A Reckless Encounter

“Not so very much,” Celia said. “Not as much as many others have suffered.”

“Perhaps you are right.” Jacqueline lapsed into a sorrowful silence that was shared by Madame Dupre, another French emigré who had fled Paris during the terrible revolution.

So many, Celia had learned during her short time here, had survived horrors. It was no wonder her mother had shied away from discussing those dark days, but spoke instead of the happier times—her love for her husband and their meeting in London.

“But come,” Madame Dupre said briskly after a moment, “we must not dwell on those things. They are past now, and we must think only of the coming Season. It will be most exciting this year, I believe, as the Prince of Wales has already begun making preparations for a grand fête.…”

As the two women chattered in French about the coming galas, Celia lifted her arms obediently as she was measured and turned this way and that, while the talk turned to silk versus satin for evening, and of course, how low should the décolletage be this year without inviting scandal.

“But I think, with her height, that she should wear the newest fashion,” Madame Dupre announced. “Waists are dropping, but necklines are still low enough to tempt the eye without being too risqué. A pointed bodice perhaps. Off the shoulders, of course, with long gloves to the elbow. No oversleeves are necessary, for she has such lovely slender arms. For this ball, tulle over white satin, do you not think? Four rouleaux?”

“No,” Jacqueline said thoughtfully. “I think perhaps flounces edged with a rollio, and the underskirt with a rouleau…definitely white for her first ball, though not that glaring white against her pale skin. And a sash of celestial blue would be so lovely…a complement to Caro’s gown as well. What a striking pair they will be!”

Jacqueline’s daughter had already been fitted for her gowns, and she had declined to accompany them for Celia’s fittings. Though not antagonistic, Carolyn was very reserved in her welcome, and there had been a certain restraint between them at first.

It had been Carolyn who dictated the rudiments of proper address, the tangle of titles so confusing that Celia made her laugh with her errors.

“No, no,” Caro had said when she mistakenly referred to a duke as Sir Charles. “Dukes are always your grace, or the duke of Marlborough, never Sir. His son would be called my lord, as would a viscount, marquess or earl. And never call anyone Lord John unless he is a younger son of a duke or marquess. It’s simple, really, if you can remember that the only nobles are princes and dukes. Everyone else, even earls, are commoners. All male peers except dukes are called Lord whatever their title name is, do you see?”

“No,” Celia said frankly, and Carolyn had laughed, easing some of the first tension between them.

“We shall continue our lessons until you know it all very well,” Caro had assured her, and the past week had been devoted to lessons in protocol as well as titles.

Oh, it was all so much to learn, and nothing could have properly prepared her for the vast differences. Soon it would all be put to the test.

After her first resistance, Celia was now glad she had yielded to the inevitable. It would give her access to Northington.

“And it is, after all, only the small Season, so you need not feel overwhelmed,” Jacqueline had said gaily. “It is quite entertaining with everyone arriving back in London after the summer heat.”

So it would be endured to achieve her goal. After that, obscurity, no doubt, and a return to America where her services would always be in demand as a French tutor. As long as she allowed no scandal to follow her…

The fickle vagaries of human nature allowed a man like Northington to ignore murder yet condemned a woman who was innocent of all crime. The memory of Maman’s shame would haunt Celia for the rest of her life.

A pregnant widow of two years was not allowed in decent homes, regardless of the circumstances. At times Celia thought bitterly that what had really killed Maman was the humiliation she had suffered.

It was true Celia was only a child then, but she’d been old enough to recognize her mother’s torment, and old enough to vow vengeance on the man responsible.…

Now, at last, she was old enough to carry out that vengeance.…

4

“Why must you take such vulgar modes of transport, Colter? You have a perfectly lovely carriage-and-four at your disposal. It’s unseemly to travel about London in hired hacks.”

Colter leaned forward, gave his mother the customary peck on her cheek. She smelled of lavender, a familiar, powdery fragrance he always associated with her. He straightened, a dark brow cocked.

“You make it sound as if I arrived in the butcher’s cart.”

“You might as well have.” Lady Moreland flicked an elegant hand at the maid to indicate where she wished her breakfast tray set. When the servant had gone, she turned to regard her son with an arched brow. “I’m pleased you found time to visit me. I began to wonder if I had offended you in some way.”

Colter braced one arm atop the mantel where a cheery fire burned behind brass firedogs. “You know why I don’t come more often.”

“Yes. I do.” She perched daintily upon an upholstered settee, still youthful and graceful despite her years. “Your father has inquired about you.”

“Has he.” Colter shifted restlessly. “Why?”

“Can a father not inquire about his son without undue suspicion?”

“Other fathers, perhaps. Not mine.” Colter moved past his mother to stare out the window into the gardens below. Stone statuary graced fading flower beds, and a fountain trickled cold water from a jug held by a Grecian goddess. Venus, he thought, though Attila the Hun would be more appropriate for the Moreland garden.

“Really, Colter,” his mother said behind him. “You should make more effort to compromise.”

He turned to face her. Thin sunlight streamed through the windows, creating an aura around Lady Moreland that was almost ethereal. She resembled an elegant stone angel, save for the faint lines of strain that fanned from the corners of her eyes. Her hand shook slightly as she poured hot chocolate into a cup; rich aromatic steam rose in wispy tendrils. She didn’t look at him, her attention focused upon the silver tray laden with biscuits, cake and serving ware.

He scowled at her obvious tension.

“What has he been on at you about? Don’t deny it. You can’t even look at me. Christ above, what tear is he on now that he’s upset you?”

Anger edged his words, made them hard and brittle so that his mother set down the china pot and folded her hands in her lap before she looked up at him.

“It’s that business with the East India company. The new docks that he’s financing have gone beyond the budget, and he’s convinced that his uncle is involved in a scheme to ruin him.”

“Given Philip’s propensity for idleness, I find that accusation unlikely.” Colter shrugged when his mother made a small sound of dismay. “You must admit all the animosity seems to come from my father. While Philip may resent the fact that my father inherited when fever took the first heir, he hides it well enough. And he’s too bloody lazy to scheme.”

“You shouldn’t talk about your great-uncle that way. Or your father, for that matter. Really, whatever has gotten into you lately? You were once quite pleasant. Now—”

“Now I’m the reckless Lord Northington, heir to a title and my father’s reputation. I can no longer afford to be pleasant. If Grandfather had only lived awhile longer, perhaps we could have all been set free. It was a damned nuisance that he contracted a fever and shared it with the only heir capable of decency. My father’s lucky star again, that he inherited after all.”

The countess looked distressed, and Colter cursed his harsh tongue. The same fever that had taken the sixth earl and an uncle had also taken his older brother Anthony, the heir, an unexpected death his mother still deeply mourned and his father cursed.

He crossed the small sitting room and sat beside his mother on the striped brocade settee in front of the fire.

“I’m in a wicked mood, ma mére. It has nothing to do with you. I’ll go up and see him before I leave. I always do, don’t I?”

“Yes.” Blue eyes not quite as bright as his stared at him with a searching penetration. “You always do your duty. You’re an honorable man.”

“Don’t let that get about. I want nothing to sully my reputation as a scoundrel and a rake, if you don’t mind. It’s much more convenient to have anxious mamas avoid me rather than push their horse-faced daughters in my direction.”

A faint smile touched the corners of her lips. “Not even your sullied reputation will divert some, I’m afraid. Your presence at a fête has been requested by one of my dearest friends, and I trust you won’t disappoint me.”

Colter lifted an ironic brow. “How grim.”

“Just make an appearance. You aren’t required to stay long.”

“Which of your friends is ruining my evening with a room filled with chattering ninnies, may I ask? Or do you intend to surprise me—God, it’s not Lady Throgmorton, I trust.”

“No, not even I would be so cruel as to make that demand of you. It’s Lady Leverton. She’s been my dear friend for some time. Her daughter was just presented to the prince and is to be wed next summer, but apparently wishes to enjoy the small Season. She also mentioned that her cousin’s daughter from the Colonies will be presented. A charming girl, I understand. Quiet, and not prone to giggling or stammering. I find that refreshing these days.”

Colter thought of Harvey and the young woman who had accompanied Lady Leverton. He was wrong. London was small enough for coincidences, after all.