Jacqueline gave a small gasp of delight. “It is Northington!”

A chill shivered down Celia’s spine. She steeled herself to turn and look toward Lord Northington at last, and drew in a deep breath for courage.

Yet she could not find him. She had thought there would be instant recognition, that the hatred she had nursed all these years would immediately focus on Northington despite the time that had passed. Yet none of the men present had the face of her childhood nightmares.

She had a vague impression of a tall man with dark hair, impeccably dressed and with an air of polite boredom in his movements, but her gaze focused beyond him.

“This must be the young lady who has captured Sir John’s instant admiration,” a deep voice said, the tone slow, rich, seductive.

He reached for her hand, took it in his broad palm, held her fingers in a light clasp as he bent to place a kiss upon her gloved knuckles.

Celia did not resist. She felt as if all eyes were watching, waiting for her response. Panic swelled, coupled with an overwhelming need to escape. But it was his touch that unnerved her most.

Faintly, she managed to say, “If you will excuse me, I must attend to some personal business.”

Celia maneuvered a path through the crowd without taking flight or stumbling. She had to escape that penetrating gaze and the discovery that this Northington was not the man she had hated for so long, was not the man she had come to ruin.

There had to be two Lord Northingtons.

Also available from ROSEMARY ROGERS and MIRA Books

SWEET SAVAGE LOVE

SAVAGE DESIRE

WICKED LOVING LIES

A Reckless Encounter
Rosemary Rogers

www.mirabooks.co.uk

To my family

To all my readers, lifelong and new. I cherish your loyalty much more than I can say. And to my wonderful editors at MIRA Books, Dianne Moggy and Martha Keenan. Here’s to a glorious future!

CONTENTS

PART I

PROLOGUE

PART II

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

PART III

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

PART IV

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

EPIGRAPH

EPILOGUE

PART I

“The heart has reasons of which reason has no knowledge.”

—Pascal, Pensées

Prologue

Georgetown, District of Columbia

1810

Danger wore an elegant coat and arrogance. When twelve-year-old Celia Sinclair opened the door that cool autumn evening, a tall man with features as sharp as a hawk stood on the stoop. His voice was impatient and brusque, the words clipped, the accent unmistakably British.

“I have come to visit Madame.”

When she did not reply, but continued to stare at him, he added impatiently, “This is the home of Léonie St. Remy, is it not?”

Celia smoothed her hands over the blue kersey of her dress, suddenly aware of how shabby she must look. “Madame Sinclair is busy at the moment, sir. If you will leave your card, I will—”

“My card? Rather pretentious of you, considering this humble abode, I think. Go and fetch your mistress, girl.” He pushed her hand away when she moved to close the door, and wedged his body inside. “Inform her that Lord Northington wishes to see her at once.”

Brown eyes stared down at her from a face pitted with the faint remnants of scars. His mouth was full, his cheekbones high and stark, the slash of black eyebrows a marked contrast to his powdered hair.

This was Lord Northington, the man her mother had once said was a beast!

“Don’t stand there gaping at me, girl,” he said sharply. “I’ll see you’re dismissed from your post for this impertinence. Fetch Madame at once!”

“I am not a servant, my lord,” she replied, crossing her arms over her chest. “I have no intention of fetching Madame. Leave your card, and when she returns, I shall give it to her.”

“Impudent brat,” he spat. “I know she’s here. I followed her.” Even in the gloom, she could see the hot flare of anger in his eyes, the white lines that cut grooves on each side of his mouth as he grated, “It would serve you best to do as you’re told. The consequences can so often be…unpleasant.”

Celia’s brief spurt of courage failed her. She took a backward step, her heart hammering fearfully in her chest.

“You have no authority here!”

“I have no intention of remaining here to bandy words with an insolent brat.”

Ignoring her choked cry, he brushed past her. Boot-steps echoed loudly on the bare wooden floors as he moved down the hallway to the tiny parlor. His glance into the empty room was dismissive, his lip curled.

Celia saw it as he must see it, so bare now of the once lovely furnishings; not even linen scarves were left to adorn the single drum table that had yet to be sold, and the upholstered settee looked alone and forlorn in front of the cold fireplace. The years of deprivation since her father’s death were obvious, the remnants of their once comfortable life pitiful. Northington moved past the parlor.

“You must not!” she cried as he pushed open the door that led to the kitchen. Panic drove her, and unreasoning fear that he meant to harm her mother. She caught at his sleeve, but he jerked free.

The covered walkway was short, and he closed the distance in only three strides, then pushed open the door. “There you are, Madame!”

His change from contemptuous to beguiling was instant and shocking. Celia hung back, trembling as her mother turned to face the intruder with a serenity that belied the taut set of her mouth. Blond hair waved back from her high, intelligent forehead, and green eyes studied the man with an emotion Celia couldn’t interpret. Fear? Disdain?

“Lord Northington. This is certainly a surprise.”

“A pleasant one, I trust.”

“Would it matter if it were not, my lord?”

It was said lightly, but Celia recognized the steel beneath her mother’s velvet tone. Behind her, Old Peter stood silent and stiff, disapproval radiating from his dusky face.

Maman and the viscount spoke French, the language lending itself to subtle nuances that even a child could identify.

“My dear Madame,” Northington said with a soft laugh, “I crave your approval as none other.”

“Would that were true, my lord. Tell me what brings you to my home.”

“Need you ask?”

Celia saw her mother flush.

“Not in front of my daughter, if you please, my lord!”

“Your daughter? This pretty child?” He turned toward Celia. “I should have known. That glorious fair hair and green eyes are too exquisite to be duplicated in mere dross. Come here, child, and tell me your name.”

Though she made no effort to move, her mother stepped in front of Celia as if to protect her. She gazed coolly at Northington as she said, “Stay here, little one. Peter will serve your supper.”

“But I wish to wait for you, Maman.”

“I will return to you soon, my love.”

Old Peter put a hand on Celia’s shoulder when she would have protested more, and she fell silent as her mother preceded Northington from the kitchen. The clatter of a pot lid made a staccato sound. After a moment, Old Peter said softly, “He is bold, that one. To come here after her—”

“I do not like him.” Celia jerked away from Peter’s grasp to go to the kitchen door. A hard knot formed in her chest. “He is quite rude. Maman does not like him, either. I saw it in her eyes.”

She whirled around to face the old man. “Do you think he’ll hurt her?”

Old Peter shook his head, but she noticed that his hand trembled slightly as he ladled soup into a bowl. Steam rose in a thin cloud from the pot.

“He would not dare, lamb. Not even an English lord can escape the law. Here. Come and sit down. Eat your soup, and some of these apples you love. The bread—Did you bring back Madame’s market bag from the front room?”

“Oh. I forgot it…Shall I go and fetch it? I left it at the front door when he came.”

“No. No, I’ll get it. You stay here and eat, child.”

Celia sat on the long bench drawn up to the scarred oak table that was incongruously set with the silver and a few pieces of china—remnants of better days. She was no longer hungry. Not even the apples were tempting.

Glumly she watched her soup cool, waiting for Old Peter’s return with the bread Maman had bought on her way home from teaching French to the children of wealthy townspeople.

Time passed and she began to fret. What could be taking so long? Why had Old Peter not returned? And where was Maman?

Finally, as the fire dimmed and the usually warm kitchen grew cool, Celia abandoned her untouched soup. It had grown even colder outside; as she crossed the breezeway to the main house, the wind tugged at her blue dress and loosened pale coils of her hair from beneath the white cap she wore. The smell of winter was in the air.

Shivering, she eased into the house and paused, uncertain. It was ominously quiet. The tall case clock that Maman had said now belonged to a new owner ticked softly in the hallway. A lamp had been lit, a thin thread of light from beneath a door guiding her down the hallway.

A feeling of dread enveloped her as she reached the parlor door; it was partially open. She began to shake. It was so quiet, deathly quiet…

“Maman?” Her hand spread on the door and pushed; it didn’t move. No sound greeted her as she wedged her body into the parlor. A low lamp burned in a wall sconce, casting the settee into a stark silhouette that seemed suddenly ominous. Her heart thudded painfully as she took a step into the room, glancing down at the obstruction holding the door. A scream locked in her throat.

Old Peter lay there motionless. His mouth was agape, his eyes closed. She knelt beside him, but he made no sound when she whispered his name. His dark face was so still.

Panic nearly paralyzed her, but she rose again and turned, walking toward the settee. Boards creaked beneath her feet, familiar but now much too loud in the soft gloom.

“Maman?”

It was a faint whisper, tentative and afraid. Her hand curled over the back of the settee, the horsehair-stuffed upholstery unyielding beneath the pressure of her clutching fingers. A bundle of rags lay upon the seat, shapeless and bulky.

But when she slipped around the end of the settee to inspect further, the bundle moaned softly.

“Maman! Oh, Maman!”

A feeble hand reached out for her, and then Celia saw that her mother’s skirts were up around her waist, her lower body naked. Immediately she pulled the skirts over Maman’s legs, then knelt beside her.

“Maman—you’re hurt! And Old Peter won’t wake. I must fetch the physician.”

“No…” The moan formed a refusal.

“But you’ll die, and Old Peter is so still…I’m afraid for you and I don’t know what to do!” Sobs thickened her words and she felt her mother’s hand graze her cheek in a comforting gesture.

“Help…Peter. I’m…fine. Truly. Go to Peter.”

But Old Peter was past help, dead from a grievous blow to the side of his head.

Celia spent the next few weeks in a daze. Maman had never been very strong, and now her meager reserves of strength were depleted by Lord Northington’s brutal rape. He had hurt much more than just her body; the light had gone from Léonie’s eyes, leaving behind an empty shell.

Anger sparked, the helpless rage of a child who has lost all comfort and security.

Léonie tried to recover; she dragged herself from the bed to do the sewing that helped to support them, but her heart was no longer in it. Northington had destroyed something inside her that Celia couldn’t understand.

“It is no use, petite,” Maman said sadly when Celia insisted she go to the authorities again. “They do not see me, do not care to see me. And it no longer matters. He’s gone now, back to England.”

“But we have papers. I read them, Maman! Charges were brought—”

“Against a man who is inviolate, a peer of the realm with access to money for bribes. Not even Peter’s murder will be avenged, so my charge is even less likely to be acknowledged. I am familiar with the advantages of power, my petite. Once, I lived with it. I know what it can do, what it can accomplish. It is no use to fight it.”

“No!” Celia raged, her voice almost a howl that alarmed her mother. “He has to pay for what he’s done, Maman. He has to be punished! Where is the justice? Why can he escape—”

Léonie grabbed her close, held her as tears wet their cheeks. “Justice is not always in this life,” she said at last, stroking Celia’s hair with a trembling hand. “I have seen too much to expect evil deeds to always be punished.”

Anger and resentment burned inside Celia’s breast, but she held her tongue. It only made things worse to remind Maman of what had happened. But one day—one day she would find a way to make Lord Northington pay for what he had done!

PART II

“And whatever sky’s above me,

Here’s a heart for any fate.”

—Lord Byron

LONDON, ENGLAND

September, 1819

1

Traveling under the name St. Clair, Celia stared over the rail of the ship nosing a watery trough up the Thames. It had been a tedious voyage save for a storm that she’d been convinced would destroy them all. But now she was here at last. At last! She knotted her hands in the folds of the reticule she carried; a letter crackled softly in the velvet bag. It was her future, the letter to Maman’s cousin, Jacqueline Fournier Leverton. Jacqueline and Léonie St. Remy had fled Paris during that bloody Revolution that had cost so many lives. Jacqueline had married an English baron, while Léonie wed the dashing American captain Samuel Sinclair and left England behind forever.

Perhaps Léonie had worried what might happen one day, for, when Celia was still an infant, she’d written a letter to her cousin about her daughter. She’d kept Jacqueline’s reply, her promise to stand as godmother to the child she hoped to one day meet. That letter was old, the pages yellowed and the ink faint, but it would serve as a letter of introduction to this godmother Celia had never met.

And now the time had come. So many fears, so much pain and heartache behind her…but she would let nothing stand in her way. Not now. Not after so many years.

Coming to England was not just the start of a new life, it was an act of vengeance. For nearly ten years, she had hated Lord Northington. At times, it had been all that let her feel alive.

Celia’s hands tightened on the ship rail as the London docks grew sharper in the gray mist that cloaked the river and hazed the forest of tall, swaying masts that looked like so many reeds choking the waterway. Shrouds seemed to part sullenly as the prow eased through debris and water, a lingering fog that diffused the sharper outlines of the city’s gray spires and forbidding towers.

So close, so close. It was nearly time now…all the planning, and now she was here at last. Maman would have wanted her to come to England.

Maman.…

It was nine years since her death, nine years since Celia had watched helplessly as Léonie bled to death in the childbed. Her infant son had lived only a few minutes more than his mother, Northington’s babe drawing only a few gasps of air. They were buried together, a simple grave in a corner of the cemetery where paupers were granted space for their eternity.

At thirteen, Celia had found herself orphaned and alone. There had been no relatives to take her in, no one but the kind nuns at a foundling home. As Léonie had once done, Celia taught French to students, saving every penny she earned through the years. Even after her eighteenth birthday, she’d stayed on, saving her money, a goal firmly fixed in her mind, her sworn revenge keeping her strong.

It was the death of her mother that had formed the need for vengeance, formed the burning desire to find Northington and, if nothing else, confront him with his crimes. Why should he be allowed to forget the woman he had raped or the old man he had killed? Didn’t she live with their memories every day, the pain as fresh at times as it had been when she’d lost them? Yes, and Northington would soon find a reminder of what he’d done on his doorstep.

In the reticule with the letter to Lady Leverton was a document with the old charges against the viscount. It bore the seal of the Georgetown magistrate where it had been filed so many years before—the only proof of Northington’s crime. A charge of murder still held weight even after so long, though the death of a freed slave had not been important enough to halt Northington’s flight.

But it was important to me, Celia thought fiercely as the docks became more visible in the fog. Old Peter was still a sharp memory, she’d never forget him.

It was the careless indifference that rankled most, the viscount’s arrogant claim that the old man had assaulted him. It had been a farce, a travesty of justice.

But Celia intended to see that he acknowledged his acts, to expose him for the cruel killer that he was and to seek justice for the wrongs done not only to Old Peter, but to her mother and an innocent babe.

The nuns had taught her a great deal about atonement for sins committed, and she would educate Northington. He would have his name shamed in the society he kept, and endure the scourge of public scorn. I just hope he’s still alive to suffer it! she thought fiercely.

A chill wind blew across the decks, but she paid no heed to it, or to the sidelong glances she received from some of the deckhands. Most of the passengers aboard ship were from America, but the Liberty had briefly docked in Liverpool the day before, and several men had boarded for the trip around the southern coast of England to London. For the most part, they seemed inoffensive, though she had noticed one man in particular who stood out from the others.

Tall, dark, with an inbred arrogance that reminded her far too clearly of the kind of man she detested, he remained aloof from the others, keeping company instead with the captain of the vessel as if they were old friends. Yet there was an air about him that drew her attention, though she would have denied it if anyone had noticed her interest. It might be his self-assurance, or even his lean good looks, but she found her gaze drawn to him when he came onto the upper deck.

He was dressed casually in tight-fitting buff trousers and knee-high jackboots, his white shirt and open coat giving him the appearance of a country squire.

But there was something primitive, predatory about him, as if he was a man accustomed to command and instant obedience. His lean face was like the blade of a hatchet, the features too well-defined to belong to a simple squire. He seemed—dangerous.

Leaning against the wall of the deckhouse, he was engaged in conversation with the first mate, but happened to glance up and catch her staring at him. A mocking smile tucked the corners of his mouth inward, and he inclined his head in her direction to acknowledge her gaze.

Celia flushed and looked casually away, as if she’d only been searching for a companion.

Fortunately Mister Carlisle, a fellow passenger who had boarded only the day before but had already made himself known to her, chose that moment to approach her at the rail, his smile wide and friendly.

“Miss St. Clair,” he said agreeably. “It seems we made it to London in good time.”

“Yes, so it does, Mister Carlisle.”

As the ship glided down the Thames, the decks were frenetic with activity; ropes hummed through the shrouds and canvas snapped with heavy weight.

A brisk wind tugged at her skirts and threatened to loosen her hat. Celia grabbed at the ribbons to hold her hat in place and managed a smile. If she hadn’t been caught staring so rudely at another passenger, she would have been quite cool to Mister Carlisle. Since boarding the Liberty, he had seemed to take a special interest in her, dogging her steps every time she came above deck.

Now his smile was ingratiating, his manner a bit too bluff and hearty.

“So, Miss St. Clair, do you have family or friends meeting you?”

“I couldn’t say, Mister Carlisle. Arrival dates are so uncertain, you know.”

“Yes, it’s so easy to miscalculate, especially when the vessel arrives ahead of schedule.” He hesitated, his brown eyes observing her with obvious admiration. “London is a huge, busy city, and it’s very easy to get lost or taken advantage of if you aren’t familiar with the streets and byways. Perhaps I could see you to your destination, if it wouldn’t be too presumptuous of me to suggest it.”

Her smile cooled. “That really isn’t necessary, Mister Carlisle. I’m quite capable of reaching my family on my own, thank you.”

“But I thought you’d never been to London—”

“No, but one doesn’t have to have lived here to be able to hire a hack, I’m quite certain.”

Carlisle shrugged. “True enough, yet a hired hack is hardly suitable for a woman of your presence.”

He moved closer, his tone shifting. It became more intimate, husky and cajoling. Just his supposition that she would be susceptible made her answer him sharply when he offered again to take her in his own coach.

“Perhaps you misunderstood me, Mister Carlisle. I do not care to be alone in your company.”

Undeterred, he smiled broadly. “You have come all the way across the Atlantic alone. I didn’t think you would consider yourself in danger being alone with me in a public carriage. But since you’re reluctant—”

“Yes, I am reluctant. I do not really know you. An acquaintance made aboard ship is not really what one could call proper.”

He bowed slightly. “I beg your pardon if I offended you, as it seems I have. Here, do let me loan you my city directory. Hired hacks so often take advantage of visitors to London, and he may well try to overcharge you since you are unfamiliar with the streets.”

When she hesitated, he smiled disarmingly. “I have a sister I would wish protected, Miss St. Clair. I would hope some gentleman would be so kind as to offer his assistance should she be in need of it. I want nothing in return but your safety.”

“Very well,” she said, and smiled back at him. “I’m grateful for your concern. What is this directory?”

“It is a map of main streets and routes in London. See, here is the Tower, and this is Parliament over here.…” He traced the route with his fingertip. “If you know your destination, you’ll be able to find the general area on this map, then not allow any dishonest hackman to take you the long way round.”

“Yes,” she said. “Oh my, this map is so detailed and the print so small I don’t know if I can find my street.”

“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.

A gentle pressure of her fingers on Jacqueline’s arm was a broad hint that she wished to move on, and her cousin took the cue at once, ending the conversation.

“It is so very pleasant to see you again, sir. Do leave your calling card. As I wished to show my cousin London, we made an appointment at the dressmaker’s instead of having her to the house as usual. I insist upon being punctual.”

Harvey said hastily, “Yes, yes, of course, Lady Leverton, but I do wish to say again how fortuitous this meeting is for me. I am planning a soirée, you see, and need expert advice. Your affairs are legend for being the most popular, and if it is not too bold, I thought perhaps you would be so kind as to make suggestions.…”

He let his sentence trail hopefully, and Celia hid a smile. This Sir John was much too obvious. He’d not taken his gaze from her since hailing them, and now his hazel eyes were intent as he regarded her.

“How flattering, Sir John,” Jacqueline said. “Of course, I will be most pleased to lend my aid. When do you plan your affair?”

“When? Oh, I hadn’t thought that far ahead yet. Shall I come round tomorrow morning, perhaps, and we can discuss details? I am certain Miss St. Clair will have some superb suggestions as well.”

“You are a brash, forward young man, aren’t you?” Jacqueline’s voice held a hint of reproof that finally penetrated Harvey’s intensity, and he gave her a startled glance, then a disarming smile and impudent honesty.

“Not always. Only when I see a beautiful young woman I wish to know.”

“I see.” Jacqueline lifted a disapproving brow. “And you hope to make a good impression, I presume.”

“It had occurred to me.”

“Then you will be most dismayed to learn that you have not, sir. My petite cousine is not impressed with men who behave boorishly.”

Jacqueline took Celia’s arm and led her around him, turning back only when Harvey said lamely, “I would still like to leave my card tomorrow.”

“Only if your manners improve, sir.”

As they left him standing staring after them, Celia said faintly, “Oh my! That was rather ruthless of you.”

“Do you think so? But Harvey will not overstep his boundaries now, and word will be out that no liberties are to be taken with you. Believe me, it is a much better lesson than one could hope for, and to have Harvey at our beck and call could be beneficial. Too bad Northington did not join us.”

“Northington?” Celia’s hand shook slightly, and she curled her fingers more tightly around the strings of her small reticule. A chill wind smelled of the streets, rife with debris. She put a hand to her nose as if to ward off the stench while Jacqueline continued blithely.

“Yes, I saw him get into a hired hack, but he moved on. A pity. It would have been delightful to introduce you to him.”

A feeling of nausea swept over Celia, and her fingers were clumsy as she fumbled in her reticule for a linen scarf to press to her nose. Northington! He’d been that close and she hadn’t even known it.…

“Harvey is an intimate of Lord Northington, who is far too elusive, I fear,” Jacqueline was saying, oblivious to Celia’s reaction.

She cleared her throat. “Why is this Northington so elusive?”

“Probably because he’s weary of being pursued by so many marriageable women.” Jacqueline laughed softly. “His reputation leans toward rakish, but if a hostess manages to get him to attend an affair, success is assured. He is quite sought after—an unmarried viscount usually is these days. You’d be amazed at the lengths some hostesses go to in order to secure his presence at a ball or soirée. But a man who is heir to an earldom can take his time to wed, it seems.”

Celia sidestepped a clod of debris on the walkway, her tone calm. “So he will be an earl one day.”

“Yes, and perhaps sooner than one would think, as his father has been an invalid for several years now…a most unpleasant man—Do be careful ma petite, and beware of where you step. What was I saying? Oh, yes, Northington is very closely acquainted with Harvey. They seem to attend many of the same functions.”

“Is he?” She cleared her throat. “And you aspire to have Northington in attendance?”

“It would be a social coup. But never fear. I have already taken steps to ensure his attendance. Ah, here we are. Madame Dupre is most strict about punctuality. She’s much sought after as a seamstress and will be able to fashion you some flattering gowns. Oh, this is going to be so amusing, Celia! I’m so glad you’ve come to visit. I needed a new venture to occupy my time now that Carolyn’s future is assured.”

Celia smiled, and during the next two hours endured the prodding and poking of the seamstress as she measured her for new gowns, exclaiming over her unusual height and slender proportions.

“But you are so tall, mademoiselle! And such long legs. Rarely have I seen a woman with your proportions. It is a pleasure to fit you for gowns. So many of these English misses have figures like boards, so petite and with no female curves. Made like boys, they are, But you! Ah, you are magnificent!”

Feeling awkward, Celia managed an appropriate murmur in reply, and caught Jacqueline’s amused gaze on her.

“She is not accustomed to such praise, Madame Dupre,” Jacqueline said briskly. “But it is good for her to hear it. She must realize her worth.”

Celia’s chin came up. “I know my worth,” she said quietly.

Jacqueline laughed. “Yes, I believe you do. Very good! No unnecessary modesty, I’m pleased to see. But she is correct, you know, Celia. You are most unusual. I predict you will be a success.”

“Are you certain you wish to do this? I had not thought it important.” Celia frowned slightly. “It seems a great deal of trouble just to introduce me to your friends.”

“Ah, but it is not just to introduce you to my friends, my dear. We intend to snare you a wealthy husband, just as my own Caro has done. Of course, her marriage was arranged years ago, but before she settles into married life, I wish her to enjoy herself. But you—you have so much promise! Already there is interest. You saw your effect on Sir John, did you not? He was absolutely tripping over his own feet to talk to you. And as I said, he has extensive connections of the right sort. In London, it is imperative to be well connected.” She paused, glanced at Madame Dupre and said a bit wistfully, “In France, it was much the same. But we did not worry about appearances so much as they do here, for we were all secure in our proper places. And, of course, we all knew we were lovely and well dressed!”

Madame Dupre joined her in soft laughter, and Celia let her mind wander. If Sir John was close companions with Lord Northington, she fully intended to expand upon their brief acquaintance. Through Harvey, she could learn much about her quarry. And quarry he was, though Northington may not know it. Would he remember her? Would he even recognize the woman in the girl he had once known? Did he ever think about Léonie Sinclair, or had she been only one more woman he’d used and cast aside as unimportant.

Anger burned deeply, a low, smoldering blaze that never eased, never altered, and she thought of how delicious it would be to ruin Northington. He would pay, in whatever way she could manage, for Old Peter’s death as well as her mother’s. Everyone in London would know what he had done. If she could, she would see him hanged for murder. But that was unlikely. Vengeance would have to be tempered with practicality.

“Child,” Madame Dupre said with a puzzled look on her face, “you are so stiff, like a board! Please, you must not worry that I will stick you with a pin. I’ve not wounded many of my clients.”

Celia managed a laugh. “Forgive me, madame. I was thinking of something else. A sudden memory.”

“It must be something dreadful, to make you so stiff.”

“Yes. It was.”

“Poor child,” Jacqueline said. “You have suffered so much sorrow.”

“Not so very much,” Celia said. “Not as much as many others have suffered.”

“Perhaps you are right.” Jacqueline lapsed into a sorrowful silence that was shared by Madame Dupre, another French emigré who had fled Paris during the terrible revolution.

So many, Celia had learned during her short time here, had survived horrors. It was no wonder her mother had shied away from discussing those dark days, but spoke instead of the happier times—her love for her husband and their meeting in London.

“But come,” Madame Dupre said briskly after a moment, “we must not dwell on those things. They are past now, and we must think only of the coming Season. It will be most exciting this year, I believe, as the Prince of Wales has already begun making preparations for a grand fête.…”

As the two women chattered in French about the coming galas, Celia lifted her arms obediently as she was measured and turned this way and that, while the talk turned to silk versus satin for evening, and of course, how low should the décolletage be this year without inviting scandal.

“But I think, with her height, that she should wear the newest fashion,” Madame Dupre announced. “Waists are dropping, but necklines are still low enough to tempt the eye without being too risqué. A pointed bodice perhaps. Off the shoulders, of course, with long gloves to the elbow. No oversleeves are necessary, for she has such lovely slender arms. For this ball, tulle over white satin, do you not think? Four rouleaux?”

“No,” Jacqueline said thoughtfully. “I think perhaps flounces edged with a rollio, and the underskirt with a rouleau…definitely white for her first ball, though not that glaring white against her pale skin. And a sash of celestial blue would be so lovely…a complement to Caro’s gown as well. What a striking pair they will be!”

Jacqueline’s daughter had already been fitted for her gowns, and she had declined to accompany them for Celia’s fittings. Though not antagonistic, Carolyn was very reserved in her welcome, and there had been a certain restraint between them at first.

It had been Carolyn who dictated the rudiments of proper address, the tangle of titles so confusing that Celia made her laugh with her errors.

“No, no,” Caro had said when she mistakenly referred to a duke as Sir Charles. “Dukes are always your grace, or the duke of Marlborough, never Sir. His son would be called my lord, as would a viscount, marquess or earl. And never call anyone Lord John unless he is a younger son of a duke or marquess. It’s simple, really, if you can remember that the only nobles are princes and dukes. Everyone else, even earls, are commoners. All male peers except dukes are called Lord whatever their title name is, do you see?”

“No,” Celia said frankly, and Carolyn had laughed, easing some of the first tension between them.

“We shall continue our lessons until you know it all very well,” Caro had assured her, and the past week had been devoted to lessons in protocol as well as titles.

Oh, it was all so much to learn, and nothing could have properly prepared her for the vast differences. Soon it would all be put to the test.

After her first resistance, Celia was now glad she had yielded to the inevitable. It would give her access to Northington.

“And it is, after all, only the small Season, so you need not feel overwhelmed,” Jacqueline had said gaily. “It is quite entertaining with everyone arriving back in London after the summer heat.”

So it would be endured to achieve her goal. After that, obscurity, no doubt, and a return to America where her services would always be in demand as a French tutor. As long as she allowed no scandal to follow her…

The fickle vagaries of human nature allowed a man like Northington to ignore murder yet condemned a woman who was innocent of all crime. The memory of Maman’s shame would haunt Celia for the rest of her life.

A pregnant widow of two years was not allowed in decent homes, regardless of the circumstances. At times Celia thought bitterly that what had really killed Maman was the humiliation she had suffered.

It was true Celia was only a child then, but she’d been old enough to recognize her mother’s torment, and old enough to vow vengeance on the man responsible.…

Now, at last, she was old enough to carry out that vengeance.…

4

“Why must you take such vulgar modes of transport, Colter? You have a perfectly lovely carriage-and-four at your disposal. It’s unseemly to travel about London in hired hacks.”

Colter leaned forward, gave his mother the customary peck on her cheek. She smelled of lavender, a familiar, powdery fragrance he always associated with her. He straightened, a dark brow cocked.

“You make it sound as if I arrived in the butcher’s cart.”

“You might as well have.” Lady Moreland flicked an elegant hand at the maid to indicate where she wished her breakfast tray set. When the servant had gone, she turned to regard her son with an arched brow. “I’m pleased you found time to visit me. I began to wonder if I had offended you in some way.”

Colter braced one arm atop the mantel where a cheery fire burned behind brass firedogs. “You know why I don’t come more often.”

“Yes. I do.” She perched daintily upon an upholstered settee, still youthful and graceful despite her years. “Your father has inquired about you.”

“Has he.” Colter shifted restlessly. “Why?”

“Can a father not inquire about his son without undue suspicion?”

“Other fathers, perhaps. Not mine.” Colter moved past his mother to stare out the window into the gardens below. Stone statuary graced fading flower beds, and a fountain trickled cold water from a jug held by a Grecian goddess. Venus, he thought, though Attila the Hun would be more appropriate for the Moreland garden.

“Really, Colter,” his mother said behind him. “You should make more effort to compromise.”

He turned to face her. Thin sunlight streamed through the windows, creating an aura around Lady Moreland that was almost ethereal. She resembled an elegant stone angel, save for the faint lines of strain that fanned from the corners of her eyes. Her hand shook slightly as she poured hot chocolate into a cup; rich aromatic steam rose in wispy tendrils. She didn’t look at him, her attention focused upon the silver tray laden with biscuits, cake and serving ware.

He scowled at her obvious tension.

“What has he been on at you about? Don’t deny it. You can’t even look at me. Christ above, what tear is he on now that he’s upset you?”

Anger edged his words, made them hard and brittle so that his mother set down the china pot and folded her hands in her lap before she looked up at him.

“It’s that business with the East India company. The new docks that he’s financing have gone beyond the budget, and he’s convinced that his uncle is involved in a scheme to ruin him.”

“Given Philip’s propensity for idleness, I find that accusation unlikely.” Colter shrugged when his mother made a small sound of dismay. “You must admit all the animosity seems to come from my father. While Philip may resent the fact that my father inherited when fever took the first heir, he hides it well enough. And he’s too bloody lazy to scheme.”

“You shouldn’t talk about your great-uncle that way. Or your father, for that matter. Really, whatever has gotten into you lately? You were once quite pleasant. Now—”

“Now I’m the reckless Lord Northington, heir to a title and my father’s reputation. I can no longer afford to be pleasant. If Grandfather had only lived awhile longer, perhaps we could have all been set free. It was a damned nuisance that he contracted a fever and shared it with the only heir capable of decency. My father’s lucky star again, that he inherited after all.”

The countess looked distressed, and Colter cursed his harsh tongue. The same fever that had taken the sixth earl and an uncle had also taken his older brother Anthony, the heir, an unexpected death his mother still deeply mourned and his father cursed.

He crossed the small sitting room and sat beside his mother on the striped brocade settee in front of the fire.

“I’m in a wicked mood, ma mére. It has nothing to do with you. I’ll go up and see him before I leave. I always do, don’t I?”

“Yes.” Blue eyes not quite as bright as his stared at him with a searching penetration. “You always do your duty. You’re an honorable man.”

“Don’t let that get about. I want nothing to sully my reputation as a scoundrel and a rake, if you don’t mind. It’s much more convenient to have anxious mamas avoid me rather than push their horse-faced daughters in my direction.”

A faint smile touched the corners of her lips. “Not even your sullied reputation will divert some, I’m afraid. Your presence at a fête has been requested by one of my dearest friends, and I trust you won’t disappoint me.”

Colter lifted an ironic brow. “How grim.”

“Just make an appearance. You aren’t required to stay long.”

“Which of your friends is ruining my evening with a room filled with chattering ninnies, may I ask? Or do you intend to surprise me—God, it’s not Lady Throgmorton, I trust.”

“No, not even I would be so cruel as to make that demand of you. It’s Lady Leverton. She’s been my dear friend for some time. Her daughter was just presented to the prince and is to be wed next summer, but apparently wishes to enjoy the small Season. She also mentioned that her cousin’s daughter from the Colonies will be presented. A charming girl, I understand. Quiet, and not prone to giggling or stammering. I find that refreshing these days.”

Colter thought of Harvey and the young woman who had accompanied Lady Leverton. He was wrong. London was small enough for coincidences, after all.

And it couldn’t have come at a more perfect time.

“Since you ask it of me,” he said, and saw his mother’s surprise, “I’ll let you fling me to the wolves. Just don’t expect me to linger for the coup de grace.”

“Really, Colter.”

“Ah, now I’ve earned your reproach. I should offer my apologies to you.”

“Yes, you should. But all will be forgiven if you pay particular attention to Lady Leverton’s cousin. I’ve been assured she has excellent manners. Be charming enough to assure her success, but do not be too charming. No sense in giving the wrong impression to either the young lady or to Lady Leverton.”

“Now I see your plot. You’re a disgraceful schemer, and should be ashamed, but I see that you have no scruples at all. You know I hate to be charming.”

“But you do it so effortlessly when you choose.” Her smile was serene. “You surprise me, Colter. I thought it would take much more to wring an agreement from you.”

“You know I’ve never been able to refuse anything you ask of me.”

“Then I ask that you be agreeable to your father. Ah. I see that doesn’t get an immediate response from you. Are you more able to refuse me now?”

“Let’s just say I’d rather clean the Aegean stables. It would be less messy, and far more successful.”

Unperturbed by his observation, she said, “Excellent. Now, be so good as to visit your father before he sends Brewster down to fetch you. He’s already in a rare mood. Try not to quarrel with him.”

Rising to his feet, Colter regarded his mother for a brief moment. She sat erect as she always did, her bearing innately aristocratic. It was a posture he had come to associate with times of duress, an indication that the earl was behaving toward her with more than just his usual perversity. He bent over the hand she held out to him.

“I’ll visit the dragon, but I make no promises. He can hire whipping boys. I refuse to be one.”

“Just—” She paused, then said softly, “Just try to remember his illness.”

“His illness has little to do with his nature. If you prefer to forget that, I choose to remember.”

The countess said nothing, but her eyes held a sorrowful recognition of the truth. He felt like a bloody bastard reminding her of it.

The earl was irascible as always, made even more petulant by his chafing against the infirmity that kept him confined to his chamber most of the time. His valet, Brewster, hovered nearby, tending him solicitously despite the old man’s impatience.

“It’s about time you had the decency to answer my summons,” Moreland growled, glaring at Colter from beneath a heavy shelf of brow. “You’ve become damned insolent.”

“Yes. Is there something specific you wished to speak with me about?”

Moreland’s glare held evidence of his old vigor, but his hand shook as he gripped the coverlet over his legs with a knotted fist. “It may interest you to learn that one of our ships is apparently lost at sea with a valuable cargo. Or perhaps your business acumen isn’t sharp enough to understand what that means to our financial interests.”

The earl glared up at him, his insult left hanging in the air. Colter shrugged.

“No, probably not. Will it affect my inheritance?”

The earl’s jaw clenched; a muscle leaped beneath his pitted skin. “It should have been you who died instead of Anthony. He was a fitting heir, with a true sense of his heritage. Damn you, you’re your mother’s son—a weakling, a profligate without proper appreciation for the Moreland heritage!”

“Yes, I certainly agree with that. Tony should have been your heir. He aspired to your legacy, after all, while I prefer my amusements to be willing.”

Colter’s gaze was riveted on his father, but he heard the soft click of the closing door that indicated Brewster had deemed it wise not to be privy to this particular conversation. The valet was noted for his discretion, a wise habit that had kept him in the earl’s employ for the past twenty years.

“I never know what the bloody hell you’re talking about these days,” Moreland snapped. The bank of windows behind him filtered light that softened the earl’s sagging features but not his harsh tone. “You make these obscure remarks that are completely incomprehensible.”

“Yes, so it seems. Do you refer to the India, by any chance? It is reported to have gone down off the islands near Lubang. She was carrying a full cargo of spices and specie, according to my sources.”

Moreland snorted. “Which we can ill afford to lose. As you are a major shareholder in the company, and now the family representative, you must meet with the board. A cursed business. First, the docks have gone beyond budget and now this! We have creditors who’ll want an explanation for the ship’s loss.”

“No doubt. The obvious explanation will certainly not suffice. I presume Leatherwood has the ship’s manifests and budget reports I’ll need.”

“Yes. Placate the board, Northington. We must have time to recover from this loss. We can’t risk losing investors. It would cause far too many complications.” The earl squinted up at his son, his mouth set in a bitter slash. “I’ve often wondered if my father somehow knew the trouble it would cause me to have you on the board. If he’d only left me those crucial shares…”

As the earl’s voice trailed into silence, Colter reflected that his grandfather had certainly known what he was doing. The former earl had done what he could to curtail his heir’s access to the family fortune. As no doubt the present earl would continue to do to his own heir.

“Do not,” the earl added tersely, “speak of this to my uncle. The less Philip knows at the moment, the better I like it.”

“I wasn’t aware Philip was involved.”

“He’s not. Or shouldn’t be. But curse him, he manages to find out about my business affairs far too often, and I don’t trust him.”

“Such familial devotion,” Colter observed dryly.

“No more so than he’s exhibited for me. He has always thought the title should belong to him upon the death of my grandfather. ‘The younger son should inherit his father’s estate, not the grandson,’ he said. Rubbish!”

“So you claim, yet I’ve never heard a word spoken about it from Philip. He seems quite content with his inheritance. He enjoys being an idle gentleman.”

Moreland snorted. “Don’t be fooled by his pretense of complacence. You consider me ruthless, but I assure you that my uncle has refined the art.”

Colter didn’t reply. There had always been rivalry between the two men, and though Philip Worth—Lord Easton—may indeed be the epitome of a wastrel, Colter had never known him to act with any malice.

Unlike his father, who had acted with malice too many times to count.

The earl flapped a hand at his son, an indication he was being dismissed. Brewster returned to tend him, a silent, efficient valet fussing over the blanket draped over the earl as if there was no one else in the room, as if Colter had already departed.

He left the house without seeing his mother again, his boots echoing in the wide, empty cavern of the entrance hall, the gleaming black-and-white marble floors spotless and sterile. The quiet peace of the house was deceptive. Beneath the facade of serenity lurked a cesspool of anger and corruption. The earl thrived on it. Until his illness, he had instigated scandal and schemes without a shred of restraint. Only his wealth and title had saved him from ruin.

It fell to his son and heir—the unwanted heir—to walk a fine line between his father’s tainted reputation and the necessity of maintaining the facade without being tarnished by the same brush. Publicly he would not denounce his father, but privately, he did all he could to show his contempt for the man the earl had become. It had become a game of sorts between them. A serious game in which winner took all.

Christ, it was just as bitter a regret for him as for his father that Anthony had died from that fever. There were times he felt trapped, imprisoned and raging against the invisible bars of his cell.

He welcomed strife, welcomed a challenge, welcomed anything that would distract him. Why not? It was better than the reality of his situation, the trap that closed in around him a little more every day.

It wasn’t the mechanics entailed in the myriad technicalities of a vast shipping business that he found stifling, for that could be energizing if he was left to his own devices and decisions. But it was intolerable to be in the position of having his every decision supervised and examined as if he was still a schoolboy at Eton.

If not for his mother, he would have damned the title and the money and left long ago, taken the Grand Tour that Napoleon had denied him until His Majesty’s invitation to lead an army against the Corsican. It was not as he had first envisioned touring the Continent, with the smell of gunpowder and stench of death in his nostrils, the screams of dying men drowning out everything but the instinct to survive. He had learned the art of killing, refined it, then been sent home to be civilized once the war ended.

It was difficult. Acquired savagery still surfaced at times, still seethed beneath the thin veneer of civility. So he’d left England for a while, traveled, seen places in the world that were exotic and dangerous. He’d gone to South America, Spanish California and New Orleans in the American South, and when he’d come home at last, it was to find his entire life irrevocably changed.

Had he remained in England, he would probably have died of the same fever that had killed his brother. It was an ironic twist of fate that he’d survived legions of French while Anthony—the heir, the golden son—had died at home in his bed.

There were times Colter almost envied him.

5

Light from thousands of candles and wall sconces illuminated the vast ballroom. Glittering jewels sparkled on bare bosoms and elegant coiffures. Music soared above the chatter and laughter of hundreds of guests, linen-draped tables lined walls and potted plants cast feathery shadows on polished floors. Celia scarcely recognized her cousin’s ballroom. It exceeded her childhood dreams.

It had seemed immense when vacant, but now the ballroom had shrunk to a suffocating constriction of space. For a brief moment, she was slightly panicked. How had she ever thought for a single instant that she could manage this? She was out of her depths here among these people far too accustomed to the trappings of wealth and polite society. Since arriving in London she had realized how far apart her world was from this glittering society. The chasm was wide. Almost too wide.

Nervously she ran a swift hand over the skirts of her new gown, the satin and tulle embroidered with tiny gold stars and ending in a graceful train. It was caught just beneath her breasts with a wide sash also embroidered with gold stars upon lush blue velvet. Matching slippers were adorned with stars sewn in glittering gold threads. The only concession to the cool night was a silk shawl of sheer white, spangled with more gold stars.

Lily had dressed her hair, piling it in luxuriant curls atop her crown and allowing artful tendrils to fall over her forehead, temples and neck. A wreath of gold stars was placed upon her brow, with a matching piece that was attached to the comb securing her curls.

“It is the a` l’enfant style,” Lily said, gazing at her with approval when Celia had stared at her reflection in the mirror. “Ravissante!”

Astonished at the transformation, Celia hadn’t even heard Jacqueline come into the room until she came up behind her, saying with delight, “How beautiful you are, petite. But you should hurry, for we must form the receiving line.”

“I…I’ll be down very soon, I promise,” she’d said, and saw that Jacqueline understood.

The light hand on her shoulder squeezed tightly. “You will be quite the thing tonight. No one will be able resist not only your beauty, but your sweet charm. Just be yourself, and all will be well.”

But would it? Celia thought distractedly that if Jacqueline knew the truth she would not be so certain of success. There were moments she considered leaving rather than disappointing her cousin, but still she stayed. She must face Northington again, must see for herself the man who had brought so much pain into her life. She could never be free until he paid for his injustice.

Now that the moment was here, she wavered between anticipation and stark fear. Yet the face in her mirror looked composed, showed nothing of her inner turmoil.

At last she took the wide, curved staircase to the ballroom on the second floor. She waited, heart thumping an erratic rhythm. It was so crowded, a whirl of men in evening breeches and elegant coats, a glitter of jewels and flashing smiles in a sea of strange faces.

Finally she spied Jacqueline in the receiving line. She was in her element, laughing gaily, reveling in the success of her first ball of the Season. The guest list included most of the upper strata of society, and quite a few were in attendance. Ladies Jersey and Cowper formed a gracious quartet with Jacqueline and Carolyn. Celia knew them by reputation only. The formidable ladies could ruin a young lady’s aspirations with a simple rejection to the inclusion of Almacks, their vaunted club, and it was the single-minded goal of many London mamas to have their daughters accepted into that desired society.

Celia had no illusions about her future. Yet her desire to please Jacqueline made her dutifully agree to all the preparations. It was necessary to feign interest in a suitable marriage in order to achieve her true goal.

Oh, but she truly felt guilty over the subterfuge. Jacqueline was far too kind and loving to be duped in this manner, and several times Celia had hovered on the verge of confession. Only the memories of Maman’s tragic death and the man responsible kept her still silent.

And now she would once more face Lord Northington. Fingers gripped her ivory fan so tightly it crackled a protest, and she relaxed before it broke.

I must remain calm. It is the moment I’ve waited for all these years.…

Would Northington recognize her? Remember the little girl whose mother he had killed as surely as if he had plunged a dagger into her heart?

“Celia dear,” Jacqueline beckoned, a gloved hand urging her forward. “Come and meet Lady Jersey and Lady Cowper.”

Pasting a smile on her face, Celia moved forward to greet the two formidable grande dames of London society. Oh, she thought in surprise when they greeted her quite graciously, they are very pleasant. Perhaps it is just their reputations that are intimidating, though they are assessing me quite openly.

“Will you remain long in our fair city?” Lady Jersey inquired, her lace-and-ivory fan wafting a slight breeze over elegant features as she gazed at Celia. “Lady Leverton informs me that you’ve only recently arrived from the Colonies.”

“Yes. I’m not at all certain how long I’ll remain in London. I suppose that depends upon the kindness of my godmother and her husband. Lady Leverton has been far too good to me, and I’m truly enjoying London sights.”

Emily Cowper leaned forward, fascination evident in her round face. Rumored to be the most accommodating of Almack’s patronesses, she seemed genuinely interested in the American colonies. “Tell me, how does our city compare to the Colonies? Is it true that wild savages roam the streets of cities in America, or is that only one of those ridiculous rumors that so often abound?”

Celia snagged a glass of champagne punch from the tray carried by a passing footman, and smiled brightly over the rim.

“As it happens, it’s partially true. On occasion the natives have been known to visit the city, but for the most part, they prefer their own company. Can you blame them? However, it wasn’t so long ago that uprisings and massacres indeed were visited upon American cities. The retaliation was quite harsh.”

“Ah, I do not understand this American penchant for hostility,” Lady Jersey remarked, blithely ignoring the recent war with France. She flicked her fingers in the air to indicate contempt. “One would think they would be too busy rebuilding their primitive capital to even consider retaliation upon savages.”

Celia delicately refrained from mentioning that it had been British soldiers who had burned Washington and the Capitol before ravaging the countryside only five years before. She said instead, “There are hostile tribes of natives still inhabiting the wilderness, but they remain distant for the most part.”

“How terrifying!” Lady Cowper gave a delicious shiver. “I cannot imagine such a horrid fate. All those brown men running about half-naked and abducting females—they have been known to do that, no?”

Celia nodded. “It has happened.”

“How terrible! I’m so glad I live where it’s quite civilized.”

“You wouldn’t think it so civilized if you were to walk past St. Giles Cathedral,” Lady Jersey said dryly. “All those wretched women hanging about, and even the children ready to cut your purse—or throat—without blinking.…”

As the conversation turned to other subjects, Lady Cowper’s gaze drifted across the ballroom and her brow shot up. “Oh my, do look who has arrived!”

Turning, Jacqueline gave a small gasp of delight. “It is Northington!”

A chill shivered down Celia’s spine, and she could not at once bring herself to turn and look at the man who had destroyed her childhood. She emptied her champagne and gave the glass to a footman. Her fingers tightened on the bone handle of her fan. She waved it idly back and forth, rigidly waiting. Hairs on the back of her neck tightened; it felt as if the careful cluster of artfully arranged curls on her crown were standing erect.

Lady Jersey said, “He arrives late, and does not even acknowledge the receiving line. Is that Sir John Harvey with him? Perhaps I missed his name on the guest list…”

Jacqueline’s chin lifted slightly at the implication, and though her mouth was smiling, there was a glint in her eyes. “I don’t turn away pleasant company. Harvey’s father is a baron, and Sir John I find quite charming.”

“Yes, perhaps. His father is a member of the Carlton House set and quite fast, you know. A gambler, as is his son, but neither is as proficient as Northington.”

“Neither man has the best reputation,” Lady Cowper said with a flutter of her fan, and her eyes held a speculative glow. “Yet he is so attractive, for all that he seems so…well, dangerous, I suppose you could say.”

Lady Jersey lifted her lorgnette to gaze across the room. “You must mean Northington. A handsome man, and yes, so dangerous. Quite the rogue, they say. Very adept with the pistol and the sword, and has been known to walk away from several duels, though of course, that’s still frowned upon these days. How many commendations did he receive for his military service?”

A gleam of naked excitement brightened Lady Cowper’s eyes. “One commendation was awarded for Northington’s courage in leading a charge against Napoleon’s right flank in which nearly every man of his squad was killed but him. But, of course, I’m not surprised that he survived. He has a certain air about him…not just dangerous, but—savage. Yes, that’s it! His skin is nearly as dark as one of Miss St. Clair’s savages, don’t you think? Oh, I wonder what he would look like half-naked. I’d allow him to ravish me, I vow!”

They all laughed but Celia, who managed to force a stiff smile. No one even noticed her silence. But how could they know what had happened to Maman? Or that she was near dizzy with suppressed anger, anticipation and nausea at this reminder of it?

Oh, I cannot do this! she thought. I cannot stand and listen to them talk about him as if he’s gallant or brave, or even human!

But, of course, she could say nothing, and the talk of Northington continued, Lady Jersey once more ignoring the feelings of her companions as she said, “It was reported that Northington disposed of the French at an alarming rate. A bold soldier—and an even bolder rake. He’s cut quite a swath through not only actresses, but several high-born ladies. You do recall that scandal two years ago with Letitia Goodridge? She’s still in seclusion, I understand. Quite heartbroken, they say. Apparently Sir Lawrence has locked her away in the country since she was so imprudent as to make a public scene with Northington. Foolish chit. At least Lady Katherine was discreet. Discretion is everything.”

The ladies nodded approval and agreement, a silent pact that set the standard of the day.

“But do look at him,” Jacqueline said in a whisper that reeked of triumph. “Northington could persuade any woman to folly if he chose. I think he’s a devastatingly handsome man, and from one of the oldest families. Scandal barely touches them.”

“I would think,” Lady Jersey observed, “that would depend upon the nature of the scandal. Ah. He sees us. I expect he will properly present himself now.”

Celia steeled herself to turn and look toward Lord Northington at last, and drew in a deep breath for courage. Surely he was not truly handsome after ten years, when he had not been what she recalled as very appealing even in his younger days. Indeed, if not for his lineage and family’s influence in the shipping industry, even Americans would not have found his company especially desirable.

Nerves jangled, her stomach throbbed and there was a loud humming in her ears as she turned at last to look once more upon the man she hated.

Yet she could not find him in the throng of satins, jewels and lamplight. She had thought there would be instant recognition, that the hatred she had nursed all these years would immediately focus on Northington despite the time that had passed. Yet none of the men present had the face of her childhood nightmares.

Bewildered, she stood stiffly as her cousin moved forward to greet another man. She had a vague impression of a tall man with dark hair, impeccably dressed and with an air of polite boredom in his movements, but her gaze focused beyond him.

Celia searched the crowd for Northington, her eyes scanning faces restlessly, barely paying attention as Jacqueline began the introductions. Only when the hated name penetrated her distraction did she realize that the man before her bore the same name.

“Lord Northington,” she repeated tonelessly, and saw from the corner of her eye her cousin’s slight frown.

“Yes, dear.” Jacqueline stressed the first word. “Surely you recall his name on the guest list. Northington has honored us with his presence this evening, and we are most delighted.”

“This must be the young lady who has captured Sir John’s instant admiration,” a deep voice said, the tone slow, rich, seductive.

She turned her gaze to look fully at the man before her. Her breath caught.

Eyes of a startling blue gazed down at her from beneath black lashes, and Celia recognized him at once as the man she had seen aboard the Liberty. Confused, it took a moment to find her voice.

“Sir John is most flattering if he has indeed expressed admiration for me, my lord,” she finally said.

“I would say he has been truthful, for a refreshing change of pace. Flattery imparts insincerity, but in this case he’s quite correct. You are indeed lovely.”

His sensual voice had a husky, mocking quality that sent a shiver down her spine. He reached for her hand, took it in his broad palm, held her fingers in a light clasp as he bent to place a kiss upon her gloved knuckles. Celia did not resist. She felt as if all eyes were watching, waiting for her response.

Panic swelled, coupled with an overpowering need to escape this room that had suddenly grown far too stifling; the music and laughter and smell of perfume threatened to suffocate her.

But it was his touch that unnerved her most, burning into her skin even through the gloves. She snatched her hand away, saw the leap of surprise in his eyes, heard Carolyn’s soft gasp.

Faintly, she managed to say, “How kind of you. If you will excuse me, I must attend some personal business.”

Aware of Jacqueline’s disconcerted stare and Carolyn’s gaping expression, Celia maneuvered a path through the crowd without taking flight or stumbling. She had to escape that penetrating gaze and the discovery that this Northington was not the man she had hated for so long. But who was he? A brother? Cousin? Or perhaps he was a son…Whoever he was, he wasn’t the man she had come to ruin.

There had to be two Lord Northingtons.

And she had to collect her wits before she said or did something else foolish. Already, she had risked offending her cousin as well as Northington. Her direct cut would not go unnoticed, nor would her ill-bred behavior. It was nearly unforgivable, and she must seek a way to make amends or she may ruin everything.

Celia sought a quiet corner away from the crowd and din of revelry, and sank down upon a cushioned bench in an alcove across the hall. Her lovely gown was not made for sitting at all but for dancing and standing, yet at the moment she didn’t care. Her head throbbed and nausea churned so that she felt as if she would truly be sick at any moment. She should leave, but how could she? To go upstairs now would be an insult to Jacqueline after all she’d done, all the preparations she’d made and her hopes for her beloved Léonie’s daughter to make a decent match.

A burble of hysterical laughter caught in her throat. How can I tell her that’s the farthest thing from my mind? No. I must remain. Ah, I’m such a coward to flee.…

She drew in a deep breath to calm herself. After all this time, if she was undone by so trivial a setback as the wrong Lord Northington, then she might as well have remained in America and let Maman’s death go unavenged.

Rising to her feet, she put a hand against the wall to brace herself as she smoothed her skirts and collected her wits. It was fashionable for females to swoon. Perhaps she would use that excuse, though she detested those who yielded to such feeble behavior.

“Are you ill, Miss St. Clair?”

Celia’s head jerked up. Northington stood before her, his dark visage a mask of polite concern. She considered briefly, then stifled the impulse to flee, and nodded.

“I fear I felt a bit overwhelmed by all the noise. I’m accustomed to a more quiet life.”

“So I understand. Lady Leverton informs me that you’re from Georgetown in the American capital.”

“Yes. Yes, I lived there with my parents until their deaths.” She said it calmly, but inside, a volley of angry, baffling emotions seethed.

How distressing to be reminded—and how dare he stand there staring down at her with that cool, confident smile on his handsome face, as if he knew how attractive he was, how intimidated he made her feel…how his voice seemed to reach down into her with the potent heat of fine brandy…

“My father once lived in Georgetown,” he was saying, “but it was over ten years ago. He rarely speaks of his travels, but my mother tells me it’s a lovely region.”

His father…his father…God, it’s his father who raped and murdered…

“Yes,” she said when the silence stretched too long, aware of his narrowed stare, the cock of his black brow and his faintly sardonic smile. “Parts of it are certainly lovely, though much of it is giving way to new buildings and construction…If you will pardon me, my lord, I do feel a bit unsteady yet.”

I have to escape him, she thought distractedly. Oh, why won’t he go away?

But Northington moved swiftly to cup her elbow, his hand easily supporting her as she eased back to the bench cushions. His hand lingered, fingers strong and demanding upon her arm.

“You didn’t seem the type to swoon, Miss St. Clair,” he said with a tilt of his dark brow.

Perhaps swooning would have to remain the convenient excuse for her peculiar behavior, she thought with angry distraction. She took several deep breaths to clear her head, aware of him so close to her, his hand upon her arm, the heat from his body a raw force that threatened to suffocate her. He was unnerving. And he was the wrong man.

Yet he was Lord Northington’s son…Perhaps not all was lost. Through the son, she might yet reach the father.

Yes…

A faint smile curved her lips as she tilted back her head to look up at Northington through her lashes.

6

Shadows draped the recess beneath the stairs, and light filtered through potted palms into the alcove to barely illuminate Celia St. Clair’s face. Wide-eyed, she stared up at Colter in the thin light. A delicate fineness of bone structure rescued her features from the ordinary and made them striking. High cheekbones, a full mouth with well-shaped lips, a hint of cleft in her chin, and wide-spaced gray—no, green eyes were made unusual by a trick of fate. Harvey was right. She was a prime article.

She was also feigning a swoon and doing very badly at it.

“I’ve seen better actresses in the pit at Covent Garden,” he said when she did not reply to his observation, and saw her eyes widen, absorbing dull light like a cheap mirror.

“No doubt you have, my lord,” she said with a lift of perfectly arched eyebrows. “But what has that to do with me?”

“Your swoon. You’re not faint.”

A smile curved her mouth into a tempting bow, and she met his gaze boldly. “Not in the least bit.”

Her voice was husky, low-pitched and slow, each word a rich drawl. He smiled.

“Ah, then I am to understand that you wished to avoid my company.”

“You’re very astute, my lord.”

Little baggage! It was an unexpected response. He had anticipated the usual demur, the protests that she truly was of delicate constitution—or maybe even a shy confession that she had wished to speak with him alone—but not this frank surrender and even more blunt admission that she did not desire his company.

His suspicions may be wrong; her acquaintance with James Carlisle could be as innocent as it had seemed.

“Am I that heinous?” He moved to sit beside her on the bench. She did not move coyly away, but gazed at him with a steady stare. A pulse beat in the hollow of her throat, ivory skin gleaming softly in the pale light as she seemed to consider his question.

“Having just made your acquaintance, I could hardly come to such a conclusion so rapidly. Did you follow me just to ask that question, my lord?”

“No.” He observed her with growing amusement. “Your cousin sent me after you. A rather obvious ploy to extend our acquaintance.”

“Then I trust you are now convinced I had nothing to do with that.”

“Not entirely.” His eyes narrowed, noting that brown lashes lowered over a gleam in her eyes she couldn’t quite hide. For the first time that he could recall, he wasn’t certain of a woman’s motives. It was intriguing.

He leaned closer, saw her involuntary recoil. “It could be a conspiracy between you to compromise me. You needn’t work so hard at it. I can be quite adaptable.”

“That’s very enlightened of you, my lord, but I fear you overrate your charms.”

She turned slightly, giving him an excellent view of the tops of her breasts above the edge of her bodice—a deliberate ploy that revealed an enticing shadow between them. Tempting. Provocative. And damned distracting.

He dragged his attention slowly away when she said in husky, beguiling tones, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I do not wish to court unnecessary gossip or nasty speculation as to our activities in a dark corner. Your reputation may thrive on such, but mine, I assure you, will not.”

She rose from the bench and he rose with her, putting out his arm to delay her progress, stretching it in front of her so that she halted and turned to look up at him with a haughtily lifted brow.

“You are impeding me, my lord.”

“Only for a moment.” He resisted the sudden impulse to touch a single golden curl that draped over her bare shoulder; it drew his attention back to the pale gleaming breasts, rounded and perfect above her demure bodice.

“If you are through ogling me, my lord, I wish to pass. Please move aside.”

A slow smile curved his mouth. “But perhaps I’m not through ogling you, Miss St. Clair. I find the view most enticing.”

“And I find you boorish. Step aside or I shall call for a footman to remove you from my path.”

She meant it. There was determination in her eyes, a hot, fierce gleam that convinced him. He let his arm drop and she moved past him without a backward glance to glide gracefully across the hallway and toward the ballroom.

Colter crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. Twice in the space of a few minutes, she had given him the cut direct. It was as irritating as it was intriguing.

“I say, old man, looks as if the lady ain’t that interested. I’m shocked.” Harvey loomed out of the dim alcove shadows, grinning like an idiot. “My first opinion of her intelligence has just been proven.”

“Devil take you, Harvey.” Colter watched as she moved across the hallway to enter the ballroom. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

Harvey glanced after Miss St. Clair with a thoughtful expression. “Not at all,” he said with a shrug. “But the lady certainly is. If I were as plump in the pocket as you are, I’d have a go at her myself, but I need a wealthy wife instead of a beauty.”

It would do no good to remind Harvey that he had only himself to blame for his lack of coin; gambling whittled away what fortune he had inherited from his mother, while his father, the Baron Leawood, habitually gambled away his own bank account. “You should make wise investments,” he said, “so you can afford her.”

“What of your shipping investments?” Harvey asked, hazel eyes reflecting the dim glow of a wall sconce that barely lightened the alcove shadows. “Is it true that one of your ships went down with all hands and cargo aboard?”

“It’s always possible. Nothing is known for certain yet.”

“Rumor has it that you’re negotiating to purchase a fleet of steamships now that a vessel has successfully navigated the Atlantic. Deuced amazing thing, the powering of ships by steam instead of sail, but efficient enough, I suppose. These iron monsters are said to be safer, more reliable in storms without the weight of top masts and sails, but bloody strange looking.”

Colter regarded him with a lifted brow. “Where did you hear that rumor?”

Those negotiations were private, and still not yet completed. It was his own venture, since his father and the board were reluctant to take on any new, unproven mode of transport yet. A foolish failure to seize new opportunity in his opinion. How the hell did Harvey know of it?

Startled, Harvey shrugged. “It’s just a vague rumor I heard at White’s—or maybe it was Brooks’s. Damned if I can remember who said it or when. Been meaning to ask you about it. Intriguing business, these new inventions, but risky at times.”

“Any business venture is risky. Without risk, there’s little profit.”

“And you’re a master at taking risks, old boy.” A faint smile curled his mouth. “A hero with a drawer full of commendations and medals. The risk of investing funds in precarious ventures does not compare.”

“I never knew you to be so interested in my business affairs, Harvey.” It was said softly, but there was a steely warning beneath the comment that was obvious even to the baronet.

Harvey shrugged.

“Not so much interested as intrigued, on an idle basis. You know where my interests lie for the most part. I merely envy your ability to spin gold from straw.”

Amused, Colter drawled, “It still takes effort on my part to do the spinning, Harvey. Think of something other than cards and drink and your fortunes will change quickly enough. Marry a wealthy widow.”

“That’s easy enough for you to say, when all you have to do is crook your finger and females flock to you. It’d be simpler to understand if it was only your money, but from the sighs and moans of unrequited love I hear, you’ve something more to offer than mere coin.”

“Yes. It’s called a title. Women may claim to want only love, but beneath the simpering sighs and fluttering hearts you’ll find a tenacious desire for control. They just cloak it in vows of passion and loyalty.”

“Cynical bastard, aren’t you.”

“I prefer to think of it as cautious.”

“You would, of course, deny any involvement with the luscious Countess D’Argent, for instance? Or the ever so lovely Lady Montravers, neither of whom need another title when they have their husbands’ names and money?”

Harvey laughed when Colter merely cocked a brow at him, then inclined his head toward the ballroom and said with a meaningful glance, “Here comes one of your former involvements now. It’s time for me to disappear.”

A whiff of perfume caught Colter’s attention and diverted it to the lovely brunette crossing the foyer.

“Northington, what a delight to see you again. It’s been far too long.”

Lady Katherine, daughter of an earl, wife of the earl of Cresswood, glided toward him on an inexorable course, her scent and smile promising pleasant diversions.

An insatiable lover, Katherine was still a beauty. It had been three years since they’d slept together. The parting had been amicable enough, with both moving on to other partners. Now she was wed to an earl, her goal at last attained.

“Lady Cresswood,” he said politely, and bowed over the hand she held out to him as if they were the barest of acquaintances.

She tapped him with her folded fan. “Rogue. Don’t pretend you scarcely know me. I’ve not forgotten former—pleasures—even if you seem to have done so.”

“I never forget beautiful women or fast horses,” he said with a faint smile, and would have released her hand had she not gripped him tightly in her fingers.

“Sir John,” she said without looking at Harvey. “How pleasant to see you again.”

Harvey promptly took his cue. “And you, my lady. Pardon me, if you will, as I see some old friends beckoning me.”

Katherine didn’t bother to acknowledge his departure, but kept her amber gaze on Colter.

“It’s been far too long, you wicked scoundrel. Are you avoiding me?”

“Not you, but I’ve no desire to meet your husband at dawn under the oaks in Hyde Park.”

She laughed, a throaty sound, her husky voice a purr when she said softly, “Am I not worth risking your life?”

“Decidedly. But no woman is worth prison.”

Another playful tap of her fan on his arm, and she released his hand to run her fingers up his sleeve in a light caress. “My my, we do have our preferences straight. What makes you so certain you would kill my husband in a duel? You might—” she leaned close, her breath a warmth against his cheek “—only wound him.”

“If I’m put to the trouble of meeting a man with weapons, my sweet, I do not leave him alive to try again.”

“I always said you were a dangerous beast.” She drew back slightly. Excitement gleamed in those amber eyes, a golden glow that couldn’t hide the sheen of barely concealed lust. Many were their nights together when he’d left her bed with claw marks on his back, marks she’d made in the heat of passion until he’d sworn at her, jerked her hands over her head to take her roughly, as she liked him to do. Lady Katherine preferred her sexual encounters to be contests, and bloodletting was expected. He had learned quickly enough to treat her as a whore and not a lady. It heightened her passion.

Now she leaned even closer, displaying the generous swells of her breasts. She’d rouged her nipples; they were clearly visible beneath the low bodice of her gown, an invitation and promise.

“I’ve missed you,” she murmured, and he took her hand from his sleeve to bring it to his mouth, lips grazing her knuckles lightly at first, then with his teeth. She drew in a sharp, excited breath.

“You’ve not had a dearth of admirers in your bed from what I hear, Katherine,” he said, and she pursed her lips in a pretense of pouting.

“None as formidable as you, Colter. You’re the only man capable of earning my respect.”

“You mean obedience. Give them a whip to stripe your lovely backside, and they’ll earn your respect quickly enough.”

“Oh, that’s something to consider.”

He smiled, a sardonic twist of his mouth. No doubt, Lady Katherine already owned silken whips and ropes and other toys to play the games she liked. She was a feral creature, with tiger eyes and a body made for pleasure, not for the demure social life a title and money required.

“You’d do well as a bird of paradise,” he drawled. Instead of being insulted, she agreed.

“I’ve thought of it. If I could manage it without anyone knowing my identity, I swear I’d enjoy it. I’d be the most sought after demimonde in all of England.”

“I’ve no doubt of that, little cat. But behave yourself here. Eyes and ears are everywhere.”

She’d slipped her hand between their bodies to run her fingers over his belly and lower, practiced strokes of her hand that summoned an instant erection.

“Damn you,” he said calmly, and grasped her wrist in a steely grip. She only laughed, brows arching.

“It’s dark in this corner, Colter. Let’s step back a bit. I’ll lift my skirts and you—”

“Require much more time than we’d have here,” he cut in. He flicked the backs of his fingers against the soft curve of her cheek in a light rebuke. “Don’t tempt me. I’ve enough temptations.”

“Yes, so I saw earlier.” Unperturbed by his refusal, quite confident in her own beauty and ability to arouse him, she tilted her head toward the ballroom. “That milk and water Colonial with no manners. Lady Leverton presents her as her protégé, but it’s doubtful she’ll be accepted. It will be most surprising if Lady Jersey grants her a voucher to Almack’s.”

“I doubt Miss St. Clair will feel the lack. I’ve not noticed many men here asking Lady Jersey’s opinion.”

“No? Perhaps you’re right.” Katherine glanced toward the ballroom again, her gaze narrowed and thoughtful. “Do you intend to pursue Miss St. Clair?”

“Pursue is hardly the word I’d use, but I’ve never been one to turn down an invitation from a lovely lady. Do you have any objections?”

“Several hundred, but all purely personal. Do give it a try. It should be amusing to observe. I predict she will be quite overcome by your attentions, but hardly swept away.”

Again the folded fan tapped against his chest playfully. “I recognize her type, Colter. Ice runs in her veins instead of hot blood as in mine. You’ll grow weary of trying to thaw her out and seek warmer beds quite soon. My bed is always…very…warm.”

The last was said huskily as she drew her hand from the slim column of her throat to toy with an ornate ruby-and-gold necklace circling her neck. Long fingers idly twisted the ruby pendant that dangled between her breasts, dragging it over plump swells to caress the rouged nipples so easily visible beneath her plunging bodice.

“Ever subtle, aren’t you,” he observed, and her smile widened.

“Subtlety is overrated, my lord Northington. Too bad I didn’t know your brother would die and you would be in line for the title. I might have waited for you.”

“You wouldn’t like marriage to me,” he said bluntly. “I’d beat you every time you were unfaithful.”

She shivered. “A delicious temptation.”

“You’d tire of it soon enough.”

“What you really mean is you would tire of it soon enough.”

“You know me much better than I thought, Katherine.”

“Yes, my handsome, dangerous cavalier, I certainly do. Go now, for I see that the little Colonial has presented you with a challenge you’re determined to meet. When you tire of the cold, I’ll be waiting.”

Colter left the alcove and reentered the ballroom. He hadn’t bothered correcting Katherine. Let her think what she would. He had no intention of explaining his true reasons for being here. He just wished he knew what to think of Celia St. Clair.

Was she a green-eyed little witch who had managed to wheedle her way into a society where she didn’t quite fit? Or were there darker secrets that lay beneath the facade of a guileless American? Was she involved in conspiracy and anarchy with James Carlisle? He was a rum one, and the reason for Colter’s brief voyage on the bucket known as the Liberty. Yet it didn’t seem likely that Celia St. Clair was a part of the conspiracy. What would she have to gain? She wasn’t English and had no vested interest.

Yet there had been deceit in those wide green eyes, a glint that promised hell to pay for the man so bold or foolish enough to try to peel away the layers of guile to get to the truth.

It should be easy enough to do. Yet it should have been easy enough to intimidate her.

But Celia St. Clair had not been intimidated, nor even interested. She had been—indifferent.

He saw her on the dance floor, where she stood out in an endless sea of females clad in pale muslin or silk or satin. She wasn’t the tallest woman there, nor even the most beautiful, but she was definitely intriguing.

She had accepted a dance with Reginald Harwood, the youngest son of a landed baron, and Colter watched as she performed the steps of the contredanse with fluid grace. The hem of her gown lifted around trim ankles as her feet moved across the floor, slippers glittering with golden threads that caught the light.

When Harwood returned her to Lady Leverton and bowed over her hand, Colter moved forward. It was time to get the obligatory dance out of the way, then he would leave.

As the musicians ensconced upon a dais at the far end of the ballroom began playing a waltz, he approached Lady Leverton and her charges, a colorful flock of silken birds still chattering like guinea hens when he reached them.

“Do you waltz, Miss St. Clair?” His question cut across their chatter like a knife. Instant silence ensued at the breach of etiquette in directing his request to her instead of her chaperone.

Slowly turning from her cousin to look at him, Celia made no reply for a long moment, but simply gazed at him as if she had never before seen him.

Lady Leverton spoke up in a bright chirp. “Miss St. Clair performs all dances beautifully, my lord.”

“Then I claim this waltz with her.”

Celia began, “Oh, but I believe that Lord Harwood is—”

“Is dancing with Miss Grantham at the moment. Shall we?” He put out his hand, a challenge in his eyes.

As he’d suspected she would, Miss St. Clair accepted his challenge and allowed him to take her arm and lead her onto the dance floor. She moved a bit stiffly in his arms, obviously uncomfortable, but kept a smile on her face as she gracefully followed his steps. The waltz allowed him to hold her hand and put his free hand on her back, though social protocol demanded that he not slide it any lower than her shoulder blades. The waltz was scandalous enough, but without drawing attention to them, there was little she could do if he did let his hand move lower.

Deliberately he slid it to the small of her back, fingers a light pressure against firm flesh instead of one of those damn corsets women had taken to wearing again. A bloody nuisance, in his opinion, and damned inconvenient to remove. Warm female flesh beneath thin silk instead of stiff whalebone was much more enticing.

He heard a quickly inhaled breath, felt a vibration of suppressed indignation quiver through her.

“Be so kind as to move your hand, my lord.”

“You don’t really want me to do that.”

“Yes, I do!”

He pressed it even lower and she took a jerky step away from him. Not releasing her hand, he turned her in the steps, at last moving his hand up her back again.

She was stiff, unyielding, her face a set mask of white fury and blazing green eyes that narrowed up at him like a cat, spitting fury and uncertainty. Her tawny hair was piled atop her head in an intricate style, fastened with some kind of comb made of gold wire and stars. It glittered in the reflected light of crystal chandeliers.

What would she look like with her hair tumbled across a pillow, those lips parted and her eyes half-closed…A tempting thought.

“You move most agilely for a marionette,” he observed when she resisted his effort to turn her.

“Your meaning escapes me, my lord.”

“Does it? You move as stiff and wooden as a puppet jerked by strings.” He swung her about before she could pull away. “Relax. I don’t intend to eat you.”

Her head tilted back smoothly, so that her eyes met his in a steady gaze. “If you find me unresponsive to your charms, my lord, I can only assume that you wish to charm me. Is that the case?”

Amused, he deliberately studied her upturned face until she looked away. “Are all Americans as direct as you, Miss St. Clair?”

“I have no idea. Do you find me too forthright in my replies?”

“To the point of rudeness.” He smiled at her angry gasp. “Perhaps it’s the custom in America.”

“No,” she said after a moment. “It’s not the custom. I have behaved badly, my lord, and I apologize.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. Her apology was too ready and too glib; he didn’t believe it for an instant.

“Apologies are easy, Miss St. Clair. What restitution do you offer?”

“Restitution? You expect too much, my lord.”

“I disagree.”

The waltz would be ending soon. He steered her toward the far end of the ballroom, a subtle curve that she had not yet noticed. She arched her head to look up at him.

“Your arrogance is outrageous, my lord. It’s easy to see that you have earned your wicked reputation.”

“May I ask why you took a sudden dislike to me?”

For a moment he thought she would not answer, then she said, “Perhaps I do not wish my name added to your long list of conquests.”

“A list that is long in supposition and short in actuality.”

“Nonetheless, your attentions can both elevate and ruin a lady’s reputation. Discretion, it is said, is everything.”

“And so it is. Then it would be indiscreet to dance with you again.”

Her upward glance was oblique. “More than four dances in an evening and my reputation will be in tatters.”

“If that’s the case, I’ll dance with Lady Jersey five times. That would set tongues wagging and add to my wicked reputation.”

“You jest, my lord!”

“Yes, Miss St. Clair, I jest.” She was light on his arm, tall enough that her eyes were level with his jaw, taller than most women of his acquaintance. A faint smile curved her mouth and laughter gleamed in her eyes.

They had reached the far end of the ballroom where a chill breeze filtered in through doors that led onto a wide terrace. Two steps took them through it, and they were outside. She didn’t seem surprised.

“Why did you bring me out here, my lord?”

She eased free of his loose embrace and moved to the wide balustrade that edged the terrace. Reflected light streamed through windows in ragged squares to illuminate her face as she turned toward him, draped gracefully upon the stone ledge. The gown she wore was a virginal white spangled with gold, demure in style yet unable to disguise the lush curves of her slender body.

“I think you know why I brought you out here,” he said, and saw that she did. It was in her eyes, the aware gleam of a female certain of her allure.

Green-eyed little witch. He should give her what she so prettily expected. Lady Katherine’s brazen touch had reminded him it had been too long since he had been with a woman, and now the silent invitation in Miss St. Clair’s wide eyes was instantly arousing. His arm snaked out to pull her close, to hold her against his chest and press her against him. She made some kind of soft sound—protest? Pleasure?—but made no effort to push him away. His hand tangled in the hair on her nape, pulled her head back to give him access to her lips as he brought his mouth down over hers.

She tasted as he’d known she would, hot and sweet and willing. Her lips opened from the pressure of his mouth on hers and he took instant advantage. His tongue slid inside the heated velvet of her mouth, taking complete possession as she made a soft, choked sound like a moan.

He felt her shiver, moved harder against her, so they fit from chest to hips. Deliberately leaning into her, he pinned her between the balustrade and the rigid pressure of his erection. It prodded against the soft swell of her belly, an insistent persuasion, and for a moment, he felt her yield.

An instant later she wrenched free and would have pulled away if he had not held her. His hand curled around her wrist, the other cupped the back of her neck. His thumb rubbed idly over the silky skin of her jawline.

Her lips were slightly swollen from the force of his kiss, wet and enticing. He was tempted to kiss her again.

“Penance, Miss St. Clair,” he said softly instead. “Retribution is now paid in full. Care to sin again? I rather like this form of atonement.”

“No,” she said coolly, more coolly than he’d thought she felt, standing and staring at him with the light from the ballroom full on her face, no sign of passion in her eyes as she regarded him. “I find I’m not as interested as I thought I would be. Now that I have been absolved of my earlier transgression, be so good as to allow me to pass, my lord. I feel a bit chilled out here. No,” she added when he started to take her arm. “Your escort will only cause more comment. My cousin is looking for me, and I do not intend to invite gossip. I’ll go back alone, please.”

“For now, Miss St. Clair.”

Stepping aside, he let her pass. There was more to this “milk and water Colonial” than even Katherine had guessed. His eyes narrowed slightly as he watched her return to the ballroom. This was not the end of it. She was no missish virgin playing a game, but a woman who knew what she wanted.

Just as he knew what he wanted from her.

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