The Amorous Education of Celia Seaton

by Miranda Neville

  His attentions to her were quite marked and she ought to feel excited at the prospect. With his career well launched, William Montrose could afford to marry. He was a great blond giant with eyes that appeared startlingly blue in his tanned face. He had intelligence, kindness and a sense of humor. And his family, the unconventional Montroses, would accept, and quite possibly revel in the shadier elements of her own background. After a few hours’ acquaintance Celia felt that William, with his easygoing temperament and ready laugh was a man she could confide in. She imagined telling him the truth without condemnation.

  What she couldn’t imagine was being married to him, and the intimacies she knew that entailed.

  Once again, as happened all too often, her eyes were drawn across the table to where Tarquin conversed politely with Mrs. Montrose about horses. He was the antithesis of the Montroses: dark, sleek, reserved, self-contained.

  Utterly devastating, and completely beyond her touch.

  Chapter 21

  Be prepared to shop.

  “Will likes you,” Minerva said the next morning as they walked to the village of Mandeville Wallop to buy sweetmeats.

  “I like him. I like all your family. You’ve been so very kind to me.”

  “I think he’s interested in you. Perhaps we shall be sisters. I’d love that.”

  There and then, Celia decided to forget Tarquin Compton. How hard could it be to fall in love with William Montrose? With her resolution set, she asked Minerva the kind of questions a lady would want to know about a suitor she wishes to encourage. Will’s sister did her best to present him in a flattering light.

  “One thing about Will that I think would be very useful in a husband,” she said, drawing to a halt outside the only shop in the village, “is that he never cares what he eats or what time meals are ready. He’s quite undemanding.” She lowered her voice to a near whisper. “Look. Mrs. Phelps has the most hideous new ribbon. Would you call that mustard or egg yolk?”

  Mandeville Wallop was a poor sort of place, without much commerce save a small inn and the shop that carried a meager and miscellaneous selection of necessities. Minerva found it a source of amusement, though she was fond of the hapless proprietor and would never let Mrs. Phelps overhear her mockery.

  Celia peered at the narrow window, groping for a word to describe so ghastly a shade. The reflection of a face in the glass caught her eye and she spun around to find a man on the other side of the street, staring at them. Seizing Minerva’s arm she wrenched open the shop door and pulled her inside.

  “What?”

  “Shh,” she hissed and slammed the door behind them. “It’s him. The man who kidnapped me.”

  “No!”

  They jostled to look out of the window. “Is that him?”

  Celia would never forget those dark curls and thick lips. “I have no question. He’s the man who calls himself Nicholas Constantine.”

  “Did he see you?”

  “I think so. No, I am sure. He was looking straight at us. How did he find me? And how are we going to get home?”

  Although they both kept their voices low, they inevitably drew the curiosity of Mrs. Phelps. “Miss Minerva, Miss Seaton. Is there anything I can do for you ladies? You look upset.”

  With great presence of mind, Minerva walked over to the counter affecting a limp. “Oh, Mrs. Phelps! I have turned my ankle.” She sank into the chair provided for customers and emitted a piteous moan. “Oh dear! It is very painful.”

  “Poor Minerva,” Celia said. “I begged you to step carefully, but you would insist on jumping over that dog.”

  Minerva moaned some more to cover her laugh, and gave Celia’s ankle a surreptitious kick. Mrs. Phelps, who hadn’t the brightest of wits, wrung her hands and complained about the plenitude of stray animals.

  “Do you think, Mrs. Phelps, that Jim could go over to Wallop Hall and let them know I need the cart to carry me home? And have my brothers come to collect me. At least two of them.”

  Mrs. Phelps looked a bit dubious. “My Jim’s not too bright in the head. He might forget the message. If the other young lady goes with him I’ll stay with you.”

  Celia panicked. “I’m afraid I’m subject to fits. I never go anywhere without another adult in attendance.”

  “I’ll write a note,” Minerva said quickly and scribbled a few words for Mrs. Phelps’s slow witted son to deliver. Both she and Celia then succumbed to giggles which they tried to disguise as cries of pain and sympathy, respectively.

  “Fits, Celia?” Minerva asked while the shopkeeper went upstairs to find Jim. “It’s lucky Mrs. Phelps is gullible.”

  “It was all I could think of. What did you write?”

  “I said you’d seen your kidnapper. I think we can expect a crowd.”

  Tarquin wasn’t convinced a show of force was the best tactic. His instinct told him just he and Sebastian alone had the best chance of catching Constantine unawares. But he was grudgingly prepared to admit that the two elder Montrose brothers looked like good men to have one’s back in a fight. And the matter was moot. As soon as they understood Celia was in danger there was no persuading them. Without going into more detail than they had time for, Tarquin couldn’t explain his special interest in the capture and interrogation of Mr. Nicholas Constantine. Mr. Montrose and his youngest son, Stephen, insisted on joining the party too.

  Tarquin had never seen their quarry, only heard his voice when hiding in Joe’s barn. The others hadn’t even heard Celia’s description of her kidnapper, but the Montroses could tell at once that none of the men in the village street was a stranger. Tarquin, with Sebastian at his heels, tore into the shop.

  Was that sobbing he heard? Had the bastard injured Celia?

  Fear abated when he saw that the only occupants of the shop were female: a harmless-looking shopkeeper, sorting the contents of a box behind the counter, Minerva, seated on a chair, and Celia bending over her. She straightened at his entrance.

  “Are you harmed?” he asked, taking both her hands and inspecting her face. Alarm melted into irritation when he perceived that if either girl was hysterical it was with mirth.

  “We are perfectly well,” she said, “apart from Minerva’s ankle.” Her face crumpled with the effort not to laugh.

  Minerva didn’t even bother. “And Celia’s fits.” At least, that’s what it sounded like but she could hardly speak.

  “What?”

  “I suffer from fits,” Celia said, grinning broadly. “That’s why I was unable to accompany Jim to fetch help.”

  He dropped her hands and raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Zeus! What nonsense will you spout next?”

  She shrugged. “It was the best I could come up with at short notice.”

  “I’m intimately acquainted with the lies you invent on the spot.”

  Celia pushed past him to the door. “Let’s discuss this outside.” She turned back and called a farewell to the shopkeeper. “Minerva,” she said. “I am sure Lord Iverley will help you.”

  She stalked out onto the street and confronted him. “Why are you being so unpleasant?”

  He didn’t know. Once it was apparent she’d come to no harm his temper had been on the rise. “I told you not to go out alone.”

  She stared at him. “I wasn’t alone. I had Minerva with me.”

  “Minerva is a foolish young girl and no protection. You need a man to look after you.”

  “Excuse me. First, you didn’t say anything about not going out without a man. Secondly, that foolish young girl and I managed very well.”

  “You obviously weren’t aware of the gravity of the situation. You were laughing!”

  “I am so sorry. Clearly everything would be much better if I had the vapors.”

  She really was the most infuriating woman. Tarquin’s hands clenched in the effort to keep them at his sides. The exit of Sebastian from the shop with Minerva in his arms quite possibly saved her from strangulation.

  “Are you going to carry m
e all the way home?” Minerva asked.

  “Not if I can help it. I thought your twisted ankle was feigned.”

  “It is, but we don’t want Mrs. Phelps to know that.”

  “As soon as we get out of sight you’re walking. Diana’s the only woman I’m prepared to carry about.”

  One by one, the Montrose men joined them to report on their canvass of the village. William, the first to arrive, bent over Celia with an air of concern. “Are you all right? You must have been alarmed.”

  Tarquin snorted.

  “Celia was quick as a whip,” Minerva said. “The moment she saw him she dragged us into the shop.”

  “I’m sure she was,” William said, pouring on the butter. “I can tell you are a lady of great presence of mind and fortitude.”

  “Oh no,” Celia simpered. “Minerva was the clever one, with the ankle.”

  Tarquin couldn’t stand any more. “If you can bring yourselves to postpone this orgy of mutual adulation, I think we should continue our discussion at the Hall.”

  Quarter of an hour later, gathered in the drawing room, the Montroses reported on what they’d learned from the villagers. “The fellow rode out of the village about ten minutes before we arrived,” Henry said. “Headed to the main road, no doubt.”

  “He can’t have been in the village for long,” William reasoned. “According to the innkeeper he arrived only an hour or so ago and made inquiries about where to find Lord Iverley.”

  “About me?” Sebastian asked. “That’s odd. Why would he connect Miss Seaton with me?”

  “No reason,” Tarquin said. “But it’s common knowledge we are friends. Somehow Constantine must have learned my identity and assumed Celia was still in my company.”

  He’d been careful to call her Miss Seaton since the end of their engagement but the Christian name slipped out and William noticed. “How came she to be in your company? I thought she was a friend of Diana’s.” He gave Tarquin a hard look. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

  Tarquin thought it none of his damn business, but he obliged with a brief and heavily edited account of their adventures.

  “So this man stole everything you had on you? Did you carry a card case?”

  Tarquin felt a fool. That William Montrose had been the one to make the connection was especially irritating. “Of course,” he said. “I should have thought of that.”

  “I’m not surprised you didn’t,” Celia said. “You’re likely still affected by the blow.”

  Better and better. Now she thought him weak in the head. “He would only learn my name from my cards. But anyone in that part of Yorkshire would recognize it and direct him to Revesby.”

  “Where he must have learned you’d come to find me.” Sebastian frowned. “I don’t like this. I’m concerned for Miss Seaton’s safety, obviously, and I don’t like the idea of such a scoundrel coming anywhere near Diana and the child.”

  “What about me?” Minerva asked. “Aren’t you concerned about me?”

  Sebastian’s face relaxed. “You, miss? I’d be sorry for any villain who tried to tangle with you.”

  “Did he know you’d seen him, Celia?” Tarquin asked.

  “I’m almost sure he did. He was looking straight at me when I spotted him so he must have noticed my surprise.”

  “That’s a pity. When he makes the next approach he’ll be more circumspect. You must redouble your vigilance and we must all be on guard.”

  “If he shows his face in Mandeville Wallop again, someone will tell us immediately,” said Mr. Montrose. “I shall inform the magistrate too. The man should be locked up and tried for kidnapping and robbery.”

  “But what does he want?” Celia cried. “I’ve thought and thought and cannot come up with a reason for any of this.”

  “That’s why we need to apprehend the man. Questioning him is the best way to find out.” Tarquin’s knuckles itched. Having Constantine arrested and placed in the hands of the law seemed a tame solution. He looked forward to going a few rounds with him and next time he wouldn’t be the one with a sore head.

  “There’s the other man too,” Celia said. “The one with the bloodhound. We don’t even know what he looks like.”

  “I don’t think Miss Seaton should stay here,” Sebastian announced. “The house is too small and easy to break into and she can’t have male protection in her room at night. I’ll ask Blakeney if she can stay at Mandeville House. She’ll be safe there.”

  Tarquin was impressed. For Sebastian to ask his cousin Blakeney for a favor, he must be truly worried. That his concern was likely as much for his own family as for Celia was forgivable. Sending her to the Duke of Hampton’s house wasn’t a bad idea. The mansion sat in a walled park and swarmed with servants; no stranger would easily get access. Since the duke, a prominent politician, entertained a steady stream of visitors all summer long, Celia would be surrounded by people.

  “I’m going too,” he said. “If Constantine turns up, I want to be there.”

  Who knew what foolishness she’d get up to without him to stop her?

  Chapter 22

  Dressing well is the best revenge.

  “Are you quite sure you can spare Chantal?” Celia asked.

  “For the dozenth time, yes. You’ll be doing me a favor. She loves Mandeville and was quite disgusted when I didn’t marry Blakeney.” Diana patted her son’s back and he dribbled milk onto her shoulder. “Look at this. As long as Aldus emits a constant stream of drool there’s no hope for me. I look dreadful and I don’t care.”

  “Hardly dreadful. Perhaps your hair is a little less perfect than usual.”

  “You’ll get much more respect at Mandeville if you have your own maid. And she’ll make sure you look your best. The Duke and Duchess of Amesbury have dozens of guests every summer and these gatherings of the ton can be intimidating.”

  Celia nodded. “I remember all too well from my brief London season.”

  “I do too.” That the elegant Lady Iverley had ever been an awkward debutante was hard to fathom, but Diana assured her it was so. “Even later, when I was a wealthy widow, I received frequent snubs. Remember you are just as good as they are and never let them see you care about their scorn. Being beautifully dressed is the first line of defense.”

  “I can’t thank you enough for all your help.”

  “I’ve enjoyed it, and I’ll miss you. We all will. You’ll come back for the christening, of course.”

  Celia reached into her pocket. “I have a present for Aldus. It’s not much, I’m afraid, but it’s all I have. It was my mother’s when she was a child and she passed it on to me.”

  The cook had provided her with a rag and some silver whiting, a paste of tartar and water with a little wine spirit. She’d sat at the kitchen table and rubbed every scrap of tarnish off the battered rattle, polished it until it glowed. Alas, the cleaning revealed every flaw: scratches in the small handle, just the right size for a baby’s chubby fist; several dents and a crack in the side of the sphere containing the rattler.

  “I’m afraid it’s rather the worse for all its travels. It doesn’t even make much of a noise.”

  Diana took it and shook it near the face of her son who now lay quietly in a cradle next to her chair. He regarded it without apparent interest. “He’s too young but he’ll love it later. And I love it now. Old toys have so much character. Every blemish tells a story from a child’s past. Perhaps you cracked it fighting off a poisonous Indian snake.”

  “You wouldn’t want your infant anywhere near a cobra. I don’t remember playing with it, any more than I remember my mother. I was too young.”

  Diana touched her hand. “Are you quite sure you can spare it? I’ll understand if you prefer to keep it.”

  Celia’s eyes welled up. “I want Aldus to have it as a small token of my gratitude. You’ve welcomed me like a family. Or at least as I imagine a family does.”

  “You told me your mother died when you were four. Who brought you up? Was
your father an attentive parent? Mine was, as you may imagine, but gentlemen aren’t always like that.”

  The questions were too close to things never spoken of and better forgotten. “My father traveled on business a great deal. The rest of the time I lived with the native servants.” An answer repeated so often she almost believed it to be the whole truth.

  “Did your father never think to remarry?”

  “There were few English ladies available.” Another truth.

  “You must have been lonely.”

  “Sometimes.” It was impossible to explain the nature of her situation in her father’s household, though for once she was tempted to try. Mr. Twistleton and Lady Trumper were the last of a line of advisors who’d strongly cautioned against frankness. “I shall miss you all,” she said instead.

  “Perhaps you will be a member of our family one day. Oh dear! I may start weeping.”

  “Me too.”

  The entrance of Lord Iverley put paid to the impulse to either confidence or lamentation. “The carriage is ready. Your luggage has been loaded and Tarquin is waiting.”

  Celia hadn’t imagined a house as large as Mandeville. The Palladian mansion with its massive central portico and two sprawling wings was as big as a town and the front door large enough to admit a carriage. As they passed through the hall into a huge oval receiving room, topped with a high dome, Tarquin’s presence was a comfort. She resisted the urge to clutch and crease his tailored arm.

  The splendor of the surroundings appeared not to affect him. Why would it? He’d grown up in such a house, under the guardianship of the Duke of Amesbury. For all she knew that particular ducal home might dwarf this one.

  Liveried servants brought their bags from the Montroses’ elderly carriage and led them up a grand staircase, the beginning of a long journey to their rooms. Celia tried to take note of the route, imagining herself lost in the endless maze of corridors. Much to her relief, she was told there would be a footman on duty all day in the guest wing, should she need assistance. They reached her room first.