A Reckless Encounter

by Rosemary Rogers

  A stone cottage squatted on a spur of land, remote and almost forlorn by itself. There was no sign of life, so that she frowned when Marita reined in her mount. The girl looked satisfied with herself, her voice loud to be heard over the rushing wind that smelled so strongly of the sea now.

  “Not here. There. He waits for you. Oh, do you doubt me still? You will see for yourself that I speak the truth.”

  “I see only a roofless hut, and no horses—”

  “No, no, foolish one, beyond it. Do you not see? It is a good place to hide and wait, there in that granary.”

  “Really, I do see the granary, but it’s as deserted as the hut.” Exasperated, she shot the girl a disgusted glance. “It’s not in much better condition. I have no intention of waiting in it. Nor do I see Northington’s horse. If he was already here, he would have come out to greet me. I’ll wait for him where I am.”

  Marita’s eyes narrowed; she rode the horse with no saddle, bare brown legs sticking out from her bunched skirts, her feet clad in scuffed shoes. Now she slid from her horse to the ground, glaring up at Celia.

  “Oh, you really are foolish! You are to wait for him, or did the note not say so? Yes, I think it did, but you are so used to your own lies, you think everyone lies.”

  Celia stared at her. Rushing wind tugged at her skirts and hair, chilled her skin. She shivered. Overhead, a seabird made a piercing cry as it wheeled in the sky, and gray clouds seemed suddenly dark. Black thunderheads bunching on the horizon beyond the point of land marked a threatening storm.

  “We should go back,” she said, “before it breaks.”

  Marita reached for her horse’s bridle, shaking her head. “You are to wait. Or do you not trust him? Do you think he would lie to you as you have lied to him?”

  Sudden premonition made Celia tense, and she turned her horse around. “No, but he should be here. He’s not, and I’m going back. Stay here or go with me, I don’t care.”

  “Oh, you are so impatient!” Marita circled in front of her. “If you will only wait, you will see him soon.”

  “No, I think I’ve had enough of your tricks for today, and I have no intention of letting you amuse yourself at my expense any longer.”

  The small mare danced sideways as Marita snared the bridle with one hand, staring up at Celia with a scowl. “You have come this far. At least wait a few more minutes.”

  Celia hesitated. Caution bade her flee, but logic told her that this girl couldn’t have written the note on Colter’s stationery or used his seal, nor could she have composed such a coherent, if terse, letter. Finally, against her better judgment, she dismounted rather clumsily when it began to rain.

  “A few minutes more,” she said. “But if he doesn’t come soon I’m going back to your father’s camp.”

  She tied the horse under the cursory shelter of a wind-twisted yew, then followed Marita to the tumbled-down stone granary behind the cottage. Weeds sprouted between fallen rock, and rubble shifted underfoot. A surprisingly solid door stood ajar, swinging slightly in the wind and rain.

  Pale gray light darkened the inside of the round structure, and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust. There was a strong smell of burnt wood, and she frowned as she saw the evidence of a recent fire on a ledge. Wall stones had been removed to form a window of sorts, and charred limbs and bits of brittle black charcoal were scattered about.

  Celia crossed to peer out the opening at the gray wind-lashed sea. It stretched endlessly, though a curtain of rain moved across the surface like a creeping beast, stealthy and inexorable. She shivered suddenly, the wet air washing over her like a tide.

  Was she being foolish to come here with Marita, who had made it plain how she felt? But even Santiago had expressed no reservations. After all, the note must be from Colter or there would be no seal, no recognized messenger from the estate. Yet she could not help the uneasy feeling that bored into the back of her mind, the premonition that all was not as it should be, that surely Colter would have made other, more suitable arrangements for them to meet. Why had he not come to the camp again?

  Marita leaned against the far wall, arms crossed over her chest as she regarded Celia with what seemed to be a smugly satisfied expression on her face.

  “Why do you stare at me like that?” Celia asked sharply when she turned to look at her. “You make me think you’ve another trick in mind for me.”

  “Perhaps I have,” the girl said with a soft laugh. “But I would not be so foolish as to tell you if I did. Is it me you do not trust, or your fine gentleman? I did not write the letter to you, and you must know that.”

  “Yes, it’s obvious you didn’t.” Irritated, Celia turned back to look out the window. Why had Colter sent this girl to bring her here? Surely Santiago, or even Mario, could have brought her so she would not have had to endure this insolent creature’s disdain.

  Celia crossed her arms over her chest for warmth against the damp wind seeping through cracks and the tiny window, and suppressed another shiver. If only he would come. It was the anticipation, the not knowing what he would say or what she would say that kept her in torment. Would Colter believe that she’d not meant him any harm? Oh, but how could he, when she must tell him that she’d intended his own father a great deal of harm? Even when he knew what Moreland had done, he may not understand, may not even believe her until she showed him the documents that detailed the charge of murder.

  When an eerie creak sounded behind her, Celia whirled, but it was too late. The heavy door slammed shut, and the sound of a grating bar was a dull, scraping thud. The granary was plunged into sudden darkness, the only light seeping inside through the small hole in the wall.

  “Marita!” She dashed to the door, banged on it with her fists, shouted at the gypsy girl to open the door at once. “Damn you, stop playing your nasty tricks! Open the door or, by God, I’ll make you sorry for this. I swear I will, you stupid girl!”

  Celia shouted until she was hoarse, until the gray light outside began to dim even more, and she had the horrified thought that this time Marita’s vicious trick might truly endanger her life.

  But finally she heard a masculine voice over the noise of the wind and rain, and heard the bar slide back. At last! Colter had rescued her yet again, and he would deal with the girl, she hoped grimly, so that she’d never try such a trick again!

  Then the door swung open. Silhouetted against the misty glow behind him, she glimpsed Marita’s gloating face, and her heart thumped in alarm. There was something triumphant in that expression. Her gaze moved slowly to the man who blocked the opening.

  It wasn’t Colter.

  26

  Greasy smoke hovered in gauzy drifts that rose to the low, timbered ceiling of the public house. Green-tinged light filtered through leaded-glass windows, and the air was dense with the smell of wet wool, fish and the press of the Great Unwashed.

  Colter recognized Tyler at the end of a long table; he lifted a pewter tankard but did not drink, the signal he was available.

  “They took the bait,” Tyler said to his tankard when Colter elbowed a path through the crowd and took a place on the long bench next to him. “Edwards showed him the piece in the New Times.”

  George Edwards, also recruited as a spy to infiltrate the Spenceans, was responsible for planting an item in the paper that reported the dinner meeting of several members of the British government. The dinner was to be held at Lord Harrowby’s house at 39 Grosvenor Square tomorrow night, the twenty-third—a trap for Thistlewood and his gang.

  Tyler eyed him briefly, a grin hovering on his mouth. “You look like a fenman.”

  Garbed in a blue wool jersey, baggy trousers and coat with the collar up to his ears, Colter blended in with the others in this public house near the riverfront. It was a rough clientele that frequented this part of London. The weight of a pistol in his waistband was a stark reminder of the risk.

  He’d let his beard grow out some, and gloved fingers rasped over the stubble as he scrat
ched idly.

  “Was the map right?”

  Nodding, Tyler gulped a draught of ale, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve and belched. “Every place marked held a cache of weapons, right enough. We’re watching.”

  Colter downed the last of his ale and rose. “You know where to meet me.”

  The air was cooler and fresher outside the pub, though still smelling of the riverfront and bilge. He walked along the narrow street, then through an even more narrow alley; buildings leaned precariously over the avenue with no apparent reason for remaining upright.

  Hard-eyed men prowled these byways, ready to slit a throat for less than a shilling, inured to the suffering of others by their own. Urchins clad in little more than rags stared at him with empty eyes, shivering in the icy cold, watching for a chance to steal a coin, just as dangerous as their older counterparts. Nothing had changed for these, and nothing would as long as radicals like Thistlewood plotted murder and anarchy.

  Mowry waited for him in the back room of a pub on the corner of Friday Street, brow lifting when Colter joined him.

  “You look as dangerous as any footpad, Northington. I trust you have good news.”

  “Thistlewood intends to move on the bait tomorrow. He obviously thinks he can raise an army that quickly. Are you ready?”

  Nodding, Mowry’s thin face creased with satisfaction. “More than ready. All is in place. My other informant tells me that John Harrison has inquired about renting a small building—a stable with a hayloft—in Cato Street. It needs to be investigated, as it’s only a short distance from Grosvenor Square and will likely be used as a command post. George Edwards will give us more information as soon as he knows something of value. Meanwhile, I trust you will be setting up your own plans.”

  “I know the stable. I’ll wait at the Horse and Groom, as it overlooks the stable on Cato Street. I’ll take Tyler with me, and two others.”

  Mowry nodded, thin fingers drumming an incessant beat on the surface of the table. A flagon of wine and an empty cup rested near his hand. After a moment, he poured himself a drink.

  “We cannot fail,” he said tersely, wine gleaming on his lips as his eyes narrowed, “for the consequences would reach much farther than just this rebellion. It will show us to be vulnerable, despite how quickly we are able to quell any violence. They plan,” he said softly, “to parade the heads of Lords Castlereagh and Sidmouth on poles around the slums of London as an example.”

  “And they no doubt assume this will entice eager citizens to join their new government. Christ. An armed uprising may provoke a revolution like that in France. You do recall that, I presume, and the slaughter of innocents? A government cannot oppress its people forever, for one of these days, there will indeed be an uprising that we cannot prevent if we’re not willing to alleviate and mollify their grievances. Honest grievances, Mowry, and you know that.”

  Hooded eyes regarded him coolly. “Perhaps. But the collapse of the monarchy is not the way to effect change.”

  “I never said it was.” Colter rose to his feet. “But I will make my arguments in the House of Lords when the time comes.”

  “Yes, do that, and perhaps one day Liberals will run the country, but I wouldn’t make wagers on it.” A half-mocking smile tilted Mowry’s mouth, and he held up his wineglass in a derisive salute. “I drink to your zeal, my lord Northington, and to the idealistic ardor of all your Liberal sympathizers.”

  “One day,” he said softly, “you’ll do so in earnest.”

  It was a bad business, but he had no regrets about his part in stopping Thistlewood. The man was a danger, a zealot who had to be stopped at any cost.

  “By the way,” Mowry said as Colter reached the door to the back alley, “I trust your Miss St. Clair is doing well.”

  Colter turned, and his voice was hard enough to wipe the smile from Mowry’s face.

  “If you ever endanger Celia again as you did at the opera, it may be your head that goes round London on a pole. Keep that in mind the next time you interfere.”

  “I do not tolerate threats,” Mowry said, but there was a flicker of recognition in his eyes that he had gone too far this time.

  “I do not make threats. I state facts.”

  As he closed the door behind him, he heard Mowry’s soft curse. Now he knew for a certainty it had been Mowry who was behind the assault at the opera, a desperate attempt to gain the directory. James Carlisle had no reason to risk an assault when he must have been fairly certain she’d send it to him as promised. Tyler had been near enough to eavesdrop, near enough to hear the conversation and Celia’s assurance that she would send the map. If nothing else, he would have ransacked the house for it rather than risk attracting attention by abducting her.

  But Mowry hadn’t known that then, and his network of spies and thugs was vast and volatile enough to take any risks—including the risk to Celia St. Clair.

  Celia. When this was over, as it surely would be in the next two days, he’d go back for her. There were a few more things he needed to know about her. Then there was that damned agreement with Lady Leverton that must be addressed.

  A faint, cynical smile curved his mouth. How delighted Lady Moreland would be to learn that her son intended to marry at last.

  Would the prospective bride be as delighted?

  Colter would have been surprised to know Celia was thinking of him at that very moment, fervently wishing he would arrive. Oh God, how had she become so involved without even knowing it?

  Yet this man seemed to think she was a danger, or so he informed her.

  “Miss St. Clair, I’m afraid that you’ve become rather a liability,” he said apologetically. “Yet I find your plight regrettable. Perhaps we can come to a compromise of sorts.”

  Anger didn’t dilute her terror, but made it sharper. “I cannot imagine any bargain with a villainous man who would be so insensible to his own nephew’s—”

  “Great-nephew,” Lord Easton corrected mildly. “And I am not at all insensible to Northington’s welfare. Indeed, it is my concern for him that prompts me to this rather drastic solution.”

  Quivering with a mixture of rage and fear, Celia drew a deep breath to regulate her racing heart and sharp tongue. “What compromise do you suggest, my lord?”

  Philip Worth, Lord Easton, leaned back in the plain wooden chair he’d dragged from beneath the table across the room. Now he smiled at her, nodding approval. Light from a lamp on the table barely illuminated the small room.

  “You’re proving to be much more intelligent than I had assumed you would be, Miss St. Clair. Let us hope you are as agreeable.”

  Celia had no idea where they were. She’d been taken from the granary, blindfolded and put into a carriage to be brought to this house, but it had to be fairly close for the journey had not lasted long. Nor was Marita still with them, having returned to the camp, no doubt, with some story about how Celia had escaped her. She hoped no one believed it!

  “I can be agreeable,” she said, “once I know what I’m to agree to.”

  “Yes, of course.” His smile widened, and his gaze was thoughtful, that of a kindly older man, his appearance so deceiving, with his shock of white hair and impeccable air of breeding and affluence. How deceptive these English aristocrats could be! Was everyone in this family immoral and wicked?

  No, no, not Colter, though she’d thought so at first, thought him just like his father. Yet now another member of that family sought her destruction.

  “You are very like your mother, you know,” Easton shocked her by saying, his tone conversational. “I imagine you could even be mistaken for her. It’s amazing. Léonie St. Remy was one of the most sought-after women in London at one time, and even the lack of a dowry had little effect on many impetuous swains. Ah, I remember her so well…It was nearly a scandal when she ran off with her American.” His smile was benign, his eyes hiding his real thoughts as he regarded her as casually as if they were having tea in the parlor at Harmony Hill. “But surel
y you must know why I have taken such a—shall we say, personal interest in your relationship with my nephew.”

  “No,” she said stiffly, “I cannot say I do. Nor do I care to know, my lord, if you will forgive my bluntness.”

  His smile did not waver, and he made a dismissing gesture with his hand. “That’s to be expected, of course. It would be supposed you might feel some resentment.”

  “Resentment? Resentment, my lord? That hardly describes what I’m feeling at this precise moment! Fury would be a more apt word to use, and determined, perhaps, for I have no intention of making any agreement with you at all!”

  “A lamentable decision, Miss St. Clair. Do reconsider, if you will. Life can be singularly unpleasant for those who fail to bend even a little. Trust me on that advice. I’ve spent an entire lifetime perfecting the art of bending. And bending does not necessarily mean yielding, so that militant light in your eyes need not be extinguished. Indeed, I find it quite flattering to you. It becomes clear what my nephew sees in you, however unwise that may be.”

  Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Is that what this is about, this abduction and attempt to terrorize me? You want me to stay away from Colter?”

  “Abduction is such an ugly word. I much prefer to use invitation, for that is, after all, what it is—an invitation to leave England quietly, calmly and with more money than you arrived with in your purse. No need for an unnecessary scene, now, is there?”

  “He put you up to this.” Emotionless, she stared at him with sudden realization. “Northington—Moreland, the earl. He is behind this, isn’t he? He discovered who I am, and he wants me gone before I can cause him trouble.” A half laugh escaped her, anguished and bitter. “Oh, no need in denying it, for who else would want me to leave England like this?”