You’ll be safe, and do what ye like, and be happy.”
Celia leaned into his touch. “Where is this paradise you will lead me to? It sounds impossible.”
“I don’t know about paradise, but you’ll be looked after.” Alec brushed a kiss to her lips, stroked his thumb across the mask. “Now let’s be off before your mum tries t’ get ye married to the Chancellor of the Exchequer and the Archbishop of Canterbury all at the same time.”
“You know about her wanting to marry me off to Lord James Spencer?” Celia asked as Alec took her hand and towed her along. “He was waiting for me down that walk in a Pierrot costume, I believe.”
“Aye, he was—probably still is. I was to lie in wait down another lane in the same costume, and Lady Flora was to direct ye to me. Your mum would think the correct man dragged ye off, while it was me absconding with ye instead.”
“Lady Flora wasn’t anywhere near me.” Celia quickened her steps, wincing as her shoes slipped and slid. “And you are not dressed as Pierrot.”
Alec rumbled a laugh. “Can ye see me tramping about in baggy white breeches with bobbles on m’ tunic? I know Flora was laughing about that—in her own way. One of my soldier friends lent me his spare uniform in case I needed it, and I decided to wear it instead. Careful, now.”
The path narrowed to nothing, and mud sucked at Celia’s shoes. The lane ended in a gate, beyond which was a moonlit field. A carriage waited there, the horses’ breaths steaming in the night air. The coach was unmarked, no crest on the door.
Alec opened the gate with ease. Celia was not surprised it would be unlocked—very little about Alec surprised her anymore. A man lounging on the coach’s back step hopped down, looming in the moonlit mist like a hunched giant.
Celia took a startled step back, and Alec caught her in his strong grip. The man looked like nothing more than a highwayman, muffled in a greatcoat and hat, his face craggy, one eye covered with a patch. Gray hair straggled from under the hat, and he glared at them both with his single eye.
“All right, then, Padruig?” Alec asked this apparition.
“Aye.” The one word was growled and gravelly. Padruig wrenched open the coach door and held out his hand to Celia.
“Don’t be afraid.” Alec hooked his arm around Celia’s waist and half lifted, half boosted her into the coach. “He’s the kind one of the pair. Where is your cutthroat partner?”
Padruig didn’t look offended that Celia didn’t take his hand, only backed out of the way. “Waiting.” he grunted. “Won’t wait forever.”
Celia landed on a soft seat, cushions sliding as she righted herself. Alec heaved himself inside, taking the seat facing her.
“No, he’ll run off into the night with my money,” Alec said to Padruig as he pulled the door shut. “That’s why I pay him only half in advance. A savings if he absconds with it.” He knocked on the roof, signaling the coachman.
The coachman clucked to the horses, and the vehicle jerked forward. Padruig waited until the carriage passed him, then it listed as he climbed onto the back.
“Who is he?” Celia asked in amazement.
Alec shrugged. “A useful man. He and Gair stayed well out of the thick of the Uprising and so aren’t wanted men. At least not for being Jacobites—they’re no doubt wanted for many other crimes. They’re friends of my brother Mal’s. You’ll find that most people the length of England and Scotland are friends of Mal’s. He’s a frightening lad, is the Runt.”
“Runt? Is he so very small?” Nervous laughter threatened to well up inside her. Celia couldn’t imagine anyone related to the tall, broad-shouldered Alec to be slight.
“Not these days. We called him that when he was a wee lad and always in mischief. He’s still in mischief but not so wee any longer.” The warmth that entered Alec’s voice when he spoke of his brothers was palpable.
At one time, Celia had been as close to her brother. No wonder her mother had chosen to pretend it was Edward who waited for her—she’d used Celia’s affection and need to reconcile with him to manipulate her. When Celia’s stunned numbness wore off, she’d be furious.
“Am I allowed to inquire as to where we are going?” she asked Alec. “Is it to meet this Gair?”
“In good time. First I have an errand or two.”
“Well, I thank you for retrieving me and preventing a second Disaster, in any case.” Celia peered out the window into the lowering fog, but the only thing she could discern was that they were still south of the river. “Do I understand this mad scheme aright? That Lady Flora’s purpose was to have you abduct me? Which you have, only without wearing the Pierrot costume. Why?”
“She is assisting me,” Alec said. “But what she thought her plans would accomplish, I don’t know.”
The coach rocked hard over a rut, and Alec used its momentum to leave his seat and drop next to her. He tugged her skirts from under his thigh, and slid his hand behind her head to untie her mask.
Alec caught the silk as it fell away and then brushed her cheek with its end. “She expects me to take you off and have my way with ye.”
Celia’s heart beat fast and hard, her skin prickling under his touch. “And are you?”
Trust me. The memory of his words drifted to her, as well as the intensity in his eyes when he’d said them.
“I might be.” His voice was quiet. “After a time.”
Celia swallowed. “And how would you ravishing me benefit Lady Flora?”
Alec’s red-brown brows drew down, his eyes dark gold in the gleam of lantern light. “That I don’t know. But you and I are out of the game now. The pawn and the … what piece am I? … are off the chessboard.”
“The knight,” Celia said without hesitation. “The warrior who can threaten a queen.”
“The queen is the most powerful piece on the board.” Alec shrugged. “I don’t have the patience to carry on with the metaphor, so I’ll just say ye are well out of it.”
He fell silent as they wound through dark streets. Near the bulk of Lambeth Palace, the coachman halted, and Alec assisted Celia out. He flung a long cloak around her, its woolen folds a welcome warmth.
A fishing boat waited for them, one with peeling paint and the permanent smell of fish, a far cry from the decorated barge Lady Flora had sent to ferry Celia and her mother across to the gardens.
The man who waited to hand Celia into the boat was muffled to his ears, only his dark eyes showing between scarf and hat. Alec steadied her as she stepped into the boat, then leapt down after her, landing with easy grace.
Padruig, who’d descended from the coach with them, rested his hand on the hilt of a long knife that hung from his belt. “I’ll fend off pursuit, shall I?”
“There won’t be any pursuit,” Alec said. “Not for a time. Come with us—I’ll need a witness.”
Padruig shrugged and stepped into the boat with the effortlessness of a man long used to embarking watercraft. “I’m t’ make sure ye get to Gair. He wants the rest of that fare.”
“He has no need to worry.” Alec guided Celia into the tiny deckhouse, which cut the chill wind on the river. “But don’t kill anyone while you’re getting us there. I don’t need another mess to clear up.”
Padruig followed them in and shut the door, leaving the boats’ two sailors outside. “Like that Lowlander?”
“Do you know who did for him?” Alec asked, sitting on a bench before the small stove in the middle of the cabin and holding his hands to the fire’s warmth. The cabin was filled with junk—nets, fishing poles,
crates, bottles, jugs, sacks, wire, and various things Celia couldn’t make out in the shadows.
Padruig folded his arms and leaned against the door, blocking the way in—or out. “He had enemies. Could have been any of them.”
“But you know which ones,” Alec stated.
“Aye, a few men who thought he knew too much. They’ll tell no tales.” He flicked a glance to Celia, his one eye glittering. Perhaps he thought he needed to make certain she’d tell no tales.
Celia shivered as she let Alec tug her down next to him, though she wasn’t certain about the cleanliness of the bench. “Never worry, lass,” Alec rumbled. “I’ll look after ye now.”
Padruig snorted, then a draft blew in as he opened the door and faded outside, slamming it behind him.
Celia leaned into the warmth that was Alec, and he wrapped his arm around her. “I am trying to feel alarm that you are abducting me,” she said. “I can’t bring myself to. But perhaps I am in shock.”
Alec sent her a grin. “That’s because I’m not much good at abducting. The Runt is the master. The lass he abducted never realized it, and now she’s in his house in Paris, busily telling the lot of us what to do while she waits for their babe to be born. Mal’s the one for intrigue, as is Will.” Pain flickered across his face. “Me, I’m a painter, trying to provide for my daughter and keep the rest of my good-for-nothing family out of trouble.”
Celia nestled into him. “Does that mean you are abducting me or you aren’t?”
“Means I’m giving you the choice.” Alec raised her silk-gloved hand and kissed it. “I can take you to my friends, trusted ones, who will keep you safe. Ye’d never have to see me again. Or …”
“Or I can marry you,” Celia said.
Chapter 16
Alec froze with her hand in his, his eyes fixed on her. His chest rose with his breath, the red coat that was the symbol of his enemies moving.
“Or ye can marry me, I was about to say.” The words were a growl. “Give a man a chance to speak.”
Alec Mackenzie's Art of Seduction: Mackenzies (Mackenzies Series Book 9) Page 15