by Janet Woods
‘I’m glad somebody did. The reverend must be sick with worry about me.’
A smile touched his lips. ‘I imagine he’ll be relieved to see you. You’ve made a good friend there.’
His breath stirred warmly against her scalp. ‘Charles . . . let me go,’ she pleaded, for she didn’t want to feel close to him.
‘Let you go? But I’ve just paid one thousand pounds to get you back.’
She knew the remark was an attempt at humour. It was a great deal of money – a great deal, and if love was measured by money she was worth a lot to him. But it wasn’t. Love had no price. It was an exchange of emotion and trust. At the moment she no longer trusted anyone, including Charles, for he’d looked her over in exactly the same way as the other men had, with the need to conquer and possess in his eyes.
‘I was never yours to begin with,’ she said dispiritedly.
‘You’ve been mine since the first moment I set eyes on you, and you know it, Lizzie Carter.’ He tipped up her chin, placed a brief kiss on her mouth and allowed her to remove herself from his embrace.
They turned into Bedford Square, stopping outside the reverend’s house. Tiredness crept over her when the door opened and the reverend stood there in the misty yellow light. He looked like her guardian angel.
‘I’m not yours, Charles. I can never be yours.’ She shoved the satchel into his hands and sniffed back her tears. ‘Here’s your money. I always knew my skills would be used for good one day.’ She gently kissed his cheek, knowing she was heartsick. ‘You’ve been a good friend and that’s all you can ever be. Go back to your club and celebrate with your friends . . . Goodnight.’
He looked at the satchel, clearly astounded. ‘How did you get hold of this?’
‘Did you really think I attacked Bessie Jones with no purpose in mind but to kill her?’ Tears beginning to trickle down her cheeks, she descended from the carriage when the reverend opened the door for her.
Thomas had a relieved smile on his face. ‘You’re safe, Celia.’
‘Yes . . . I’m safe.’
‘Thank God, my prayers were answered.’
Somehow, Celia rustled up a smile to match her mentor’s. ‘Thank the Prince of Venice, instead.’
He looked puzzled. ‘The Prince of Venice?’
‘No doubt Charles will enlighten you.’
‘Charles, I cannot thank you enough,’ he said effusively. ‘Will you come in?’
‘I’ve arranged to meet my friends, sir,’ the man who loved her more than an astounding one thousand pounds said.
His friends would laugh over her predicament and the evening’s events would become an adventure to laugh over, then they’d drink themselves into insensibility to celebrate, no doubt.
‘Rest assured, this affair will not become public knowledge.’
This affair! As though they were lovers, furtive, so any feelings that might develop between them must be kept secret from the eyes of decent folk and would shrivel up inside her – and because she was not fit to become wife and mother, only a bed partner.
‘Thank you,’ Thomas Hambert said, and the pair of them shook hands.
He was a hypocrite . . . they both were. She had never felt so low. Never wanted to howl so loudly, so that her self-pitying tears and mindless rage would wash her rescuer from her mind. Charles was so sure of himself – of what he wanted, and of his ability to get it.
Well . . . so was she! She hadn’t come this far to slip back into the mire. So she called on some false courage, snorted, and walked past them, away up the stairs and into the room she called hers.
The two men gazed at each other when the door shut after her with a rather definite thud.
‘She’s upset,’ Charles said ineffectually, and swiftly outlined what Celia had been through. ‘With your permission, I’ll ask my mother to call on her in the morning. I think she needs a woman’s counsel.’
Thomas could feel only relief at the thought.
Charles thought, as the carriage left Bedford Square, that Celia’s smile had been as brittle as the first crazed layer of ice on the window in winter, and as brilliant as the most delicate shard of crystal when it caught the light. One tiny crack would shatter her, and then she’d be lost to him forever.
A lonely ache throbbed inside him at the thought. Celia was emotional and sensitive. She found pleasure in music and books, responded to his overtures with a shy eagerness. Tonight he’d seen another side of her, a poor, hunted creature with enough courage in reserve to take on a predator. She’d been magnificent in both her courage and her temper.
Where had he taken the wrong turn tonight? When had the game turned away from him? What had she said in the carriage . . .? That the expressions on the faces of the men had made her skin crawl?
Had he made her skin crawl? He’d been acting a part, she must be aware of that. But no . . . he’d seen what the other men had seen, Celia in her nakedness, her small waist and long elegant legs, the tilted breasts jutting against the fragile shift. He’d wanted to tear the filmy chemise from her body, and kiss the triangle of dusky darkness guarding the prize he’d been willing to pay one thousand pounds, or more for. Hell, he’d have handed over his entire fortune for Celia Laws. She was perfection.
He’d not listened to what she’d said. He’d been too insensitive to her feelings, seeing the object of his desire through the heated eyes and throbbing loins of his lust.
She’d thrust the money at him, and by doing so had regained her pride. He’d never be able to buy her, as he’d never been able to buy Lizzie Carter – that had been made perfectly clear to him. He would have to take her on her own terms. As yet, those terms had not been made clear to him.
Some women didn’t like intimacy, he’d heard, and he frowned. What if someone had violated her while Bessie had her held prisoner?
What if someone has? the voice in his head mocked. What will you do then?
He put the question from his head. He needed advice. His mother had always been there for him in the past, but he was no longer a boy; he was a grown man. Still, he needn’t be specific with his questions. His mother would instinctively know what he meant. She always did.
He shouted to Edmund to be dropped off at Hanover Square. ‘I’ll try and get to the club a little later, Edmund, but in case I don’t, the drinks are on me tonight.’
Drawn by the sound of music, he found his mother and stepfather in the drawing room, where a fire burned cheerily in the grate. As he waited for her to complete her piece, he answered the enquiry in Joshua’s eyes with a slight nod.
‘Charles, we weren’t expecting you,’ his mother said when she’d finished, and he crossed to where she stood.
He smiled as he kissed her, elegant in her gown of dark rose, and always serene. ‘I was on my way to my club and thought I’d drop in.’
‘Is the fog clearing?’
‘A little. How is my baby sister?’
‘Beautiful, just like her mother,’ Joshua said proudly.
Tenderly, Imogene touched Charles’ cheek. ‘Your face is bruised, my dear.’
‘It’s nothing, and it’s not the first bruise I’ve ever had.’
‘You have dirt on your suit, your jacket has a tear, your shoes are scuffed and your hair is messy. You’ve been in a scuffle?’
He shrugged. ‘It was nothing.’
‘I’m relieved to hear that.’
How calm his mother was. She had never been one to fuss unnecessarily about him when he was growing up, but allowed him to progress through childhood with his scrapes and bruises worn as a symbol of his maleness, he thought.
‘Are you staying the night? Your room is kept ready.’
‘I thought I might stay at my club. We have a little celebrating to do. Have you anything arranged for the morning, Mother.’
She gazed up at him, head tilted to one side like an inquisitive bird, suspicion forming in her eyes. ‘What’s on your mind, Charles?’
‘There’s a young woma
n I’d like you to call on. She’s had a hard time of late, and I think she needs a woman’s counsel.’
‘I take it the young woman is Miss Laws?’
He nodded. ‘How did you know?’
She laughed. ‘You’re my son. My instincts are alerted when you have something on your mind and I’ve seen the way you look at that young woman.’ Her smile faded as she indicated a chair. ‘Do stop looming over me, Charles, it gives me a crick in the neck. Have you got this young woman into trouble?’
Joshua got to his feet and casually stretched. ‘I think I’ll go and find something to do.’
‘You most certainly will not, Joshua Harris. You’ll stay here. You’ve been restless all evening, gazing out of the window and fidgeting, so I knew something was up. Now Charles has turned up looking as though he’s been run over by a horse and cart, and you’ve exchanged enough significant looks to alert the whole of London to the fact that there’s a conspiracy between you. I intend to get to the bottom of it. After which, he may go off and celebrate with his friends, and you can damned well go with him, if you feel you must.’
The two men grinned sheepishly at each other.
‘Fetch Charles a brandy, and pour one for yourself, Joshua. In fact, you can pour me a small one, too. Make up your mind to it. Neither of you are going anywhere until I know exactly what has been going on.’
Twenty-One
The morning dawned brightly.
Celia was late down to breakfast. Mrs Packer had gone off to the market. Puffy-eyed from weeping half the night, Celia faced Thomas over the breakfast table as she chased a piece of bacon round her plate with her fork. ‘I must apologize for my churlish behaviour last night.’
He touched her hand. ‘It’s all right, Celia my dear. Charles has told me what happened, so I quite understand. I don’t blame you for being upset.’
‘Do you want me to leave your home?’
‘Leave? Why should I want you to do that?’
‘I was rude, and you’ve always been so very kind and charitable to me. However, after what has happened . . .’
‘What happened was not of your doing, and you are back amongst those who love you, and unharmed. Celia, my dear . . . It will take a little time for you to recover from your ordeal, but you eventually will.’
‘When are we going home?’
‘Tomorrow. We’ll be catching the eleven o’clock train. I have to visit my printing shop this morning. I wanted you to meet my partner in the venture, but it would be better if you spent a quiet day, and rested. I believe Charles has asked his mother to call on you.’
Damn Charles for his presumption, she thought. How many more people were to be told of her escapade? The elegant Imogene would probably look down her nose at her now.
There was a yap from below and something furry rubbed around her ankles. She gazed at the black puppy with the white spot, then smiled and scooped it up into her lap. It licked her hand and yawned before snuggling against her with a whine. It was odd how something so small, warm, and silky had such a calming effect.
‘What happened to me is all your fault,’ she told it, then smiled at Thomas. ‘You’re such a dear. I’m glad you took the puppy in, though Frederick will be annoyed when he discovers he’s been usurped.’
‘Frederick is mature enough to cope. In fact, I thought Lottie might like to take care of him. She seems to like animals. I’ve called him Spot.’
‘Very original,’ she said drily. ‘Lottie will be delighted with him. She has a lovely nature and the little things in life please her.’
‘I imagine it’s because she didn’t have much to begin with. You’re exactly the same, my dear . . . only you delight in the emotional, such as the pleasures of music and the written word. It’s as though by being denied proper access to them, you now have a thirst for them.’
‘You read me too well, I think . . . and you’re easily swayed by a sad story, Reverend.’
He got to his feet. ‘I do know the difference between genuine need and self-interest, my dear.’
‘You make me feel ashamed.’
‘For what . . . your vulnerability? I think we both needed each other when we met. I imagine the almighty had a hand in bringing us together, don’t you?’
‘Are you saying he helped me to steal your watch?’
He chuckled. ‘An interesting concept, but hardly.’
‘You know, very few of the poor would consider the almighty a benefactor, unless they can take more out of the offertory plate as it’s being passed around than they put in.’
‘Out of personal interest—’
She grinned at him. ‘No . . . I certainly did not steal from an offertory plate, which is not to say that I wouldn’t have, if I’d been in need and thought of it at the time. Stop being such a provocative creature, and don’t forget to wear your topcoat. You will be careful while you’re out, won’t you? I feel uneasy after what happened, especially since Bessie knows where we live.’
‘I’ll take a cab and ask the driver to wait, if that will reassure you. Just make sure you keep the doors locked while I’m out. Mrs Packer won’t be long and she has her instructions.’
‘Why don’t you invite your partner to dinner tonight? I could meet him then.’
‘That might be a very good idea.’ He brightened her mood with a smile, and was gone.
Celia didn’t want Charles to think her ungrateful, so she wrote him a letter, and placed it on top of his cloak.
Imogene Harris arrived at eleven, and Mrs Packer let her in before going to the kitchen to arrange some refreshment. She settled herself on the sofa in a skirt the colour of toasted almonds, scattered with delicately embroidered sprigs of lavender. The same shade was picked up by her bodice.
Celia found herself the object of a thorough inspection, then Imogene gave a short huff of laughter. ‘You do not look as ill-used as Charles suggested you might be.’
Feeling at a disadvantage in her skirt, which was no longer fresh, Celia managed a smile. ‘Your son worried needlessly.’
‘Needlessly? Charles tells me that he and his companions marched into that woman’s establishment and rescued you. Were you aware of the danger you were in?’
‘Yes, but I would rather die than have him endangered.’
‘Tell me what happened, then.’
‘Your son was magnificent. He pretended to be a Prince of Venice, and wore a mask.’ The horror of it suddenly came back to her, and along with it a touch of hysteria. She found it difficult to breathe, until the woman waved a small vial of smelling salts under her nose. The smell exploded in her head and her eyes widened. ‘Charles was so very brave . . . and I’ll be forever grateful.’
‘I take it that you’re aware of my son’s feelings towards you?’
This woman would not want her for a daughter-in-law, and Celia attempted to put her mind at rest. ‘I cannot help but know, when he has declared them. But you needn’t worry. I’ve resolved never to marry. I’m not good enough for him, especially now.’ She began to hurt inside at the thought of never seeing Charles again. ‘He cannot want me now, anyway. I’m too much beneath him.’
‘Yes . . . I suppose you are. Are you going to indulge in self-pity?’
Dashing away the tears that threatened to engulf her, she said heatedly, ‘I am trying not to, but you needn’t worry about Charles making an unsuitable marriage. I’ve decided never to marry, but to act as companion to Reverend Thomas Hambert and his sister, Abigail. I intend to live quietly in the country and bring up my sister.’
‘How very noble of you. On their largesse, no doubt.’
She bowed her head. ‘It is as you say, for I’ll have very little money of my own. But I will do my best to justify their trust in me by being useful to them in every way that I can. The alternative is to return to the slums.’
‘So . . . You intend to discard the man who risked his life and reputation to pluck you from life in a whorehouse.’
‘Mrs Harris!’ She blenche
d at the woman’s frankness, and was equally frank. ‘You are too outspoken. And just because he rescued me, it does not mean I am, or ever have been a whore. Surely you cannot want me for a daughter-in-law.’
‘Not in particular. There is a certain amount of grubbiness attached to your background, and I don’t think Charles knows it all. I don’t want him to marry in haste, then see him ruined by his folly. But neither do I want to see his regard for you cast aside, as though it was worth nothing.’
Neither did Celia, but she said nothing.
After a while, and with some exasperation, Imogene asked, ‘Why did you return that money to my son? You could have kept it, and nobody would have been the wiser.’
Celia retreated into herself. ‘You’re being inquisitive, and I don’t feel the need to answer any more of your questions, Mrs Harris.’
‘Answer me one thing. Do you love my son?’
Did she love Charles Curtis? Yes, with everything in her that lived and breathed. Not a minute passed when she didn’t think of him. In front of her was his mother, the woman who’d given birth to him, and had loved and nursed him through childhood, as only a mother could. It was understandable that she wouldn’t want him to marry a woman from the slums.
She drew in a deep breath. ‘You must understand, Mrs Harris, that Charles pursued me. It was not the other way around. Twice now, he has attempted to buy me, and in doing so has made it very clear that the price he paid gives him possession of me. Not once has he thought that this attention is less than flattering to me. Were I a woman from a more respectable background, he would not have presumed on such a bargain being anything more than an insult.’
‘Do you love my son?’ she asked again.
Celia didn’t want to disappoint the woman. ‘In all honesty . . .’ and a lie had never been harder to utter. ‘I cannot bring myself to tell you that I do.’
There was silence for a few moments, in which time Imogene rose to her feet. Scornfully, she said, as she picked up her son’s cloak, ‘You are not worth the money Charles was willing to pay for your favour, and I will tell him so.’
A sob tore from Celia’s throat. ‘Do you think I don’t know that? I’ve already told him so. It’s in that letter on top of his cloak. Perhaps you would be good enough to take it with you.’
