Читать книгу A Reckless Encounter - Rosemary Rogers, Rosemary Rogers - Страница 11

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.