Rosemary Rogers - A Reckless Encounter

Maman.…

It was nine years since her death, nine years since Celia had watched helplessly as Léonie bled to death in the childbed. Her infant son had lived only a few minutes more than his mother, Northington’s babe drawing only a few gasps of air. They were buried together, a simple grave in a corner of the cemetery where paupers were granted space for their eternity.

At thirteen, Celia had found herself orphaned and alone. There had been no relatives to take her in, no one but the kind nuns at a foundling home. As Léonie had once done, Celia taught French to students, saving every penny she earned through the years. Even after her eighteenth birthday, she’d stayed on, saving her money, a goal firmly fixed in her mind, her sworn revenge keeping her strong.

It was the death of her mother that had formed the need for vengeance, formed the burning desire to find Northington and, if nothing else, confront him with his crimes. Why should he be allowed to forget the woman he had raped or the old man he had killed? Didn’t she live with their memories every day, the pain as fresh at times as it had been when she’d lost them? Yes, and Northington would soon find a reminder of what he’d done on his doorstep.

In the reticule with the letter to Lady Leverton was a document with the old charges against the viscount. It bore the seal of the Georgetown magistrate where it had been filed so many years before—the only proof of Northington’s crime. A charge of murder still held weight even after so long, though the death of a freed slave had not been important enough to halt Northington’s flight.

But it was important to me, Celia thought fiercely as the docks became more visible in the fog. Old Peter was still a sharp memory, she’d never forget him.

It was the careless indifference that rankled most, the viscount’s arrogant claim that the old man had assaulted him. It had been a farce, a travesty of justice.

But Celia intended to see that he acknowledged his acts, to expose him for the cruel killer that he was and to seek justice for the wrongs done not only to Old Peter, but to her mother and an innocent babe.

The nuns had taught her a great deal about atonement for sins committed, and she would educate Northington. He would have his name shamed in the society he kept, and endure the scourge of public scorn. I just hope he’s still alive to suffer it! she thought fiercely.

A chill wind blew across the decks, but she paid no heed to it, or to the sidelong glances she received from some of the deckhands. Most of the passengers aboard ship were from America, but the Liberty had briefly docked in Liverpool the day before, and several men had boarded for the trip around the southern coast of England to London. For the most part, they seemed inoffensive, though she had noticed one man in particular who stood out from the others.

Tall, dark, with an inbred arrogance that reminded her far too clearly of the kind of man she detested, he remained aloof from the others, keeping company instead with the captain of the vessel as if they were old friends. Yet there was an air about him that drew her attention, though she would have denied it if anyone had noticed her interest. It might be his self-assurance, or even his lean good looks, but she found her gaze drawn to him when he came onto the upper deck.

He was dressed casually in tight-fitting buff trousers and knee-high jackboots, his white shirt and open coat giving him the appearance of a country squire.

But there was something primitive, predatory about him, as if he was a man accustomed to command and instant obedience. His lean face was like the blade of a hatchet, the features too well-defined to belong to a simple squire. He seemed—dangerous.

Leaning against the wall of the deckhouse, he was engaged in conversation with the first mate, but happened to glance up and catch her staring at him. A mocking smile tucked the corners of his mouth inward, and he inclined his head in her direction to acknowledge her gaze.

Celia flushed and looked casually away, as if she’d only been searching for a companion.

Fortunately Mister Carlisle, a fellow passenger who had boarded only the day before but had already made himself known to her, chose that moment to approach her at the rail, his smile wide and friendly.

“Miss St. Clair,” he said agreeably. “It seems we made it to London in good time.”

“Yes, so it does, Mister Carlisle.”

As the ship glided down the Thames, the decks were frenetic with activity; ropes hummed through the shrouds and canvas snapped with heavy weight.

A brisk wind tugged at her skirts and threatened to loosen her hat. Celia grabbed at the ribbons to hold her hat in place and managed a smile. If she hadn’t been caught staring so rudely at another passenger, she would have been quite cool to Mister Carlisle. Since boarding the Liberty, he had seemed to take a special interest in her, dogging her steps every time she came above deck.

Now his smile was ingratiating, his manner a bit too bluff and hearty.

“So, Miss St. Clair, do you have family or friends meeting you?”

“I couldn’t say, Mister Carlisle. Arrival dates are so uncertain, you know.”

“Yes, it’s so easy to miscalculate, especially when the vessel arrives ahead of schedule.” He hesitated, his brown eyes observing her with obvious admiration. “London is a huge, busy city, and it’s very easy to get lost or taken advantage of if you aren’t familiar with the streets and byways. Perhaps I could see you to your destination, if it wouldn’t be too presumptuous of me to suggest it.”

Her smile cooled. “That really isn’t necessary, Mister Carlisle. I’m quite capable of reaching my family on my own, thank you.”

“But I thought you’d never been to London—”

“No, but one doesn’t have to have lived here to be able to hire a hack, I’m quite certain.”

Carlisle shrugged. “True enough, yet a hired hack is hardly suitable for a woman of your presence.”

He moved closer, his tone shifting. It became more intimate, husky and cajoling. Just his supposition that she would be susceptible made her answer him sharply when he offered again to take her in his own coach.

“Perhaps you misunderstood me, Mister Carlisle. I do not care to be alone in your company.”

Undeterred, he smiled broadly. “You have come all the way across the Atlantic alone. I didn’t think you would consider yourself in danger being alone with me in a public carriage. But since you’re reluctant—”

“Yes, I am reluctant. I do not really know you. An acquaintance made aboard ship is not really what one could call proper.”

He bowed slightly. “I beg your pardon if I offended you, as it seems I have. Here, do let me loan you my city directory. Hired hacks so often take advantage of visitors to London, and he may well try to overcharge you since you are unfamiliar with the streets.”

When she hesitated, he smiled disarmingly. “I have a sister I would wish protected, Miss St. Clair. I would hope some gentleman would be so kind as to offer his assistance should she be in need of it. I want nothing in return but your safety.”

“Very well,” she said, and smiled back at him. “I’m grateful for your concern. What is this directory?”

“It is a map of main streets and routes in London. See, here is the Tower, and this is Parliament over here.…” He traced the route with his fingertip. “If you know your destination, you’ll be able to find the general area on this map, then not allow any dishonest hackman to take you the long way round.”

“Yes,” she said. “Oh my, this map is so detailed and the print so small I don’t know if I can find my street.”

“If you’d like, tell me the name of your street and I’ll point to it. You don’t have to share the address. London is a big city, and it’s easy to get lost.”