It was hardly the reception he’d expected, and Colter was furious when he stormed into the entrance hall at Harmony Hill, the door banging shut behind him.
“Renfroe!” he bellowed. The man came quickly even though he had no doubt already known of his lordship’s arrival from the moment he’d been seen cresting the hill.
“Yes, my lord?” Renfroe’s face was carefully impassive even in the teeth of Colter’s unusual anger. It was rare for his temper to be loosed, rarer still that it be loosed upon a servant.
“Was Easton here recently?” Colter was too angry to be heedful of the old man’s pride. “Did you allow him in this house without my permission, by God? You? I thought you more astute than that.”
“My lord, I did ask him to leave as soon as I learned of his presence, but he was here some half hour to an hour before I was informed.” He coughed nervously. “With only James and Smythe at their posts, it was difficult to know how to evict him if he refused again.”
“Did he refuse? Christ, all this time…He’s been coming here frequently, hasn’t he, and I haven’t known it. It’s what I deserve, I suppose, for being too involved with that other business.” He beckoned. “Come with me. I want to know every time he’s been here in the past year. If you can’t remember, ask Barbara or James or even one of the damned dogs, but I want it written down.”
“Yes, my lord.”
He should have anticipated something like this, especially after this past October when he’d found those chests hidden in the cave. And Mowry knew it, damn him, as well as Barclay, who had managed to run to earth the list of smuggled goods.
It was almost humorous. He’d been investigating his father for the suspicious disappearance of cargo and the fraudulent manifests, when all the time their own goods were being smuggled into England right under his very nose. No wonder his father had been so smug. He must know it, must have laughed to himself all the while he was insisting that it be investigated, that Philip was somehow involved.
Well, he was right enough about that. Philip was involved. The vindictive old bastard would be most pleased to see Philip charged with it, and still be able to piously claim that he’d had nothing to do with the losses or profits.
Easton was guilty, after all. And Colter knew damn good and well that he was the man behind the note sent to Santiago.
Aghast, the gypsy had paled when Colter arrived and asked for Celia.
“But she…is she not with you, my lord? Your letter to me was delivered by one of your stable boys.…I would never have let her leave if I was not certain you were the one who sent for her. I swear it!”
It all made more sense when Marita was questioned, though she tossed her hair and sullenly refused to answer any questions at first. Not until her father threatened to beat the truth out of her did she relent.
“Yes!” she spat. “I did take her with me, that pale-faced creature, like whey, she is, and so foolish. But I only did it because the man who is your friend said she was special to you, and must be tricked into joining you.” Tears were a silver sheen in her dark eyes as she stared up at him imploringly. “If I did not think it was what you wanted, I would never have tricked her. I swear it!”
Swearing softly, Colter’s hard gaze must have terrified her into a rambling recital of all she knew, for Marita told him the details of Easton’s approach to her, his sympathetic commiseration with her dislike of Celia and his suggestion that she be lured to the point where he would see her united with his nephew.
“He said it was only for a while, that you would soon tire of her as you always do, and then you would remember me and how good it was for us last summer. You do remember?”
“I remember,” he said coldly, “but I seem to remember it a little differently than you.” He turned to Santiago. “I would never dishonor you, old friend.”
Speaking in the same dialect, Santiago nodded and said, “My daughter has too much time to dream. Perhaps she should be married soon so her husband can fill her nights with something other than illusions. My regrets are endless.”
“It is not your fault. My seal was stolen. You could not have known.”
Philip Worth would know where to find the seal, just as he knew where to hide smuggled goods. It explained so much.
None of which mattered as much right now as getting to Celia. Marita, frightened by his anger and her father’s threats, had told them that Celia had been taken to a small house overlooking Dover. If he didn’t get there in time, it was likely Celia would vanish.
The road snaked along the rugged coast, white chalk slopes drizzling like a sticky paste from the recent rains. Dover sat in a tattered curve of the bay, and tides this time of year were roughly twelve hours apart, ships leaving on the high tide in late afternoon—or early evening. Christ, you’d think he could remember when it was so vital!
Dover Castle thrust forbidding walls into the low-lying clouds, undeterred by constant wind, looming over the town snugged against the harbor below. He was almost there. White cliffs were beacons in the lengthening shadows of dusk.
Even before he reached the town, he saw that he was too late, that ships had sailed on the high tide, canvas sails slapping against the wind, billowing out like the wings of falcons to ride the gray, tossed waves.
No one remembered a fair-haired woman of Celia’s height and appearance boarding a ship, nor did anyone recall Lord Easton. All that was left was to find the house Marita had described, and hope that Celia was still there.
He found the house, and only the muzzle of his pistol convinced the landlord to admit that there had, indeed, been a young lady there earlier.
“But she is gone now, with that man!” Shaking visibly, he quailed as the long barrel stroked along his jaw. “Gone,” he squeaked again, “and both men wi’ her!”
“Both? That’s enlightening. Come, give me descriptions of these men, and perhaps you’ll not only live, but have a coin or two for your trouble.”
It didn’t take much to deduce who was with Easton. The devil of it was that he’d suspected Harvey of being near desperation. Colter could have offered a loan, or lost a large sum to him at whist, but he’d decided it would only prolong the inevitable. Harvey was an inveterate gambler, not easily cured, a man who would lose his last shilling wagering on which side of the street a cat would choose. It wouldn’t have helped him for long.
He went back to Harmony Hill only to get a fresh horse, then took the London road north. During the long ride he began to think again, as he had not done for a long time, of the ancient teachings he’d picked up from the old Hindu who’d taught him the art of healing by massage. Karma. Under the law of karma, the next life was determined by the deeds of the past life. If the life was worthy, that person would be reborn in a higher form; if not, the person would live again in a lower form, possibly even that of an animal.
How, he wondered wryly, would he return? So far, he had nothing to recommend that he come back as anything more evolved than an eel. It was hardly the moment to be so introspective, but if he didn’t think of the abstract while he rode, he would think of Celia, and remember her tears when he’d left her behind, her soft pleas to go with him.
He should have listened, should have overcome his concern that she’d be harmed. She was right, after all, and he should have kept her safe.
Christ, if anything happened to her he was to blame for it, and it would eat at him forever, never fade, always be at the back of his mind, one more ghost. But unlike the others, the faceless forms of the nameless dead, this ghost would be personal.
This ghost had a face and a name.
Colter swore to himself. Now he knew he could never get her out of his mind, would always feel incomplete. Celia had managed to worm her way into his very soul.
It was a hell of a time to find that out.
Philip Worth’s London home held no sign of his presence, and his valet swore vehemently to Colter that he hadn’t seen him.
“I swear it, Lord Northington. If he is in the city he has not come here!”
There was an air of leashed violence in him that scared not just Easton’s servants, but Colter’s own. He’d been to Harvey’s lodgings as well, and neither of the men had been seen. When he went to his own town house, Beaton regarded him with a mixture of astonishment and agitation, his usual impassive countenance not quite enough to hide his inner turmoil.
“Excuse me for saying it, but I have never seen you in such disarray, my lord,” he ventured when Colter flung his muddy garments to a low bench in the dressing room. “Your country valet has been shockingly remiss.”
“Renfroe is an old family retainer, not a valet at all, as you well know. No, give me my other boots. It’s too damn wet to bother with clean ones.”
“My lord.” Wooden-faced, Beaton stubbornly held out the clean boots, gleaming with boot polish.
Colter glanced at him as he shoved his feet into the hightop boots and reached for a clean neckcloth. Beaton held out a snowy length of linen, then arranged it in neat folds around his neck.
“Dammit, Beaton, I can do that myself,” Colter said impatiently, then took pity on the valet and let him finish.
“Have my horse brought round,” he said, and strode from the dressing room without answering the question in Beaton’s eyes. Downstairs, he went into his study, drew out a clean sheet of paper and scrawled a note on it. He gave it to Beaton when he came to announce that his lordship’s horse had been brought round.
“See that this is delivered if I do not return,” he said. Beaton took the proffered note though his gaze was troubled.
“My lord, if I may be so bold—”
“No,” Colter said softly, “you may not. There is little to be said now.”
It was true. Whatever came after, he was done with turning his back. Done with letting it go.
The Moreland house on Curzon Street wasn’t far from the Leverton house, and he would visit Celia’s cousin when he was done. It was the least he could do. And by some miracle, there may be word about Celia.
Garner, the new butler who had replaced the ancient Karns, opened the door to him while a stable boy held his horse.
“I won’t be here long, Garner,” he said, and strode past him across the gleaming black-and-white floors to the wide staircase. He went immediately to his father’s room.
The door stood slightly ajar, and he shoved it open, then came to an abrupt, disbelieving halt.
Beyond the sitting room, he heard an unmistakable soft drawl. He recognized that tone, though he had to move closer to hear what she was saying. Celia.
Brewster hovered anxiously over the earl, tucking the edges of a blanket around him as Celia stared at him.
Her heart pounded furiously in her chest and her mouth was dry, her hands shaking. This was the face of the man who had haunted her waking and sleeping nightmares, the man who had taken so much from her with his careless indifference.
Yet he was old, frail, a broken man now, though there was a fierce vigor in those hooded eyes that was familiar. The pockmarked flesh sagged, and one side of his face looked as if it had melted into disuse. Palsied hands gripped the gold head of a cane, and it was obvious from that dark stare that he knew her.
She wanted to rail at him, to howl her anguish and hate after all these years, but no words would come. It had taken her so long to get here, to finally drum up the courage and damn the risks, and now she couldn’t speak. Oh God, she’d struggled so hard, overcome obstacles and waited and planned for so long, and now that the time was here she saw that fate had dealt with him much more harshly than any vengeance she could manage.
Just retribution had caught up with him despite her.
Drawing in a deep breath, she said finally, “I…think I made a mistake in coming here. I’ll leave—”
“Do you think you can just barge into my home and tell me that it’s time we talk, then leave without giving me an explanation?” The earl banged the end of his cane on the floor. “Come closer, so that I can see you, girl.”
His voice was surprisingly strong, emerging from that ruined face and summoning all the old memories, the old arrogance. It was suddenly as if she had first met him again, heard his peremptory demand to see her mother.
She took two deliberate steps closer so that gray light from a bank of windows fell upon her face. For a moment he did nothing, but she saw the instant recognition in his face as his mouth worked soundlessly.
He remembers me!
Oh God, she shouldn’t feel so exultant but she did. If she was to be denied vengeance, then the satisfaction of seeing his face when he realized who she was would have to suffice. He knew her. He knew the child whose life he had ruined with his cruel actions.
Moreland started up, but his wasted body wouldn’t cooperate and he only rocked a little, his clawlike fingers losing their grip on the gold head of the cane so that it pitched forward to clatter on the floor. This time his voice was hoarse, sounding wrenched from him.
“Léonie! It’s you.…”
Celia stood frozen as the blood drained from her face. “No…”
It was more a moan than a denial, a despairing cry from her that sounded like the wail of a child.
“He doesn’t really know you, it seems,” a woman’s voice behind her said. Celia dragged her gaze from the earl to see an elegant woman enter the room, her bearing and poise unmistakable. Then she saw Colter; he stood just outside the door, his gaze impassive.
Her heart leaped when she saw him, but he looked at her with a detached gaze, his blue eyes darkly questioning.
The same blue eyes stared out of the woman’s face, but they were calm and clear.
“My husband sees your mother in you, I believe. You do look remarkably like her, you know,” the countess continued in the same composed tone. “Léonie St. Remy was a most lovely woman, and my husband was obsessed with her. I once thought the obsession would fade with time, that he would forget her. Then she ran off with that American—your father, I presume.” Lady Moreland smiled slightly. “Poor woman. I felt so sorry for her. When my husband decides he wants something, he does not rest until he gets it. And, of course, your mother’s rejection only sharpened his determination. Isn’t that right, my lord?” She turned to her husband, but Moreland’s eyes were blinking rapidly, a sheen of tears filming them.
“Lady Moreland,” Celia began, but the countess put up a hand to stop her.
“No, there’s nothing really to say. I’m sorry about your mother. It must have been terrible for you. By the time I knew what had happened, there was no trace of you. After a while, I thought perhaps you had died as well.” She paused, glanced at Colter and said with a faint smile, “I’m glad to see that you survived, Miss St. Clair. I never wanted my son to find out about it, of course, but it’s obvious that I’ve failed in that endeavor. I did try, Colter, to spare you this, at least. Perhaps I would have if she hadn’t come back.”
Colter had come into the room, his gaze intent on his mother, his tone harsh.
“Are you behind Philip’s actions?”
“Yes. It seemed the best thing at the time. If she’d left and gone back to America with a tidy sum, then you needed never know that your father is a murderer. Oh, yes, Miss St. Clair, I can see by your face that you thought no one knew. I knew. I knew because he told me, the arrogant bastard. He confessed to ease his conscience, and left me to live with the consequences.”
“How could you hide it all these years?”
The countess turned to look at Colter, her brows lifted in mild inquiry. “It’s not the sort of thing one discusses at dinner. There were enough rumors about him, why should I give you and Anthony one more thing to live down?”
Her gaze shifted back to the earl and her tone hardened as she said, “I made him pay for it in ways you’ll never be able to understand. He killed that old man, destroyed Léonie St. Remy, and ultimately he’s responsible for Anthony’s death as well. Oh, Colter, it wasn’t your grandfather who insisted you have the controlling shares of stock in the shipping company. It was I who made your father agree after he sent Anthony there to force him to sign. He knew his father had a fever but the shares mattered most—so I made sure he lost them.” She smiled slightly, but there was no humor in it. “It was the best vengeance I could manage—atonement for Anthony’s death. In a weak moment, he signed them over to you as I demanded he do. Since then he’s been systematically cheating his own son and his investors as often as he could get away with it. Philip has been the only restraint I’ve been able to use to keep him from bankrupting us. A necessary evil.”
“For Christ’s sake, why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you come to me with the truth?” Colter sounded hoarse, his expression intent.
“There was enough natural animosity between you already and I had spent years trying to keep it all quiet.” The fine lines of her face sharpened slightly as she regarded Colter. “Did you think I wanted you more humiliated than you were? I did not. I was all the protection you had. He’d killed one son, and I had no intention of allowing him to destroy you.”
“God…ma mère…”
Mother and son stared at one another, the blue eyes so alike clashing, searching, unspoken regrets and accusations almost palpable.
Celia felt suddenly like an interloper. Tension hummed in the room, and the earl had not said another word, though he made strange, garbling sounds in his throat that the man behind him tried to soothe. He held a cup to the earl’s lips but Moreland knocked it away with a violent swipe of his hand. Agitated, he strained against the confines of his own body and the chair.
Lady Moreland turned at last to look at her husband. “I think,” she said, “that we should send for the physician, Brewster.”
Brewster looked up at them, and his eyes were faintly accusing. “Perhaps it would be best if I tended the earl in peace until he arrives, my lady.”
“Yes,” she said impassively. “That may be best.”
It was all so strange, but Celia turned with them to leave the room, uncertain what she should say or do, or even if she should try to talk to Colter. He looked so cold, his expression frozen into a carefully blank mask.
When they reached the door to the sitting room, Celia glanced back. The earl was staring at her, his body tilted to one side in the chair as Brewster attempted to support him. Slack lips formed a single word that was a grating, guttural sound. “Léonie.…”
It was the last word he was to ever say.