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“I do not like him.” Celia jerked away from Peter’s grasp to go to the kitchen door. A hard knot formed in her chest. “He is quite rude. Maman does not like him, either. I saw it in her eyes.”
She whirled around to face the old man. “Do you think he’ll hurt her?”
Old Peter shook his head, but she noticed that his hand trembled slightly as he ladled soup into a bowl. Steam rose in a thin cloud from the pot.
“He would not dare, lamb. Not even an English lord can escape the law. Here. Come and sit down. Eat your soup, and some of these apples you love. The bread—Did you bring back Madame’s market bag from the front room?”
“Oh. I forgot it…Shall I go and fetch it? I left it at the front door when he came.”
“No. No, I’ll get it. You stay here and eat, child.”
Celia sat on the long bench drawn up to the scarred oak table that was incongruously set with the silver and a few pieces of china—remnants of better days. She was no longer hungry. Not even the apples were tempting.
Glumly she watched her soup cool, waiting for Old Peter’s return with the bread Maman had bought on her way home from teaching French to the children of wealthy townspeople.
Time passed and she began to fret. What could be taking so long? Why had Old Peter not returned? And where was Maman?
Finally, as the fire dimmed and the usually warm kitchen grew cool, Celia abandoned her untouched soup. It had grown even colder outside; as she crossed the breezeway to the main house, the wind tugged at her blue dress and loosened pale coils of her hair from beneath the white cap she wore. The smell of winter was in the air.
Shivering, she eased into the house and paused, uncertain. It was ominously quiet. The tall case clock that Maman had said now belonged to a new owner ticked softly in the hallway. A lamp had been lit, a thin thread of light from beneath a door guiding her down the hallway.
A feeling of dread enveloped her as she reached the parlor door; it was partially open. She began to shake. It was so quiet, deathly quiet…
“Maman?” Her hand spread on the door and pushed; it didn’t move. No sound greeted her as she wedged her body into the parlor. A low lamp burned in a wall sconce, casting the settee into a stark silhouette that seemed suddenly ominous. Her heart thudded painfully as she took a step into the room, glancing down at the obstruction holding the door. A scream locked in her throat.
Old Peter lay there motionless. His mouth was agape, his eyes closed. She knelt beside him, but he made no sound when she whispered his name. His dark face was so still.
Panic nearly paralyzed her, but she rose again and turned, walking toward the settee. Boards creaked beneath her feet, familiar but now much too loud in the soft gloom.
“Maman?”
It was a faint whisper, tentative and afraid. Her hand curled over the back of the settee, the horsehair-stuffed upholstery unyielding beneath the pressure of her clutching fingers. A bundle of rags lay upon the seat, shapeless and bulky.
But when she slipped around the end of the settee to inspect further, the bundle moaned softly.
“Maman! Oh, Maman!”
A feeble hand reached out for her, and then Celia saw that her mother’s skirts were up around her waist, her lower body naked. Immediately she pulled the skirts over Maman’s legs, then knelt beside her.
“Maman—you’re hurt! And Old Peter won’t wake. I must fetch the physician.”
“No…” The moan formed a refusal.
“But you’ll die, and Old Peter is so still…I’m afraid for you and I don’t know what to do!” Sobs thickened her words and she felt her mother’s hand graze her cheek in a comforting gesture.
“Help…Peter. I’m…fine. Truly. Go to Peter.”
But Old Peter was past help, dead from a grievous blow to the side of his head.
Celia spent the next few weeks in a daze. Maman had never been very strong, and now her meager reserves of strength were depleted by Lord Northington’s brutal rape. He had hurt much more than just her body; the light had gone from Léonie’s eyes, leaving behind an empty shell.
Anger sparked, the helpless rage of a child who has lost all comfort and security.
Léonie tried to recover; she dragged herself from the bed to do the sewing that helped to support them, but her heart was no longer in it. Northington had destroyed something inside her that Celia couldn’t understand.
“It is no use, petite,” Maman said sadly when Celia insisted she go to the authorities again. “They do not see me, do not care to see me. And it no longer matters. He’s gone now, back to England.”
“But we have papers. I read them, Maman! Charges were brought—”
“Against a man who is inviolate, a peer of the realm with access to money for bribes. Not even Peter’s murder will be avenged, so my charge is even less likely to be acknowledged. I am familiar with the advantages of power, my petite. Once, I lived with it. I know what it can do, what it can accomplish. It is no use to fight it.”
“No!” Celia raged, her voice almost a howl that alarmed her mother. “He has to pay for what he’s done, Maman. He has to be punished! Where is the justice? Why can he escape—”
Léonie grabbed her close, held her as tears wet their cheeks. “Justice is not always in this life,” she said at last, stroking Celia’s hair with a trembling hand. “I have seen too much to expect evil deeds to always be punished.”
Anger and resentment burned inside Celia’s breast, but she held her tongue. It only made things worse to remind Maman of what had happened. But one day—one day she would find a way to make Lord Northington pay for what he had done!
PART II
“And whatever sky’s above me,
Here’s a heart for any fate.”
—Lord Byron
LONDON, ENGLAND
September, 1819
1
Traveling under the name St. Clair, Celia stared over the rail of the ship nosing a watery trough up the Thames. It had been a tedious voyage save for a storm that she’d been convinced would destroy them all. But now she was here at last. At last! She knotted her hands in the folds of the reticule she carried; a letter crackled softly in the velvet bag. It was her future, the letter to Maman’s cousin, Jacqueline Fournier Leverton. Jacqueline and Léonie St. Remy had fled Paris during that bloody Revolution that had cost so many lives. Jacqueline had married an English baron, while Léonie wed the dashing American captain Samuel Sinclair and left England behind forever.
Perhaps Léonie had worried what might happen one day, for, when Celia was still an infant, she’d written a letter to her cousin about her daughter. She’d kept Jacqueline’s reply, her promise to stand as godmother to the child she hoped to one day meet. That letter was old, the pages yellowed and the ink faint, but it would serve as a letter of introduction to this godmother Celia had never met.
And now the time had come. So many fears, so much pain and heartache behind her…but she would let nothing stand in her way. Not now. Not after so many years.
Coming to England was not just the start of a new life, it was an act of vengeance. For nearly ten years, she had hated Lord Northington. At times, it had been all that let her feel alive.
Celia’s hands tightened on the ship rail as the London docks grew sharper in the gray mist that cloaked the river and hazed the forest of tall, swaying masts that looked like so many reeds choking the waterway. Shrouds seemed to part sullenly as the prow eased through debris and water, a lingering fog that diffused the sharper outlines of the city’s gray spires and forbidding towers.
So close, so close. It was nearly time now…all the planning, and now she was here at last. Maman would have wanted her to come to England.
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.”
“Very well,” she said after a moment, for he was quite right in that it seemed to be much larger than she had anticipated. “Please show me Bruton Street.”
“Ah, tell the driver to take you to Mayfair. Here. Go by way of these main roads and you should get there quite quickly.” He traced a route with his finger, then smiled as he pressed the small map into her hand. “Keep it for now, but do be kind enough to return it to me, if you will, once you’ve used it. Have it delivered by post, or messenger if you like, to the Carlisle in Shoreditch. It’s a public house owned by my brother.”
“Thank you, sir, for your kindness,” she said as she tucked the directory into her reticule. Perhaps she should not be so suspicious, she thought, but a woman traveling alone dare not attract too much attention. Why, most of the voyage had been spent in her cabin, a stuffy corner not much larger than a water closet and smelling very similar.
As the Liberty edged close to the dock, the decks grew quite crowded and loud, and Celia realized that, in the press of crowd and crew, James Carlisle had vanished. It was faintly surprising. He’d seemed so insistent, and now he’d just disappeared in the chaos, leaving her alone to make her way ashore.
Celia dismissed Carlisle from her mind when the hack rolled to a halt before the buff stone facade of Lord Leverton’s Mayfair home. It was imposing, a veritable five-story tower with staircases that curved up each side to the entrance. It was a house that radiated power and position.
It was this kind of house, this kind of wealth, that bred men like Lord Northington.…
She was shown into the entrance hall and bade wait, and the butler who greeted her looked down his long thin nose at her as if she were an interloper.
“Lady Leverton is not accepting visitors, I fear,” he said coldly. “However, you may leave your card.”
But Celia was not to be denied. “I will wait in the parlor.” She made her tone as lofty as his, with just a touch of arrogance. “Please be so good as to direct me. Lady Leverton will be pleased to see me, I assure you.”
There were, she thought, few things more intimidating than a proper English servant. He regarded her as if she were an insect, but at last briefly inclined his head, and beckoned to a young maid.
“Show Miss—” He studied the card she’d given him for an instant, then continued, “St. Clair into the small parlor to wait, Hester.”
The uniformed maid led her to a wide set of double doors that opened into a room much larger than any she’d seen. If it was named the small parlor, she would truly be amazed at any larger chamber.
Richly furnished, there was a warm fire in the grate and thick rugs on the floors. Plush settees upholstered in embroidered velvet were placed before the hearth. Ornate vases and Dresden figurines adorned baroque tables that gleamed with the sheen of highly polished mahogany. Fresh flowers spilled from crystal vases.
Celia felt suddenly awkward and graceless in such a room, and wondered with a spurt of panic if she could truly pretend to be what she was not. How could she keep up the masquerade?
And while she may dislike deceiving her own godmother with the charade, she had little choice. She had to be the woman she posed herself to be, or she would never be able to fit in the society of those surrounding Northington.
