She put a hand on Celia’s arm and her voice lifted as Harvey drew closer. “But, of course, you must not weary yourself too greatly, Celia, for there is more dancing after our late supper.”
Sir John greeted them with a wide smile, but his eyes did not leave Celia as he murmured an appropriate greeting, then said, “I have come to dance with you and then take you into supper, if you consent, Miss St. Clair.”
“Of course, my lord. I shall be delighted,” she said with a smile. “But you must be warned that I’ve already trod upon the toes of two poor gentlemen who’ve danced with me this evening.”
“I feel my luck has changed, and am willing to risk my toes.” He put out an arm, and Celia put her hand on it to be led onto the dance floor. A quadrille was forming sets and there was no opportunity to talk during the dance as they glided from partner to partner. It wasn’t until he escorted her into the late supper that Celia noted his intensity.
“You are a most lovely young woman, Miss St. Clair, and I imagine you have many admirers,” he said as they entered the dining room.
“Not so very many, my lord, though your high esteem is very flattering.” She smiled at him. His hazel eyes were fastened on her face as if in rapt attention, but there was a strange tautness to his mouth that stirred her curiosity. “You are being very kind tonight, Sir John.”
“Not kind, but rather optimistic, is more like it, Miss St. Clair.” His shoulders lifted in a light shrug, and his boyish face creased into a rueful smile. “I have the bad habit of yearning for what I can never have, it seems, and that extends to more than limitless pockets and well-bred horses.”
“Ah, but I saw you last week in Hyde Park, and your horse seemed very well-bred to me.”
“You saw me?” He looked faintly startled, then waved away any explanation with a laugh and observation, “I seem to be unable to skulk about unnoticed. Not that I was trying, I’m certain, but I do recall riding in the park. It’s too bad that I didn’t see you, or I could have been a gallant escort.”
“Oh, I was already escorted by Lord Northington.”
“Ah, I’d forgotten. A social coup for you, it seems, for Northington is hardly the man to issue invitations to innocent rides in the park.”
“He would not have done so then,” she replied, “if you had not teased him into it.”
Harvey grinned. “He needed a taste of civility, and I was certain you would provide him with it. I knew he would never be able to resist such a lovely challenge.”
“Challenge, my lord?” Celia frowned slightly. Had they been talking about her? If so, it certainly meant that Northington was more intrigued than she had guessed.
“Yes, I have a confession to make—” He paused beneath the glittering light of a wall sconce dripping with crystals that radiated tiny rainbows of color. “I was in the alcove that evening at the Leverton ball, and heard what transpired between you. Forgive me. I hope you don’t think I’m a meddler in your affairs, but I couldn’t help but overhear. It was deuced awkward, and I didn’t know if I should betray my presence or simply hope that you would not notice me there.”
“How embarrassing,” she said frankly. “I’m afraid that I’ve made a terrible impression. You must think me a complete idiot.”
“Not at all. I find you disarmingly lovely and very charming, Miss St. Clair. Your arrival in London has graced our stifling society with a freshness that is most welcome in all circles.”
There was a sudden commotion, and Harvey turned her toward the dining-room entrance, whispering to her that the prince had finally arrived.
“Have you been presented yet, Miss St. Clair?”
“No—oh, do not, my lord, for I don’t know what I would say to him.”
“You need only be your charming self, for Prinny loves a beautiful woman nearly as much as he loves himself most of the time. Oh, pay no attention to me. I admit to being jaded, but here…come with me.”
Celia’s heart pounded furiously, so that her mouth was quite dry and her knees were quivering when Harvey was greeted by the prince.
“Harvey,” was the affable acknowledgment, and large eyes turned toward her with an appraising stare. “Who is this exquisite creature?”
“May I present Miss St. Clair, the newest export from the Colonies.”
“From the Colonies, you say?” His brow lifted, but a smile curved his rather petulant mouth. “Indeed, if this is an example of American exports, I am very glad we are continuing our trade.”
Despite his bulk, there was an air of majesty to him that had nothing to do with his birth. An innate sense of position was evident in his tone and obvious expectation of command, though Celia had heard all the gossip of his excesses, his affairs and often ridiculous attachments to unsuitable causes.
Yet beneath that bloated form and face, she sensed a careless kindness.
Lifted from her deep curtsy, she returned his smile. “I am honored to meet you, Your Grace,” she said, and hoped that her address was appropriate. What was it that Jacqueline had told her she should say if ever she was introduced to the prince? Oh God, but she could scarcely think tonight, with all that had happened. And now he was gazing at her with obvious assessment, his eyes lingering on her bosom displayed in the scarlet gown.
“I find you enchanting,” he said, “and insist that you join our party for supper this evening.”
“Sire,” a tall, thin man at his side stepped close to say softly, “we have already made arrangements for you.”
“Mowry, you’re like a damned hound, always baying at the wrong moment. I wish Miss St. Clair to dine with us.”
A flash of resentment lit the man’s dark eyes, and his glance at Celia was speculative and not at all kind. But he inclined his head in agreement and stepped back, and Celia found herself escorted by none other than the prince regent.
Nearly giddy with apprehension, she saw Jacqueline’s astonished, ecstatic face, and was relieved when she was included in their party, a careless invitation issued by the man called Mowry.
Jacqueline was shaking with excitement, but was very charming as she chatted with a man introduced to Celia as Sir Skeffington, “a veritable fount of information about the theater, and he writes his own plays, my dear.”
Celia listened politely as Sir Skeffington regaled them with details of his works; she was fascinated to see he wore paint on his face, discreet rouge and powder, but startling nonetheless.
“Yes,” Jacqueline was saying, “I did indeed attend your production of The Sleeping Beauty, Sir Skeffington, and found it most delightful.”
“Alas,” he replied with a wry smile, “you are among the few in that case. It was not well received by most.”
“A damned dreadful play,” the prince said bluntly, “but with a lovely actress—what was her name again?”
“Siddons, sire,”
“No, not that one, the young one, the lively dark-haired chit.”
“Maria Wilson, sire.” Mowry’s smile did not reach his eyes, and gave him the appearance of a rather crafty fox, Celia thought. He was a bit unnerving, seeming like a dark presence hovering over them. “Before she wed, of course.”
It was an awkward moment when the king frowned, then Sir Skeffington tactfully observed that there were few actresses as talented as Sarah Siddons, though there was a new play opening soon with an actress who promised to rival any yet presented.
“Another actress,” Mowry said, “is just what England needs. We have far too many in politics alone.”
Celia felt the undercurrents, yet didn’t comprehend the meaning behind them. This lord Mowry seemed determined to be unpleasant, and he really did make her uncomfortable with his innuendoes. Why didn’t the prince reprimand him? Was Mowry so influential that he was above reproof?
“And you, Miss St. Clair,” Mowry turned abruptly to say, catching her off guard. “How did you come to visit Lady Leverton? A rather sudden decision, I presume.”
“No, not sudden. She is, after all, my
godmother. I have always longed to meet her.”
Hooded eyes seemed to seek out all her secrets, a penetrating dark gaze that was alarming. She suppressed a shiver as he continued, “How fortunate that you were able to arrive in time for the small Season. There will be weeks of celebrations to attend.”
“A most fortunate coincidence, Lord Mowry,” she said. He would not intimidate her with sly insinuations, nor would she give him any information about her reasons!
“Indeed,” he said smoothly, “and most welcome after your long voyage. I trust the accommodations aboard the Liberty were comfortable?”
“Fairly comfortable, thank you.” How did he know which ship had brought her to England? It was startling.
And frightening.
“Then I trust your shipboard companions were pleasant,” he continued, still with that same dark smile that summoned images of shadows and secrecy.
“I’m afraid I spent most of my time in my cabin. Mal de mer. I’m not a seasoned traveler.”
“A pity. I happen to know a gentleman who returned to London aboard the Liberty. I’m certain he would have been most pleased to have made your acquaintance. He has always appreciated lovely ladies.”
“While I’m flattered at your inference, my lord, I made few acquaintances aboard ship.”
Mowry only smiled, but there was a glint in his eyes as he appraised her that made Celia feel oddly threatened. Why she should, she had no idea, but it was disconcerting.
It wasn’t until their return home that Celia recalled the directory loaned her by the man she’d met aboard ship—Mister Carlisle. What he must think of her for not returning it as she’d promised! Oh, she would have to find where she’d put it, and see that it was delivered to him at the public house in Shoreditch. It was the least she could do in exchange for his kindness.
Jacqueline came to her bedchamber just as Lily was helping to unpin Celia’s hair. The ruby hairpins were placed carefully back into a velvet-lined box and loops of thick pale hair were released to dangle down her back in curling waves.
Celia saw Jacqueline’s reflection in the mirror, and braced herself for the inevitable questions. As long as the maid was still in the room, Jacqueline would not speak too freely, even in French. Lily understood far too much to be trusted. Few secrets were safe from servants under the best circumstances.
When Lily was gone, Celia rose from the stool, the silk hem of her dressing gown wafting about her ankles as she turned to face her cousin.
“Who is this Lord Mowry? I found him to be quite unpleasant, and rather…furtive, in an odd kind of way.”
“Mowry? Oh, he works with Lord Liverpool, I believe.” Jacqueline’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Jules is a devout Tory, but there are times lately that he says Liverpool is taking the country toward a revolution if he doesn’t alter his position even slightly. After that horrid massacre this summer—be so glad you weren’t here, dear, as it was a terrible thing to even read about in the papers! So many injured, women and children among them, and all because those Manchester constables were ordered to disperse the large crowd who had come to hear men speak in favor of government reform. Dangerous, I say, but why do you want to know about Mowry?”
“He…oh, I don’t know, except that he stared at me so very intently, and asked about my voyage, and knew what ship I was on. Why would he even know that? Or care to know it?”
“Oh my…I cannot imagine. He is Liverpool’s chief minister in charge of security, I believe, but still…it’s not something that threatens national security, I would think. Perhaps he’s just being cautious because of the assassination attempt on the prince regent’s life after the opening of Parliament two years ago. Perhaps it’s now the policy to investigate all those who may chance to meet with the prince as tonight—Whatever is the matter, Celia? You look white as a ghost!”
An investigation! Oh God…she was no threat to the national security, of course, but if Mowry discovered the truth behind what brought her here, he may well distort it into something else. The importance of what had happened to Maman would be negated, just as it had been in Georgetown.
Jacqueline frowned. “What is it you’re not telling me, my dear? Don’t be so unkind as to pretend it’s nothing for I can see that you are not telling me everything.”
Celia said flatly, “You’re right. I have not told you all. I thought it kinder to keep some things to myself.”
A flicker of uncertainty crossed Jacqueline’s face. “Is there a good reason Lord Mowry would know about you?”
“I have never met the man, and there is no reason I can imagine why he would know about me, unless it is, as you said, his business to know everything that may affect the prince.”
“Celia, petite, why did you alter your last name? Is it truly just to honor my dear Léonie’s request, or do you have another reason?”
“Yes, I do have another reason, but I would prefer not to confide in you at this time. I will tell you all one day, I swear it, but please do not ask it of me now.”
For a long moment Jacqueline said nothing. Concern was obvious in her still pretty features, the furrow of her brow a clear indicator of her distress. Finally she sighed.
“Tell me, does this have anything to do with your decision to encourage the attentions of Lord Northington?”
It was a perceptive speculation, and Celia answered honestly. “Yes, it does, but not, perhaps, as you may think.”
“Ah, I do not know what to think!” Jacqueline threw her hands up, laughing uncertainly. “But I will trust you to do what is right. You are Léonie’s daughter, and I know you would never betray your dear mother’s memory.”
It was both a conviction and a warning.
13
Colter stretched his legs out toward the fire to warm the soles of his stockinged feet, while a snifter of good French brandy warmed his belly. He contemplated the evening and the paradoxical lady who both intrigued and irritated him. He should have visited Daphne, the latest actress to catch his eye. Instead his early arrival home had startled his valet.
“My lord,” Beaton said as he retrieved discarded evening clothes from the bench, “I did not expect you this early.”
Colter regarded him through eyes narrowed against the bright glare of the fire. “And I did not expect to return this early,” he said shortly, and Beaton wisely lapsed into silence.
Imperturbable, George Beaton had been with him for nearly fifteen years, a loyal servant who probably knew more about him than anyone else. They rarely discussed personal issues, but he’d found Beaton to be intelligent and well-read, a man who enjoyed life to the fullest.
Colter lifted the snifter, took another sip. Brandy heated his throat, pooled in his belly like liquid fire.
“Can I get you anything, my lord?”
“Where the devil is Martin?”
“I took the liberty of giving him a night out to visit his family, since I assumed you would be gone for the evening. If there is anything you need, I’m available to procure it for you.”
“No, there’s nothing you can get for me. I’ve endured enough good intentions tonight.”
“Very good, my lord.”
After lighting another lamp and turning down the covers of his bed in the adjoining room, Beaton tactfully withdrew from Colter’s sitting room just off the main bedchamber, and left him alone with his dark thoughts.
Orange and gold light danced across the ceiling and walls. His mind drifted again to Celia St. Clair. He hated mysteries, and she was proving to be one. Was she what she seemed, or was she somehow involved with men like James Carlisle? It just didn’t make sense, dammit. She had little to gain from being involved, Mowry’s sly innuendoes be damned. He could smell radicals a mile away, and while Celia may be as patriotic as the next young woman, she was no fervent zealot out to bring down the monarchy.
Nor was she as indifferent to him as she pretended. Another sip of brandy rolled on his tongue as he smiled.
Beneath her cool e
xterior lurked a sensuality that was promising. She was too young and inexperienced to hide her interest or her response, but not too naive to make it clear she was interested in a casual tryst. A disparity of character.
No innocent miss at all, but a woman aware of a man’s touch and needs. He’d wager a thousand pounds on it. He’d never been a particularly patient man and the pursuit of a woman’s favors held no allure for him. He rarely bet on the uncertainties in life, preferring guarantees.
Celia St. Clair was an uncertainty, a contradiction to herself, and he was damned if he knew why she intrigued him. Yes, he hated unanswered questions. Trouble always came hand in hand with them.
And trouble attended the inevitably tense interview with the earl of Moreland the following day, a discussion that began, as usual, with his father’s verbal assault.
“Bloody hell, man, you spend more time with idle pursuits than you do with business. A poor successor to Moreland lands and title, by God!”
“Thank you. Your faith is appreciated.” Colter leaned against the fireplace mantel with arms crossed over his chest, a languid pose that conveyed his utter disregard for the earl’s opinions.
“You appreciate nothing.” Moreland slammed the tip of his cane against the floor, a signal to his long-suffering valet to attend him. Brewster fetched another blanket, and silently positioned the earl’s chair nearer the fire.
Cold eyes stared up from beneath a shelf of brow as the earl regarded his only surviving son.
“What did you discover about the lost vessel? Or did you even think of it again after you left me—”
“John Carter has a full report on the sinking of the India and its cargo, and a manifest of every item aboard. It may be a loss, but not as huge as it could be. All the board members have been notified and mollified and are in complete agreement with me that monies spent on the docks are within acceptable boundaries. Another ship has been dispatched, as the India may not have taken on full cargo when the storm struck. It sank just offshore, not off the isle of Lubang, and only three hands were lost.”
A Reckless Encounter Page 12