It was a dangerous game she played, and she knew it. For a few panicked moments, Celia thought she’d overplayed her hand. He was so…so predatory, that she’d wanted to erase his smug confidence, prick his arrogance.
Yet he was swift enough to take up her challenge.
Oh God, this was so unexpected! She hadn’t bargained for this, hadn’t thought it through well enough. Consumed by the need for vengeance, she had blithely assumed that she could arrive in London, confront Lord Northington and ruin him with her accusations and documents. But her plans were coming unraveled before her eyes.
Now she realized that it would be much more difficult than she had ever considered. The peerage formed a united front against outsiders even though they harshly judged them on their own terms. The earl’s undoing must be more carefully structured, or she would lose any chance at all of getting what she wanted.
What did she want? The complete annihilation of the man who had caused her mother’s death. Justice demanded it.
But realistically, what could she do? Raise enough doubts to damage his reputation, such as it was? Create a scandal he could never escape? Cause him humiliation?
It was not enough, but it would have to serve.
And this Lord Northington was crucial to his father’s downfall. She must not make any more mistakes.
The movement of the curricle had slowed in the congestion of traffic in the park. Celia studied Lord Northington as he handled the horses with expert efficiency, though she did so discreetly. It was rather like gauging an opponent, an odd dance around the truth while she considered her next move.
Sunlight gleamed on his dark hair; he wore it casually feathered over his ears and below his collar in the popular style, with short side-whiskers that ended at his earlobe. Strong bones delineated a forceful nature corroborated by a firm mouth and square jaw. In daylight, he was even more striking than he had been in the diffused glow of candles and crystal chandeliers. It was unnerving. How could this man be the son of the man she hated so badly? There should be a sign of some sort, a mark of the beast to signify his heritage.
But there was nothing other than his dark good looks to recommend him, and she turned her gaze to the passing landscape of mottled trees. It reminded her of home, the crisp air of autumn that was always so invigorating and so lovely. She and Maman and Old Peter had often gone together to lie in grassy meadows on the fringe of Georgetown, where they would take a basket of food and while away the day with memories and plans for the future.
That had been before, of course, before Papa had died and the world had gone dark, before Lord Northington had come into their lives and poisoned the past and the future.
“You have proven to be more intriguing than I first thought you would be, Miss St. Clair.”
Northington sounded cynically amused, and she shot him a furtive glance. A faint, knowing smile curled his mouth. Her heart thumped in alarm. She’d gone too far. Jacqueline had warned her of the fine line between propriety and presumption.
“Have I, my lord? You sound disapproving.”
“Surprised, perhaps. A milk and water miss from the Colonies is hardly common in London, especially one who claims to be descended from French royalty.”
Her mouth tightened. “Claims? I’ve said nothing to that effect.”
“No, but your cousin certainly has. Do you disagree with her on that subject?”
“Why would I? Lady Leverton is in a much better position to know the truth than I am. She was there in—”
“Another revolution that left behind widows, orphans and impostors.”
“Into which category do you think I belong?” Anger made her voice sharp.
His gaze was bland. “That is something only you know, Miss St. Clair.”
“You speak of rudeness on my part, but your manners lack even the most rudimentary courtesies! Breeding is not an acquired virtue, but something one is born with. It can exist in a lowly milkmaid or an aristocrat, but it is certainly not found in men who behave like rutting boars. I resent your inferences.”
“And am I to infer that you’re comparing me to a rutting boar?”
“If you like!” Beyond anger, beyond caution, she gave him a furious stare that seemed to have no effect on him whatsoever. He merely smiled, an infuriating, maddening smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. A small muscle leaped in his jaw, as if he was clenching his teeth. With a start, Celia recognized his fury.
At last. She had reached him, managed to elicit an honest emotion from him even though he suppressed it. A cold light gleamed in eyes that had turned an ice-blue, narrowed at her now, the tautness of his mouth more of a grimace than the smile he was obviously attempting. A chill of sudden apprehension clutched at her.
Until now, he had seemed dangerous in a distant, safe kind of way, but at the moment she felt threatened. He said nothing, did nothing, but there was a taut, wolfish look to him, as if he sensed easy prey.
She felt hot and cold at the same time. What had she been thinking? This man was, after all, Northington’s son. His father had been capable of rape and murder, why should his son be any different?
With a hand that visibly shook, she put her fingers to her throat, an instinctive gesture of self-protection. She was glad for the maid still in the boot—a witness, a deterrent.
If Northington noticed her distress, he ignored it. His hands were capable, steady on the long reins as the matched bays picked up a brisk pace. The streets of London were no less crowded than Hyde Park. It took longer than usual to reach Bruton Street, and by the time the curricle halted before the five-story house, Celia had composed herself.
“Good day, my lord,” she said coolly, not waiting for him to help her step down from the vehicle. She swung open the low door and dropped to the ground, but her skirt hung up on the seat, catching on the latch. Cold air assaulted her legs, clad only in clocked stockings. She twisted to free herself, glared at the maid sitting bug-eyed in the boot and said, “Get out and help me, Janey.”
To her chagrin, Northington leaned across the seat before the maid could move, easily disengaging the velvet and braid hem. “An enticing view, Miss St. Clair,” he said with a wicked lift of his brow, and only laughed when she jerked her skirt free of his grasp.
An ignominious end to an afternoon that was already difficult.
It would be a miracle if she ever saw him again. Oh, not that she minded that so very much! But without Lord Northington, she must plan another way to reach the earl.
Celia St. Clair eased from his mind when Colter reached the offices of Messrs. Guiterrez and Barclay. A most unlikely pair to be in business together, they were quite successful. Their office overlooked the East India Dock, a massive stretch of warehouses and swaying ships’ masts. It was noisy, crowded, and already the area was overflowing. There was talk of new docks to be built in the area now housing St. Katherine’s Hospital east of the Tower. It would ease some of the congestion, and get rid of the wretched slums. Shipping interests thrived.
“My lord,” Barclay greeted him, “we’ve been expecting your arrival.”
Colter took the chair he was offered, but declined a glass of port. Leaning back, he stretched out long legs and regarded Barclay. “Tell me what you’ve found. In detail.”
“Ah, yes.” Barclay, a short, florid man of Scottish descent, cleared his throat. Red hair liberally streaked with gray stuck up in odd tufts atop his head, and he had the expression of a perpetually doleful spaniel. “It’s quite perplexing. The India is reported to have been lost with all hands and cargo, yet some items have recently reached a Paris shop. The cargo was mostly specie, but some very costly pieces were included in the hold. Most perplexing is how the ancient Chinese vases survived to be offered for sale—privately, it seems—in a small shop off the Rue de Ile. It would seem impossible. How would the vases survive such a storm, yet no sailor? Most unusual.”
“Do you have a list of the items offered for sale? It is certain they are the same as those on the manifest my steward delivered to you?”
“Oh, yes, my lord. No mistake about that. While the currency might be unidentifiable, the vases are unique. The Ming dynasty, I believe, and quite rare. It’s a miracle they survived intact.” He blew out a thoughtful sigh. “Of course, I suppose it’s not impossible. Wooden packing crates, a great deal of straw—When the ship went down, perhaps the hold broke open and these miraculously floated free.”
“I don’t believe in miracles, Mister Barclay.”
He looked up, startled. “Oh, no. Of course not. I see what you mean.” Bright blue eyes fringed with red lashes narrowed slightly. “Yes, I believe you and Monsieur Guiterrez are of the same mind on that. He has been most adamant that it’s too great a coincidence to be believed. He has come to some conclusions of his own, though I must say that I don’t fully agree. It’s too unlikely.”
“My question is how and where it was done. I was told that the ship went down off the coast of Lubang. If it did not, or if it went down after it was relieved of cargo, it stands to reason that there would be some record of debris washing ashore. I was told there was none.”
“Quite right. None at all. No sign of drowned men or even a plank. All that is available are several witnesses to the ship’s sinking.”
“These witnesses were questioned thoroughly?”
“Very thoroughly. They all told the same tale of seeing the ship attempt to ride out the storm at sea, of seeing it offshore as it broke apart and sank.”
“Yet now some of the lost cargo is offered for sale in Paris.”
Barclay shuffled through some papers on his desk, and held up several sheafs. “Here is the complete manifest and the list of what was discovered in Paris. The name of the shop is listed, as well as the names of the witnesses in Lubang.” A brief smile momentarily brightened his dismal expression. “Odd names, but the translator carefully took down their reports.”
Colter scanned the pages. Then he looked up. “They all tell the same tale to the letter. It doesn’t vary.”
“Yes, my lord. That has been noted. It could be due to the translator.”
“Or it could be that these witnesses were told what to say. Moonrakers.” He tossed the pages to the desktop. “I presume you’re investigating that possibility.”
“Yes, my lord. We sent men to make our own inquiries as soon as we received these rather peculiar reports.”
“Efficient of you, Barclay.”
“We do try to be on the spot, my lord.” Barclay’s nod reeked of satisfaction. “If I do say so myself, we have excellent employees who are very thorough. Nasty business, luring ships onto the rocks just to get the cargo. Utter disregard for human life and the property of others.”
Rising to his feet, Colter picked up the reports. “I would appreciate it if you said nothing of this to either my father or any member of the board. My father has been ill, and the board need not be bothered with unsupported rumors at this point. When the time comes, I’ll present them with the facts.”
The facts, Colter recognized as rife with deceit. If ships were being reported as lost with all cargo, then that cargo was being sold elsewhere, someone was reaping a great deal of profit. Only the investors lost money, as Lloyd’s of London paid but a percentage of the loss.
It was too costly to insure ships and cargo, the earl had argued, save for the barest amount. The board agreed. For the most part, they were right. But if one of the investors had decided to arrange matters to his own benefit, it was time to change that.
He would conduct his own investigations. And he’d start with his own father.