He lifted her effortlessly into his arms, held her a long moment over the stone seat, then slowly lowered her until she was in a reclining position with her feet on the ground.
“Let go of me at once,” she hissed through clenched teeth, “or I’ll scream for help!”
“From that timid bird of a maid? She’d be of little help to anyone. Be still. If anyone should notice us, why give them something to gossip about? A simple conversation by the lake is much different from an amorous struggle that could so easily be misinterpreted, I’d think.”
“You are a rogue, sir!” Her eyes narrowed angrily, and she sat up, looking up at him as he propped a boot on the seat of the bench and leaned an arm on his knee. It brought him closer to her, a posture meant to intimidate.
“That’s better, Miss St. Clair.”
“How long do you intend to continue this farce?”
“As long as it takes.”
“As long as it takes for what to happen?” She snapped open a fan, then closed it again, ivory spindles a soft click of sound. “If you intend to ravish me, either do it or take me home. I wish an end to this afternoon.”
He slid a finger along the curve of her shoulder up to her jawline, a light caress that summoned a shiver from her.
“I think,” he said softly, “that you’re in a hurry to be ravished. Ah-ah—slapping won’t do anything but annoy me. It certainly won’t stop me if I don’t want to be stopped.”
“A pity my fencing master did not warn me to always carry a saber,” she snapped.
“Fencing? How modern of you. Are you expert, or is it on a level with your riding ability?”
“You would make an excellent foil, my lord. Too bad you aren’t available as a target.”
“And it’s too bad that you’re not being honest with me or with yourself. I don’t remember that you fought me this hard the last time we were alone. In fact, I seem to recall you kissing me back.”
Her face flamed. Her gaze slipped from his. “You have a vivid imagination, sir.”
“No, I’m much too pragmatic to waste time imagining kisses. I prefer—” he paused, dragged a fingertip along the curve of her jawline, watched a pulse beat madly in the hollow of her throat “—the real to the imagined,” he ended softly, and bent to kiss her.
His finger beneath her chin held her in a light grip, lifted her face slightly to his. He heard her quick inhalation just before his mouth covered her half-open lips.
Warm, sweet, tempting, she made no effort to pull away, but allowed him to kiss her. This time, there was no response, no participation. She offered no resistance, but no reaction. He slid an arm behind her back to hold her.
“It won’t work,” he said against her mouth.
Bringing her hands up between them, she balled them into fists and wedged some distance between their bodies. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said in a voice that held only a slight quiver.
“Oh, you do.” He tucked a curl back beneath the sash of her bonnet, let his hand linger on the delicate whorl of her ear, a slight feathery brush of his finger over the seashell curves that summoned a shudder from her. He smiled. “Oh, yes, you most certainly know what I’m talking about. This pretense that you don’t want me to kiss you is a waste of time at best, bad acting at the worst.”
She relaxed slightly, let his arm bear her weight as she looked up into his eyes. “You have a marvelous opinion of your effect on females, I see. How pitiful that is for you. Do you truly think that all you have to do is kiss a woman and she will fall into your arms? Ignore her station in life, her reputation, her family? I think you’re far too accustomed to your little actresses who must use the few advantages life has given them to get ahead. They must suffer the attentions of arrogant men just to survive. I, however, have other alternatives. Release me at once, or I will scream so loudly everyone in this park will come to my rescue.”
“I’m tempted to test you,” he said, “but there’s time enough for that.”
She stared at him, obviously taken aback. “Does nothing prick your insufferable ego, my lord?”
“Many things. Protests from females who enjoy being kissed are not among them, however. I didn’t imagine your response.”
“No,” she once more surprised him by saying. “You did not imagine it. You simply attached more importance to it than it deserves. Now if you will please escort me back to your carriage, I want to go home.”
She pushed him away and stood up, brushed imaginary wrinkles from her smooth satin skirts and gave him a stare so cool and detached that he let her win this point. For today. Only for today. He swept her an ironic bow.
“Your carriage awaits, Miss St. Clair.” He put out his arm as if they were in a ballroom. After the briefest hesitation, she tucked her gloved fingers into the crook of his elbow and accompanied him back to the curricle.
The vehicle dipped as he lifted her into it, let his hands linger long enough around her waist to make his own point, then he rounded the boot to climb up and take the reins and release the brake.
“It has been an interesting afternoon,” he said as the horses moved forward, hooves digging into the dirt and gravel of the road. “I trust you’ve enjoyed it as much as I have.”
“Probably not,” she replied serenely, and stared out over the open side of the curricle as if he no longer existed for her.
“I think,” he said bluntly, “that you are taking your charade too far.”
“Do you? Shall I tell you what I think, my lord?”
“By all means.”
“I think,” she said softly as he turned his head to meet her gaze, “that you will never forget me.”
“And I think,” he replied with an intent stare, “that I will not intend to try.”
9
It was a dangerous game she played, and she knew it. For a few panicked moments, Celia thought she’d overplayed her hand. He was so…so predatory, that she’d wanted to erase his smug confidence, prick his arrogance.
Yet he was swift enough to take up her challenge.
Oh God, this was so unexpected! She hadn’t bargained for this, hadn’t thought it through well enough. Consumed by the need for vengeance, she had blithely assumed that she could arrive in London, confront Lord Northington and ruin him with her accusations and documents. But her plans were coming unraveled before her eyes.
Now she realized that it would be much more difficult than she had ever considered. The peerage formed a united front against outsiders even though they harshly judged them on their own terms. The earl’s undoing must be more carefully structured, or she would lose any chance at all of getting what she wanted.
What did she want? The complete annihilation of the man who had caused her mother’s death. Justice demanded it.
But realistically, what could she do? Raise enough doubts to damage his reputation, such as it was? Create a scandal he could never escape? Cause him humiliation?
It was not enough, but it would have to serve.
And this Lord Northington was crucial to his father’s downfall. She must not make any more mistakes.
The movement of the curricle had slowed in the congestion of traffic in the park. Celia studied Lord Northington as he handled the horses with expert efficiency, though she did so discreetly. It was rather like gauging an opponent, an odd dance around the truth while she considered her next move.
Sunlight gleamed on his dark hair; he wore it casually feathered over his ears and below his collar in the popular style, with short side-whiskers that ended at his earlobe. Strong bones delineated a forceful nature corroborated by a firm mouth and square jaw. In daylight, he was even more striking than he had been in the diffused glow of candles and crystal chandeliers. It was unnerving. How could this man be the son of the man she hated so badly? There should be a sign of some sort, a mark of the beast to signify his heritage.
But there was nothing other than his dark good looks to recommend him, and she turned her gaze to the
passing landscape of mottled trees. It reminded her of home, the crisp air of autumn that was always so invigorating and so lovely. She and Maman and Old Peter had often gone together to lie in grassy meadows on the fringe of Georgetown, where they would take a basket of food and while away the day with memories and plans for the future.
That had been before, of course, before Papa had died and the world had gone dark, before Lord Northington had come into their lives and poisoned the past and the future.
“You have proven to be more intriguing than I first thought you would be, Miss St. Clair.”
Northington sounded cynically amused, and she shot him a furtive glance. A faint, knowing smile curled his mouth. Her heart thumped in alarm. She’d gone too far. Jacqueline had warned her of the fine line between propriety and presumption.
“Have I, my lord? You sound disapproving.”
“Surprised, perhaps. A milk and water miss from the Colonies is hardly common in London, especially one who claims to be descended from French royalty.”
Her mouth tightened. “Claims? I’ve said nothing to that effect.”
“No, but your cousin certainly has. Do you disagree with her on that subject?”
“Why would I? Lady Leverton is in a much better position to know the truth than I am. She was there in—”
“Another revolution that left behind widows, orphans and impostors.”
“Into which category do you think I belong?” Anger made her voice sharp.
His gaze was bland. “That is something only you know, Miss St. Clair.”
“You speak of rudeness on my part, but your manners lack even the most rudimentary courtesies! Breeding is not an acquired virtue, but something one is born with. It can exist in a lowly milkmaid or an aristocrat, but it is certainly not found in men who behave like rutting boars. I resent your inferences.”
“And am I to infer that you’re comparing me to a rutting boar?”
“If you like!” Beyond anger, beyond caution, she gave him a furious stare that seemed to have no effect on him whatsoever. He merely smiled, an infuriating, maddening smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. A small muscle leaped in his jaw, as if he was clenching his teeth. With a start, Celia recognized his fury.
At last. She had reached him, managed to elicit an honest emotion from him even though he suppressed it. A cold light gleamed in eyes that had turned an ice-blue, narrowed at her now, the tautness of his mouth more of a grimace than the smile he was obviously attempting. A chill of sudden apprehension clutched at her.
Until now, he had seemed dangerous in a distant, safe kind of way, but at the moment she felt threatened. He said nothing, did nothing, but there was a taut, wolfish look to him, as if he sensed easy prey.
She felt hot and cold at the same time. What had she been thinking? This man was, after all, Northington’s son. His father had been capable of rape and murder, why should his son be any different?
With a hand that visibly shook, she put her fingers to her throat, an instinctive gesture of self-protection. She was glad for the maid still in the boot—a witness, a deterrent.
If Northington noticed her distress, he ignored it. His hands were capable, steady on the long reins as the matched bays picked up a brisk pace. The streets of London were no less crowded than Hyde Park. It took longer than usual to reach Bruton Street, and by the time the curricle halted before the five-story house, Celia had composed herself.
“Good day, my lord,” she said coolly, not waiting for him to help her step down from the vehicle. She swung open the low door and dropped to the ground, but her skirt hung up on the seat, catching on the latch. Cold air assaulted her legs, clad only in clocked stockings. She twisted to free herself, glared at the maid sitting bug-eyed in the boot and said, “Get out and help me, Janey.”
To her chagrin, Northington leaned across the seat before the maid could move, easily disengaging the velvet and braid hem. “An enticing view, Miss St. Clair,” he said with a wicked lift of his brow, and only laughed when she jerked her skirt free of his grasp.
An ignominious end to an afternoon that was already difficult.
It would be a miracle if she ever saw him again. Oh, not that she minded that so very much! But without Lord Northington, she must plan another way to reach the earl.
Celia St. Clair eased from his mind when Colter reached the offices of Messrs. Guiterrez and Barclay. A most unlikely pair to be in business together, they were quite successful. Their office overlooked the East India Dock, a massive stretch of warehouses and swaying ships’ masts. It was noisy, crowded, and already the area was overflowing. There was talk of new docks to be built in the area now housing St. Katherine’s Hospital east of the Tower. It would ease some of the congestion, and get rid of the wretched slums. Shipping interests thrived.
“My lord,” Barclay greeted him, “we’ve been expecting your arrival.”
Colter took the chair he was offered, but declined a glass of port. Leaning back, he stretched out long legs and regarded Barclay. “Tell me what you’ve found. In detail.”
“Ah, yes.” Barclay, a short, florid man of Scottish descent, cleared his throat. Red hair liberally streaked with gray stuck up in odd tufts atop his head, and he had the expression of a perpetually doleful spaniel. “It’s quite perplexing. The India is reported to have been lost with all hands and cargo, yet some items have recently reached a Paris shop. The cargo was mostly specie, but some very costly pieces were included in the hold. Most perplexing is how the ancient Chinese vases survived to be offered for sale—privately, it seems—in a small shop off the Rue de Ile. It would seem impossible. How would the vases survive such a storm, yet no sailor? Most unusual.”
“Do you have a list of the items offered for sale? It is certain they are the same as those on the manifest my steward delivered to you?”
“Oh, yes, my lord. No mistake about that. While the currency might be unidentifiable, the vases are unique. The Ming dynasty, I believe, and quite rare. It’s a miracle they survived intact.” He blew out a thoughtful sigh. “Of course, I suppose it’s not impossible. Wooden packing crates, a great deal of straw—When the ship went down, perhaps the hold broke open and these miraculously floated free.”
“I don’t believe in miracles, Mister Barclay.”
He looked up, startled. “Oh, no. Of course not. I see what you mean.” Bright blue eyes fringed with red lashes narrowed slightly. “Yes, I believe you and Monsieur Guiterrez are of the same mind on that. He has been most adamant that it’s too great a coincidence to be believed. He has come to some conclusions of his own, though I must say that I don’t fully agree. It’s too unlikely.”
“My question is how and where it was done. I was told that the ship went down off the coast of Lubang. If it did not, or if it went down after it was relieved of cargo, it stands to reason that there would be some record of debris washing ashore. I was told there was none.”
“Quite right. None at all. No sign of drowned men or even a plank. All that is available are several witnesses to the ship’s sinking.”
“These witnesses were questioned thoroughly?”
“Very thoroughly. They all told the same tale of seeing the ship attempt to ride out the storm at sea, of seeing it offshore as it broke apart and sank.”
“Yet now some of the lost cargo is offered for sale in Paris.”
Barclay shuffled through some papers on his desk, and held up several sheafs. “Here is the complete manifest and the list of what was discovered in Paris. The name of the shop is listed, as well as the names of the witnesses in Lubang.” A brief smile momentarily brightened his dismal expression. “Odd names, but the translator carefully took down their reports.”
Colter scanned the pages. Then he looked up. “They all tell the same tale to the letter. It doesn’t vary.”
“Yes, my lord. That has been noted. It could be due to the translator.”
“Or it could be that these witnesses were told what to say. Moonrakers.” He
tossed the pages to the desktop. “I presume you’re investigating that possibility.”
“Yes, my lord. We sent men to make our own inquiries as soon as we received these rather peculiar reports.”
“Efficient of you, Barclay.”
“We do try to be on the spot, my lord.” Barclay’s nod reeked of satisfaction. “If I do say so myself, we have excellent employees who are very thorough. Nasty business, luring ships onto the rocks just to get the cargo. Utter disregard for human life and the property of others.”
Rising to his feet, Colter picked up the reports. “I would appreciate it if you said nothing of this to either my father or any member of the board. My father has been ill, and the board need not be bothered with unsupported rumors at this point. When the time comes, I’ll present them with the facts.”
The facts, Colter recognized as rife with deceit. If ships were being reported as lost with all cargo, then that cargo was being sold elsewhere, someone was reaping a great deal of profit. Only the investors lost money, as Lloyd’s of London paid but a percentage of the loss.
It was too costly to insure ships and cargo, the earl had argued, save for the barest amount. The board agreed. For the most part, they were right. But if one of the investors had decided to arrange matters to his own benefit, it was time to change that.
He would conduct his own investigations. And he’d start with his own father.
10
Jacqueline leaned forward to place her china cup back on the silver tray arranged on a small table set before the sofa, then turned to face Celia, who sat huddled in a wing chair near the fire. Outside a cold wind blew, the capricious London weather once more asserting itself, but here in her cousin’s sitting room, it was warm and cheery with a fire in the grate and lamps lit. It was a vivid contrast to the day before—as Northington had accurately and cynically predicted, Celia thought irritably.
Her irritation must be obvious to Jacqueline, for her cousin frowned though her tone was comforting as she said, “You must not fret, cherie. Northington is most adept at evasion. He is far too accustomed to getting his own way with ladies, so do not be gulled by his presumption. It is an insult, yes, an affront that he considered you to be vulnerable to his suggestions. And you may be assured that he was indeed suggesting that you be agreeable to advances from him. You were not mistaken in that assumption.”
A Reckless Encounter Page 9
