A Reckless Encounter

by Rosemary Rogers

  Moreland looked taken aback. “That’s not what my report said. By God, if you’ve discussed it with Philip—”

  “Christ, control your bile. Philip isn’t involved in construction, nor is he aware of any details concerning the India. His interests, as you well know, are with his own branch of another shipping firm, and if I’m not mistaken, he’s still traveling on the Continent and not liable to be back anytime soon. Was there anything else you wished me to do?”

  Moreland’s eyes narrowed. “It took you a week to find out that little bit of information?”

  “No, it took me a week to compile a complete list of the cargo and speak with all fifteen members of the board. Two were in the country.” Colter pushed away from the mantel, and moved away from the fire and his father. “I am only a token member of the board. I prefer not to be involved in any of your affairs for obvious reasons. When you’re dead, I’ll do what must be done. Until then, do as you see fit.”

  “I always do.”

  “Yes.” Colter returned the gaze with a steady stare. “You always do. I’ll be going to the country for a few weeks but you know how to reach me if you need me.”

  “Going to the country now?” Moreland seemed startled. “It’s the wrong time of year for it. I won’t have it. You are needed here.”

  “I am not needed here, nor anywhere, for that matter. I have become as you demanded, a lackey at your beck and call. You should be gratified.”

  “You’ve never been amenable. Anthony, now, he knew his place, knew what must be done and was man enough to—”

  “Anthony was a coward. He could never stand up to you, and in the end, it killed him.”

  “He died of a fever!”

  “Yes, a fever contracted when you sent him to a house sick with fever to steal papers from your dying father. He was warned not to go, but he was afraid of disappointing you, afraid of your anger if he did not. He was barely thirty years of age and had as much spine as a worm.”

  Pale hands trembled violently, grasping the gold head of his cane, and the earl brought it up in a swift motion to lash out at Colter. It caught him across the chest, a slight brush that did no harm as Colter easily evaded the brunt of the blow. His father’s face was contorted in a snarl.

  “Curse you! You’re a disgrace!”

  “Yes. I agree. I’ve definitely been cursed.”

  Colter turned on his heel and left with his father’s angry words still echoing in the room while Brewster tried to soothe him. A familiar end to their interviews, and as unpleasant as always.

  He found the countess in her private sitting room. “I take it the interview went as usual,” she remarked as she closed the book she’d been reading. “Not even an entire wing of rooms can muffle his rage.”

  “It’s always the same,” he replied. “What are you reading?”

  “Ivanhoe by Sir Walter Scott. I find it entertaining. Have you read it?”

  “Yes.” Too restless to sit, Colter moved to the wide windows and stared out. “I’m leaving tomorrow for the country and will be gone for a week or two.”

  “At the beginning of winter?”

  “It’s barely October, and I feel the need of a change of pace. If I remain here much longer, you’ll have me attending every ball, rout and soirée given by your untiring friends. Tell me, do you ever run out of women who feel compelled to press their daughters on me?”

  The countess laughed. “Never. But you have the solution to that dilemma within your means, you know.”

  “Yes, I know. If I marry, I’ll no longer be expected to dance with nervous, tittering girls who are barely out of the schoolroom. That in itself should inspire me, but I find that choosing which brainless ninny to spend the rest of my life with is something of a problem.”

  “Then marry an intelligent young lady. There are bluestockings aplenty underfoot if you take the time to look. They don’t all have to be Prime Articles or Incomparables, you know, but good breeding is required.”

  Colter turned to face her again, a dark brow cocked. “You speak the cant much too freely, ma me`re. There are facets to your character that I’m beginning to think are much more devious than I always suspected.”

  “Yes, Colter, I am much more aware of what goes on in this world than even you know.” She smiled, and suddenly she looked much younger, the light on her face a soft glow reflected in her blue eyes. “Since you’re going to the country, why don’t you invite a few companions to join you for a week?”

  “What companions do you have in mind, may I ask? Or shall I make a calculated guess—suitable females and their deadly dull chaperones.”

  “You’re far too clever for me. Yes, suitable females and their deadly dull chaperones sound just the thing. It would please me, Colter. I’m not getting any younger and neither are you. There must be an heir to carry on after we’re gone.”

  His jaw set. It was a familiar argument.

  “There’s no guarantee marrying will produce an heir,” he said. “Just look at our illustrious prince. Marriage to a shrew and still no surviving heir.”

  His mother’s soft eyes grew cold and her mouth thinned into a disapproving line.

  “Forgive me for saying it so baldly, but our prince is far too busy constructing monstrosities and swilling syllabubs to father a strong child on his wife. He has no sense of proper duty. He prefers actresses to wellborn women. I fear you are becoming much too similar, Colter, and I know you resent me saying it. Yet what else am I to think? Your predilections are fairly well-known, though few would dare speak of them to me, of course. And I hardly consider an actress to be suitable as your wife. You’re thirty-one years of age now, and it’s past time you provide an heir for the Moreland name and title. Whether you appreciate your heritage is not relevant. I appreciate your heritage and mine, and wish to see our line continue.”

  For the countess, it was quite a speech. She wasn’t given to long diatribes, and Colter recognized how much it meant to her that he marry.

  “Christ,” he growled. “It was much easier on me when Anthony was the heir. I didn’t have to be concerned with providing an heir or being involved in my father’s eternal machinations. Thank God it was always Anthony, Father and Grandfather in their exclusive little clique. I fully appreciate that now.”

  “Your grandfather never excluded you, Northington.”

  Her use of his title indicated her displeasure.

  He shrugged. “Not from his life but from their plans, yes. He had other ambitions for me. He taught me a great deal about investments rather than politics. Our time together was not wasted, nor was it unpleasant.”

  Lady Moreland ran an idle finger over the binding of the book in her lap. “Your grandfather was a stern man in many ways, but I always found him to be fair. I think he often wished you were heir instead of Anthony.”

  “Being the heir was never an aspiration of mine. I was quite content with being ignored.”

  “Why do you resist marriage?” She looked up at him, a keen-eyed stare that seemed to see into his soul. “Is it because of your father?”

  After a moment he said softly, “Perhaps it’s best if we don’t discuss my reasons. I’m not at all certain you’ll want to hear them.”

  “Perhaps you’re right.” She lay the book on the table and rose to stand beside him; a gentle scent of lavender enveloped him as she placed her palm on his jaw in a light caress. “You’ll do what is right, Colter. You always have. I trust you to respect my wishes.”

  It was just the sort of comment designed to make him feel like an utter bastard.

  Colter left for the country the following day, and as soon as the city was only a distant haze behind him, the chains of civilization seemed to fall away. With London to the north, he took the south road through Rochester at a fast clip.

  Harmony Hill in Kent was by turns an inhospitable and welcoming terrain, land where the conqueror had landed his Norman troops eight hundred years before and slaughtered the Saxon king and his army, but
where sheep now grazed peacefully on rolling slopes empty of any strife.

  Chalky crags and caves lined the seaside of the Kent estate, bounded by the crashing waves of the straits that separated France and England. Less than sixty miles from London, it might as well have been in France for all the privacy it gave him—a welcome refuge.

  Solitude there had eased him after his return from His Royal Majesty’s service, the fierce battles against Napoleon a grim preparation for the personal conflicts he found at home—Anthony dead, his grandfather dead, an uncle dead, all succumbing to the effects of a fever first contracted in God only knew what hellhole.

  Just beyond the River Buckland, and nestled in a small dip in the hills, the house rose like a shimmering jewel in a green velvet nest as he topped the nearest ridge and paused. His mount snorted restlessly, sensing an end to the journey, hooves pawing at the damp ground.

  Colter nudged the horse forward and down the slope. He was met in the stable yard by the head groom, an old man who had been at Harmony Hill his entire life.

  Ancient yews shaded the stable yard, dappled light on stone. “All is in readiness, my lord,” Smythe reported as he reached for the horse’s reins. “I’ve got a nice stall ready for this beauty and he knows it.”

  The bay nudged the old man as if in greeting, ears swiveled forward as nickers came from the row of stables that lined the cobbled yard.

  “I think he hears old friends calling him,” Colter said as he relinquished the reins. “Tomorrow he’ll have even more company. Guests are arriving. Make necessary arrangements to stable their cattle.”

  “Aye, my lord. It will be done.”

  Entering the house was the closest thing he knew to peace. It was much smaller than even his London town house, a simple half-timbered structure of twenty-four rooms built around a small, cozy courtyard. Generations ago a moat had surrounded the house, but time and years of peace had ended the need for it. Now flowers and shrubs shouldered close to stone walls.

  Beyond the house lay gardens with wheels of herbs and raised beds of vegetables. Towering sycamores and elms thrust mottled branches skyward, fringing the curved drive that led from the gatehouse. Stretching as far as the eye could see, grassy fields stitched with hedgerows and stone fences provided ample pasture for sheep.

  Colter paused on the front step to gaze out across the land a distant ancestor had been granted in gratitude for service to a long dead king. Men were born and died, but the land would always be here. It was a form of immortality.

  The front door opened, and he turned as another old retainer greeted him.

  “Welcome home, my lord.”

  “Thank you, Renfroe.” Colter moved past the aged butler into the entrance hall. Newly polished dark wood gleamed with dull light, and there was the fresh smell of wax in the air. “I see Mistress Barbara has been busy.”

  “Yes, my lord. It is first Monday, her day to polish all the furniture and oil the wainscoting. May I take your hat, sir?”

  As he put it into his hands and began to strip off his gloves, Colter asked, “Where is James?”

  “In the village, sir. Will you be needing him for the week, or is your city valet to arrive?”

  A faint note of disdain crept into Renfroe’s tone. It was the same here as elsewhere, the distinction between classes. Beaton was not a country man, as was James, who had been born on the estate. Renfroe was James’s uncle by marriage and considered family.

  “Beaton will arrive tomorrow with the other guests. You did receive my message?”

  “Yes, my lord. James is in the village engaging those people we usually use for such occasions. I trust that meets with your approval.” Renfroe followed Colter across the entrance hall and into the small study. “I understand there will be six guests arriving.”

  “With their staff.” Colter paused. “One of the guests, Miss St. Clair, is to be given the green room.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  He probably understood very well. The green room was set apart from the other guest rooms, a lovely room that looked out over the rear gardens and was quite close to Colter’s own bedchamber.

  He had little doubt Celia St. Clair would accept his invitation. He had not invited her alone, of course, but included Lady Leverton and her daughter as well, and also sent an invitation to Harvey, Mrs. Pemberton and her niece, Olivia Freestone. Olivia was a calculated invitation, meant to provide Harvey with feminine diversion and also give the appearance of propriety to the visit. The news should please his mother when she heard it, as she no doubt would very soon. An invitation to his country house would be spread about by city gossips soon enough.

  Outwardly all was more than proper. A few days in the country, a respite from the hectic chaos of the autumn Season with Lord Northington. An opportunity to view the lovely changing colors of the trees. What could be more respectable?

  Except that he intended for Celia St. Clair to enjoy far more than autumn at Harmony Hill.

  PART III

  “But love is blind, and lovers cannot see The pretty follies that themselves commit.”

  —Shakespeare, Merchant of Venice

  14

  Celia stared at her cousin incredulously. “But you cannot mean it! Oh, why did you accept Lord Northington’s invitation?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? He’s invited us there for reasons that are quite transparent. If we refuse, he will know why.”

  “If we accept, he will assume the worst. Really, I think you underestimate Lord Northington.”

  “If he has wicked designs on you, we are there to see he does not succeed,” Jacqueline replied tranquilly. “Oh, it cannot be as bad as that, petite. I doubt he will risk ravishing you within earshot of your family. Besides, it is quite a social coup to be invited to his country house. Very few have ever been—why, I don’t think any female has been invited before!”

  Celia jerked at the ribbons in her hair. It was going into the lion’s den, but how could she confide that to her cousin without betraying her own reaction to his touch? It was true that this would be an excellent opportunity, but for whom?

  “Very well,” she said aloud. “If you think it proper for us to visit, I’ll go.”

  “Brilliant! Carolyn will be delighted at the prospect of a visit to the country. Oh, Northington is intrigued by you. Yes, you were so right, it’s obvious he is quite interested, for he never would invite us if he didn’t have serious intentions.”

  “Perhaps, but it’s which of his intentions are so serious that concerns me,” Celia replied lightly to hide her apprehension.

  “Do you think—But no, he would not be so bold. Not even Northington would risk angering Jules.” Jacqueline lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I do not mean to sound so confident, but it is true that Jules is very influential. He has many business interests, and has been involved with the Moreland shipping concern for many years.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you’re right.” Celia managed a smile.

  “And Mrs. Pemberton has also been invited, with her niece Olivia,” Jacqueline said thoughtfully, a frown on her brow as she read again the penned invitation that had been delivered—and answered—that morning. “I’m not at all certain why. For appearance’s sake, do you think? It’s just that Mrs. Pemberton is easily influenced and quite desperate to make a good match for Olivia. Surely he does not entertain a desire for Miss Freestone!”

  “It’s possible,” Celia said, but Jacqueline was shaking her head.

  “No, no, I don’t think so. Mrs. Pemberton is only a ruse. She’s too determined to snag a title for Olivia, and has become completely obsessed with the notion. Not that it’s easy having a young lady who is still on the shelf at twenty-four, but one should not allow disappointment and despair to overcome breeding and decorum.”

  “I am twenty-one,” Celia pointed out wryly, and her cousin looked momentarily startled.

  Then she said, “Yes, but you have not been presented, and Olivia Freestone has had several Seasons.”<
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  “Then she deserves our compassion instead of pity, I suspect, especially if she has earned the attentions of Northington.”

  Jacqueline laughed softly. “You can be most cynical at times, Celia. Lord Northington has met his match in you, I vow. Ah, it promises to be a most entertaining few days. I’ll inform Jules that we will need the carriage on Thursday.”

  Harmony Hill was a pleasant surprise. Celia saw it in the valley as their landau crested the hill. By the time the vehicle paused at the gatehouse, she realized that the house itself was actually perched upon a hill slope. Beyond green meadows was a blue-gray haze that was the Straits of Dover, the channel separating England from Calais, chalky-white cliffs that plummeted into a frothy wash of surf.

  “Oh, it is a lovely sight,” Jacqueline said. “I shall never forget when I first saw those white cliffs. At the time, they represented freedom to me. Now, of course, they represent home.”

  “Yes, I recall seeing the cliffs when my ship first neared land,” Celia replied. Her hands clenched in her lap, fingers knotted together. Had she made a mistake? Agreeing to come here could set her on a dangerous course, but how could she refuse?

  Thank God I am not alone, she thought, but there was little comfort in the reminder. If Northington was bold enough to take liberties in an alcove outside a crowded ballroom, what hope had she of keeping him at bay on his own estate?

  Lord Northington was not there to greet them when they disembarked from the landau, but they were told he would arrive soon to welcome his guests.

  The ancient butler moved with slow grace as he showed them to their rooms, and Celia learned that they were the first to arrive. Apparently Mrs. Pemberton and her niece had been delayed.

  Exchanging a potent glance with her cousin, Celia was shown to her chamber first, a lovely room on the second floor with green silk-striped wallpaper and billowing drapes over windows with a view of the surrounding valley. A massive, ornately carved bed dominated the chamber, and thick carpets lay upon the floor. Freshly cut flowers spilled from a crystal vase atop a baroque table, stalks of lavender vying with roses for color and fragrance, lush blooms a vivid touch to grace the chamber.