The Amorous Education of Celia Seaton (Burgundy Club)

by Miranda Neville

  A quality of desperation in the countess’s voice gave Celia the urge to trust her, at least in a limited way. “Countess,” she began.

  “Call me Julia.”

  “Very well, Julia. First of all, I never heard of any jewel and I certainly never possessed it. After my uncle died I was penniless. If I’d owned a valuable ruby I assure you I’d never have worked as a governess.”

  “That explains why I couldn’t find you. I’ve been searching England for you. It was pure chance that Lord Hugo told me you’d arrived in Shropshire with Mr. Compton. I couldn’t believe my luck.”

  “You came to Mandeville to find me?”

  “I originally called on Lord Hugo in London because I wanted an introduction to the Duchess of Amesbury. As England’s most avid collector of jewelry, she was the most obvious buyer for the ruby. I’m a distant cousin, but not close enough to warrant the notice of the duke. I made up to her because I wanted to know if she had word of the ruby in England.”

  “Did she?”

  “Not recently. There’s a certain disreputable London dealer who was rumored to have it at one point, but nothing came of it.”

  Celia knew she ought to be curious about the priceless jewel, but the whole story seemed too outlandish to be true. She was much more anxious to get to the bottom of Julia’s relationship with Tarquin.

  “So you never really meant to marry Mr. Compton.” She hoped Tarquin was taking all this in.

  Julia gave her a quizzical smile, suggesting she knew Celia’s interest went beyond the impersonal. “I didn’t say that. If I can’t lay hands on the ruby I shall need all the protection I can get and marriage to a member of a powerful English family would provide it. Quite aside from that, he’s an excellent match and a most attractive man.”

  Hmm. She hoped Tarquin’s ears were blocked with wax. She’d been feeling almost friendly toward the countess, finding her quite charming, until the last remark.

  She stood up. “I wish I could help you, Julia, but I’m in the dark. I will tell you this. If someone else thinks I have this ruby, he still does. The man who robbed me of all my possessions is still pursuing me.”

  “And was the tale of the lost luggage a ruse?” Julia looked about the room. “Please be honest. If it’s true we must search it.”

  Celia shook her head. “You guessed it. After last night I used it as bait.”

  Unfortunately Julia Czerny wasn’t at all stupid. She gave the bed a considering look then got to her feet. “I have too much respect for you, Celia, to think you’d risk luring a possibly dangerous criminal into your room when you are alone. I won’t ask who is lurking behind those curtains. I do hope he—or she—isn’t suffering excessively from the heat.”

  Tarquin knelt on the bed and peered through the crack in the curtains to watch Julia leave. Several times during her recitation he was tempted to jump out and interrogate her, but opted for discretion. There was no need for her to know he’d been in Celia’s room, as long as the latter wasn’t in danger.

  Locking the door behind the countess, Celia returned to the bed and tore open the curtains.

  “What do you think of that?” she asked.

  “I think I shall ride over to Wallop Hall tomorrow and have a good look at that rattle.”

  “A ruby might just fit inside the ball part,” she said, creasing her forehead. “My goodness! The rattle itself is very dull and there’s a crack.”

  Tarquin nodded in satisfaction. “I wager your father hid it in there.”

  “It makes sense that he would. It’s the only thing I had from my mother and he knew I’d never let it go.”

  He put his hands on her shoulders. “Yet you gave it to young Aldus Iverley. That was quite a sacrifice and an act of generosity far in excess of its worldly value.”

  Celia stepped back, shrugging off his touch. “I had to do something to repay Diana’s kindness.”

  “What a piece of luck you gave it to the baby. Otherwise Julia might be long gone with it.”

  “Perhaps that would be for the best.”

  “Why? I should think you’d be glad to find yourself the owner of such a valuable gem.”

  “It’s not mine.”

  “That will be a matter to decide if and when we find it.”

  Celia walked over to the window and ran her hands down the open curtains. When she turned to face him, her expression in the dim light appeared uncertain.

  “Are you very upset about the countess?” she blurted out. He didn’t understand her. “Are you upset that her main reason for being here is to look for the ruby?”

  He did believe she was jealous.

  He got down from the bed, took her hand, and smiled. “The only thing about the countess that upsets me is how she dragged my elderly great-uncle up here. Otherwise, I don’t much care what she does.”

  “But you did think about marrying her.”

  Tarquin trod carefully. “I considered it. Mostly to please Hugo. He wants to see me married and a father before he dies. But he should live forever as long as he doesn’t do mad things like undertaking a journey of one and hundred and thirty miles in excessive heat.”

  “So you intend to marry. For your uncle’s sake.”

  “And so I shall. I am going to marry you.”

  “Lord Hugo won’t be happy. He doesn’t like me.”

  “He’ll get over it. He’s old-fashioned. Now,” he said, thoroughly sick of the subject of Julia, Hugo or anyone else when he was alone in a bedroom with Celia and only one garment lay between him and her naked body. “Come here.”

  When he started to kiss her neck she pushed him away.

  “What’s the matter? I could tell earlier something troubled you.”

  Folding her arms she eyed him fiercely. “I don’t think we should do this. I don’t think we should be married. If pleasing your uncle is the only reason, you should find someone who will please him.”

  “I can think of several excellent reasons why we should marry.” He leaned in for another kiss. “Starting with this. I find you extraordinarily desirable.”

  “Extraordinary, indeed,” she said, stepping away.

  If kisses and compliments weren’t going to work, he decided to try logic. “Marrying me is the best thing for you. You have no money or friends. You might find another position as a governess but do you really wish to return to being an underpaid drudge? I’m not rich but my income is more than adequate. As long as we avoid fashionable excess I can maintain you in comfort for the rest of your life.”

  “And I would be grateful to you for the rest of my life. I never had any doubt that marrying you is to my advantage. What will you be grateful to me for?”

  “You would be my wife and the mother of my children.” That’s what women did when they married, after all. What was all this gratitude nonsense about? He couldn’t understand what she was worrying about.

  “If that was all marriage entailed I’d accept. I can fulfill those requirements of the position of wife as well as anyone. At least I assume I can have children. But what about the other aspects of your life? If there’s one thing I’ve learned during my time at Mandeville it’s that I am not cut out for the fashionable existence. I floundered in London last year, although I made every effort to be accepted, and I’m still a fish out of water.”

  “We don’t seem to be able to get away from fish references, do we?” He intended the remark to be conciliatory, to show that he could joke about his former identity.

  “This isn’t funny.”

  “You could learn to fit in,” he argued. “Anyone can. Especially with my patronage.”

  She stood next to the empty hearth, as far from him as the small chamber would allow, and raised an arm to hold on to the mantelpiece. The position stretched the cotton of her modest nightgown across her small, shapely breasts. With one strong leg thrust forward, her wild curls glowing in the candlelight, and fierce resolution set in her features, she lacked only spear and shield to complete the image
of a warrior queen: Boadicea, perhaps, or Britannia.

  “Perhaps I don’t want to. Perhaps I don’t care to win the good opinion of others thanks to your patronage. Perhaps I am bored witless by life among the ton. You belong here. No, you don’t just belong. You lead these people. Even if I were interested in following, I wouldn’t be any good at it. I’d end up a millstone around your neck and an object of pity. I can imagine the remarks, whispered behind fans as we enter a ballroom. ‘Mr. Tarquin Compton and his very peculiar wife. She’s so plain and shabby compared to him. There must be some kind of scandal behind the match for she didn’t even have any fortune.’ And after a while, perhaps, your power would fade. ‘He used to be such an elegant creature but why did he marry her? It makes one question his taste.’ ”

  He listened in amazement to the gathering force of her tirade. Did she believe him so shallow? “Do you think I care what they say?”

  “Yes, I do.” He opened his mouth to argue but she cut him off. “And even if you don’t, I would care on your behalf. Knowing I was dragging you down would heap guilt on top of gratitude. I cannot imagine a worse combination.”

  “Celia,” he said softly. If reason wouldn’t work, he’d try seduction. He stood over her and trailed his fingers over her face, along the line of her jaw, and down her neck. She trembled at his touch. “What can I say to convince you that you are wrong? That we would have a happy marriage? What can I do to convince you?”

  “Tell me one thing I could do for you that would make you grateful to me. And I don’t mean sharing your bed and bearing your children.”

  Tarquin thought bed-sharing an excellent argument. The best in fact. But he began to accept it wasn’t going to happen tonight and the fact made him edgy. “I don’t understand you. You are making a big fuss and overcomplicating things. I want a wife, you need a home, and we have lain together. I would like to do it again, tonight if possible, but if you prefer to wait until after we’re wed I respect your wish. Let’s do it soon. No need to arrange an elaborate wedding. Just a quiet ceremony with a few friends then we can take a wedding trip back to Revesby. I still have unfinished business there.”

  “That’s it!” Celia waved her clenched fists and shook her hair in a frenzy. “You can leave now. And please make sure no one sees you leaving this room.” She stamped over to the door, pulled it open a crack, and peered out. “No one, for now. Not that anyone would find it unusual to find you wandering the passages. It’s a popular sport around here. But I don’t want you to be spotted near my door, giving you another excuse to condescendingly insist we need to be married.”

  “I can’t leave you alone. Julia Czerny may return.”

  “And do what? Torture me with hairpins until I reveal the location of the Maharajah’s ruby?”

  “Don’t underestimate her. I suspect the lady could do quite a lot of damage if she thought it necessary.” He raised a hand to fend off further infuriated invective. “I’m not staying against your wishes, but—”

  “I know! Lock the door.”

  “And move this chest against it. Here, let me make sure you can move it.”

  Celia flexed her arms and Tarquin remembered the muscles of her upper arms. With some pleasure. It was a shame she was proving obdurate. But little as he was accustomed to placating angry women, he was confident he could do so once she cooled off.

  Celia woke early and unrefreshed. The uncertainties that whirled around in her brain most of the night remained present and active. The best thing for her headache would be a brisk walk, but she’d promised Tarquin she’d stay safely in the house and not allow herself even to be alone in a room with anyone.

  “Trust no one,” he’d said as he slipped out into the empty passage. Withstanding the urge to call him back, she’d barred the door and settled into bed to toss and turn until the sheets were hot and creased.

  Was she mad not to accept Tarquin’s proposal of marriage? It wasn’t as though she had any other alluring prospect. The only alternative was Diana’s offer of assistance. The thought of returning to the governess trade held no appeal, and marriage to another even less. She ought to be casting every lure she possessed in William Montrose’s direction. But to do so when she was in love with someone else would be fair to neither. She no longer found a marriage of convenience, or even of friendship, an acceptable solution.

  How frustrating to have the man she loved propose marriage to her yet feel there was no chance of being happy. She didn’t ask to be loved equally. She knew Tarquin to be an honorable man who would treat her with respect and kindness. In the rare optimistic moment she thought he might learn to love her back. He might even already. He’d said nothing, but she sensed he’d forgiven her for the Terence Fish episode. When the two of them were alone she felt more than amity: a true connection of their minds.

  The illusion fled in the company of others. Every hour at Mandeville House taught her afresh how out of place she was in the world of fashion and power where she swam upstream, a sad minnow waiting to be swept away by the currents or torn apart by the teeth of vicious pike.

  Celia had been a minnow all her life. Without aspiring to whalehood, she’d like to spend her life a little higher up the piscine hierarchy. A humble perch, perhaps: a plain fish, large enough to avoid most predators and too bony to attract the gastronomer. Terence Fish had been a match for a perch; Tarquin Compton navigated the shoals of the beau monde like a sleek glittering salmon.

  Breakfast gave her further opportunity for fishy thoughts. In Tarquin’s absence she was invisible again. Either the disturbed night had made him oversleep, or he’d taken her arguments to heart and swum away. Melancholy recollections of another breakfast and the taste of wood-smoked trout intervened. The lavish display of dishes prepared by the Mandeville kitchen staff offered nothing as delectable.

  The Countess Czerny sat at the other end of the table, the fashionable end. As usual she appeared to be entertaining her neighbors vastly with admirable vivacity. Julia, she suddenly realized, was not the person she presented to the world. She had no way of knowing how much of the countess’s public story was true, but at the very least she wasn’t as rich as rumored. Otherwise, why would she be running around India engaging in shady transactions in partnership with Algernon Seaton?

  Celia no longer disliked her. Instead she felt a kinship with the alluring adventuress. They both presented a false front to the world. And both, if she could believe Julia’s tale, were threatened by mysterious and dangerous men.

  At the moment she was far more annoyed by Tarquin who should be here to escort her to Wallop Hall. She couldn’t wait to see if their speculation about the rattle was correct. If it contained a valuable ruby, could she sell it? A vista of riches opened up before her. Such a jewel must be worth a huge sum for so many people to take such extreme measures. Would it be enough to keep her without recourse to the unreliable support of men?

  “Very lovely, isn’t she?” The courtly voice made her jump. Lord Hugo Hartley was assisted into the chair next to her by a footman.

  “Countess Czerny? Certainly.”

  Celia, who had barely exchanged words with him since he discreetly warned her off Tarquin, eyed the old gentleman with apprehension. Whatever he wanted to say to her, she had a notion she wouldn’t like it.

  Her efforts to frame a tactful reply were thankfully forestalled by the appearance of a manservant.

  “Excuse me, miss. Her Grace requests your presence.”

  “Me? The duchess wishes to see me? Why?” Since her arrival, Celia had received no more than the occasional nod from her hostess, the Duchess of Hampton. She looked at her neighbor as though he would have the answer.

  “You are a guest in her house. I should think that would be sufficient reason,” Lord Hugo said, reminding her of Tarquin at his most supercilious.

  The servant, whom she judged by his lack of livery to be a retainer of some status, helped her pull back her chair. “I am to escort you to Her Grace’s private quarters.�
��

  Mystified, she rose to her feet and prepared to follow. On impulse she turned back. “Lord Hugo. If Mr. Compton should come in, please tell him where I am. We had arranged to meet this morning,” she added, deciding her request needed an explanation.

  Lord Hugo nodded. “I’d hoped to further our acquaintance, but the pleasure must be postponed.”

  Mandeville was a very large house. Although she knew the route from the guest wing to the public rooms, she had no idea where the family quarters were located and soon lost track as she followed the servant though a maze of passages. The transformation of the decor from polished double doors with gilt plasterwork architraves and marble floors to simpler fittings might have struck her as surprising had she been paying more attention. When her guide opened a door and gestured for her to precede him she obeyed without question.

  Instead of a duchess in a sitting room, she found herself in a deserted three-sided courtyard, confronting a familiar sight: Nicholas Constantine, a cart, and a horse.

  Chapter 30

  Don’t judge a book by its cover, or a lady by her title.

  Constantine dragged her, gagged and sneezing, from the back of the cart where she’d been rolled up in a dusty blanket and tied like a parcel. Blinded by sunlight, she caught no more than a glimpse of stone pillars before being shoved down a short steep staircase and through a door. While the Yorkshire cottage had been stifling hot, her new prison was freezing and grew chillier still as her captor urged her along a dark narrow corridor. With his lantern at her rear, she could see little. Her feet stumbled over uneven ground, her bare arms brushed against rough walls of stone or masonry, and ahead she could hear the sinister echo of slowly dripping water.

  Gooseflesh arose on every exposed inch of skin. What was this place? She envisioned a dreadful dungeon in a Gothic romance. They reached a circular chamber roofed with a brickwork dome on which the lantern cast giant, looming shadows. Celia reminded herself that they were merely those of herself and Constantine, not supernatural beings.