Celia looked shaken, Jacqueline thought, though she behaved as if all were perfectly tranquil. She drank cups of champagne punch, danced with knights, barons and even an earl, laughed and flirted and seemed not to notice that Lord Northington had not returned.
It had not escaped her notice that Northington and Celia had disappeared for a short length of time, however, nor that Celia was definitely flustered when she returned. It was so like the viscount to do such a thing, and she worried that Celia—so young and innocent, for all that she seemed capable of handling herself well—would find him too experienced to be seduced into a marriage proposal.
She suppressed a light shiver. Northington wasn’t very much like his father had been—a terrible man, the new earl, with no scruples at all. At least the viscount had a sense of decency. Should she tell Celia about the earl and Léonie, how he had pursued her so intently many years before? Oh, the man then known as Lord Northington had been absolutely furious when Léonie wed her American and left London.
She had spurned his advances and he’d sworn vengeance on her, but thankfully, she had escaped him unscathed. It had been rumored that then viscount Northington could be quite cruel, and oh, she had been so glad Léonie left England before he could exact his retaliation on her for her refusal of him.
But really, what had he expected? Everyone whispered of his excesses, his depravities and membership in that terrible club where men treated women with such awful indifference. Jules had told her of it—a wicked group of men dedicated to appeasing perverted sexual desires with willing—and unwilling—women. Yet all that was gone now, she thought, for there had been no mention of it in so very long a time.
And now perhaps it would be vindication of a sort if Léonie’s daughter did wed Northington, for after all, he was not the dissolute rake that his father had been, regardless of the gossip. Even Jules thought highly of him, despite their political differences, and Jules was rarely wrong about a person.
Ah, it was so difficult to know what to do. But at the moment Celia was enjoying herself, and if the viscount was immune to her charm, he was practically the only man there who was. Men buzzed around Celia in her scarlet gown as if bees around a lovely flower, fetching more champagne punch and asking her to dance, promising to leave their cards the very next morning.
Yes, she was a success again tonight, and her lack of a dowry seemed not to matter when it came to men willing to fall at her feet and promise undying devotion.
Practicality dictated that few of them would actually make an offer, for most needed a profitable alliance to increase family lands or wealth, yet Jacqueline thought with a great deal of satisfaction that her petite cousine would make a very good match indeed before this Season ended. There would be no need to worry about presenting her in the spring!
Just like my Caro, she thought fondly as she turned her gaze toward her daughter, who was dancing primly with her betrothed, a rather plain but very good-hearted young man with impeccable antecedents and an excellent future. Lord Melwyn was destined to be influential one day, she was certain of it. With Carolyn at his side, he would lack for nothing. Certainly the ample dowry she brought would be quite beneficial.
What, I wonder, Jacqueline mused, would Jules say if I wished to set aside at least a small portion to offer with Celia? A woman shouldn’t ever feel deficient, as if she brought nothing to the marriage but her beauty, for there would always be a niggling worry that her husband had wed beneath him. She knew that feeling well enough. Always, she had worried that Jules regretted not marrying a wealthy bride, and it had taken years to finally believe that he truly loved her.
It would be so wonderful to know Celia had the same assurance.
“But here you are again,” she said as Celia’s partner returned her, both of them flushed and smiling from the lively contredanse that had just ended. “And not a moment too soon. We are to go into supper.”
“I am not at all hungry,” Celia said a little breathlessly as a cup was pressed into her hand. “But I think I have drank too much champagne tonight!”
“My dear, are you unwell?”
Jacqueline leaned close and put a hand on her arm, and Celia realized belatedly that she gripped her crystal glass so tightly the stem had cracked. She managed a light laugh.
“Exhausted, but quite well.”
Maneuvering her away from the overattentive ears of those near them, Jacqueline murmured, “Whatever did Lord Northington say to you tonight?”
“Why do you think he said something?”
“I know he said something, but what? You look…you look almost angry.”
“Oh, I am just weary from all the dancing. Why ever would you think I’m angry?”
“No one has such a fierce expression unless they are, my dear, and it seems that Northington has left without claiming another dance with you. Oh.” She drew back a little to peer into Celia’s face. “Did you perhaps make him angry?”
“How would I know? It would be most difficult to distinguish his moods if I cared to dwell on them.” She drained the last of her punch, a less potent drink than the champagne. “I find him quite irritating.”
“Most men are irritating. That has nothing to do with being eligible. Northington will be earl one day. He is still young and handsome and has a title. While his father may have an unsavory reputation, that is all in the past. And really, it hardly matters what the father is, as long as the son is his own man.”
“But is he? Is Lord Northington his own man? He seems as brutal as the father.”
“Oh my child, so much gossip is based on false facts, it is difficult to say what is true and what is untrue. But my Jules holds the viscount in high regard so I cannot think he is so very wicked after all.”
“I begin to think that there must be something more to life than catching a husband.” Celia managed a light tone though she was unsettled and on edge, uncertain what to do next. Nothing had gone as she envisioned, for Northington was not at all malleable, or even predictable.
Jacqueline shook her head. “Only after the wedding, my little cabbage. Then life begins. Until then, it is a time of preparation. I am surprised that Léonie did not instruct you more fully, but then, you were still so young when she died.”
“Yes.” Celia inhaled sharply. She needed no reminders of her mother tonight; Northington had provided far too many reservations that would haunt her when she lay awake later. It had been years since she’d slept an entire night through without waking several times, sometimes to lie awake for hours staring at a dark ceiling, watching the fire die down and reliving old nightmares while plotting new ones.
“You have a restless spirit,” Sister Berthilde had told her once, after finding her wandering the halls of the home a few hours before daybreak.
The good sister’s recommendation had been to ease the night with earnest prayer, but Celia had never found that successful. She’d tried. Some nights she’d knelt beside her bed so long that her knees were sore and bruised the next day. Nothing had ever eased her restless spirit. Until justice was served, nothing ever would.
Now Jacqueline said, “Your dress certainly intrigued Northington, though I thought him a bit—well, brazen.”
“Yes, he was. He has earned his reputation as a rake, it seems. It’s not idle gossip at all.”
“You must be cautious, Celia, or you’ll give him the impression that you’re wanton.”
“Yes, it seems I have.” She gave a little laugh at Jacqueline’s expression of dismay. “Oh, I’ve no intention of allowing him too many liberties, but with a man like the viscount, subtlety has no effect.”
Jacqueline’s fan fluttered briskly. “He doesn’t seem to be the kind of man to be teased, petite. I urge you to caution—Oh God, here comes Sir John to dance with you again, I suspect. I believe he has quite a thing for you, but keep in mind, he is an intimate of Northington’s and anything you say might be repeated—”
She put a hand on Celia’s arm and her voice lifted as Harvey drew closer. “But, of course, you must not weary yourself too greatly, Celia, for there is more dancing after our late supper.”
Sir John greeted them with a wide smile, but his eyes did not leave Celia as he murmured an appropriate greeting, then said, “I have come to dance with you and then take you into supper, if you consent, Miss St. Clair.”
“Of course, my lord. I shall be delighted,” she said with a smile. “But you must be warned that I’ve already trod upon the toes of two poor gentlemen who’ve danced with me this evening.”
“I feel my luck has changed, and am willing to risk my toes.” He put out an arm, and Celia put her hand on it to be led onto the dance floor. A quadrille was forming sets and there was no opportunity to talk during the dance as they glided from partner to partner. It wasn’t until he escorted her into the late supper that Celia noted his intensity.
“You are a most lovely young woman, Miss St. Clair, and I imagine you have many admirers,” he said as they entered the dining room.
“Not so very many, my lord, though your high esteem is very flattering.” She smiled at him. His hazel eyes were fastened on her face as if in rapt attention, but there was a strange tautness to his mouth that stirred her curiosity. “You are being very kind tonight, Sir John.”
“Not kind, but rather optimistic, is more like it, Miss St. Clair.” His shoulders lifted in a light shrug, and his boyish face creased into a rueful smile. “I have the bad habit of yearning for what I can never have, it seems, and that extends to more than limitless pockets and well-bred horses.”
“Ah, but I saw you last week in Hyde Park, and your horse seemed very well-bred to me.”
“You saw me?” He looked faintly startled, then waved away any explanation with a laugh and observation, “I seem to be unable to skulk about unnoticed. Not that I was trying, I’m certain, but I do recall riding in the park. It’s too bad that I didn’t see you, or I could have been a gallant escort.”
“Oh, I was already escorted by Lord Northington.”
“Ah, I’d forgotten. A social coup for you, it seems, for Northington is hardly the man to issue invitations to innocent rides in the park.”
“He would not have done so then,” she replied, “if you had not teased him into it.”
Harvey grinned. “He needed a taste of civility, and I was certain you would provide him with it. I knew he would never be able to resist such a lovely challenge.”
“Challenge, my lord?” Celia frowned slightly. Had they been talking about her? If so, it certainly meant that Northington was more intrigued than she had guessed.
“Yes, I have a confession to make—” He paused beneath the glittering light of a wall sconce dripping with crystals that radiated tiny rainbows of color. “I was in the alcove that evening at the Leverton ball, and heard what transpired between you. Forgive me. I hope you don’t think I’m a meddler in your affairs, but I couldn’t help but overhear. It was deuced awkward, and I didn’t know if I should betray my presence or simply hope that you would not notice me there.”
“How embarrassing,” she said frankly. “I’m afraid that I’ve made a terrible impression. You must think me a complete idiot.”
“Not at all. I find you disarmingly lovely and very charming, Miss St. Clair. Your arrival in London has graced our stifling society with a freshness that is most welcome in all circles.”
There was a sudden commotion, and Harvey turned her toward the dining-room entrance, whispering to her that the prince had finally arrived.
“Have you been presented yet, Miss St. Clair?”
“No—oh, do not, my lord, for I don’t know what I would say to him.”
“You need only be your charming self, for Prinny loves a beautiful woman nearly as much as he loves himself most of the time. Oh, pay no attention to me. I admit to being jaded, but here…come with me.”
Celia’s heart pounded furiously, so that her mouth was quite dry and her knees were quivering when Harvey was greeted by the prince.
“Harvey,” was the affable acknowledgment, and large eyes turned toward her with an appraising stare. “Who is this exquisite creature?”
“May I present Miss St. Clair, the newest export from the Colonies.”
“From the Colonies, you say?” His brow lifted, but a smile curved his rather petulant mouth. “Indeed, if this is an example of American exports, I am very glad we are continuing our trade.”
Despite his bulk, there was an air of majesty to him that had nothing to do with his birth. An innate sense of position was evident in his tone and obvious expectation of command, though Celia had heard all the gossip of his excesses, his affairs and often ridiculous attachments to unsuitable causes.
Yet beneath that bloated form and face, she sensed a careless kindness.
Lifted from her deep curtsy, she returned his smile. “I am honored to meet you, Your Grace,” she said, and hoped that her address was appropriate. What was it that Jacqueline had told her she should say if ever she was introduced to the prince? Oh God, but she could scarcely think tonight, with all that had happened. And now he was gazing at her with obvious assessment, his eyes lingering on her bosom displayed in the scarlet gown.
“I find you enchanting,” he said, “and insist that you join our party for supper this evening.”
“Sire,” a tall, thin man at his side stepped close to say softly, “we have already made arrangements for you.”
“Mowry, you’re like a damned hound, always baying at the wrong moment. I wish Miss St. Clair to dine with us.”
A flash of resentment lit the man’s dark eyes, and his glance at Celia was speculative and not at all kind. But he inclined his head in agreement and stepped back, and Celia found herself escorted by none other than the prince regent.
Nearly giddy with apprehension, she saw Jacqueline’s astonished, ecstatic face, and was relieved when she was included in their party, a careless invitation issued by the man called Mowry.
Jacqueline was shaking with excitement, but was very charming as she chatted with a man introduced to Celia as Sir Skeffington, “a veritable fount of information about the theater, and he writes his own plays, my dear.”
Celia listened politely as Sir Skeffington regaled them with details of his works; she was fascinated to see he wore paint on his face, discreet rouge and powder, but startling nonetheless.
“Yes,” Jacqueline was saying, “I did indeed attend your production of The Sleeping Beauty, Sir Skeffington, and found it most delightful.”
“Alas,” he replied with a wry smile, “you are among the few in that case. It was not well received by most.”
“A damned dreadful play,” the prince said bluntly, “but with a lovely actress—what was her name again?”
“No, not that one, the young one, the lively dark-haired chit.”
“Maria Wilson, sire.” Mowry’s smile did not reach his eyes, and gave him the appearance of a rather crafty fox, Celia thought. He was a bit unnerving, seeming like a dark presence hovering over them. “Before she wed, of course.”
It was an awkward moment when the king frowned, then Sir Skeffington tactfully observed that there were few actresses as talented as Sarah Siddons, though there was a new play opening soon with an actress who promised to rival any yet presented.
“Another actress,” Mowry said, “is just what England needs. We have far too many in politics alone.”
Celia felt the undercurrents, yet didn’t comprehend the meaning behind them. This lord Mowry seemed determined to be unpleasant, and he really did make her uncomfortable with his innuendoes. Why didn’t the prince reprimand him? Was Mowry so influential that he was above reproof?
“And you, Miss St. Clair,” Mowry turned abruptly to say, catching her off guard. “How did you come to visit Lady Leverton? A rather sudden decision, I presume.”
“No, not sudden. She is, after all, my godmother. I have always longed to meet her.”
Hooded eyes seemed to seek out all her secrets, a penetrating dark gaze that was alarming. She suppressed a shiver as he continued, “How fortunate that you were able to arrive in time for the small Season. There will be weeks of celebrations to attend.”
“A most fortunate coincidence, Lord Mowry,” she said. He would not intimidate her with sly insinuations, nor would she give him any information about her reasons!
“Indeed,” he said smoothly, “and most welcome after your long voyage. I trust the accommodations aboard the Liberty were comfortable?”
“Fairly comfortable, thank you.” How did he know which ship had brought her to England? It was startling.
And frightening.
“Then I trust your shipboard companions were pleasant,” he continued, still with that same dark smile that summoned images of shadows and secrecy.
“I’m afraid I spent most of my time in my cabin. Mal de mer. I’m not a seasoned traveler.”
“A pity. I happen to know a gentleman who returned to London aboard the Liberty. I’m certain he would have been most pleased to have made your acquaintance. He has always appreciated lovely ladies.”
“While I’m flattered at your inference, my lord, I made few acquaintances aboard ship.”
Mowry only smiled, but there was a glint in his eyes as he appraised her that made Celia feel oddly threatened. Why she should, she had no idea, but it was disconcerting.
It wasn’t until their return home that Celia recalled the directory loaned her by the man she’d met aboard ship—Mister Carlisle. What he must think of her for not returning it as she’d promised! Oh, she would have to find where she’d put it, and see that it was delivered to him at the public house in Shoreditch. It was the least she could do in exchange for his kindness.
Jacqueline came to her bedchamber just as Lily was helping to unpin Celia’s hair. The ruby hairpins were placed carefully back into a velvet-lined box and loops of thick pale hair were released to dangle down her back in curling waves.
Celia saw Jacqueline’s reflection in the mirror, and braced herself for the inevitable questions. As long as the maid was still in the room, Jacqueline would not speak too freely, even in French. Lily understood far too much to be trusted. Few secrets were safe from servants under the best circumstances.
When Lily was gone, Celia rose from the stool, the silk hem of her dressing gown wafting about her ankles as she turned to face her cousin.
“Who is this Lord Mowry? I found him to be quite unpleasant, and rather…furtive, in an odd kind of way.”
“Mowry? Oh, he works with Lord Liverpool, I believe.” Jacqueline’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Jules is a devout Tory, but there are times lately that he says Liverpool is taking the country toward a revolution if he doesn’t alter his position even slightly. After that horrid massacre this summer—be so glad you weren’t here, dear, as it was a terrible thing to even read about in the papers! So many injured, women and children among them, and all because those Manchester constables were ordered to disperse the large crowd who had come to hear men speak in favor of government reform. Dangerous, I say, but why do you want to know about Mowry?”
“He…oh, I don’t know, except that he stared at me so very intently, and asked about my voyage, and knew what ship I was on. Why would he even know that? Or care to know it?”
“Oh my…I cannot imagine. He is Liverpool’s chief minister in charge of security, I believe, but still…it’s not something that threatens national security, I would think. Perhaps he’s just being cautious because of the assassination attempt on the prince regent’s life after the opening of Parliament two years ago. Perhaps it’s now the policy to investigate all those who may chance to meet with the prince as tonight—Whatever is the matter, Celia? You look white as a ghost!”
An investigation! Oh God…she was no threat to the national security, of course, but if Mowry discovered the truth behind what brought her here, he may well distort it into something else. The importance of what had happened to Maman would be negated, just as it had been in Georgetown.
Jacqueline frowned. “What is it you’re not telling me, my dear? Don’t be so unkind as to pretend it’s nothing for I can see that you are not telling me everything.”
Celia said flatly, “You’re right. I have not told you all. I thought it kinder to keep some things to myself.”
A flicker of uncertainty crossed Jacqueline’s face. “Is there a good reason Lord Mowry would know about you?”
“I have never met the man, and there is no reason I can imagine why he would know about me, unless it is, as you said, his business to know everything that may affect the prince.”
“Celia, petite, why did you alter your last name? Is it truly just to honor my dear Léonie’s request, or do you have another reason?”
“Yes, I do have another reason, but I would prefer not to confide in you at this time. I will tell you all one day, I swear it, but please do not ask it of me now.”
For a long moment Jacqueline said nothing. Concern was obvious in her still pretty features, the furrow of her brow a clear indicator of her distress. Finally she sighed.
“Tell me, does this have anything to do with your decision to encourage the attentions of Lord Northington?”
It was a perceptive speculation, and Celia answered honestly. “Yes, it does, but not, perhaps, as you may think.”
“Ah, I do not know what to think!” Jacqueline threw her hands up, laughing uncertainly. “But I will trust you to do what is right. You are Léonie’s daughter, and I know you would never betray your dear mother’s memory.”
It was both a conviction and a warning.