A Reckless Encounter

by Rosemary Rogers

  “So,” Celia said, “do you approve or disapprove of the Six Acts?”

  “Oh, I do think it’s vital not to risk such a thing happening here as it did in France, but the average citizen has no concept of true social reform. All they think of is having their white bread and tea. Ridiculous, really, and not at all necessary.”

  Celia held her tongue. Jacqueline was basically a kind person, but she didn’t realize that the gulf between the rich and the poor was so very wide. It wasn’t just white bread and a pot of tea that people wanted, it was security, knowing that their children were safe and fed, a warm, dry place to live.

  “Social Reform has become quite popular these days,” Jacqueline continued, “but it’s dangerous to give too much to people who have no idea how to handle great freedom. Why, just look what happens when they are given too much! That impertinent maid, Janey, whom I gave every opportunity to do well, has abruptly left our employ without so much as a by-your-leave! I had Jarvis investigate to be certain she didn’t steal anything, and even though he reports nothing gone, I just know that one day we’ll discover the sly chit made off with silver candlesticks or some other items.” She shook her head vigorously, crimped curls bouncing against her temples. “These people should know their place, or we’re in danger here of another Terror.”

  “Mama,” Carolyn said. “You are in danger of sounding like a Tory!”

  They all laughed, for of course, Jules Leverton was adamantly Tory in his leanings, convinced of the ultimate and complete sovereignty of the crown’s authority.

  “Do I hear Tory sentiments being voiced?” a familiar deep voice said behind them, and Celia went very still.

  “Viscount Northington, what a pleasure to see you again,” Jacqueline said. “Do come and sit with us. We were just discussing the import of the Six Acts passed in the House of Commons last month.”

  “And are you for or against them?” He stood behind Celia’s chair and she felt the heat from him as if a blanket over her, reminding her of too many things, of that night and the Roman tub and the touch of his hands on her…Of how foolish she had been to give away something she could never recover.

  “Oh, for them, of course,” Jacqueline said. “But I’m aware that you opposed them.”

  “Not for the reason you might think. I just consider it unreasonable to pass national laws dealing with problems that only exist in some areas. It’s too universal, and suppresses basic human rights and liberties. I’m sure that, as an American, Miss St. Clair has her own opinions.”

  Celia didn’t look at him, but nodded. “Yes, my lord, I certainly do. I am not, however, as certain that you’d wish to hear them.”

  “Ah, living in a Tory household has had an astringent effect on you, it seems.”

  He’d moved from behind her to take an empty seat next to Carolyn, and Celia turned to look at him at last. There was no sign of anything other than polite indifference in his face, nothing to indicate that he remembered that night at Harmony Hill. It had changed her life irrevocably, yet obviously meant nothing to him.

  She drew in a deep breath and said calmly, “It’s been said that every country has the government it deserves, my lord. I’m sure England is no exception.”

  “Touché, Miss St. Clair. I believe Maistre was talking about France at the time, but it certainly does fit this discussion as well.”

  Was that a note of respect in his voice? She must be mistaken, for he had shown nothing but contempt for her opinions thus far. Why would he change now?

  Carolyn leaned forward to say to her mother, “Oh do look, it’s Lord Liverpool! Melwyn hopes the prime minister will put down the seething rebellion on his Irish estates soon. It’s been so very difficult for him.”

  Carolyn’s betrothed had left London to see to his estates in Ireland this past week, and Celia knew Caro worried he would be harmed in the growing civil unrest in that country. She fretted constantly about it, fueled by reminders of the French Revolution and the instability of politics.

  Carolyn turned to Northington. “Did you discover who shot at us, my lord? It wasn’t some sort of rebellion by your tenants, I do hope!”

  “My tenants are mostly farmers with pitchforks. And the local magistrate has most likely already acted on the recent measure to search and seize arms. I doubt any of my tenants have in their possession weapons more powerful than scythes.”

  “Then who would have shot at us?” Celia asked. “If it wasn’t an accident, hunters or the like, who would it be?”

  “I don’t know the who, but I do know the why,” he said with a careless shrug of his shoulders that indicated a reluctance to elaborate. “It will all be settled soon enough so that visitors needn’t fear for their lives.”

  “Then perhaps it was the gypsies,” Carolyn said with a shudder. “Do you think it might have been? They are said to be thieves and worse. Do you think it’s safe to have them on your estate, my lord?”

  “As safe as having you there, Miss Leverton.” His smile was cynical, and his gaze shifted to Celia. “I’m not so certain about the safety of your presence, however, Miss St. Clair. You’re more reckless than your prudent cousin.”

  “If you’re referring to that untamed horse, you might do well to recall that it was your tame gypsy who saddled it for me,” Celia retorted. “But don’t be too embarrassed about your failure to provide security for guests, as it’s not very safe in London, either.”

  “That’s right,” Carolyn said with a shudder. “We were accosted by footpads only last week. It was terrible! Four highwaymen set upon our carriage near Berkley Square, and if not for the footman, we might well have been killed!”

  “Highwaymen in London?” Northington’s eyes narrowed.

  “Not just in London, my lord,” Jacqueline said, “but in Mayfair! You can imagine our fright. But for our brave footman’s efforts, they might have taken much more than just our purses.”

  “Then nothing of value was stolen.” Northington’s gaze shifted back to Celia, a fathomless dark blue regard that made her throat ache.

  “Nothing that can’t be replaced,” she replied.

  “Yes, a few jewels—” Jacqueline shook her head with a sad sigh. “Thank heavens I wasn’t wearing anything too valuable. We were just starting out and had not yet reached Piccadilly. The constable said it was most curious that they would attack us in daylight, as it was right there not far from home. But what can one expect these days, with brigands running about?”

  Celia felt Northington’s gaze on her and looked away, unable to face that stare and not demand an explanation, a reason for his indifference after what had been, to her, an extraordinary night. Oh, why wouldn’t he go away?

  But when the opera started, Northington did not leave at once, remaining as the lights dimmed and everyone’s attention was on the stage. She felt his presence acutely.

  It was difficult to concentrate on the opera, and she stared down at her programme in the dim light afforded by shaded lamps to follow the thread of the story unfolding onstage.

  The tale of a legendary musician who sold his soul to the devil in exchange for knowledge and power was quite familiar to her, yet Northington was too great a distraction for her to enjoy the opera.

  “This is where he sells his soul to Satan for twenty-four years of pleasure,” Northington leaned close to murmur, and Celia shot him a frowning glance. “A high price for such a short time.”

  “Indeed, my lord,” she said softly, “but I’ve known men who would sell their souls for less than that.”

  “You keep villainous company, Miss St. Clair.”

  She met his gaze. “Not by choice, my lord.”

  Celia was glad when the intermission finally arrived, and was even more glad when Northington accompanied them only briefly to the lobby. He took his leave with polite apologies to Jacqueline, but not even a glance at Celia.

  It was crowded in the lobby, where all came to see and be seen, where jewels glittered beneath brilliant lights
and aristocrats rubbed elbows with courtesans.

  “I don’t believe it,” Celia exclaimed when Jacqueline pointed out Madame Poirier, the procuress of fallen women, and her charges all elegantly attired and engaged in open conversation with several men she recognized. “Isn’t that Lord Harrow talking to her?”

  “It is indeed. But surely you are not shocked! They come here to attract new protectors, of course, and Lord Harrow seems to have found a lady who intrigues him.”

  Fascinated, Celia was so busy watching the ladies of the night that she didn’t at first recognize the man who approached her, until finally Carolyn nudged her and she turned. The fair haired man looked vaguely familiar, but it wasn’t until he spoke that she remembered him.

  “Miss St. Clair, pardon my interruption, but I wonder if perhaps you remember me?”

  “Yes, yes, of course I do. Mister Carlisle from the ship.”

  James Carlisle looked pleased, a smile brightening his face as he nodded. “I see that you’ve settled into London life quite happily. Are you enjoying the opera?”

  “I have indeed settled in, and am finding the opera to be very entertaining. Mister Carlisle, you no doubt think me the most ungrateful of people, for I haven’t yet returned your directory to you. Please forgive me. I’ll be most happy to send it to you tomorrow.”

  “You still have it then. It was a gift from a friend, you understand, and even though I could get another, this one is special to me.”

  Celia bit her lower lip. “Oh, I am so embarrassed. It wasn’t intentional, I assure you, Mister Carlisle. I meant to send it on to you, but I’d put it away and—”

  “Miss St. Clair, think nothing of it. Truly, I’d not thought of it myself until I saw you tonight in your box, and then recalled the directory. And to be even more honest, it’s an excuse to speak with you again.”

  His smile was broad, inviting her to indulge him, and she laughed softly.

  “You are a dreadful rogue, sir.”

  “Yes, I’m afraid I am. Could I buy you some punch?”

  “You’re very kind, but we were just about to return to our box. This is my cousin, Miss Leverton. This is the gentleman I told you about, Carolyn, who was kind enough to see to it that I arrived safely when I first docked in London.”

  Introductions were exchanged, polite pleasantries passed, then they parted company, Celia once more promising to send the directory by courier early the next morning. The crowd had increased, and she was jostled by a man behind her, so that she stumbled forward and was caught by James Carlisle.

  “Here, here,” he protested as he held her firmly. A mumbled apology was offered by the clumsy patron before he moved on. “Are you all right, Miss St. Clair?” Carlisle asked.

  “Yes, I’m fine. I wasn’t hurt, only jostled. I believe the intermission is ended, sir, and I must return.”

  Carlisle held her hands just a shade too long, his smile very wide and very intimate. “I shall count the days until we meet again, Miss St. Clair.”

  Disengaging her hands from his grip, she was glad to see him leave.

  “A shipboard conquest, Celia?” Carolyn murmured in her ear, and Celia tapped her reprovingly with her fan.

  “Just an acquaintance. A rather forward man, I think. Go on to the box without me. I’ll join you shortly,” she said to her cousins. “I must use the convenience before I come up. I can find my way.”

  A long corridor led to the ladies’ convenience, well lit by lamps high on the walls. Dark panelled wainscoting and flocked wallpaper gave the hall a luxuriant appearance that was both ornate and garish. Two women passed her, and she heard them laughing and talking as they returned to the lobby.

  When she left the convenience, she could hear the soaring voice of Catalani, and she hurried down the corridor.

  The lamps ahead had gone out, and dark shadows obscured the carpeted floor. She slowed, frowning. An eerie silence descended on the hallway, and her nape tingled with sudden dread.

  It all happened so quickly, she wasn’t certain where he had come from, but there was no time to scream or do more than struggle as a man shoved her against the wall with harsh, bruising force. The breath was knocked from her by his weight, and then his arm pressed hard against her throat. She clawed at it frantically, unable to breathe, but the relentless pressure didn’t lessen. Bright lights exploded in her eyes and there was a ringing in her ears. Somehow she managed to wedge her knee upward, and she heard a rough curse.

  Then the pressure was abruptly relieved and she slid to the floor, gasping for breath, holding her aching throat with both hands, aware that she was making horrible noises. Strange, terrifying sounds surrounded her.

  A sense of urgency filled her. She knew she must escape before he came after her again but she could barely breathe. Staggering, she lurched to her feet, terror prodding her forward as she stumbled along the dark corridor toward the distant light of the lobby.

  When she was grabbed from behind, her bruised throat strangled any cry, so that she was only able to whimper a protest at the rough arm around her waist.

  “Be still,” a familiar voice growled in her ear, “so I can get you out of here.”

  Northington? But what was he doing? Oh, why would he do this to her?

  She struggled, but his steely arm was unyielding as he dragged her effortlessly with him, bundling her out a door that she hadn’t noticed before. Even though it was pitch-black, she knew they were outside again for she could smell the stink of the alley and feel the cold wind on her bare arms.

  “Christ, Celia,” he muttered in her ear when she tried to twist free. “Will you be still? There’s three of them and only one of me, and I’m in no mood for that kind of fight right now. I need to get you out of here.”

  Everything was so confused. Her head ached and her throat hurt, and all she could think was that Colter had either rescued her or abducted her. Even if she could talk, she didn’t know what to say or ask, or why he was there and what he intended to do next.

  After a tumultuous ride in a closed carriage through the London streets, during which he refused to tell her anything other than that she would be safe, they arrived at a narrow house on a dark street. He ushered her inside the back door, through a kitchen and down a hallway, and she glimpsed several women in various stages of undress in what looked to be a parlor.

  There was a whispered conversation with someone, then he pulled her with him up a narrow flight of stairs.

  A large lavish sitting room was comfortably furnished with two couches upholstered in opulent velvet and tables covered with rich linen and set with silver flatware and gleaming china, as if for an intimate dinner. Through an open door, she saw a huge canopied bed enclosed with opulent hangings. An air of comfortable decadence was rife and as obvious as the unclad females in the downstairs parlor.

  It was what she’d heard called a Nunnery or School of Venus—a house of ill repute. A place where men visited women like those she’d seen at the opera, and now he’d brought her here. Oh God, the night had become a horrible nightmare!

  “Don’t look so shocked,” he said softly when she glared at him accusingly. “It’s the safest place for you right now. You do realize you’re in danger, don’t you?”

  She could only nod, and stood dazedly when he pulled her with him, not ungently, to seat her on a chair before the fire.

  “Your clothes are torn,” he said, and she noticed for the first time that her lovely green silk gown was ripped; the sleeve of her Spencer was torn from the armhole, and somehow she had lost one of her lovely slippers. “Madame Poirier no doubt has a gown you can borrow—no, don’t turn shy on me, love. It’s not as if I haven’t seen your charms before, is it? You look as if you’ve been in a carriage wreck. There are bruises on your face. Can you speak at all? Damn the bastards! There are fingermarks on that lovely white skin of yours. I hope I killed them all.”

  She stared up at him, shaking. Yes, she remembered now, the grunts, the sounds of a fierce struggle
and the still, dark forms left sprawled in the corridor as he’d taken her with him. Why? she wanted to ask, but could only make soft choking sounds.

  Kneeling beside her, Colter efficiently and matter-of-factly began peeling away her garments, heedless of buttons and laces, until she was clad only in her silk shift and hose. He lifted her cold feet, rubbed them briskly between his hands, then rose and brought back a blanket to pull around her.

  A knock on the door brought hot water and clean clothes, and he motioned for the uniformed maid to leave them. When he came back to where she sat before the fire, he brought Celia a glass of brandy, thrust it into her hands and ordered her to drink it all.

  “It will put some color in your face. Jesus, you look like a bruised ghost. You’re all right, Celia. When it’s safe, I’ll take you home. For now, no one will ever think to look for you here.” A faint smile crooked his mouth, and his dark blue eyes were unreadable as he stared at her. “I think I rather like your silence. It’s refreshing not to deal with your sharp tongue.”

  While she glared at him, he rose again and returned to her with a hairbrush in his hand.

  “Your hair is snarled. I’m not much hand as a lady’s maid.”

  She took the brush, sat still with it in her hand, the brandy a warm glow in the pit of her stomach. It was all such a haze now, the brandy helping but not erasing the images that streamed through her mind in an unending repetition of fear and struggle and shock.

  With a shaking hand, she finally lifted the brush to pull it through her hair, but it snagged on a bound coil and she couldn’t pull it. Tears started in her eyes at the sudden sharp pain.

  When Colter held out his hand, she put the brush into it. He moved behind her, unfastened the intricate curls and ropes of hair atop her crown, and then drew the brush through with long, sure strokes. She sat there, numbed by the heat of the brandy and the fire, by the touch of his hands on her in careless concern.