Colter stretched his legs out toward the fire to warm the soles of his stockinged feet, while a snifter of good French brandy warmed his belly. He contemplated the evening and the paradoxical lady who both intrigued and irritated him. He should have visited Daphne, the latest actress to catch his eye. Instead his early arrival home had startled his valet.
“My lord,” Beaton said as he retrieved discarded evening clothes from the bench, “I did not expect you this early.”
Colter regarded him through eyes narrowed against the bright glare of the fire. “And I did not expect to return this early,” he said shortly, and Beaton wisely lapsed into silence.
Imperturbable, George Beaton had been with him for nearly fifteen years, a loyal servant who probably knew more about him than anyone else. They rarely discussed personal issues, but he’d found Beaton to be intelligent and well-read, a man who enjoyed life to the fullest.
Colter lifted the snifter, took another sip. Brandy heated his throat, pooled in his belly like liquid fire.
“Can I get you anything, my lord?”
“Where the devil is Martin?”
“I took the liberty of giving him a night out to visit his family, since I assumed you would be gone for the evening. If there is anything you need, I’m available to procure it for you.”
“No, there’s nothing you can get for me. I’ve endured enough good intentions tonight.”
“Very good, my lord.”
After lighting another lamp and turning down the covers of his bed in the adjoining room, Beaton tactfully withdrew from Colter’s sitting room just off the main bedchamber, and left him alone with his dark thoughts.
Orange and gold light danced across the ceiling and walls. His mind drifted again to Celia St. Clair. He hated mysteries, and she was proving to be one. Was she what she seemed, or was she somehow involved with men like James Carlisle? It just didn’t make sense, dammit. She had little to gain from being involved, Mowry’s sly innuendoes be damned. He could smell radicals a mile away, and while Celia may be as patriotic as the next young woman, she was no fervent zealot out to bring down the monarchy.
Nor was she as indifferent to him as she pretended. Another sip of brandy rolled on his tongue as he smiled.
Beneath her cool exterior lurked a sensuality that was promising. She was too young and inexperienced to hide her interest or her response, but not too naive to make it clear she was interested in a casual tryst. A disparity of character.
No innocent miss at all, but a woman aware of a man’s touch and needs. He’d wager a thousand pounds on it. He’d never been a particularly patient man and the pursuit of a woman’s favors held no allure for him. He rarely bet on the uncertainties in life, preferring guarantees.
Celia St. Clair was an uncertainty, a contradiction to herself, and he was damned if he knew why she intrigued him. Yes, he hated unanswered questions. Trouble always came hand in hand with them.
And trouble attended the inevitably tense interview with the earl of Moreland the following day, a discussion that began, as usual, with his father’s verbal assault.
“Bloody hell, man, you spend more time with idle pursuits than you do with business. A poor successor to Moreland lands and title, by God!”
“Thank you. Your faith is appreciated.” Colter leaned against the fireplace mantel with arms crossed over his chest, a languid pose that conveyed his utter disregard for the earl’s opinions.
“You appreciate nothing.” Moreland slammed the tip of his cane against the floor, a signal to his long-suffering valet to attend him. Brewster fetched another blanket, and silently positioned the earl’s chair nearer the fire.
Cold eyes stared up from beneath a shelf of brow as the earl regarded his only surviving son.
“What did you discover about the lost vessel? Or did you even think of it again after you left me—”
“John Carter has a full report on the sinking of the India and its cargo, and a manifest of every item aboard. It may be a loss, but not as huge as it could be. All the board members have been notified and mollified and are in complete agreement with me that monies spent on the docks are within acceptable boundaries. Another ship has been dispatched, as the India may not have taken on full cargo when the storm struck. It sank just offshore, not off the isle of Lubang, and only three hands were lost.”
Moreland looked taken aback. “That’s not what my report said. By God, if you’ve discussed it with Philip—”
“Christ, control your bile. Philip isn’t involved in construction, nor is he aware of any details concerning the India. His interests, as you well know, are with his own branch of another shipping firm, and if I’m not mistaken, he’s still traveling on the Continent and not liable to be back anytime soon. Was there anything else you wished me to do?”
Moreland’s eyes narrowed. “It took you a week to find out that little bit of information?”
“No, it took me a week to compile a complete list of the cargo and speak with all fifteen members of the board. Two were in the country.” Colter pushed away from the mantel, and moved away from the fire and his father. “I am only a token member of the board. I prefer not to be involved in any of your affairs for obvious reasons. When you’re dead, I’ll do what must be done. Until then, do as you see fit.”
“I always do.”
“Yes.” Colter returned the gaze with a steady stare. “You always do. I’ll be going to the country for a few weeks but you know how to reach me if you need me.”
“Going to the country now?” Moreland seemed startled. “It’s the wrong time of year for it. I won’t have it. You are needed here.”
“I am not needed here, nor anywhere, for that matter. I have become as you demanded, a lackey at your beck and call. You should be gratified.”
“You’ve never been amenable. Anthony, now, he knew his place, knew what must be done and was man enough to—”
“Anthony was a coward. He could never stand up to you, and in the end, it killed him.”
“He died of a fever!”
“Yes, a fever contracted when you sent him to a house sick with fever to steal papers from your dying father. He was warned not to go, but he was afraid of disappointing you, afraid of your anger if he did not. He was barely thirty years of age and had as much spine as a worm.”
Pale hands trembled violently, grasping the gold head of his cane, and the earl brought it up in a swift motion to lash out at Colter. It caught him across the chest, a slight brush that did no harm as Colter easily evaded the brunt of the blow. His father’s face was contorted in a snarl.
“Curse you! You’re a disgrace!”
“Yes. I agree. I’ve definitely been cursed.”
Colter turned on his heel and left with his father’s angry words still echoing in the room while Brewster tried to soothe him. A familiar end to their interviews, and as unpleasant as always.
He found the countess in her private sitting room. “I take it the interview went as usual,” she remarked as she closed the book she’d been reading. “Not even an entire wing of rooms can muffle his rage.”
“It’s always the same,” he replied. “What are you reading?”
“Ivanhoe by Sir Walter Scott. I find it entertaining. Have you read it?”
“Yes.” Too restless to sit, Colter moved to the wide windows and stared out. “I’m leaving tomorrow for the country and will be gone for a week or two.”
“At the beginning of winter?”
“It’s barely October, and I feel the need of a change of pace. If I remain here much longer, you’ll have me attending every ball, rout and soirée given by your untiring friends. Tell me, do you ever run out of women who feel compelled to press their daughters on me?”
The countess laughed. “Never. But you have the solution to that dilemma within your means, you know.”
“Yes, I know. If I marry, I’ll no longer be expected to dance with nervous, tittering girls who are barely out of the schoolroom. That in itself should inspire me, but I find that choosing which brainless ninny to spend the rest of my life with is something of a problem.”
“Then marry an intelligent young lady. There are bluestockings aplenty underfoot if you take the time to look. They don’t all have to be Prime Articles or Incomparables, you know, but good breeding is required.”
Colter turned to face her again, a dark brow cocked. “You speak the cant much too freely, ma me`re. There are facets to your character that I’m beginning to think are much more devious than I always suspected.”
“Yes, Colter, I am much more aware of what goes on in this world than even you know.” She smiled, and suddenly she looked much younger, the light on her face a soft glow reflected in her blue eyes. “Since you’re going to the country, why don’t you invite a few companions to join you for a week?”
“What companions do you have in mind, may I ask? Or shall I make a calculated guess—suitable females and their deadly dull chaperones.”
“You’re far too clever for me. Yes, suitable females and their deadly dull chaperones sound just the thing. It would please me, Colter. I’m not getting any younger and neither are you. There must be an heir to carry on after we’re gone.”
His jaw set. It was a familiar argument.
“There’s no guarantee marrying will produce an heir,” he said. “Just look at our illustrious prince. Marriage to a shrew and still no surviving heir.”
His mother’s soft eyes grew cold and her mouth thinned into a disapproving line.
“Forgive me for saying it so baldly, but our prince is far too busy constructing monstrosities and swilling syllabubs to father a strong child on his wife. He has no sense of proper duty. He prefers actresses to wellborn women. I fear you are becoming much too similar, Colter, and I know you resent me saying it. Yet what else am I to think? Your predilections are fairly well-known, though few would dare speak of them to me, of course. And I hardly consider an actress to be suitable as your wife. You’re thirty-one years of age now, and it’s past time you provide an heir for the Moreland name and title. Whether you appreciate your heritage is not relevant. I appreciate your heritage and mine, and wish to see our line continue.”
For the countess, it was quite a speech. She wasn’t given to long diatribes, and Colter recognized how much it meant to her that he marry.
“Christ,” he growled. “It was much easier on me when Anthony was the heir. I didn’t have to be concerned with providing an heir or being involved in my father’s eternal machinations. Thank God it was always Anthony, Father and Grandfather in their exclusive little clique. I fully appreciate that now.”
“Your grandfather never excluded you, Northington.”
Her use of his title indicated her displeasure.
He shrugged. “Not from his life but from their plans, yes. He had other ambitions for me. He taught me a great deal about investments rather than politics. Our time together was not wasted, nor was it unpleasant.”
Lady Moreland ran an idle finger over the binding of the book in her lap. “Your grandfather was a stern man in many ways, but I always found him to be fair. I think he often wished you were heir instead of Anthony.”
“Being the heir was never an aspiration of mine. I was quite content with being ignored.”
“Why do you resist marriage?” She looked up at him, a keen-eyed stare that seemed to see into his soul. “Is it because of your father?”
After a moment he said softly, “Perhaps it’s best if we don’t discuss my reasons. I’m not at all certain you’ll want to hear them.”
“Perhaps you’re right.” She lay the book on the table and rose to stand beside him; a gentle scent of lavender enveloped him as she placed her palm on his jaw in a light caress. “You’ll do what is right, Colter. You always have. I trust you to respect my wishes.”
It was just the sort of comment designed to make him feel like an utter bastard.
Colter left for the country the following day, and as soon as the city was only a distant haze behind him, the chains of civilization seemed to fall away. With London to the north, he took the south road through Rochester at a fast clip.
Harmony Hill in Kent was by turns an inhospitable and welcoming terrain, land where the conqueror had landed his Norman troops eight hundred years before and slaughtered the Saxon king and his army, but where sheep now grazed peacefully on rolling slopes empty of any strife.
Chalky crags and caves lined the seaside of the Kent estate, bounded by the crashing waves of the straits that separated France and England. Less than sixty miles from London, it might as well have been in France for all the privacy it gave him—a welcome refuge.
Solitude there had eased him after his return from His Royal Majesty’s service, the fierce battles against Napoleon a grim preparation for the personal conflicts he found at home—Anthony dead, his grandfather dead, an uncle dead, all succumbing to the effects of a fever first contracted in God only knew what hellhole.
Just beyond the River Buckland, and nestled in a small dip in the hills, the house rose like a shimmering jewel in a green velvet nest as he topped the nearest ridge and paused. His mount snorted restlessly, sensing an end to the journey, hooves pawing at the damp ground.
Colter nudged the horse forward and down the slope. He was met in the stable yard by the head groom, an old man who had been at Harmony Hill his entire life.
Ancient yews shaded the stable yard, dappled light on stone. “All is in readiness, my lord,” Smythe reported as he reached for the horse’s reins. “I’ve got a nice stall ready for this beauty and he knows it.”
The bay nudged the old man as if in greeting, ears swiveled forward as nickers came from the row of stables that lined the cobbled yard.
“I think he hears old friends calling him,” Colter said as he relinquished the reins. “Tomorrow he’ll have even more company. Guests are arriving. Make necessary arrangements to stable their cattle.”
“Aye, my lord. It will be done.”
Entering the house was the closest thing he knew to peace. It was much smaller than even his London town house, a simple half-timbered structure of twenty-four rooms built around a small, cozy courtyard. Generations ago a moat had surrounded the house, but time and years of peace had ended the need for it. Now flowers and shrubs shouldered close to stone walls.
Beyond the house lay gardens with wheels of herbs and raised beds of vegetables. Towering sycamores and elms thrust mottled branches skyward, fringing the curved drive that led from the gatehouse. Stretching as far as the eye could see, grassy fields stitched with hedgerows and stone fences provided ample pasture for sheep.
Colter paused on the front step to gaze out across the land a distant ancestor had been granted in gratitude for service to a long dead king. Men were born and died, but the land would always be here. It was a form of immortality.
The front door opened, and he turned as another old retainer greeted him.
“Welcome home, my lord.”
“Thank you, Renfroe.” Colter moved past the aged butler into the entrance hall. Newly polished dark wood gleamed with dull light, and there was the fresh smell of wax in the air. “I see Mistress Barbara has been busy.”
“Yes, my lord. It is first Monday, her day to polish all the furniture and oil the wainscoting. May I take your hat, sir?”
As he put it into his hands and began to strip off his gloves, Colter asked, “Where is James?”
“In the village, sir. Will you be needing him for the week, or is your city valet to arrive?”
A faint note of disdain crept into Renfroe’s tone. It was the same here as elsewhere, the distinction between classes. Beaton was not a country man, as was James, who had been born on the estate. Renfroe was James’s uncle by marriage and considered family.
“Beaton will arrive tomorrow with the other guests. You did receive my message?”
“Yes, my lord. James is in the village engaging those people we usually use for such occasions. I trust that meets with your approval.” Renfroe followed Colter across the entrance hall and into the small study. “I understand there will be six guests arriving.”
“With their staff.” Colter paused. “One of the guests, Miss St. Clair, is to be given the green room.”
“I understand, sir.”
He probably understood very well. The green room was set apart from the other guest rooms, a lovely room that looked out over the rear gardens and was quite close to Colter’s own bedchamber.
He had little doubt Celia St. Clair would accept his invitation. He had not invited her alone, of course, but included Lady Leverton and her daughter as well, and also sent an invitation to Harvey, Mrs. Pemberton and her niece, Olivia Freestone. Olivia was a calculated invitation, meant to provide Harvey with feminine diversion and also give the appearance of propriety to the visit. The news should please his mother when she heard it, as she no doubt would very soon. An invitation to his country house would be spread about by city gossips soon enough.
Outwardly all was more than proper. A few days in the country, a respite from the hectic chaos of the autumn Season with Lord Northington. An opportunity to view the lovely changing colors of the trees. What could be more respectable?
Except that he intended for Celia St. Clair to enjoy far more than autumn at Harmony Hill.