Rosemary Rogers - A Reckless Encounter

Anger burned deeply, a low, smoldering blaze that never eased, never altered, and she thought of how delicious it would be to ruin Northington. He would pay, in whatever way she could manage, for Old Peter’s death as well as her mother’s. Everyone in London would know what he had done. If she could, she would see him hanged for murder. But that was unlikely. Vengeance would have to be tempered with practicality.

“Child,” Madame Dupre said with a puzzled look on her face, “you are so stiff, like a board! Please, you must not worry that I will stick you with a pin. I’ve not wounded many of my clients.”

Celia managed a laugh. “Forgive me, madame. I was thinking of something else. A sudden memory.”

“It must be something dreadful, to make you so stiff.”

“Yes. It was.”

“Poor child,” Jacqueline said. “You have suffered so much sorrow.”

“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.…

“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.”