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“If you’d like, tell me the name of your street and I’ll point to it. You don’t have to share the address. London is a big city, and it’s easy to get lost.”
“Very well,” she said after a moment, for he was quite right in that it seemed to be much larger than she had anticipated. “Please show me Bruton Street.”
“Ah, tell the driver to take you to Mayfair. Here. Go by way of these main roads and you should get there quite quickly.” He traced a route with his finger, then smiled as he pressed the small map into her hand. “Keep it for now, but do be kind enough to return it to me, if you will, once you’ve used it. Have it delivered by post, or messenger if you like, to the Carlisle in Shoreditch. It’s a public house owned by my brother.”
“Thank you, sir, for your kindness,” she said as she tucked the directory into her reticule. Perhaps she should not be so suspicious, she thought, but a woman traveling alone dare not attract too much attention. Why, most of the voyage had been spent in her cabin, a stuffy corner not much larger than a water closet and smelling very similar.
As the Liberty edged close to the dock, the decks grew quite crowded and loud, and Celia realized that, in the press of crowd and crew, James Carlisle had vanished. It was faintly surprising. He’d seemed so insistent, and now he’d just disappeared in the chaos, leaving her alone to make her way ashore.
Celia dismissed Carlisle from her mind when the hack rolled to a halt before the buff stone facade of Lord Leverton’s Mayfair home. It was imposing, a veritable five-story tower with staircases that curved up each side to the entrance. It was a house that radiated power and position.
It was this kind of house, this kind of wealth, that bred men like Lord Northington.…
She was shown into the entrance hall and bade wait, and the butler who greeted her looked down his long thin nose at her as if she were an interloper.
“Lady Leverton is not accepting visitors, I fear,” he said coldly. “However, you may leave your card.”
But Celia was not to be denied. “I will wait in the parlor.” She made her tone as lofty as his, with just a touch of arrogance. “Please be so good as to direct me. Lady Leverton will be pleased to see me, I assure you.”
There were, she thought, few things more intimidating than a proper English servant. He regarded her as if she were an insect, but at last briefly inclined his head, and beckoned to a young maid.
“Show Miss—” He studied the card she’d given him for an instant, then continued, “St. Clair into the small parlor to wait, Hester.”
The uniformed maid led her to a wide set of double doors that opened into a room much larger than any she’d seen. If it was named the small parlor, she would truly be amazed at any larger chamber.
Richly furnished, there was a warm fire in the grate and thick rugs on the floors. Plush settees upholstered in embroidered velvet were placed before the hearth. Ornate vases and Dresden figurines adorned baroque tables that gleamed with the sheen of highly polished mahogany. Fresh flowers spilled from crystal vases.
Celia felt suddenly awkward and graceless in such a room, and wondered with a spurt of panic if she could truly pretend to be what she was not. How could she keep up the masquerade?
And while she may dislike deceiving her own godmother with the charade, she had little choice. She had to be the woman she posed herself to be, or she would never be able to fit in the society of those surrounding Northington.
That was, after all, her goal. To do less would be to fail.
But the success in her plan hinged on her acceptance here, with Jacqueline Leverton. Tension made her nerves taut, and she drew in a deep breath to steady herself. What if her godmother should not wish her to stay? She had never met her, after all, and their brief correspondence had been rather stilted.
A light laugh preceded the appearance of a tiny dark-haired woman in the doorway. “Celia Sinclair? Could it be?” she cried, and moved swiftly toward her. “I cannot believe it! You did come, after all. Oh my, you are the very image of your dear mother…my beautiful Léonie.”
Unexpected tears stung her eyes as Celia was drawn into a warm embrace. There was none of the awkwardness of their written correspondence, and no question of being accepted. She found herself seated on the settee answering questions about her mother, telling Jacqueline—“But you must call me Jacque, my dearest, as do all my friends,”—about her mother’s death.
She left out the details, saying only that Maman had died of a fever. It was difficult not dissolving in tears, but Jacqueline proved to be more pragmatic than her bubbly nature promised.
“It is a dreadful thing, but life is not always kind, I have learned,” she sighed in her accented English. “My poor Léonie. She was always so beautiful, so bright. I adored her, you know. Just as I shall adore you. Your mother’s marriage was so romantic, and your father—Ah! So handsome he was,” Jacqueline said with a smile. “And so much in love with Léonie! But of course, every man who met her fell in love with her. She was so beautiful, how could they not? Once, before she met your dear papa, she said her face was a curse, not a blessing. But I am glad that it proved not to be true.”
Celia’s jaw set. But it had been true, in the end. Her mother’s blessing had turned to a curse because of Lord Northington.
“Ah, my lovely one,” Jacqueline was saying, “you will be the toast of all London, I am quite certain! With those marvelous green eyes and that lovely blond hair, you shall break the hearts of all the men, and perhaps marry a duke, or even a prince one day!”
She laughed, her dark head tilted to one side like a saucy little bird, and Celia found herself smiling back at her.
“Now come, Celia,” Jacqueline said, and held out her hand to draw her with her. “I shall show you to your room and see you settled in until supper. Tomorrow we shall set about showing you London.”
“I look forward to it, my lady.”
“No, no, Jacque. Family is not formal here. I do not like it. Oh, and you must meet my husband and my daughter, for she is to be presented this year. It is so exciting. Now I shall have two beautiful young ladies to display!”
The spacious chamber on the third floor was larger than any of Celia’s experience. She could scarcely believe that it was to be hers alone, not shared with an entire room full of girls, as she had lived at the foundling home.
“But of course it is just yours,” Jacqueline said with a laugh when Celia asked if she was to share the chamber. “And you may have things arranged to suit you. Just tell Lily and she will have a footman come to move furniture about. A chambermaid will tend your fire for you—But where are your trunks? This one cannot be all you have. Are more waiting at the docks with your maid?”
A flush heated her face, but Celia lied smoothly. “My trunks were unfortunately lost, and the one is all I have left. A pity, for I had some beautiful gowns. Oh, and all my jewelry—But now that I am here I don’t feel the loss, for your welcome has been so warm I feel only joy at finally meeting you.”
That was true enough. Lady Leverton’s obvious welcome was much more than Celia had hoped for, and her open nature so warm that Celia felt as if she was closer to her mother just by being with this petite woman. It was also an unexpected complication. She must remain distant, or she would not be able to do what she must do.…
“And your maid?” her cousin inquired. “Tell me you did not travel without a maid!”
“I’m afraid that she grew ill and it was too late to find a proper lady’s maid.” Another lie…I’m becoming far too proficient at this!
“Oh, my dear, you traveled all this way alone? It is astounding that you were not accosted by some ruffian along the way. An unaccompanied lady is so at the mercy of rude men. But the loss of a maid is easily remedied. You are here now and shall have all that is necessary. Here. Sit beside me on the chaise while Lily puts away your things for you, and tell me of your plans.”
“Plans? I suppose I have none. I’ve just…just been so unhappy since Maman died.” There was no need for subterfuge now, for the tears still came when she spoke of her mother. “You’re all the family I know, all I have left. I hope—I hope I am welcome.”
“Of course, you poor child! How could you think you would not be? I am just sorry you waited so long to come to us! You are a St. Remy, as am I on my mother’s side. We are of the same blood. Odd, that Jarvis said St. Clair instead of Sinclair, but I knew at once who you were, of course. I recognized your father’s name.”
“Actually, I have begun using St. Clair instead of Sinclair,” Celia explained, having carefully rehearsed her intention for using a name that Northington may not easily recognize. “Maman changed it after Papa died, because she was afraid some of the English officers would attempt vengeance on us for Papa’s part in the war.” She paused, then said, “The Sinclair family lost everything in the war, and Papa was the only one left. Then he died in a skirmish with one of Napoleon’s ships. His ship was later sold, I heard, as were other seized United States ships. Maman said we must learn to adapt. So I have.”
“Léonie always was the practical one, even when we were children. You may now revert to your dear papa’s name, of course, for there is no danger to you here.”
“I’ve used St. Clair so long, it’s my name now. It is no insult to Papa, for the original usage was St. Clair, I’ve been told. Names do not matter so much in America.”
“So true…names there change to suit the bearer. Ah well. C’est la vie! We must learn to adapt to all things in time.” Jacqueline smiled. “Léonie and I learned that lesson quite early, you know. We changed our names a dozen times during the dark days, but always we knew who we were and our true heritage. That is what matters most.”
“When you speak of her, it’s as if Maman is alive for me again.”
“But of course, petite. Our childhoods were glorious. That was before the Terror, when life seemed so bright and promising and France was still so elegant. But the world changed for us, as it has for you. Now, tomorrow will be your first day here, and you will meet my daughter. My son is at Oxford, but Carolyn is more your age, a bit younger than you, but already betrothed. We shall see what we can do about your future!”
“No, please,” Celia said with a soft laugh. “I am far too content just being here with you to even consider such a thing.”
“So you say now,” Jacqueline said slyly. “But that will soon change. Here is Lily with your dressing gown. One of the footmen will bring up hot water for your bath, then you must rest while you can. You look so weary. Would you prefer having a light supper in your room?”
“I…I am rather tired. If it wouldn’t offend you—”
“Of course it won’t offend me. Just rest this evening. I intend to do all I can for you, just as Léonie would have done for my Caro.”
It was a bit overwhelming. Celia found herself whisked to an overheated room off her bedchamber where a huge brass tub was filled with scented water and thick cotton towels warmed before a cheery fire. A ladies’ maid waited patiently to assist her in undressing and bathing, but Celia shook her head.
“Please—Lily, is it? I’d rather do it myself.”
It was novel, this pampered existence, and she thought again of her mother, and how she had once lived in a lovely château in the French countryside, the pampered, petted daughter of aristocrats. Upheaval and tragedy had displaced her, but she’d finally found happiness, however briefly. Nothing lasted. Everything changed.
Hadn’t her own life changed so drastically? Yes, and now it was changed again. After years of watching from the other side while people moved in a privileged world, she was at last part of it. The years of scrimping and saving, planning for this, had come to pass. Could she do it? Could she fit into his world long enough to exact some kind of retribution against Northington? God knows, I’ve wanted it long enough, she thought fiercely.
And it wasn’t just for herself. It was for Maman and Old Peter. They deserved justice.
2
“Pistols at Chalk Farm? Hardly worth the trouble, I’d think.” Robert George Colter Hampton—Lord Northington—regarded Harvey with a cynical smile that didn’t quite reach his cold blue eyes.
“So I thought.” Sir John Harvey gave his companion a glance of hopeful appeal. “Unfortunately I’m not the marksman you are. ‘Pistols for two, breakfast for one’ will be my likely fate. Sir Skeffington’s liable to call me out about this little tart. Any chance you’ll be my second?”
“And take your place when you suddenly fall ill?” Leaning back in his chair, he stretched lazily. “You’ve played that game before. I have no desire to meet anyone at dawn unless it’s a buxom wench with light skirts and a willing smile.”
Harvey sighed. “I feared you’d say that.”
“No, you knew I’d refuse. I don’t interfere in other men’s quarrels.” Northington downed the last of his brandy to indicate his desire to leave the club.
Raggett, the proprietor of White’s, came to sweep ashes and crumbs from the top of the green baize table, obliging and efficient in the art of catering to his patrons—and always on the watch for a stray coin.
Northington stifled a yawn. It was late. Or early, depending upon the point of view. His interest had begun to wane several hours before, but it was bad form to bankrupt a man at cards and not give him at least a small chance to recoup.
The night had been profitable. Not only Harvey, but the young Wharton had lost several thousand pounds on the turn of the cards. Harvey was an inveterate gambler, and no doubt would one day ruin himself.
Wharton was another matter. He was young, with only a pale downy stubble on his jaw, a green youth at both cards and life. Christ. They seemed to get younger every year. Had he ever been this young? Yes, but not this foolish.
More brandy appeared at his elbow, amber fire in cut crystal. He regarded Wharton over the rim of the snifter.
“Are you done, sir?”
Wharton gave a start, pale cheeks flushed with an emotion Northington recognized as extreme distress.
“Done up is more like it, my lord.” He attempted a smile that wobbled on his mouth. “I’m under the hatches, I fear. Will you accept my vowels?”
Northington leaned forward, raked the counters toward him with a lazy swipe of one hand. “A man should never bet what he cannot pay, Wharton.”
Harvey, who had leaned his chair back on the two rear legs, sat forward with a loud thump.
“Sermons? From you? Good God, we must both be foxed!”
Northington spared him a glance. “I assume you speak for yourself. I always pay my debts.”
“Yes, and much more quickly since your grandfather’s death and your father’s newly acquired title—and since you became Viscount Northington,” Harvey replied with a wry twist of his mouth. “Now, if only my family would be so cooperative as to die off and leave me with a substantial fortune and a bloody title, I’d not worry about a few thousand pounds here and there, either.”
“No doubt.” Colter’s eyes flicked to young Wharton, studied his flushed face, the dissipation that had already begun to distort youthful features.
“I’m done up,” Wharton said again, and reached for the cards. He riffled them almost desperately. “You seem to have the devil’s own luck, my lord.”
“Yes. I do, don’t I?” Colter’s lazy smile altered to a sharper expression. Impatient now, he raked his fingers through his dark hair, then put out a hand for the deck of cards, sweat-stained from the long night’s play.
“One more round, Wharton. You cut.”
Wharton stared at him in disbelief. “I doubt I can pay all I owe you now! If I lose…if I lose, my life won’t be worth a shilling.”
“It’s hardly worth that now if you judge yourself by what you owe instead of how you pay.” It was said with a mocking twist of his mouth, but he saw that Wharton took his point.
After the barest hesitation, the young man placed the deck of cards in Colter’s palm. Shuffling in expert, easy movements, Colter let the soft whisper of paste-board flow fluidly from hand to hand as Wharton’s obvious uncertainty increased.
After a long moment of silence, Wharton made a hoarse sound. “Damn, but it hardly matters if I’m hung for a sheep or a lamb…deal another hand.”
“No. The high card takes all.” Colter’s long fingers arranged the deck in the middle of the green baize table. He tapped it lightly with one finger. “But if I win, your debt to me is satisfied once you give me your oath you’ll not play cards here again.”
“Not play—you jest!”
“I’ve never been more serious. Don’t look so stricken at my offer. I could always insist upon prompt payment.”
Wharton flushed. His jaw set, his mouth a slash that made him look suddenly older.
“Don’t gammon me, Northington.”
“Cut the cards or make arrangements with the bank to pay me what you owe, Wharton. It’s as simple as that.”
Indecision clouded his face briefly, but he gave a jerk of his head. “Very well. I’ll cut. High card takes all.”
A trembling hand reached out, separated the deck and turned it over. A four of spades gleamed in the pale light. Despair quivered on Wharton’s mouth, but he looked up to meet Colter’s gaze with a steady enough stare.
“It seems you have an excellent chance to win, my lord.”
“So it does. I’m used to winning. It’s a damn sight better than losing.”
Wharton paled even more, but his face was resolute as Colter deftly cut the remaining cards.
“Seven of hearts,” someone behind them breathed softly, and Colter was aware they had gathered a crowd. “Northington won, by God!”
“So I did.” Colter stood up, pushed his chair back and lifted a brow. “Your debt is satisfied, but you must heed your oath, Wharton. If I ever see or hear of you being here again I shall assume that means you have the means to repay your debt to me, and I shall take steps to collect it.”
The youth looked shocked, shaken, but managed to lurch to his feet. “I say! I…I say!”
“Yes, I’m sure you do. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I am through playing for the evening.”
Harvey rose as well and shot Colter a jaundiced glance as he accompanied him to the front of the establishment. “Well, Northington, I’ve never known you to cheat at cards before.”
Colter shrugged into his coat, flicked lint from the sleeve and looked up at his companion. “Men have been called out for less inflammatory words, Harvey.”
“Yes, and I’m well aware you’re a dead shot. But I am also a fair hand at cards, and not drunk enough to miss you palm that seven. Why?”
“Why let him cry off? Or why cheat?”
“Both. Either. Wharton’s old enough to learn better. He doesn’t need a wet nurse.”
“No, he doesn’t, but a bit of guidance won’t hurt him. One chance is more than enough for some.”
“I’ve never known you to be so philanthropic. What in the devil did you drink tonight?”
“A cup too many, it seems. Or maybe I just dislike ruining green boys. Wharton has no business here.”
“It could be said that none of us do,” Harvey said dryly.
“Yes, it could.” Colter blinked against the cold sunlight that struck him as they stepped outside. It was much later than he’d thought. Tradesmen had already made early deliveries and traffic along St. James Street was heavy. A beer cart narrowly missed splashing mud on them as it lumbered past.
“It will be all over London by nightfall that you evicted Wharton from White’s, you know.” Harvey kept pace, though a bit wobbly. “Bad form, Northington. You should have just ruined him.”
“That would be far too easy. I enjoy a challenge.”
Puddles of water still stood along the paving stones from the recent rains. A fetid odor lingered in the air. He stepped over a brackish pool and left Harvey trailing behind him as he crossed St. James and turned the corner.
His mind was already on the beguiling prospect of a hot meal and warm bed when Harvey grabbed his arm to pull him to a halt.
“Damn, but that’s a prime article! Who is she? Do you know her? I’m sure I know her companion—”
Colter shook loose his hand, impatient and weary, and certainly in no mood to make polite conversation with any female of Harvey’s acquaintance. They were usually brainless society belles or women of loose character and looser morals. Not that he had any particular objection to the latter, but Harvey was too damned enthusiastic.
“Leverton. That’s her name! Married to Jules Leverton, Lord Sharpton’s youngest son and a financial genius. But who is that luscious bit with her?”
“Satisfy your curiosity alone or at some other time.” Colter hailed a hack, and it rumbled to a halt at the curb. As the door swung open, he put a foot on the narrow rung to step up and glanced down at his companion. “Do you wish a ride to your lodgings?”
“No.” Sir John’s attention was trained on the approaching women. “I think it may be time I renewed my acquaintance with Lady Leverton.”
Colter followed Harvey’s intent gaze. His brow rose. Jacqueline Leverton was a lovely woman who had kept her beauty through the years. The young lady at her side had her head bent, her hat shadowing her face, but it was her form that drew attention. She was lovely, though not so unusual as to warrant such rapt admiration, in his opinion.
“Harvey, you’ve always been an easy mark when it comes to women. Have a go at her. Spare me all the details when next I see you. Curzon Street, driver. And take the shortest route, not the most profitable.”
The driver slammed the hack door closed, and Harvey stepped away from the vehicle, his attention already returned to the women down the street.
“A prime article, don’t you think?” Harvey said again, and grinned up at Colter. “An introduction can’t hurt.”
“As so many fools before you have also said, to their collective destruction. Keep your head.” Colter waved a dismissive hand as the hack lurched forward, then leaned back against the worn squabs that held strong hints of previous occupants. He was getting too old for this. Long nights were the mark of a jaded man. At thirty-one, he knew better.
Harvey was incorrigible; he could see him out the window as the hack drew closer, its progress obstructed by a draft wagon blocking the road. Propping a boot against the far seat, Colter watched idly as Harvey approached the two women accompanied by their maid. They paused to speak to him, crisp morning light at last revealing their faces.
He frowned, struck by a sudden memory. Lady Leverton’s companion was the woman from the ship—the Liberty. He’d seen her staring at him, and then he’d seen her talking to James Carlisle. So, she was acquainted with Leverton, was she? A curious coincidence. But he wasn’t a man who believed much in coincidences and this one seemed far too unlikely.
Yet she was a striking woman, with pale hair beneath a wide-brimmed bonnet and elegant bone structure. Tall and slender, she moved with languid grace as she turned to regard Harvey with polite attention.
Colter watched closely. She’d kept dangerous company for a woman new to London. Carlisle was not an innocuous acquaintance. How well did she know him? It was a question that begged an answer. She’d come from America, and he’d noticed her aboard ship. How could he not? While he’d kept a close eye on Carlisle, the woman had seemed to keep an eye on him in return.
Now she was staying in Jules Leverton’s home, a man known to be a fervent Tory, a contradiction at best if she was acquainted with Carlisle. Perhaps there was much more to what had appeared to be a casual shipboard acquaintance than he’d first thought. This situation required a closer investigation.
Like Harvey, he wanted to know more about her—but not for the same reasons.
3
Celia eyed Sir John with a mixture of amusement and suspicion. He was handsome enough, she supposed, with fair hair and a rakish charm, but he reeked of cigar smoke and brandy. She had no intention of allowing herself to be even slightly involved with him despite his boyish appeal.