The opera being presented at the King’s Theater in Haymarket was Faust, a famous production. The horseshoe-shaped auditorium rose in five tiers of boxes, and the huge gallery seated over three thousand people. It was always crowded, and tonight was no exception.
“Oh look, Celia,” Jacqueline said. “I do believe that the prince is here this evening! That’s his carriage there with the royal crest.”
Celia turned to look out their carriage window as the gleaming brougham rolled to a halt. A footman was there at once to open the door and hand them down, and she focused on the slippery step as she allowed him to take her hand. A cold rain would soon turn to ice, and the January wind pierced the folds of her warm mantle despite her efforts to hold it closed.
Her elegant slippers, embroidered in gilt thread and crusted with tiny gems, were lovely but impractical.
“Yes, it is the prince,” Carolyn said. Her eyes were bright and shiny in the sparkle of carriage lamps and lights from the opera house. “I wonder if he’ll speak!”
“It will be a miracle if he even sees us in this crush,” Celia said, but found once they were inside that the box Jules Leverton had purchased gave them not only an excellent view of the stage, but gave the theater a superb view of the box. It was directly across from the prince’s box, on the first tier closest to the stage. Long velvet draperies in deep wine enclosed the box, and in the center of the theater, heavy chandeliers glittered from the high dome ceiling.
Below, the gallery was crowded with spectators, a crush of people all talking at once. Catalani was to sing tonight, a mature opera diva at the very height of her success and fresh from a European tour.
“I last saw her in Otello. Desdemona is a demanding role,” Jacqueline said, “and only the Italians can do it justice. Oh look, the prince sees us, Celia, and just look who is with him!”
Celia’s heart pounded fiercely. Northington was with the prince, his tall dark frame a powerful contrast to the regent’s pasty corpulence. Both were attired in evening clothes, elegantly garbed in black coats and breeches, but it was Northington who drew admiring glances from feminine eyes.
Damn him, he knows it, she thought, for he looks so arrogant and…and smug, yes, that’s it—with an insolent smile that doesn’t fool anyone!
So why did her heart leap so at the sight of him?
As if he sensed her gaze, Northington looked toward the Leverton box, and his eyes found hers even across the wide gallery below. He gave a faintly mocking bow in their direction, a lazy smile on his mouth when she turned away in a deliberate cut.
Did he think all he had to do was smile at her and she’d forget the past months of indifference? Perhaps she hadn’t expected vows of undying love or a marriage offer, but neither had she expected him to ignore her as if she no longer existed for him.
“Oh, it is Viscount Northington,” Carolyn said in her ear. “And I think he sees us, Celia!”
“Yes, it would be hard to miss us as we’re directly across from him. Is that Sir John with him?”
Carolyn nodded. “Yes, it is. An infamous lot, don’t you think?” She laughed softly. “Bucks of the first head, a motley group of privileged rogues.”
“I thought you liked Sir John,” Celia said, turning to look at her cousin.”
“Oh, I do, but I can’t help think what a waste of money and good blood it is when men do nothing other than amuse themselves all day.”
“Yes, I agree. Wastrels are utterly useless no matter what their rank.” Celia leaned closer to tease, “I suppose you don’t include the prince in that group? Or Edwin?”
“Well, not Edwin, anyway!”
They both laughed, and when Celia glanced back at the ornate box where Northington was with the prince, she saw that he’d gone.
It’s just as well, she thought, for I don’t think I could bear sitting here all evening with him so close!
Jacqueline pointed out others she knew. “Oh, there’s Robert Stewart, Lord Castlereagh. He’s more unpopular now than ever before,” she said with a frown, “for introducing the Six Acts in the House of Commons. The people boo him whenever they see him or Lord Liverpool, and all because of that horrid Peterloo business. But it’s necessary to curb such lawlessness those public meetings have caused. Perhaps it’s because the government is willing to use the same tactics against its own citizens as it used against Napoleon and the French army that it angers the people, yet I cannot help but make a comparison to the Terror.”
“So,” Celia said, “do you approve or disapprove of the Six Acts?”
“Oh, I do think it’s vital not to risk such a thing happening here as it did in France, but the average citizen has no concept of true social reform. All they think of is having their white bread and tea. Ridiculous, really, and not at all necessary.”
Celia held her tongue. Jacqueline was basically a kind person, but she didn’t realize that the gulf between the rich and the poor was so very wide. It wasn’t just white bread and a pot of tea that people wanted, it was security, knowing that their children were safe and fed, a warm, dry place to live.
“Social Reform has become quite popular these days,” Jacqueline continued, “but it’s dangerous to give too much to people who have no idea how to handle great freedom. Why, just look what happens when they are given too much! That impertinent maid, Janey, whom I gave every opportunity to do well, has abruptly left our employ without so much as a by-your-leave! I had Jarvis investigate to be certain she didn’t steal anything, and even though he reports nothing gone, I just know that one day we’ll discover the sly chit made off with silver candlesticks or some other items.” She shook her head vigorously, crimped curls bouncing against her temples. “These people should know their place, or we’re in danger here of another Terror.”
“Mama,” Carolyn said. “You are in danger of sounding like a Tory!”
They all laughed, for of course, Jules Leverton was adamantly Tory in his leanings, convinced of the ultimate and complete sovereignty of the crown’s authority.
“Do I hear Tory sentiments being voiced?” a familiar deep voice said behind them, and Celia went very still.
“Viscount Northington, what a pleasure to see you again,” Jacqueline said. “Do come and sit with us. We were just discussing the import of the Six Acts passed in the House of Commons last month.”
“And are you for or against them?” He stood behind Celia’s chair and she felt the heat from him as if a blanket over her, reminding her of too many things, of that night and the Roman tub and the touch of his hands on her…Of how foolish she had been to give away something she could never recover.
“Oh, for them, of course,” Jacqueline said. “But I’m aware that you opposed them.”
“Not for the reason you might think. I just consider it unreasonable to pass national laws dealing with problems that only exist in some areas. It’s too universal, and suppresses basic human rights and liberties. I’m sure that, as an American, Miss St. Clair has her own opinions.”
Celia didn’t look at him, but nodded. “Yes, my lord, I certainly do. I am not, however, as certain that you’d wish to hear them.”
“Ah, living in a Tory household has had an astringent effect on you, it seems.”
He’d moved from behind her to take an empty seat next to Carolyn, and Celia turned to look at him at last. There was no sign of anything other than polite indifference in his face, nothing to indicate that he remembered that night at Harmony Hill. It had changed her life irrevocably, yet obviously meant nothing to him.
She drew in a deep breath and said calmly, “It’s been said that every country has the government it deserves, my lord. I’m sure England is no exception.”
“Touché, Miss St. Clair. I believe Maistre was talking about France at the time, but it certainly does fit this discussion as well.”
Was that a note of respect in his voice? She must be mistaken, for he had shown nothing but contempt for her opinions thus far. Why would he change now?
Carolyn leaned forward to say to her mother, “Oh do look, it’s Lord Liverpool! Melwyn hopes the prime minister will put down the seething rebellion on his Irish estates soon. It’s been so very difficult for him.”
Carolyn’s betrothed had left London to see to his estates in Ireland this past week, and Celia knew Caro worried he would be harmed in the growing civil unrest in that country. She fretted constantly about it, fueled by reminders of the French Revolution and the instability of politics.
Carolyn turned to Northington. “Did you discover who shot at us, my lord? It wasn’t some sort of rebellion by your tenants, I do hope!”
“My tenants are mostly farmers with pitchforks. And the local magistrate has most likely already acted on the recent measure to search and seize arms. I doubt any of my tenants have in their possession weapons more powerful than scythes.”
“Then who would have shot at us?” Celia asked. “If it wasn’t an accident, hunters or the like, who would it be?”
“I don’t know the who, but I do know the why,” he said with a careless shrug of his shoulders that indicated a reluctance to elaborate. “It will all be settled soon enough so that visitors needn’t fear for their lives.”
“Then perhaps it was the gypsies,” Carolyn said with a shudder. “Do you think it might have been? They are said to be thieves and worse. Do you think it’s safe to have them on your estate, my lord?”
“As safe as having you there, Miss Leverton.” His smile was cynical, and his gaze shifted to Celia. “I’m not so certain about the safety of your presence, however, Miss St. Clair. You’re more reckless than your prudent cousin.”
“If you’re referring to that untamed horse, you might do well to recall that it was your tame gypsy who saddled it for me,” Celia retorted. “But don’t be too embarrassed about your failure to provide security for guests, as it’s not very safe in London, either.”
“That’s right,” Carolyn said with a shudder. “We were accosted by footpads only last week. It was terrible! Four highwaymen set upon our carriage near Berkley Square, and if not for the footman, we might well have been killed!”
“Highwaymen in London?” Northington’s eyes narrowed.
“Not just in London, my lord,” Jacqueline said, “but in Mayfair! You can imagine our fright. But for our brave footman’s efforts, they might have taken much more than just our purses.”
“Then nothing of value was stolen.” Northington’s gaze shifted back to Celia, a fathomless dark blue regard that made her throat ache.
“Nothing that can’t be replaced,” she replied.
“Yes, a few jewels—” Jacqueline shook her head with a sad sigh. “Thank heavens I wasn’t wearing anything too valuable. We were just starting out and had not yet reached Piccadilly. The constable said it was most curious that they would attack us in daylight, as it was right there not far from home. But what can one expect these days, with brigands running about?”
Celia felt Northington’s gaze on her and looked away, unable to face that stare and not demand an explanation, a reason for his indifference after what had been, to her, an extraordinary night. Oh, why wouldn’t he go away?
But when the opera started, Northington did not leave at once, remaining as the lights dimmed and everyone’s attention was on the stage. She felt his presence acutely.
It was difficult to concentrate on the opera, and she stared down at her programme in the dim light afforded by shaded lamps to follow the thread of the story unfolding onstage.
The tale of a legendary musician who sold his soul to the devil in exchange for knowledge and power was quite familiar to her, yet Northington was too great a distraction for her to enjoy the opera.
“This is where he sells his soul to Satan for twenty-four years of pleasure,” Northington leaned close to murmur, and Celia shot him a frowning glance. “A high price for such a short time.”
“Indeed, my lord,” she said softly, “but I’ve known men who would sell their souls for less than that.”
“You keep villainous company, Miss St. Clair.”
She met his gaze. “Not by choice, my lord.”
Celia was glad when the intermission finally arrived, and was even more glad when Northington accompanied them only briefly to the lobby. He took his leave with polite apologies to Jacqueline, but not even a glance at Celia.
It was crowded in the lobby, where all came to see and be seen, where jewels glittered beneath brilliant lights and aristocrats rubbed elbows with courtesans.
“I don’t believe it,” Celia exclaimed when Jacqueline pointed out Madame Poirier, the procuress of fallen women, and her charges all elegantly attired and engaged in open conversation with several men she recognized. “Isn’t that Lord Harrow talking to her?”
“It is indeed. But surely you are not shocked! They come here to attract new protectors, of course, and Lord Harrow seems to have found a lady who intrigues him.”
Fascinated, Celia was so busy watching the ladies of the night that she didn’t at first recognize the man who approached her, until finally Carolyn nudged her and she turned. The fair haired man looked vaguely familiar, but it wasn’t until he spoke that she remembered him.
“Miss St. Clair, pardon my interruption, but I wonder if perhaps you remember me?”
“Yes, yes, of course I do. Mister Carlisle from the ship.”
James Carlisle looked pleased, a smile brightening his face as he nodded. “I see that you’ve settled into London life quite happily. Are you enjoying the opera?”
“I have indeed settled in, and am finding the opera to be very entertaining. Mister Carlisle, you no doubt think me the most ungrateful of people, for I haven’t yet returned your directory to you. Please forgive me. I’ll be most happy to send it to you tomorrow.”
“You still have it then. It was a gift from a friend, you understand, and even though I could get another, this one is special to me.”
Celia bit her lower lip. “Oh, I am so embarrassed. It wasn’t intentional, I assure you, Mister Carlisle. I meant to send it on to you, but I’d put it away and—”
“Miss St. Clair, think nothing of it. Truly, I’d not thought of it myself until I saw you tonight in your box, and then recalled the directory. And to be even more honest, it’s an excuse to speak with you again.”
His smile was broad, inviting her to indulge him, and she laughed softly.
“You are a dreadful rogue, sir.”
“Yes, I’m afraid I am. Could I buy you some punch?”
“You’re very kind, but we were just about to return to our box. This is my cousin, Miss Leverton. This is the gentleman I told you about, Carolyn, who was kind enough to see to it that I arrived safely when I first docked in London.”
Introductions were exchanged, polite pleasantries passed, then they parted company, Celia once more promising to send the directory by courier early the next morning. The crowd had increased, and she was jostled by a man behind her, so that she stumbled forward and was caught by James Carlisle.
“Here, here,” he protested as he held her firmly. A mumbled apology was offered by the clumsy patron before he moved on. “Are you all right, Miss St. Clair?” Carlisle asked.
“Yes, I’m fine. I wasn’t hurt, only jostled. I believe the intermission is ended, sir, and I must return.”
Carlisle held her hands just a shade too long, his smile very wide and very intimate. “I shall count the days until we meet again, Miss St. Clair.”
Disengaging her hands from his grip, she was glad to see him leave.
“A shipboard conquest, Celia?” Carolyn murmured in her ear, and Celia tapped her reprovingly with her fan.
“Just an acquaintance. A rather forward man, I think. Go on to the box without me. I’ll join you shortly,” she said to her cousins. “I must use the convenience before I come up. I can find my way.”
A long corridor led to the ladies’ convenience, well lit by lamps high on the walls. Dark panelled wainscoting and flocked wallpaper gave the hall a luxuriant appearance that was both ornate and garish. Two women passed her, and she heard them laughing and talking as they returned to the lobby.
When she left the convenience, she could hear the soaring voice of Catalani, and she hurried down the corridor.
The lamps ahead had gone out, and dark shadows obscured the carpeted floor. She slowed, frowning. An eerie silence descended on the hallway, and her nape tingled with sudden dread.
It all happened so quickly, she wasn’t certain where he had come from, but there was no time to scream or do more than struggle as a man shoved her against the wall with harsh, bruising force. The breath was knocked from her by his weight, and then his arm pressed hard against her throat. She clawed at it frantically, unable to breathe, but the relentless pressure didn’t lessen. Bright lights exploded in her eyes and there was a ringing in her ears. Somehow she managed to wedge her knee upward, and she heard a rough curse.
Then the pressure was abruptly relieved and she slid to the floor, gasping for breath, holding her aching throat with both hands, aware that she was making horrible noises. Strange, terrifying sounds surrounded her.
A sense of urgency filled her. She knew she must escape before he came after her again but she could barely breathe. Staggering, she lurched to her feet, terror prodding her forward as she stumbled along the dark corridor toward the distant light of the lobby.
When she was grabbed from behind, her bruised throat strangled any cry, so that she was only able to whimper a protest at the rough arm around her waist.
“Be still,” a familiar voice growled in her ear, “so I can get you out of here.”
Northington? But what was he doing? Oh, why would he do this to her?
She struggled, but his steely arm was unyielding as he dragged her effortlessly with him, bundling her out a door that she hadn’t noticed before. Even though it was pitch-black, she knew they were outside again for she could smell the stink of the alley and feel the cold wind on her bare arms.
“Christ, Celia,” he muttered in her ear when she tried to twist free. “Will you be still? There’s three of them and only one of me, and I’m in no mood for that kind of fight right now. I need to get you out of here.”
Everything was so confused. Her head ached and her throat hurt, and all she could think was that Colter had either rescued her or abducted her. Even if she could talk, she didn’t know what to say or ask, or why he was there and what he intended to do next.
After a tumultuous ride in a closed carriage through the London streets, during which he refused to tell her anything other than that she would be safe, they arrived at a narrow house on a dark street. He ushered her inside the back door, through a kitchen and down a hallway, and she glimpsed several women in various stages of undress in what looked to be a parlor.
There was a whispered conversation with someone, then he pulled her with him up a narrow flight of stairs.
A large lavish sitting room was comfortably furnished with two couches upholstered in opulent velvet and tables covered with rich linen and set with silver flatware and gleaming china, as if for an intimate dinner. Through an open door, she saw a huge canopied bed enclosed with opulent hangings. An air of comfortable decadence was rife and as obvious as the unclad females in the downstairs parlor.
It was what she’d heard called a Nunnery or School of Venus—a house of ill repute. A place where men visited women like those she’d seen at the opera, and now he’d brought her here. Oh God, the night had become a horrible nightmare!
“Don’t look so shocked,” he said softly when she glared at him accusingly. “It’s the safest place for you right now. You do realize you’re in danger, don’t you?”
She could only nod, and stood dazedly when he pulled her with him, not ungently, to seat her on a chair before the fire.
“Your clothes are torn,” he said, and she noticed for the first time that her lovely green silk gown was ripped; the sleeve of her Spencer was torn from the armhole, and somehow she had lost one of her lovely slippers. “Madame Poirier no doubt has a gown you can borrow—no, don’t turn shy on me, love. It’s not as if I haven’t seen your charms before, is it? You look as if you’ve been in a carriage wreck. There are bruises on your face. Can you speak at all? Damn the bastards! There are fingermarks on that lovely white skin of yours. I hope I killed them all.”
She stared up at him, shaking. Yes, she remembered now, the grunts, the sounds of a fierce struggle and the still, dark forms left sprawled in the corridor as he’d taken her with him. Why? she wanted to ask, but could only make soft choking sounds.
Kneeling beside her, Colter efficiently and matter-of-factly began peeling away her garments, heedless of buttons and laces, until she was clad only in her silk shift and hose. He lifted her cold feet, rubbed them briskly between his hands, then rose and brought back a blanket to pull around her.
A knock on the door brought hot water and clean clothes, and he motioned for the uniformed maid to leave them. When he came back to where she sat before the fire, he brought Celia a glass of brandy, thrust it into her hands and ordered her to drink it all.
“It will put some color in your face. Jesus, you look like a bruised ghost. You’re all right, Celia. When it’s safe, I’ll take you home. For now, no one will ever think to look for you here.” A faint smile crooked his mouth, and his dark blue eyes were unreadable as he stared at her. “I think I rather like your silence. It’s refreshing not to deal with your sharp tongue.”
While she glared at him, he rose again and returned to her with a hairbrush in his hand.
“Your hair is snarled. I’m not much hand as a lady’s maid.”
She took the brush, sat still with it in her hand, the brandy a warm glow in the pit of her stomach. It was all such a haze now, the brandy helping but not erasing the images that streamed through her mind in an unending repetition of fear and struggle and shock.
With a shaking hand, she finally lifted the brush to pull it through her hair, but it snagged on a bound coil and she couldn’t pull it. Tears started in her eyes at the sudden sharp pain.
When Colter held out his hand, she put the brush into it. He moved behind her, unfastened the intricate curls and ropes of hair atop her crown, and then drew the brush through with long, sure strokes. She sat there, numbed by the heat of the brandy and the fire, by the touch of his hands on her in careless concern.
She wanted to ask why he’d rescued her, how he’d even known she was in danger, but wasn’t at all certain she wanted to hear the answer.
Shuddering, she slowly became aware of his hands in her hair instead of the brush, of the leisurely sweep of fingers combing through the heavy mass to lift it from her neck, fisting it in one hand. It was sensuous, a relaxing moment of comfort. Surprisingly gentle.
Then he was pulling her to her feet, turning her into him, his hand on her back a steady pressure.
“No, don’t move away,” he said softly. “There’s not anywhere for you to go tonight. And you don’t really want to, do you.”
She wanted to say yes! but her throat was still too sore to speak. Only mangled sounds were able to escape as he pulled away the blanket, let it puddle on the floor at her feet as he removed the last of her garments, the shift a pale drift atop the blanket. Cool air made her shiver. His hands were firm against her shrinking flesh, hot and far too intimate.
Despite her resistance, he scooped her into his arms and carried her to the tub, lowering her into it until the water level was over her breasts.
It was infuriating, but her attempts to keep him from washing her were futile. He easily evaded her slaps at his hands as he dragged a soapy cloth over her face, then down her throat to her breasts. It was a vivid reminder of the last bath, when he’d made love to her and she’d been foolish enough to think he meant more by it than just the moment.
But this was no time to remember that. He was touching her intimately, his hands moving over her with brisk efficiency. He held her squirming body still, his grip gentle but firm as he scrubbed the cloth over her back.
“Be still, princess. I’m not much of a hand at this,” he muttered when she tried to twist away. “You may not know it, but you’ve got scratches and bruises all over you. Bloody ones, at that. While you don’t think I’m much of a gentleman, those men were certainly not. You look like hell, pardon my bluntness.”
She turned to glare at him, and he lifted his brow as a wolfish grin squared his mouth.
“What did you expect? A nice lie? There’s a mirror by the wall that would tell you the truth soon enough,” he said calmly. “And I seem to recall you stating a decided distaste for liars. Ah ah, no splashing about. You’ll get my evening clothes wet and Beaton will be put out about it. A gentleman lives in terror of his valet, you know.”
If she could speak, she would tell him that he was certainly no gentleman!
He continued to talk to her while he bathed her, so that she barely winced when he cleaned the cuts that were indeed bleeding. Why hadn’t she noticed before? There were bruises that would be quite ugly by morning, and several long scratches on her arms that looked rather deep.
But I don’t remember getting these, she thought with a vague frown as she allowed Colter to scoop water over her shoulders to rinse away the soap.
Perhaps it was the brandy, or the hot bath, or even his gentle—if a bit too familiar—touch that soothed her, but by the time the bath was finished, she was almost relaxed.
He lifted her from the tub, wrapped a thick towel around her body and carried her from the sitting room into the bedroom where he put her on the wide canopied bed shrouded by heavy draperies. There was an inevitability to it, to his touch, to what came next and to her own response to him.
Yet tonight she needed this, needed to feel something other than fear, needed to feel…needed to feel what he was doing now, with his hands on her body. Oh God, yes. It was as if she’d been waiting for this moment since the last time.…