A Reckless Encounter

by Rosemary Rogers

  Shrugging, Easton said, “Think what you will, my dear. But be forewarned. Should you ever return to England, there will be no other offer of freedom. Stronger, shall we say, more drastic methods of dealing with you will be taken.”

  Celia recognized the foolishness of more defiance at this point, not when she was faced with a man who had no compunction in making dangerous threats.

  “I understand completely, my lord,” she said with a lift of her chin, but her eyes shot defiance at him, and she was so angry she quivered with it.

  Damn him! And damn Moreland, who had already cost her so much. Now it seemed that he intended to keep her from his son, though he’d had no qualms about taking her mother from her. And she was supposed to leave quietly, like a whipped cur slinking away, was she?

  Oh, no, she vowed silently. It will not be that easy to rid yourself of me!

  But now she must give the appearance of acquiescence to his demands, so she complied with Harvey’s hesitant plea that she cooperate, though she gave him a glance of such scalding contempt that he visibly shrank with dismay.

  “It’s not such a bad thing,” he said to her when Easton left to make the arrangements and they were alone again. “And America is your home.”

  “You disgust me, sir,” she said quietly, and refused to look at him when he swore at her.

  “No, damn you,” he snarled, and reached for her arm when she turned her back on him, all pretense at cordiality vanished. “You’ll not look at me as if I’m some St. Giles beggar, by God! Look at me. Yes, dammit, if you must fear me it’s better than contempt! Do you think this is what I want? Do you think this is my idea? It’s not. But I’m trapped as surely as you, and you have to know that.”

  “No, you don’t have to do this, Sir John. You could set me free. He’s gone. It would cost you nothing and give you back some self-respect.”

  He laughed harshly, released her arm and ran a hand through his hair so that it stood up on his head in golden tufts. “Cost me nothing? My dear Celia, it would cost me everything. You have no idea…No, you cannot know what it is to always be on the fringe of things, and to risk it all for the sake of coin. It’s the only currency that makes a difference, and without it…without it, self-respect is worthless.”

  “We have widely different views on that, it seems.” She put a hand on his arm, saw the start of surprise in his eyes as she said softly, “I am much like you. You must know I came here with nothing, but I’ve been given so much. So much, that I didn’t fully appreciate it until recently. My cousin has been so generous, and I’ve come to realize that there’s much more to life than wealth. Or even vengeance.”

  Hazel eyes narrowed at her, and his mouth thinned. “We have different standards, it seems. It may be enough for you to live on the kindness of others, but it’s not what I want. I’ll do what I have to do to get what I want.”

  “Including betray a friend?”

  “You’re very lovely, but I’ve never thought of us as friends.”

  “I meant Northington. Is he not your friend?”

  Harvey’s mouth twisted. “Northington is very much his own man. We game together and have been known to go wenching together, but he’s not what either of us would call my close friend, no. Perhaps we were once closer, but that was before the Peninsular Wars, before he left and came back a different person.” He shrugged, regarding her thoughtfully. “He came back to find his brother dead and his uncle dead, his father the new earl—and himself in line for the title. I would have been ecstatic. Northington was not. He seemed to consider it a tragedy, a curtailing of liberty and his own plans. Christ, I would give ten years of my life to have the same opportunity, yet he treats it with cavalier disdain, as if he detests every moment of it.”

  “Perhaps he does.”

  “You mock me now, sweet Celia, for no man could detest the lure of wealth and power. He’ll be earl one day. God, an earl with unlimited resources. The Moreland Shipping Concern is worth a king’s ransom as it is, even with the recent losses it’s suffered. It generates so much wealth, it’s hardly worth noticing when a little is lost here, a little there…I didn’t think it would matter, you see, and it hasn’t, really, for it’s such a vast enterprise. God, when I started I never thought I’d not be able to stop…but that’s not really any of your concern.”

  “No,” she said, “I suppose it’s not.”

  There was much more to this than she’d first thought, for Sir John seemed on the verge of some kind of confession. But of what? She wanted to ask, for it seemed as if it would be important, as if it would somehow affect her. But then he was shaking his head again, a small smile on his mouth.

  “You are very lovely, Celia, very lovely indeed. And if my circumstances were different, perhaps it would be me with you instead of Northington. But now it seems that neither of us will be with you. A pity.”

  No, she thought, he would never have been her choice, no matter what the circumstances. And really, Colter had not been her choice either, but rather her destiny; a fanciful thought but one that seemed so true. These weeks without him had been a time of reflection, of searching her soul for the truth, and she thought now that she knew how—and why—she loved him.

  Yes, she admitted it freely to herself now, she did love him, despite the circumstances, despite who he was and who she was. When had it happened? It seemed to have crept up on her, this feeling of safety when she was with him, the respect that she felt for him when she had not wanted to like him at all.

  Indeed, she’d wanted to use him, to dislike him so she wouldn’t feel any guilt over it, but somehow she’d fallen in love with him instead.

  “What are you thinking, Celia?” Harvey asked softly, and there was an undercurrent there in his tone that set her teeth on edge. “Are you wondering, too, like me, that if we had met under a different sky things would be so much better for both of us? Ah, ‘It lies not in our power to love or hate, For will in us is overruled by fate,”’ he quoted. “A truer verse has rarely been written.”

  “Marlowe,” she said. “I used to read him. But that was a long time ago, and poets’ truths are not always reliable.”

  “No? I’d not thought you so cynical.”

  “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Sir John.” She moved to the table, leaned back against it, her arms braced on the surface to disguise the quiver in her hands. “There is a lot that not even Northington knows. Has it not pricked your curiosity to wonder why Easton is so anxious to have me leave England?”

  “As he so succinctly mentioned, my duty is to obey, not ask inconvenient questions. It pays well enough that I don’t let my curiosity bother me overmuch.”

  “That sounds safe enough.”

  “It isn’t only my safety that worries me—and I’ll admit quite frankly that’s a great concern of mine—but my well-being. I like comfort. I like fine wine and whist, and I loathe the necessity of ducking my creditors. My father has threatened to cut me off without a shilling, but that hardly matters as he’s done enough damage already. I must earn what I spend.”

  “How distressing for you.”

  “Yes, stand there and judge me if you like, but I don’t see you taking a post as a governess. You’re content enough to let Leverton pay the blunt.”

  It was true, and she had no defense other than it had seemed justified at the time.

  But there was an intensity to Harvey’s stare that finally penetrated, and she knew at once what to say. Softly she said, “You’ve lost someone you loved.”

  He recoiled as if she’d struck him, and flushed to the roots of his fair hair. “Yes. That is what happens when one lacks money.”

  “It doesn’t have to ruin your life, Sir John—”

  “What do you know about it? Christ above, how would you know how it feels to lose the one person in this world that you love? It wasn’t enough to lose her, but to stand and watch her marry another man, a man she didn’t love, all for lack of money.…” He laughed harshly. “It kille
d her, but I was the unlucky one. I lived. I lived, but every day I die a little bit more. No, Celia St. Clair, you know nothing of how it feels.”

  “You’re wrong, Sir John. I do know something of how it feels.”

  He stared at her blankly, then turned away.

  Far too soon, Easton returned, and though he was urbane and perfunctory, she detected a thread of tension beneath his impassive demeanor.

  “Take her directly to Dover docks, Harvey, and do not delay. High tide will not be until later this afternoon, but we want to have her settled into her cabin and quite secure before she sails.”

  His meaning was unmistakable. She was to be literally a prisoner until the ship sailed from England.

  Despair seeped through her determination, but Celia had not yet given up all hope.

  I’ve come too far to just give up now! she thought fiercely, and put a pleasant smile on her face as she calmly allowed Sir John to help her into the waiting carriage.

  29

  It was hardly the reception he’d expected, and Colter was furious when he stormed into the entrance hall at Harmony Hill, the door banging shut behind him.

  “Renfroe!” he bellowed. The man came quickly even though he had no doubt already known of his lordship’s arrival from the moment he’d been seen cresting the hill.

  “Yes, my lord?” Renfroe’s face was carefully impassive even in the teeth of Colter’s unusual anger. It was rare for his temper to be loosed, rarer still that it be loosed upon a servant.

  “Was Easton here recently?” Colter was too angry to be heedful of the old man’s pride. “Did you allow him in this house without my permission, by God? You? I thought you more astute than that.”

  “My lord, I did ask him to leave as soon as I learned of his presence, but he was here some half hour to an hour before I was informed.” He coughed nervously. “With only James and Smythe at their posts, it was difficult to know how to evict him if he refused again.”

  “Did he refuse? Christ, all this time…He’s been coming here frequently, hasn’t he, and I haven’t known it. It’s what I deserve, I suppose, for being too involved with that other business.” He beckoned. “Come with me. I want to know every time he’s been here in the past year. If you can’t remember, ask Barbara or James or even one of the damned dogs, but I want it written down.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  He should have anticipated something like this, especially after this past October when he’d found those chests hidden in the cave. And Mowry knew it, damn him, as well as Barclay, who had managed to run to earth the list of smuggled goods.

  It was almost humorous. He’d been investigating his father for the suspicious disappearance of cargo and the fraudulent manifests, when all the time their own goods were being smuggled into England right under his very nose. No wonder his father had been so smug. He must know it, must have laughed to himself all the while he was insisting that it be investigated, that Philip was somehow involved.

  Well, he was right enough about that. Philip was involved. The vindictive old bastard would be most pleased to see Philip charged with it, and still be able to piously claim that he’d had nothing to do with the losses or profits.

  Easton was guilty, after all. And Colter knew damn good and well that he was the man behind the note sent to Santiago.

  Aghast, the gypsy had paled when Colter arrived and asked for Celia.

  “But she…is she not with you, my lord? Your letter to me was delivered by one of your stable boys.…I would never have let her leave if I was not certain you were the one who sent for her. I swear it!”

  It all made more sense when Marita was questioned, though she tossed her hair and sullenly refused to answer any questions at first. Not until her father threatened to beat the truth out of her did she relent.

  “Yes!” she spat. “I did take her with me, that pale-faced creature, like whey, she is, and so foolish. But I only did it because the man who is your friend said she was special to you, and must be tricked into joining you.” Tears were a silver sheen in her dark eyes as she stared up at him imploringly. “If I did not think it was what you wanted, I would never have tricked her. I swear it!”

  Swearing softly, Colter’s hard gaze must have terrified her into a rambling recital of all she knew, for Marita told him the details of Easton’s approach to her, his sympathetic commiseration with her dislike of Celia and his suggestion that she be lured to the point where he would see her united with his nephew.

  “He said it was only for a while, that you would soon tire of her as you always do, and then you would remember me and how good it was for us last summer. You do remember?”

  “I remember,” he said coldly, “but I seem to remember it a little differently than you.” He turned to Santiago. “I would never dishonor you, old friend.”

  Speaking in the same dialect, Santiago nodded and said, “My daughter has too much time to dream. Perhaps she should be married soon so her husband can fill her nights with something other than illusions. My regrets are endless.”

  “It is not your fault. My seal was stolen. You could not have known.”

  Philip Worth would know where to find the seal, just as he knew where to hide smuggled goods. It explained so much.

  None of which mattered as much right now as getting to Celia. Marita, frightened by his anger and her father’s threats, had told them that Celia had been taken to a small house overlooking Dover. If he didn’t get there in time, it was likely Celia would vanish.

  The road snaked along the rugged coast, white chalk slopes drizzling like a sticky paste from the recent rains. Dover sat in a tattered curve of the bay, and tides this time of year were roughly twelve hours apart, ships leaving on the high tide in late afternoon—or early evening. Christ, you’d think he could remember when it was so vital!

  Dover Castle thrust forbidding walls into the low-lying clouds, undeterred by constant wind, looming over the town snugged against the harbor below. He was almost there. White cliffs were beacons in the lengthening shadows of dusk.

  Even before he reached the town, he saw that he was too late, that ships had sailed on the high tide, canvas sails slapping against the wind, billowing out like the wings of falcons to ride the gray, tossed waves.

  No one remembered a fair-haired woman of Celia’s height and appearance boarding a ship, nor did anyone recall Lord Easton. All that was left was to find the house Marita had described, and hope that Celia was still there.

  He found the house, and only the muzzle of his pistol convinced the landlord to admit that there had, indeed, been a young lady there earlier.

  “But she is gone now, with that man!” Shaking visibly, he quailed as the long barrel stroked along his jaw. “Gone,” he squeaked again, “and both men wi’ her!”

  “Both? That’s enlightening. Come, give me descriptions of these men, and perhaps you’ll not only live, but have a coin or two for your trouble.”

  It didn’t take much to deduce who was with Easton. The devil of it was that he’d suspected Harvey of being near desperation. Colter could have offered a loan, or lost a large sum to him at whist, but he’d decided it would only prolong the inevitable. Harvey was an inveterate gambler, not easily cured, a man who would lose his last shilling wagering on which side of the street a cat would choose. It wouldn’t have helped him for long.

  He went back to Harmony Hill only to get a fresh horse, then took the London road north. During the long ride he began to think again, as he had not done for a long time, of the ancient teachings he’d picked up from the old Hindu who’d taught him the art of healing by massage. Karma. Under the law of karma, the next life was determined by the deeds of the past life. If the life was worthy, that person would be reborn in a higher form; if not, the person would live again in a lower form, possibly even that of an animal.

  How, he wondered wryly, would he return? So far, he had nothing to recommend that he come back as anything more evolved than an eel. It was hardly the moment to
be so introspective, but if he didn’t think of the abstract while he rode, he would think of Celia, and remember her tears when he’d left her behind, her soft pleas to go with him.

  He should have listened, should have overcome his concern that she’d be harmed. She was right, after all, and he should have kept her safe.

  Christ, if anything happened to her he was to blame for it, and it would eat at him forever, never fade, always be at the back of his mind, one more ghost. But unlike the others, the faceless forms of the nameless dead, this ghost would be personal.

  This ghost had a face and a name.

  Colter swore to himself. Now he knew he could never get her out of his mind, would always feel incomplete. Celia had managed to worm her way into his very soul.

  It was a hell of a time to find that out.

  Philip Worth’s London home held no sign of his presence, and his valet swore vehemently to Colter that he hadn’t seen him.

  “I swear it, Lord Northington. If he is in the city he has not come here!”

  There was an air of leashed violence in him that scared not just Easton’s servants, but Colter’s own. He’d been to Harvey’s lodgings as well, and neither of the men had been seen. When he went to his own town house, Beaton regarded him with a mixture of astonishment and agitation, his usual impassive countenance not quite enough to hide his inner turmoil.

  “Excuse me for saying it, but I have never seen you in such disarray, my lord,” he ventured when Colter flung his muddy garments to a low bench in the dressing room. “Your country valet has been shockingly remiss.”

  “Renfroe is an old family retainer, not a valet at all, as you well know. No, give me my other boots. It’s too damn wet to bother with clean ones.”

  “My lord.” Wooden-faced, Beaton stubbornly held out the clean boots, gleaming with boot polish.

  Colter glanced at him as he shoved his feet into the hightop boots and reached for a clean neckcloth. Beaton held out a snowy length of linen, then arranged it in neat folds around his neck.

  “Dammit, Beaton, I can do that myself,” Colter said impatiently, then took pity on the valet and let him finish.