No, there would be no more lies, Celia thought. And if there would be no more at all between them, she would deal with that, too. There was really no other choice. Like Maman, she was a survivor, but now it would be the truth that gave her freedom, not lies or vengeance, or even love. God help her, she loved him so. He must know that, must feel it when she was with him, and if it was enough, if it made up for all the rest, then they had a chance.
And if it did not…
“Let me ring for James to come and clean up the spilled chocolate,” she turned to say to Jacqueline, and smiled a little at the look of chagrin on her cousin’s face. “If this is the worst that happens today, we should be grateful.”
“Such a lovely pot—Chelsea ware?” Jacqueline asked as she stared down at the spreading stain and porcelain pot lying on its side on the rug, her tone curiously serene. “An interesting pattern.”
No one answered Celia’s ring, and she moved to the half-open door of the parlor to call for Renfroe. Silence muffled the entrance hall, no sounds from either the elderly butler, Barbara, the housekeeper, or from James, whom Colter had installed in the house as a sort of footman and bodyguard.
Puzzled, she moved across the gleaming floor toward the double doors that led down to the kitchens. The only sound was her footsteps, an eerie absence set her teeth on edge. It was never this quiet, this tense, as if waiting.
As she moved down the short, narrow stairwell to the kitchen, she heard a muted sound as of a sob, and paused, her heart thumping with alarm.
Before she could move, Renfroe appeared in front of her, his eyes wide with distress as he staggered forward.
“Whatever is the matter?” She reached out for him, but as she did, she saw from the corner of her eye a movement behind her and tried to move. It was impossible in the tight corridor, and she heard Renfroe cry out a protest as an arm slashed down to strike her against the side of her head.
Reeling, Celia tried to keep her balance, but it all happened so fast. She heard everything as if through a wall of water, moving away from her and then back, waves of sound receding and darkness slowly claiming her so that she saw nothing, heard nothing.
The raw day mirrored his mood as Colter reined in his mount on the crest of a chalky ridge that ran above the English Channel. Sea winds dampened his hair and misted on his face. Broadstairs lay below. A sandy scythe of land cupped stone buildings that staggered up the steep hill guarding the bay. On the wooded ridge, warning towers of the Revenue House kept watch for smugglers.
He found Harvey at the Albion in Broadstairs, nursing a pint and not seeming very surprised to see him.
“I’ve been expecting you,” he said, indicating an empty chair across from him. “Was it much trouble finding me?”
“Not much. I inquired at every public house between here and Dover.”
A faint grin wavered on Harvey’s mouth; red-rimmed eyes met his briefly before looking away. “I suppose you’ve come to call me out.”
“I’ve thought about it.”
“Yes, it seems fair enough, I suppose.” He lifted his tankard and drank deeply. “No need for me to be sober for it, I’ve not a chance either way. No match for you, old boy, and that’s a fact.”
Colter’s eyes narrowed. Anger had eased with the past month of contemplation, but not the need for answers.
“I tracked Easton to Dover. It seems he’s fled England again, gone back to France,” he said when Harvey fell silent. “You should have gone with him.”
Harvey blew out a wet sigh. “It’s not as if we’re boon companions. Christ, I don’t even like the man. He was just a means to an end. A man with the blunt to ease my debts.”
“And did you? Did you ease your debts, or only create more.”
“Ah, therein lies the rub.” His smile was rueful, a bit embarrassed. “I’m done up all over town and don’t have the coin to pay for more than a few pints here and there. They get on to you after a time, see, and a gentleman can only go without paying for so long before innkeepers become nasty about it.”
“You were paid to put Celia aboard a ship to America. Yet she’s still here.”
“Yes.” Harvey nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, that was probably unwise of me, but I just couldn’t do it. She was right when she told me that there are prices too great to pay in this world. I’ve been a bastard, a thief and probably worse, but I’m not low enough to deport a woman whose only crime was grief. It seemed that she’d suffered enough. And I knew how that felt.”
“Where is he, Harvey? Easton—you know where he went.”
“Yes, I suppose I do.”
“Tell me where he is and I’ll see that the magistrate shows mercy.”
“Oh, no, old boy, I know well enough what happens to men who are so foolish as to betray their mates. Tied to a pole at low tide and red-lighted, and I like my lights still on, if you please. I’d rather take my chances at twenty paces with you. It’s much more merciful and swift a death than the slow agony of drowning inch by inch.”
Colter rose from the chair he’d straddled, stared down at Harvey with a sense of pity. “You’re already dying inch by inch. At least make it worthwhile.”
Struggling to his feet, Harvey stood swaying for a moment, face pale and jaw set. “You’ll free me from life before I have to endure another day, I presume, so let’s get on with it. No sense in having you accused of killing a man too far in his cups.”
“Oh, no, I think it will serve my purpose far better to let you live, Harvey. It’s a slower death than even that of a smuggler’s fate.”
The bleak illumination in his eyes was ample evidence that he recognized the truth. “Damn you,” he whispered hoarsely. “Damn you!”
“Where is he, Harvey? Tell me.”
After a moment, his mouth worked into a determined line and Harvey said quietly, “Still in England. Waiting for you to be careless.”
And Colter knew then where Philip Worth had gone.
He rode back the way he came on a night that cleared to show millions of stars salting the sky, taking the road south from Broadstairs. He had a long way to go, too long, back through Ramsgate and Sandwich before he even got to Dover. Before he could get to Celia, who waited for him at Harmony Hill, his wife now, a bargain kept.
But he hadn’t married her only to keep his bargain with Lady Leverton.
Sweet Celia, with eyes as green as the sun-struck sea, with courage and heart and qualities he’d never appreciated. He’d been stupid. It shouldn’t matter why she had come to England, or that she hadn’t trusted him enough to tell him about her mother and his father. God, what a sordid debacle his father had made of things!
It had been all he could do to keep from killing him.
If death hadn’t come so quickly to the earl, maybe he would have. His father had caused grief wherever he’d gone, and worse, he’d left behind a legacy of hate and lies.
Maybe it was time he admitted to Celia how ashamed he was of his own father. Christ, she was more courageous than he’d ever guessed, keeping the truth to herself, determined to confront a man who had destroyed her mother and had the power to destroy her if he chose. What courage that had taken—and he’d been too caught up in his own deceptions to recognize it. It was time he told her how much he admired her. And that he loved her. They’d start over.
But first he had to ensure her safety. His father had been right about Philip Worth, perhaps because it took one rogue to recognize another. And now that Colter knew Easton had no scruples, he knew that he had to get to Celia before his uncle did.
31
Nightmarish images prodded her awake. She could see through slitted eyes the face that slowly took shape, an aristocratic face below white hair, with eyes that were too familiar, treacherous eyes that regarded her with detached curiosity.
“Ah, I see that you are awake at last,” Philip Worth said, and nodded. “Very good. I began to worry that I had hit you too hard, perhaps, and that would certainly have ruined everything. But
here you are, awake and in reasonably good health, so do sit up and rejoin us. Lady Leverton and I have been having a most revealing conversation.”
“Pig!” Jacqueline spat in furious French. “Dog! You are a disgrace. How dare you do this!”
“Madame, I dare because I have little left to lose now. My life is at stake, and that I care to keep, even if all else eludes me at the moment. Fortune has hidden her face, it seems, but all is not yet lost if I can keep my head. So reassure yourself that you are in little danger as long as you cooperate with my requests.”
He smiled, turning again to look at Celia, who lay upon the settee in the parlor. Her head throbbed wickedly as she stared back at him.
“You should have gone to America, my dear,” he said, “but since you have not, I am forced to make arrangements that will be less than pleasant for either of us. If you’d done as you were told, none of this would be necessary.”
There was a silky menace in his cultured tones, malice in the clear eyes that regarded her so calmly.
“My husband will kill you if you so much as promise to harm us,” Celia whispered, but Easton only laughed softly.
“That is exactly what I intend to avoid, child. Why do you think I’m here? I’d be safely in France if not for your husband—whose influence seems to reach much farther than I guessed. Every port I visited was closed to me. Damned officious men, those excise officers, and more efficient than normal in the performance of their duties. Not a one of them wanted to accept payment in lieu of arrest. I barely escaped them. I suspect Lord Mowry’s hand in this, and of course, my great-nephew must be behind such rabid pursuit.”
“What do you hope to gain from this farce—gratitude for abusing us?” Celia demanded more forcefully than she’d thought she could do as she pushed to a sitting position and smoothed her skirts back over her legs.
Jacqueline sat stiffly in a nearby chair, eyes huge in the glow of fire and lamps, her mouth a thin, angry slash.
Easton merely lifted a brow, the pistol in his hand a warning to both they need not attempt escape. “I need you as assurance of my safe passage from England. Once I am away, I will release you. It is a proposition that Colter will most likely view as agreeable, once given the alternatives.”
“You’re mad,” Jacqueline whispered, and Easton’s lips twisted into a cruel smile.
“No, Lady Leverton, merely desperate. Beware desperate men, as we have a tendency to be unreliable at times. This pistol could discharge quite unexpectedly.”
Celia rose to her feet and the barrel of the pistol instantly swerved toward her. “If you do shoot,” she said calmly, “you can only kill one of us.”
“This fires twice, an excellent model. I hardly need remind you that I possess more strength than either of you, and it would be no trouble to save powder and ball. Come here, child, since you promise to be rebellious, and secure your cousin with the sash from her dress. Tie it tightly, or I’ll assume you’d rather me assure her presence by more final means.”
Angry, frustrated and frightened, Celia did what he told her to do, using the blue silk sash from Jacqueline’s dress to tie her to the straight-backed chair by the fire. She could feel her fear, though Jacqueline said nothing, only stared balefully at Easton. While she tied the knots, Celia tried to think of a plan for escape.
Apparently Easton had already managed to secure James and Renfroe, for there was no sign of either of them. She hoped they were still alive, that he’d not been vicious enough to kill them.
Outwardly calm, Celia’s insides thrummed with tension as she tied the final knot and straightened to meet Easton’s narrowed stare.
“If you wish to test them, please yourself,” she said, and saw the suggestion of a smile on his mouth.
“Quite a little rebel, aren’t you? Rather like your mother, as I recall. She was spirited as well.” He moved to test the bonds, then nodded. “Very good. Now, remove your own sash, please. I shall do the honors this time.”
When she was tied with her hands in front of her, he put a burgundy cape around her shoulders to conceal her hands. “After you—and give no sign of distress or I’ll shoot you. That is a promise. I may not kill you, but the pain will be severe enough to make you wish I had.”
Celia had no choice but to go with him, and she saw from Jacqueline’s terrified eyes that there was little hope of rescue.
Easton put her into a carriage, a fast, two-wheeled gig drawn by a pair of Colter’s spirited bays, and she wished that she had the nerve to signal to Smythe of her plight.
Oh, where is Santiago when he’s needed? she wondered with a spurt of real fear when the carriage door slammed shut behind her and Easton took up the reins. No one save the elderly Smythe was in sight, and of course, he knew Easton as a relative and would suspect nothing.
The afternoon light was fading, and a cold wind penetrated the closed gig and the wool lap robe Easton had carelessly tossed over her. Once out of the gates, the gig turned east along the coast; marsh marigolds had begun to bloom in the damp woodland and wet meadows, tiny bits of yellow like scattered sunlight. A ringed plover churned along a spit of sand below the road, and the gig spun just as relentlessly toward its unknown destination.
“Where are we going?” she asked, though she suspected he would not answer.
“Curiosity can be a dangerous thing, my lady,” Easton said, a mocking emphasis on the title that was still so new to her.
“You’re quite right, but vengeance is deadly. I should know that well enough, as I’ve seen for myself how fatal it can be for those who pursue it.” Her fingers curled into the folds of the burgundy cape, the wind a rushing sound, the wheels whirling over chalk and sandy road an incessant hum that threatened to drown out their words. “Release me, and I’ll ask Colter to withdraw his charges against you.”
“My dear, naive countess, it’s not up to him.”
He smiled as he glanced at her, his hands competent upon the reins, the whip in his hand a cracking shot that urged the horses to a faster pace.
“I fear you’ve been misinformed if you think that he alone is responsible for my misfortune. There’s the matter of smuggling, you see, avoiding the excise men and revenue cutters that has rather stirred up a fuss. It’s not up to my great-nephew, but to his superior. It will be up to Colter to convince his superior to allow me to leave England. Would that convincing Colter alone be all I need to do…I’m sure that could be accomplished with you as the prize.”
Despair formed a hard, tight knot in the pit of her stomach. Mowry had not seemed the kind of man who would be agreeable to bargains of any kind, not if it meant foiling his own plans or purpose. He would hardly consider her as a strong reason to free a man he wanted to prosecute.
The gig rocked violently to one side and she grabbed at the handstrap to remain upright on the seat. Easton gave a harsh grunt, hauling back on the reins as the gig went into a curve on the road, then rolled smoothly forward again.
Waning light turned the sea gray, easily seen now on the right as they took the coastal road toward Devon. Celia remembered the last time she had come this way, afraid then, too, when Marita had betrayed her to Easton and Sir John.
It seemed that most of her life had been lived in fear of something—fear of the past, fear of the future, fear of failure. Yet, despite it all, she survived.
There was a resilience that she hadn’t realized she possessed until now, and it came to her rescue even when everything else seemed to fail her.
Even if Colter has abandoned me, she thought, then pushed the disloyal idea from her mind.
If she must save herself, then she would. This time Sir John was not there to relent, to take her back to London as he had last time. If she was to escape being put aboard a ship again just to save Easton from a well-deserved fate, she had to do it on her own. With her hands covered by the lap robe, she worked at the velvet sash around her wrists until it loosened and slithered free to the floor. Free!
A glance showed her
that he had his pistol on the seat beside him. To reach it she would have to lean over him. Impossible, of course.
So she waited, watched, and when night fell and the gig went more slowly, the feeble lights flickering with scant illumination to show the rutted road, she reached slowly for the handle of the door. It was outside, so she had to slip her hand over the edge of the door, a cautious movement that required stealth.
Fumbling fingers found the latch, and she sat quietly waiting until just the right moment, until Easton was intent upon the road and the gig slowed enough so that she wouldn’t kill herself with a leap. Ridges lined the road, high and narrow, dropping steeply away in places. In other spots the road dipped into softer terrain. She narrowed her eyes, staring out the window as they pressed onward. Finally she saw a break in the chalky ridge of rock that lined the road.
Spiked heads of club-rushes waved in a brisk wind, indicating soft ground to cushion her fall, seeming in the ghostly light of rising moon and lamp to be beckoning to her as she gathered her nerve.
She saw her chance as the gig slowed to take another curve. Just as Easton lifted the whip to urge the sleek matched bays to a faster pace, she snapped open the latch and flung herself out into empty air.
Even cushioned by brackish water and soft ground, she landed hard, breathless from the impact as she scrambled to her feet. There was no time to look back, no time for anything but flight, and she ran through the muddy sludge toward the rushing sound of the sea. She heard Easton’s angry shouts, but he’d have to leave the gig to pursue her. Surely she could outrun him!
The enveloping cape swirled around her, impeding her movements, and as she ran she undid the braided frog that held it closed, letting it slide free of her shoulders. It billowed out, the rich burgundy like a splash of wine sailing through the air to land in a drift upon the ground.
Holding her skirts high, she fled like a marsh hare, ran as her side began to ache and her breath came in short gasps of air like a blacksmith’s bellows. It was cold, the wind constant, and the hem of her skirts grew wet and heavy. Several times she stumbled and nearly fell, but she pushed herself up and surged forward again, the sense of urgency driving her on until she reached a sandy ridge.
A Reckless Encounter Page 29
