A Reckless Encounter

by Rosemary Rogers

  “Apparently you heard that one,” he muttered, cursing softly beneath his breath. “Christ, a devil of a fix to be in, and you aren’t helping any. Where the hell did you come from? And why?”

  Frightened green eyes stared up at him through the mess of her disheveled bonnet and hair.

  “I…the horse bolted. Is someone shooting at us?”

  “You’re more astute than you look right now. Yes, and I’m damned if I know who or why. At least your cousin had enough sense to know to retreat instead of riding right into the middle of some kind of battle. Be still! You’ve got rock on your face.”

  He picked off a shard of pale rock, saw her flinch beneath his touch and smiled grimly. “Fine time to be scared. Why didn’t you go the other way like Carolyn?”

  “I told you, my horse bolted!” She shoved at him, and indignation welled in her eyes. “This wasn’t my choice!”

  “It’s not mine, either.” He drew his pistol from his belt, saw Celia’s eyes widen as he put his hand on her shoulder to keep her behind the rock. “Watch your head. Stay here until I get back.”

  “Where are you going?” She clutched at him, fright replacing the anger in her eyes. “Oh, don’t leave me if someone’s shooting at us!”

  “You’re safer here. I don’t intend to spend the night waiting for them to go away. Christ, Celia, do you think I want to risk one hair on that pretty head of yours? Do as I ask without argument. There’s no time for this.”

  Though her clamped lips quivered slightly, she gave a terse nod of her head to indicate acquiescence. A slight grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. Little cat, she had sense enough not to argue too much. He hadn’t been able to believe his eyes when she’d come barreling toward him across the rocky beach, halfway off the gray mare he could have sworn was still too green to be ridden.

  He left her behind the rock. The shots had come from the mouth of a cave that opened into the Straits. Keeping close to the chalk cliff at his back, he moved along the edge in a crouching run. The shooting had stopped.

  Sea spume dampened his face and clothes when he got close to the cave opening, the roar loud and inexorable. A tide line was visible on the white face of the chalky crag just above his head. On the other side of the churning seawater that had cut this cave into the cliff thousands of years before, a track spiraled upward, accessible only when the tide was out.

  Now there was barely room for him to make his way on a narrow ledge, his boots slipping a little on damp chalk that broke off if he trod too close to the edge. It was dark, dank inside this cave, the soft sticky bottom of the floor showing evidence of recent passage.

  Visibility deep inside the cave was impenetrable; he felt along the wall, and encountered high up on a ledge several wood and leather trunks that deserved a return visit with torches. Whoever had left these here had decided not to risk being seen. The cave echoed emptily.

  Sticking his pistol back into his belt, he raked a hand through his damp hair and swore softly. No point in trying to follow them now, especially when he was saddled with Celia. He needed to get her back to the house, and find out what the hell she was doing out here.

  It could be just coincidence that she’d shown up at the same time he’d seen trespassers, men who didn’t mind shooting at him, but the string of coincidences was growing far too long.

  Celia was where he’d left her, huddled behind a hump of rock. She’d taken off her bonnet and sunlight glinted on her hair and face. He noted a very faint sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Somehow, it gave her an ingenuous look. He knelt one leg beside her, his knee digging into the rocky ground.

  “They’re gone. I’ll take you back to the house.”

  She nodded. “Who—why were they shooting at us?”

  “I think I interrupted something.” An ugly suspicion had begun to form in the back of his mind. It wouldn’t surprise him if those trunks held smuggled goods. This part of the coast was pocked with caves, and France was only across the Channel. It wouldn’t be the first time smugglers had operated in this area.

  “What did you interrupt?” Celia rose and brushed at her skirts with one hand, fingering a small tear in the rose-colored material. “Poachers?”

  “Of a sort. Here.” He shoved her bonnet into her hand and said curtly, “We’ll have to take my horse. The Barb is probably halfway to London by now.”

  “The Barb?”

  “Barbary mare—a special breed of Arabian.” He shot her a narrow glance. “The gray horse you rode.”

  “I realize what you mean now. You needn’t speak to me as if I’m a child!” She brushed angrily at the bonnet; one of the pink strings hung by a thread.

  “Needn’t I? Never mind. Can you walk?”

  “Yes, of course I can walk. I’m bruised, but nothing is broken.”

  She wouldn’t meet his gaze, but averted her eyes.

  “What were you doing here, Celia? No, don’t tell me it’s none of my business. It is my business. Christ, you could have been killed.”

  “I hardly expected to be taken as a target,” she shot back at him. “Your hospitality leaves much to be desired.”

  “You should have kept to the road. Or taken the pony trap.”

  “Mrs. Pemberton and Miss Freestone took the trap into the village—”

  “You should have gone with them. I certainly didn’t mean for you to ride a mare that’s barely been ridden.”

  She looked startled, then her eyes darkened. “Oh, I see what happened now. It was your lovely gypsy who saw to it that I rode that mare, I’m certain of it.”

  “Marita?” He grinned. “It sounds like a trick she might play.”

  “Yes.” She snapped her hat in the air, then crammed it on her head. It hung awry, the brim shading her face and the ribbons dangling. “Your gypsy has a rather strange sense of humor!”

  “I don’t own Marita.”

  “She seems to think she belongs to you. Or perhaps you belong to her.”

  “Jealous, my sweet?”

  “Of you?” She laughed, a harsh sound. “You flatter yourself, my lord.”

  “I don’t think so. Christ, Celia, don’t look at me as if you don’t know me.”

  “I…I don’t know you. Not really. Last night…what we did…what happened between us—”

  “If you’re expecting an apology, you won’t get one from me. Maybe if I’d known you weren’t experienced I wouldn’t have taken it so far, but you didn’t think it was important enough to tell me.”

  Even in the shadow of the hat brim, he saw bright color flag her cheeks. He knew how it sounded, but he’d sat up all night thinking about her, wondering why she’d yielded something so precious to him. There was no good reason that he could see, unless she had motives that wouldn’t bear close inspection.

  “There’s no point in talking about this now,” he said as he took her arm. “It’s a long walk back to the house if my horse is gone the same way as yours.”

  She didn’t say a word, even when he found his horse where he’d left it and lifted her up into the saddle. He mounted, holding her in front of him, his arms around her and her hat blocking his view.

  “Take off that damned hat,” he said finally, and she jerked at the strings.

  Her hair had come loose from the braids she usually wore, pale strands like a cape around her shoulders. She leaned into him, warm against his chest, soft and somehow vulnerable despite her prickly manner.

  It would be easy to believe she was honest, but long experience had taught him to recognize when people held secrets. And Celia St. Clair had secrets behind those lovely sea-green eyes.

  18

  Celia looked white as milk, Jacqueline thought as she knelt beside her to put a snifter of brandy into her trembling hand and close her fingers around it. Carolyn was near tears again, her earlier hysterics calmed at last by a sharp word from Northington.

  Scowling blackly, the viscount leaned against the mantel in the parlor, arms crossed over his ches
t as he regarded them all.

  “Tell me again why you were there,” he said, his brow cocked when Jacqueline threw him a frowning glance. His mouth quirked in a sardonic smile. “Humor me.”

  “No, I don’t mind,” Celia said when Jacqueline began to protest, and stared at Northington. “As we told you, we only wanted to ride along the beach. Carolyn saw the trail leading down, and we took it. And as you surely saw, my horse bolted when those shots were fired.”

  Jacqueline shuddered. “Why was someone shooting at you, my lord? And are you certain they were truly shooting at you, or was it perhaps a hunter?”

  “Unless he was hunting fish with a rifle, I doubt seriously that it was a hunter, madam.”

  He pushed away from the mantel, two long strides taking him to stare down at Celia. “I find it strange that you didn’t see anyone from atop the ridge. Your cousin had sense enough to ride out of danger’s way. Why didn’t you?”

  Celia’s chin came up, and a stubborn light that Jacqueline was beginning to recognize sparked in her eyes as she glared at him.

  “You know very well why! I was given an untrained mount, and no one bothered to inform me that she wasn’t docile. I could have been killed, yet I don’t hear any concern from you about that.”

  His eyes were hooded, the faint smile on his mouth cynical. “It seems you don’t have a habit of being very confiding, Miss St. Clair. You should have told Santiago you were an inexperienced rider. That mare is too damned blooded to be ridden by a novice.”

  Celia rose to her feet, still holding the brandy in one hand. “You need not worry about me any longer, for I intend to leave early in the morning. My visit is ended.” She paused, then said softly, “It was a mistake to come here at all.”

  “But Celia dear,” Jacqueline started to protest, then halted when she saw the determined set of Celia’s mouth. A glance at Northington convinced her it was for the best; he wore a dark, thunderous expression on his handsome face that didn’t bode well for a congenial stay.

  “Yes,” she agreed. “Perhaps it’s best if we return to the city, my lord. Celia and Caro are quite upset by the day’s events, though that is certainly no fault of yours.”

  Sir John, who had been sitting in a chair by the window, said mildly, “No need to run away. I daresay once the shock has abated, you’ll all feel much better.”

  “They’re free to leave,” Northington said. “Miss St. Clair is right. It would be a mistake for them to stay.”

  There were undercurrents to his tone that Jacqueline heard but could not identify. Anger? Regret? Oh, it was so difficult to tell with him, his face was such a mask of impassivity. But surely he was just worried about their safety.

  And Celia looked so…so distraught, and unusually disheveled. Of course, after falling from her horse and then having to lie on the ground to avoid being shot, she could certainly be excused for her distress and appearance. But Mrs. Pemberton had looked quite askance at her when the viscount had dismounted in front of the house and then lifted Celia down, his hands lingering a shade too long around her waist, his touch somehow—familiar. Yes, that was it. Familiar.

  Jacqueline’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. There was much more to this than it seemed on the surface, and trust that wretched gossip Agatha Pemberton to ferret it out. If her tongue wagged freely once they returned to London, it may very well do great damage. Oh, why had Northington invited the old tabby!

  When Celia moved toward the parlor door, Renfroe appeared with a discreet cough to snare Northington’s attention.

  “My lord,” he said. “You have another visitor.”

  “No need to announce me, Renfroe,” a voice said behind him, and a tall, silver-haired man Jacqueline recognized at once entered the parlor. “Though I am a bit surprised to find guests here this time of year. Hullo, Colter, glad to see you in residence.”

  Lord Easton, Northington’s uncle, strode across the floor to greet his nephew, the very model of urbanity and sophistication as always. Attired immaculately, high-point collars and an intricately tied neckcloth suited more for the city than the country, he smiled upon them all with the obvious expectations of a man assured of his welcome.

  “I see we have a lovely gathering. Do make the introductions, Northington, though I am well acquainted with Lady Leverton, of course.”

  “How pleasant it is to see you again, Lord Easton,” Jacqueline said. “And what a lovely surprise.”

  Northington introduced Celia and Carolyn, then Harvey, whom Easton already seemed to know. Mrs. Pemberton and Olivia Freestone chose that moment to arrive and they were also introduced, Mrs. Pemberton beaming her delight.

  “Lord Easton, it is so charming to finally meet you, though I daresay you do not remember our connection. My husband is Clive Pemberton of—”

  “Of Exchequer Bank of England. Yes, of course, I am well aware of that connection, Mrs. Pemberton. I see that my nephew is keeping good company after all, and I need not worry.”

  “I wasn’t aware you were prone to worrying about my companions,” Northington said dryly, and his uncle turned to him with a grin.

  “I always worry about you, my boy. You’re my favorite nephew.”

  “Your only surviving nephew,” Northington replied, and Easton laughed.

  “Trust you to make that distinction.”

  “So what brings you back from the Continent?”

  “Boring details that we can discuss later.” Easton dismissed it with a smile, his attention turning toward Celia. “Miss—St. Clair, you said? You seem quite familiar to me. Have we met before?”

  “No, my lord,” Celia said stiffly. “I don’t believe we have.”

  “Yet you seem so familiar to me. Perhaps in Paris?”

  “I’ve never been to France, my lord.” Celia’s smile seemed rather brittle, and Jacqueline gave her a concerned glance.

  “Celia is from America,” Jacqueline explained, “and has only been in England for the past two months. She’s my cousin’s child, and my goddaughter.”

  “Oh, I see.” Easton smiled, but his dark eyes were sharp and thoughtful, holding more than admiration in their depths as he regarded Celia for another moment before turning his attention to Miss Freestone.

  Celia stood still and silent, but her heart pounded furiously. She was sore from the fall, residual terror at the danger leaving her temper frayed and her stomach all in knots. And now this man—Colter’s uncle!—seemed far too acquainted with her cousin. Would he remember Maman? He was old enough to have known her.

  As graciously as she could manage, she excused herself and fled to her room. Nothing was as it should be. She felt so uncertain, as if all was about to fall apart around her.

  Perhaps she should never have come to England for vengeance. If she’d only realized how different it was here, how unified the peerage was, she would have known better than to entertain such a foolish notion. In theory it had seemed so simple, gaining justice by presenting the documents charging Northington with Old Peter’s murder. Yet now that she was here, she saw that it would make no difference. Old Peter’s death had mattered to no one but her and Maman.

  The small trunk she’d brought from London was tucked into an alcove, and Celia knelt in front of it to unlock the clasp. The papers were in the reticule she’d brought from Georgetown; it was too risky leaving them behind to chance their discovery by Lily or another maid. They were all the evidence she had, the only proof that the earl of Moreland had committed such a heinous crime. Now the only option left was to confront the earl with this reminder of what he’d done.

  But now even that satisfaction would be diluted. If Lord Easton recognized her, then Moreland would know why she was there, and the shock of her charge would lose any surprise and effect she’d hoped to gain.

  Opening the velvet reticule, she pulled out the old document and unfolded it, her fingers smoothing the yellowed page. It crackled dully in her hands. The ink was faded but still legible. Perhaps if she could not have complete
vengeance, she would get a private audience with the earl. A confrontation, the sight of his face when she reminded him of her mother and what he had done. But did a man like Moreland even have a conscience?

  Celia refolded the document and slid it back into the reticule. When it resisted, she peered inside. It was wedged against the directory she’d borrowed from Mister Carlisle. Oh, she’d forgotten it again. The directory really should have been returned by now. He would think she was completely ungrateful and rude. As soon as she got back to London, she would send it immediately to Carlisle’s brother’s pub in Shore-ditch. And she’d write a nice note of gratitude for its loan, and her apologies for being so late in returning it to him after his kindness in lending it to her. It had been of some use, after all, for the hired hack had indeed been a rather crafty man who had tried to take her on a tour rather than straight to the Leverton house.

  She thumbed it idly. The directory was a thin pamphlet, and Mister Carlisle had underlined in ink several streets, with faint X’s marked along the map at intervals. Well used, it seemed. She tucked it back with the documents and pulled tight the strings to close it, then replaced it in the chest and rang for Janey.

  “Help me pack, please,” she said when the little maid answered her summons. “We’ll be leaving early tomorrow.”

  “Yes, miss.” Janey asked no questions; like all servants worth a shilling, she no doubt knew all about the shots fired earlier, and suspected that was the reason for an early departure.

  It was only partially true.

  “It would be a mistake for them to stay,” he’d said, his eyes hard and blue as he looked at her. She’d known then that what had happened between them the night before was only one more conquest, as she’d once told him she’d never be. How foolish she’d been!

  It was the same with most men. They put women up on pedestals as long as they conformed to the masculine ideal of what a woman should be and do and say. Any woman who dared stray from that ideal was regarded as a demi-rep, a courtesan accustomed to the touch of many men. And she had been careless enough to let—no, invite—his touch.