She couldn’t return to London fast enough. It was too much to stay and endure his company. How could she? There had been no words of love between them, and really, she didn’t know how she felt about him. How should she feel? It was so confusing. At first she’d thought she could use him to get to his father, but now…now her emotions were so tangled, everything she felt for him and about his father a contradiction. How could she reconcile strong hatred with such vulnerability?
Thank God she had very little time to brood on the injustices in the days that followed their return to London, days turning into weeks that were filled with activity. Penned invitations piled high on the silver tray in the entrance hall every morning were brought to her at breakfast with Jacqueline and Carolyn. As she drank hot chocolate, she read them aloud to her delighted cousins. There were invitations to this or that ball or soirée, gala or opera, but not a word from the one man she had thought would at least send a note.
She didn’t know whether to be glad or sorry that Northington ignored her. Feminine pride would have liked at least an acknowledgment. After all, much more had passed between them than mere conversation! But there was nothing. Was he even back from the country? Perhaps he’d been shot by whoever had been out on the seaside that day. Irrationally she prayed that he was alive, and in the next instant, thought it would serve him right to be shot!
And then she saw him at an affair one evening not long before Christmas. It was crowded with the ton and as noisy as always, reeking of perfume and the press of too many bodies packed into limited space. Her heart leaped, and her stomach twisted into a tight knot of—misery?
He was with another woman, a gorgeous dark-haired creature that seemed familiar and very possessive, and it wasn’t until Jacqueline reminded her that Celia recalled Lady Cresswood, who was married to an earl.
Until that moment Celia hadn’t considered how jarring it would be to look up and meet those cold sapphire-blue eyes, to be jolted to the very core by a strange, unthinkable yearning to feel his mouth against hers again, to hear his voice in her ear, husky and soft, calling her “love.”
It had all been a lie, his tender touch and the words in her ear—even her own response to him. A masquerade that had been perpetuated by the myth that she could fall in love with the son of the man responsible for Maman’s death.
Colter was very polite, remote as they spoke briefly the casual words of courteous strangers, but underneath the civility was a thin thread of tension. She saw it in his eyes, a flicker of light as he regarded her. It was too much to bear.
“Forgive me if I seem rude,” she said quickly, “but I promised this dance to Mister Harwood.”
She felt his gaze on her as she moved away, and saw a small, curious smile on Lady Cresswood’s mouth. No doubt she thought her a complete idiot. She would ignore them both, and pretend that she didn’t care.
Yet, even though she danced with Harwood and countless others that night, she was far too aware of Northington, and could have wept when he left with Lady Cresswood.
It was the most difficult thing she had ever done, to dance and smile throughout the long evening, laugh at witticisms, when inside she felt cold and dead. She was relieved when they finally left for home.
Not even the warmth of a cheery fire in her bedchamber eased her chill, and Celia sat up long after Jacqueline and all in the house were asleep. No maid attended her as she sat at the carved mahogany dresser, a hairbrush in her hand, her thick mane of hair in a tangle down her back. She didn’t have the energy to brush it, but stared at her reflection and the stranger she had become.
When had it all happened? When had she become this lost person? She looked the same outwardly: wide green eyes, pale hair, mouth a little too generous, her cheekbones high and defined like Maman’s…Maman.
Despair rose in a choking knot to lodge in her throat. Once it had seemed so simple to avenge Maman’s memory, to face the earl with her knowledge of his crime and see the shame in his eyes, or at least the realization that it had not gone unnoticed and was not forgotten. But now…now it was so futile. All her hopes had come unraveled by her own actions. Could she still confront the earl when she had been intimate with his son?
But this was different, she told herself fiercely. It was an act of love and not brutality!
Love. It could be love she’d felt. She’d thought it was at the time, an excitement that she’d never experienced before with any man. And she’d thought he felt the same.
Oh God, it was all so mixed up now. It was obvious that Colter did not love her. She’d been a fool to think it even for an instant.
Her hand throbbed and she looked down, noting with some surprise that she’d almost bent the silver handle of the brush she still held. Red marks creased her palm and fingers. She slowly flexed her hand, easing the sting. The pain cleared her head, and oddly, cemented her resolve.
My God, she thought fiercely, I’ve spent half my life in pursuit of justice for Maman, and I will not stop now that I’m so close. There must be a way to confront the earl with what he did! If there is—If there is, I’ll find it. I will find it and I will at last have the satisfaction of keeping my vow, no matter the cost!
19
It was pitch-dark in this section of London, the slum alleys near St. Giles littered with ramshackle buildings and gin shops. No light penetrated even during the day, and with the setting of the sun, the shadows were impenetrable. A fetid stink permeated the dense January night.
Colter carried a loaded pistol tucked into his belt, easily accessible, and a lethal dagger was stuck in the cuff of his knee-boot. The latent violence learned in warfare was unacceptable in a civilized society, but had saved his life more times than he could remember. Years spent fighting Napoleon’s forces had taught him a lot. Fighting in South America and Spanish California had honed his instincts, taught him a different kind of warfare—taught him survival.
This was survival of a different sort, with a different kind of enemy lurking in the shadows; there was no grand and glorious cause, nothing other than idle viciousness or empty bellies driving men to cut throats and purses with equal indifference. Even the children had the same empty look in their eyes, a total lack of compassion or humanity in faces pinched with years of depravity.
Tyler was late and looked disheveled when he finally arrived. Torchlight from the end of the alley shed a fitful glow that silhouetted him in hazy shadow.
Another recruit, the man known only as Tyler was one of their best. Though he preferred to remain anonymous, Colter recognized that he was educated, a man familiar with elegant drawing rooms as well as the slums of St. Giles.
“The Runners are out,” Tyler muttered, “and looking for me.”
“They won’t come here.”
A grin split Tyler’s face, a muted gleam in the dark. “That’s right, mate, they won’t. Not even the Bow Street Runners dare enter this hell.”
“What news?”
“It’s a conspiracy, right enough. The Spenceans. With the radical Thistlewood in control now and Watson demoted, they’re planning some kind of vengeance for the Peterloo Massacre. Thistlewood is even talking revolution. He claims he can raise fifteen thousand men in half an hour.”
“Are they armed?”
Tyler nodded. “They’ve got munitions stashed all over London. Ruthven reports there’s some kind of log with all the hiding places listed, but he hasn’t seen it.”
George Ruthven had been recruited by police to join the group as a spy, along with several other men.
“Where is this log kept?”
Tyler shifted, glanced over his shoulder as a burst of raucous laughter came from the far end of the alley, then turned back with a shake of his head.
“We don’t know. Carlisle was the last one known to have it in his possession.”
“John Carlisle?”
“No, his brother James. The log disappeared. Ruthven thinks he hid it somewhere a couple of months ago. There was an argument he overhear
d about the missing log, and it being a possible danger to them.”
“And no one has been able to find this log.”
Another shake of Tyler’s head and a furtive glance down the length of the black alley indicated growing disquiet. “At the last meeting, Thistlewood said high treason had been committed against the people at Manchester. He’s resolved that the lives of the instigators of Peterloo shall atone for the souls of those murdered innocents. It’s a dangerous situation.”
“We have to find the log, Tyler. It’s more vital now than ever.”
“I’m working on it. Any ideas?”
“We’ll both work on it. I’ll keep you posted as to what I find out. Check back at the Swan and Stone.”
Christ, this news would set Mowry on edge.
White’s was a world away from St. Giles, separated by more than just city blocks. The only stench here came from expensive tobacco and even more expensive imported scents men applied far too freely at times. Brummel was right, a man should smell only of clean living. But even the impeccable Beau had his failings, exiled now in France after one too many insults directed at the prince.
Not that they weren’t deserved at times. The regent cared more for fine art and architecture than he did the state of the country or his subjects. It wasn’t calculated indifference, but hazardous all the same. Men like Lords Castlereagh, Liverpool and Sidmouth were left to make the royal decisions about policy. That kind of power bred dangerous men.
Mowry was seated at a table in the gaming room, alone and waiting.
“Do you have news for me, Northington?” Mowry’s cool tone was low, meant to be confidential.
Colter met that opaque gaze with a faint smile. “Yes, but you already know that. You were right about Arthur Thistlewood. The bloody fool has munitions stashed all over London.”
Mowry swore softly. “Do we know where? It’s vital we learn all we can. This came from the usual source?”
“Yes. Look, you know I don’t agree with government policy in regard to some of the social issues, but this is anarchy. He has to be stopped at all costs, or it will end up even worse than Peterloo.”
“Those damned Spenceans again! Thomas Spence and his idea of a radical transformation of society incites mobs, not reformation. The fool. He’s been dead five years and is still causing trouble.”
“Some men just need a cause to excuse their love of brutality. Rather like politicians in that area.” When Mowry’s eyes narrowed at him, he shrugged. “We’ve known for years that the Spenceans are radicals in search of social equality. Yet a charge of high treason convicted not one single man of them.”
“You know the reason for that. Their defence counsel was able to show that John Castle had a criminal record, and his testimony as a spy in their group was unreliable. That’s why you’ve been employed. You may have a reputation as a buck of the first head, but you’ve no criminal record in your past.” Mowry’s smile was sardonic. “A war hero can be forgiven much, it seems.”
Ignoring that, Colter said, “There’s a log that’s turned up missing. Ruthven thinks it’s important, perhaps detailing the hiding places of their munitions.”
“Then why don’t we have it in our possession?”
“Carlisle was the last man known to have it. He was overheard arguing with his brother John about its loss.”
Colter fell silent, then he added softly, “I believe I may know what happened to that log. What I don’t know is the connection.”
Tapping his fingers thoughtfully atop the green baize table, Mowry regarded him through hooded eyes. “You were following Carlisle when he boarded the Liberty on its stop in Liverpool this past September. We know he made the acquaintance of Miss St. Clair. You saw them conversing aboard the ship, though they didn’t disembark together. It’s quite possible that he knew he was being watched. Indeed, when you had him searched as soon as he set foot in London, nothing incriminating was found on him. Yet perhaps you’re wrong. I begin to think that their brief shipboard acquaintance was not as innocent as we assumed.”
“Miss St. Clair is not involved.”
“How can you be so certain?” Mowry’s smile was cool, his gaze unreadable. “I’m making inquiries.”
“As to—”
“As to her reason for suddenly showing up in London. It’s hardly likely she decided to join Lady Leverton after all this time unless there was a decisive reason.”
Colter leaned back, regarded Mowry narrowly. “It’s doubtful she met Carlisle aboard ship and suddenly decided to throw in her lot with men intending to set up their own government. Miss St. Clair may be willful, but she doesn’t strike me as stupid.”
“How does she strike you, Northington? You spent time with her in the country, I understand.” He smiled again, a wolfish curve of thin lips in a caricature of humor. “It was quite—eventful. Was she very impressed with your rescue of her? Grateful enough to share…secrets?”
Mowry knew about the shots fired! The man must have a network of spies in every corner of England. Colter gave a shrug. “Possibly. But don’t expect me to try and get them out of her.”
“Ah, but that’s exactly what I do expect. Take advantage of your close acquaintance. If she has no secrets, then there’s no harm done. But if she does, I want to know what they are. All of them.”
“I’m not in the habit of seducing secrets from women. You’re asking me to betray loyalties, Mowry.”
“No, I’m asking you to prove her innocence and remain true to your first loyalty—England.”
Colter cursed silently. The devil of it was he wasn’t at all certain Celia St. Clair was innocent.
He rose to his feet. “I’ll think about it.”
“Yes, Northington, you do that. And so will I.”
20
The opera being presented at the King’s Theater in Haymarket was Faust, a famous production. The horseshoe-shaped auditorium rose in five tiers of boxes, and the huge gallery seated over three thousand people. It was always crowded, and tonight was no exception.
“Oh look, Celia,” Jacqueline said. “I do believe that the prince is here this evening! That’s his carriage there with the royal crest.”
Celia turned to look out their carriage window as the gleaming brougham rolled to a halt. A footman was there at once to open the door and hand them down, and she focused on the slippery step as she allowed him to take her hand. A cold rain would soon turn to ice, and the January wind pierced the folds of her warm mantle despite her efforts to hold it closed.
Her elegant slippers, embroidered in gilt thread and crusted with tiny gems, were lovely but impractical.
“Yes, it is the prince,” Carolyn said. Her eyes were bright and shiny in the sparkle of carriage lamps and lights from the opera house. “I wonder if he’ll speak!”
“It will be a miracle if he even sees us in this crush,” Celia said, but found once they were inside that the box Jules Leverton had purchased gave them not only an excellent view of the stage, but gave the theater a superb view of the box. It was directly across from the prince’s box, on the first tier closest to the stage. Long velvet draperies in deep wine enclosed the box, and in the center of the theater, heavy chandeliers glittered from the high dome ceiling.
Below, the gallery was crowded with spectators, a crush of people all talking at once. Catalani was to sing tonight, a mature opera diva at the very height of her success and fresh from a European tour.
“I last saw her in Otello. Desdemona is a demanding role,” Jacqueline said, “and only the Italians can do it justice. Oh look, the prince sees us, Celia, and just look who is with him!”
Celia’s heart pounded fiercely. Northington was with the prince, his tall dark frame a powerful contrast to the regent’s pasty corpulence. Both were attired in evening clothes, elegantly garbed in black coats and breeches, but it was Northington who drew admiring glances from feminine eyes.
Damn him, he knows it, she thought, for he looks so arrogant and…and smug, y
es, that’s it—with an insolent smile that doesn’t fool anyone!
So why did her heart leap so at the sight of him?
As if he sensed her gaze, Northington looked toward the Leverton box, and his eyes found hers even across the wide gallery below. He gave a faintly mocking bow in their direction, a lazy smile on his mouth when she turned away in a deliberate cut.
Did he think all he had to do was smile at her and she’d forget the past months of indifference? Perhaps she hadn’t expected vows of undying love or a marriage offer, but neither had she expected him to ignore her as if she no longer existed for him.
“Oh, it is Viscount Northington,” Carolyn said in her ear. “And I think he sees us, Celia!”
“Yes, it would be hard to miss us as we’re directly across from him. Is that Sir John with him?”
Carolyn nodded. “Yes, it is. An infamous lot, don’t you think?” She laughed softly. “Bucks of the first head, a motley group of privileged rogues.”
“I thought you liked Sir John,” Celia said, turning to look at her cousin.”
“Oh, I do, but I can’t help think what a waste of money and good blood it is when men do nothing other than amuse themselves all day.”
“Yes, I agree. Wastrels are utterly useless no matter what their rank.” Celia leaned closer to tease, “I suppose you don’t include the prince in that group? Or Edwin?”
“Well, not Edwin, anyway!”
They both laughed, and when Celia glanced back at the ornate box where Northington was with the prince, she saw that he’d gone.
It’s just as well, she thought, for I don’t think I could bear sitting here all evening with him so close!
Jacqueline pointed out others she knew. “Oh, there’s Robert Stewart, Lord Castlereagh. He’s more unpopular now than ever before,” she said with a frown, “for introducing the Six Acts in the House of Commons. The people boo him whenever they see him or Lord Liverpool, and all because of that horrid Peterloo business. But it’s necessary to curb such lawlessness those public meetings have caused. Perhaps it’s because the government is willing to use the same tactics against its own citizens as it used against Napoleon and the French army that it angers the people, yet I cannot help but make a comparison to the Terror.”
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