“When you became a bit distracted, did you?”
“Yes. Distracted.”
“Peculiar, that. Must be something in the air. Mr. Albrighton looks this morning like someone suffering from distraction too.” An impish smile played on her lips while she folded the satins.
“How odd.”
“Speaking of the distractions, Mr. Albrighton is bathing in the kitchen. We’ll be heating water for you next.” She draped the discarded undressing gown on the foot of the bed.
Celia was glad she would not have to pretend with Marian. When the bath was ready, she went below. The house seemed different today. Something about the light had altered, and the way her body moved through the spaces. Of course it was not the house that had changed, but rather her.
As she approached the stairs to the kitchen, someone grabbed her and pulled her around the stairwell’s wall. Jonathan pinned her against it while he looked around the corner and listened. Then he kissed her in a way that showed last night had done nothing to diminish his desire.
“You look beautiful,” he muttered, between kisses. “I favor that undressing gown.”
“It is hardly attractive,” she said, laughing between gasps.
He looked down at it. “I’ll be damned. You are right. Let’s get it off you again. No, wait, that won’t do here. Marian and Bella. Is it wrong for me to wish they lived elsewhere?”
“It can be excused by the moment, I think.” She met him in a less frantic kiss that went on and on. “Now, I need to have my bath, as you had yours.”
“I’ll come and help.”
“You will not. You will go about your day, as I will go about mine.”
“I will be useless. Send them away, and come above with me and we will spend the day in bed.”
She gave him a playful slap on his chest. “The wagon is coming from The Rarest Blooms early this afternoon. Do you want Daphne to find us up in your bed? She owns a pistol.”
He kissed her once more, then reluctantly stood back and let her free. “Off with you, then, to your bath and duties. I will find some way to survive. Perhaps I will not think about you for a few minutes at least.”
Happy that he had found her, glad that there had been no awkwardness when they met again, pleased that he had conjured up some romantic words, she made her way down to the kitchen and the tub.
The water’s warmth stirred her senses again. A memory of pleasure lapped over her along with the liquid eddies. For the first time in her life, she mentally thanked Mama for the education that had taught that a woman should feel pleasure without regrets. There were sins in the world, great ones to be sure, but sensuality was not one of them.
A pleasant daze of happiness suffused her for the next few hours. Thoughts of Jonathan and even Mama, of the night’s initiation and of the night to come, all mixed in her mind. In an odd way, she felt closer to Alessandra today than she ever had. More her equal too, perhaps, now that she was no longer ignorant.
In late morning, while Celia waited for the wagons and plants, she opened the trunk that had been brought down from the attic by Jonathan. The dresses and other garments had long ago been inspected and stored in her wardrobe.
She lifted the large folio-size boards that rested on its bottom still. She had glanced through the top images days ago, but now she wanted to study each one, and imagine her mother drawing or painting it. She wanted to feed her nostalgia about Alessandra, and perhaps know more about her from her artistry.
“What do you have there?” Marian asked, entering the chamber with clean sheets over her arm. There had not been much blood, but there had been some.
“My mother’s watercolors and drawings.” She set the folio on the writing table near the window and turned back the cover. “She made all of these, over time.”
Marian looked over her shoulder. “That one could be in a shop window.”
“She was very talented.” The watercolor in question showed this house’s garden in late summer, she realized. Mama must have sat on the little terrace when she painted this.
“If I painted that good, I would have sold some,” Marian said.
“Perhaps she did. There is so much I do not know about her.” She turned the sheets, one by one, and admired the little landscapes and views with Marian.
“There be a lot there,” Marian said. “I’ll be leaving you to look at them. I’m taking Bella to the shops, and making her do the buying. She has to stop being so shy about such things.”
Marian left, and Celia continued admiring her mother’s artistry. The watercolors gave way to drawings, most of them landscapes but some quick sketches of people. Halfway to the bottom of the stack, however, a very different kind of painting faced her.
It was a coat of arms, carefully drawn in pencil and colored. The next sheet held another drawing of similar subject, without the watercolors. Curious, she thumbed through the rest of the sheets. All of them showed coats of arms, some of which she recognized. Ten of them were colored.
One by one she turned them. As she flipped one, she realized that there were numbers on its back. She checked and discovered numbers on them all. There were a few numbers on some, long columns on others, but only two on the colored ones, one number at the top and one at the bottom.
She frowned at those numbers, each six digits long. Then suddenly she realized what they were and what they meant.
The discovery startled her. She perused those drawings again and again, until Marian called up that the wagons had arrived.
“Follow me. I must show you something.” Celia issued the command after the plants had been brought in and arranged. She led Daphne up to her chamber. Verity and Audrianna, who had visited today so they could see Daphne too, followed.
“What a pleasant chamber,” Verity said upon entering. “It is very fresh in its simplicity.”
“Can you believe my mother decorated this?” Celia asked. “It is so different from the house she lived in most of the time.”
“Perhaps it reminded her of her childhood,” Daphne said, fingering the muslin drapes. “If so, she came from simple folk. Country, it would appear.”
The observation startled Celia. How like Daphne to comprehend this house in ways Celia had not. She thought of her mother as the Venus, because that was what she had known. But Daphne was possibly correct, and this house represented the real Alessandra, who lived inside that famous woman. The woman her daughter had never met.
She gathered them around the writing table and opened the large folio. Most of the watercolors and drawings now rested on her bed. Only the coats of arms were inside it now. “Look what I have found. See here, on the backs. I am sure those numbers are dates.”
They flipped through a few, all of them peering down with their heads together.
“Is it a record?” Audrianna asked, her sweet face showing astonishment. “Like a journal, do you think?” She flipped one back and forth. “This lord, on these nights? Goodness, I know some of these crests. It may be hard to keep a straight face when I call on some ladies with Sebastian’s mother now.”
“It was very apparent it was a record once I realized they could be dates,” Celia said.
Verity lifted one of the sheets. “Oh, my. This baron is known as very upright and fastidious about not sinning. He is always making speeches about it.” She turned the sheet and perused the numbers. “He appears to have slipped up a few times seven years ago.”
They all looked at one another, and bit back laughs.
“Won’t this be the talk this season if this gets out,” Audrianna mused. “Look here. Do you think it was the father or the son?” She pointed to one of the sheets.
“That is a good question,” Daphne said. “Perhaps we should not assume it was the peer. It could be the heir.”
Audrianna giggled. “You are no fun, Daphne. I rather like the thought that this particular viscount erred. I don’t care much for him; he is so arrogant. I expect his insufferably conceited wife would be most shocked
to learn of it. She is very sure he adores her.”
“We can enjoy all of those later,” Celia said, gesturing to the drawings. “These are the ones that interest me. They are colored. Special. And the only ones without a list of dates. See, only two. One at the beginning, and one at the end. I think these were ongoing affairs, and those dates mark beginning and end.”
She spread out the colored sheets, then removed some and set them aside, leaving only three. “These three were the ones from around the time I was conceived. I think one of these represents my father.”
They all gazed down on the expertly rendered heraldry. Verity’s pale finger pointed to one. “This is the coat of arms of the Marquess of Enderby, Celia. He is of the right age.” She touched another. “This is the Baron Barrowleigh. This final one, I believe, is the Earl of Hartlefield. He is no more than forty-five now, but he inherited when very young.”
“I cannot eliminate him on account of his youth. At the time, Mama was not much older.”
“How do you know all this heraldry, Verity? I recognized Enderby, but not the others,” Audrianna said.
Verity’s mouth pursed. “I was required to memorize many of them. It was part of my education. My cousin’s wife wanted to be sure I did not miss any opportunity regarding my betters due to ignorance.”
“How will you find out which one it is?” Daphne asked. “Three are still two too many. Nor do you know for certain that the correct man knows that he fathered you.”
“I believe he does. I think he made Alessandra promise to keep it a secret.” She put the other drawings back in the portfolio and closed its cover. She faced her friends. “I thought perhaps you could help me a little, however.”
“Of course we will do what we can, Celia,” Audrianna said.
“I am relieved that you in particular are agreeable, Audrianna. Summerhays’s mother likes to gossip, and she was a formidable woman in society back then. She may have heard things that she will share with you, if prompted.”
“She does not think of it as gossip, but instruction,” Audrianna said. “It will mean planning whole days with her, and suffering her company in the effort to create intimacy. However, if she remembers any rumors, she will share them, to help her son’s common wife chart a proper course in society.”
“I will see what emerges when I mention these names among ladies who call on me too,” Verity offered. “Also, Hawkeswell’s aunt will be coming to town to order dresses for the season soon. She may know something.”
“I regret that I will be useless,” Daphne said. “I have no female relative to pump for old gossip.”
Celia hugged each friend in turn. “It may all come to naught, but it is a start. I am optimistic for the first time in my life about identifying him.”
“And when you do?” Daphne asked.
“I don’t know.” Except she did know, in her heart.
The excitement in her, born of this small progress, would allow only one outcome after she knew his name. This man might be lost to her for the rest of her life. He might repudiate the connection for all time. But she would have one conversation with him, as daughter and father, before that happened.
It just is.
The words kept returning to Jonathan’s head as he moved through the day. They chanted while his mind saw Celia last night, opening that gown to expose her breasts, her eyes glistening and her arousal both innocent and wicked.
He risked going mad waiting for the night to come. Forcing some control on his thoughts, he sought diversion without much success. In the early evening, however, diversion found him.
He was walking down the Strand, giving his body something to do rather than torture him, when a grand coach suddenly careened out of the flow of carriages and made a difficult stop just ahead. He noted with annoyance that in the hands of any other coachman, the equipage might have missed its mark in that broad swerve and killed him.
As he approached alongside, the door to the coach opened.
“Get in.”
He peered in to see Castleford sprawled on the seat with a woman wrapped around him.
“Perhaps another time, Your Grace.”
“Oh, hell, get in. We are done, if you are going to become a vicar on me today.” Limbs and garments jostled in the dark. Some coin flashed. “Here you go, little dove. My man will see you into a hackney.”
“You said you would take me home,” a woman’s voice complained. “You promised me a ride in your coach.”
“And you have had one. I must speak with this fellow here. You will still go home in style.”
A pretty face emerged from the coach, followed by a voluptuous body dressed for evening. A footman slid past Jonathan to help the woman down.
Once out, she turned and spoke into the darkness. “You promised I’ll be in that book, remember? You aren’t going to forget?”
“You are on your way to having your own chapter, dear lady. Now, off with you. I will see you soon.”
Satisfied with whatever bargain she had struck, the whore marched away with the footman. Jonathan climbed inside the coach.
“Convenient seeing you on the street just now,” Castleford said by way of welcome. “I have news.”
The duke still sprawled, slouched low, barely awake from the looks of him. What had happened in here scented the carriage enough that Jonathan reached over to open the blinds and glass.
Castleford noticed. “How rude of me. I should have let her stay so she could—”
“That was not necessary.” The vague reference was enough to make him hard. But then, he had been at half-mast due to memories and anticipation all day. “Your news?”
Castleford scratched his head, which only mussed his hair even more. No valet had attended him today. He looked like he had slept in his clothes. Three empty wine bottles rolled on the floor.
He noticed Jonathan’s raking glance and laughed. “I have been in here all night and day, in case you are wondering. It is research for my book. Did you know that you can swive a woman six different ways in a coach without hurting yourself or causing anyone much discomfort?”
“Six, you say. I am impressed. I can only think of three, and four if we are very liberal in our meaning of swiving.”
“I thought so too. She told me she had done it six ways, though. Of course I had to know if it were true.”
“Of course.”
“Do you disapprove, Albrighton? You looked a little like my tutor just then.”
“I have sinned enough in my life to have no right to disapprove of most men, and least of all if they swive women.”
It was the truth, especially on the latter point. He could not ignore that the man across from him might spend twelve hours fornicating in his coach, but he had never seduced an innocent. Which, for all intents and purposes, Jonathan had now, and planned to continue doing.
Nor, he suspected, had Castleford, for all his use of whores, ever been the man who set a woman on the path to selling herself. Which, perhaps, Jonathan had also just done last night.
None of which would matter tonight, or the next night, or for as long as Celia opened her bedchamber door to him. But if he appeared a little like a tutor right now, it was not due to Castleford’s behavior.
“The news?” he prompted again.
Castleford yawned, and closed his eyes. “Why were you walking? Imagine my surprise to glimpse you out the blinds at the crucial moment of ecstasy. Where is your horse?”
“I left it at a tavern up the Strand. I wanted to take a turn for exercise. What were you doing looking out the blinds at such a moment?”
“Making sure she was not pretending. They do that sometimes. Oh, yes, they do. Seeing you was a complete accident. The blinds moved a bit.”
Jonathan laughed. “Forgive me, but I am imagining you in your climax, seeing something despite the considerable distraction, and yelling to the coachman to stop the horses.”
Castleford appeared startled at the notion. “No wonder she shifted l
ike that at the last moment, then went still like she had died. Damnation, she thought I was yelling at her.” He doubled over laughing. “Over, man, over!”
“Rein it in at once!”
“Stop immediately, damn it!” He wiped his eyes. “Poor woman. She definitely gets a chapter. I may have to write this in the form of a memoir to do her justice.”
He called to the coachman to move on. “We will turn around and bring you to that horse.”
They rolled forward. Jonathan waited a minute before prompting again. “The news? Is it about Thornridge?”
“Not yet. The fellow is slippery. He went down to the country again. That may have to wait a few weeks. This is about something else. Now, what was it?” He frowned while he picked through the sober half of his mind. “Ah, yes. Dargent.”
“Father or son?”
“Both. Father Dargent was indeed talking to the military during the war, advising them on terrain. The news is that Son Dargent often accompanied him when he did so. The father knew he was sick and was handing things over the way it is done, and wanted any future appreciation of his help to fall to his heir along with the estate.”
“Was this well-known?”
Castleford shrugged. “I expect it was known to anyone paying attention. It was not a secret, but it was not published in a broadside either.”
So Anthony had heard those questions being posed to his father. That had been careless of the government, but not entirely surprising. Father and son were honorable and loyal, and who would expect any trouble to come of it? It was not as if the military laid out its strategies through those questions.
All the same, it was not news that Jonathan wanted to hear. How much better if Alessandra could have had no ulterior reason for throwing her daughter at Anthony. He reminded himself that the suspicions and talk had been that and nothing more, but his soul and his instincts—the parts of him that he ignored at his peril—took a big step away from that belief now.
He had assumed his investigation would exonerate Alessandra, or at least leave the question open. He did not think that would happen anymore.
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