Twilight was casting a golden sheen upon the cobbled streets when Celeste, hidden by a concealing cloak, arrived at the stipulated address. As if by magic, the front door opened the moment she raised her hand to knock. A small, round-faced woman dressed in black, who introduced herself as the housekeeper, welcomed her into the grand hallway, then led her to a small drawing room where she offered Celeste refreshment, while another servant led Mary downstairs to join the staff.
For a moment Celeste was confused by her reception, wondering if she’d perhaps walked straight into Lord Peregrine’s own townhouse. Then she realised that the décor and general air did not accord with the kind of abode a single gentleman was likely to inhabit when in London. There was a distinctly feminine touch to the furnishings, while several family portraits of a pretty young lady and a well attired, serious-faced gentleman stared at her from the walls. They seemed familiar, and yet Celeste could not place the likeness. As she’d become acquainted with so many new people since she’d arrived in London, though, it was perfectly reasonable she’d not remember them all.
She smiled her thanks as the parlourmaid brought her some Madeira, excitement and nervousness raging war as she tried to imagine how she could properly order her features once Lord Peregrine appeared.
For she’d never been more sure of anything when it came to choosing which man offered her the brighter future: Raphael or Lord Peregrine.
Lord Peregrine might be a libertine but somehow she, innocent, artless Celeste, had found a way to breach the careless, louche barrier he’d erected against overtures to his heart.
He loved her and she loved him. It was incredible. Astonishing and miraculous and she’d never forget the sense of wonder and excitement she now felt, knowing that her whole life was about to be turned upside down.
Finishing her Madeira, and with the silence beginning to play on her nerves, she continued to indulge her girlish daydreams. Soon she would be Lady Peregrine, wife to a handsome, humorous, highly intelligent man. There would be sparring matches and there would be passionate trysts.
There would also be exciting bedroom activities. She was not exactly certain of the details involved, however her bodily responses to the preliminaries of such lovemaking filled her with confidence that she’d thoroughly enjoy the proper act if Lord Peregrine were in charge.
The thought of sharing a bed with Raphael filled her with shame and disgust; but when she replaced Peregrine in such imaginings, her body flowered with want.
More time passed. Hiding her impatience, Celeste studied the room. On a stand in the corner a Sevres vase had pride of place. A collection of Royal Doulton china figurines lined the shelf of a walnut-inlaid cabinet against the far wall, while around the Aubusson carpet was ranged a cluster of finely made Chinese-style furniture with latticework and lacquer, bearing the hallmarks of the famous cabinet-maker Thomas Chippendale.
The draperies were of the finest, imported, Celeste suspected, from the Far East.
Clearly the home belonged to someone with contacts in far-flung parts of the world; someone possessed of a great deal of money.
But whose house could it be? As she finished her second glass of Madeira and her mind continued to roam, she wondered why Lord Peregrine was keeping her waiting so long.
Presently she heard footsteps in the passage and the door opened to another rosy-cheeked woman with neat grey curls, wearing a dark blue floral sack-back gown, who rushed forward, greeting Celeste as if she’d not expected her.
‘My dear, how long have you been waiting? Mrs Warner did not tell me you were here. But you are alone?’ She looked about her with a frown, as if unable to believe Celeste had come unaccompanied. Then she blinked rapidly, lowering her voice as she whispered, ‘Ah, but it’s because of Harry that you’re here! You are a friend of Charlotte’s, of course. I’ve only just this moment returned and was not expecting you, but I wonder why my housekeeper did not fetch my nephew down to speak with you?’
‘Harry?’ Celeste could only blink stupidly for a strange lethargy was permeating her bones. ‘Harry is here?’ She forced herself to sit up straight, silently chastising herself for having drunk that second glass of wine, which seemed to have gone straight to her head.
The woman opposite was making no sense.
She spoke as if she were Harry Carstairs’ aunt and this was her house.
Why had Lord Peregrine sent her here?
The answers were too difficult to tease out. She made to lift her hand to her cheek but her limb felt like lead. Horrified, she tried to stand, but her legs would not obey her. Celeste blinked, her neck feeling like a fragile stem unable to support the heaviness of her head, and it was difficult to raise her chin as the parlourmaid entered the room in response to Mrs Carstairs’ urgent summons. The fright in the woman’s voice pierced Celeste’s numbed brain, though everything else happening around her was confused and muted.
‘Miss Rosington, what is it? You are unwell!’ cried Mrs Carstairs as, together with the maid, they supported her on her little gilt chair so she’d not fall to the ground.
Then Mrs Warner, the housekeeper, was rushing into the room, though Celeste noticed she didn’t appear quite as shocked.
Celeste opened her mouth to speak but her words came out a jumble of slurred nonsense. Her limbs did not obey her woozy exhortation to respond and she was only vaguely conscious of the housekeeper’s demand that the footman be summoned to help convey Celeste to one of the chambers, ‘for Lord knows, we can’t do it alone, the state the poor miss is in.’
Despite being nearly insensible, Celeste had enough cognisance to be horrified by her situation.
This really was the Carstairs’ residence? Did Harry live here? It made no sense.
She tried to object when they lifted her but she had no strength to resist; she suffered herself to be carried up the stairs and deposited on a large four-poster in a lavishly appointed bedroom. A large, stuffed monkey in a glass box grinned from a table in the corner, while the draperies were richly embroidered and clearly not of English design. How strange that her mind seemed unable to cope with the more urgent matter of what possible reason someone would have for wanting her here but, instead, dwelled on irrelevancies.
‘Unlace her, Mary, I’ll remove her shoes.’
What a relief it was to see Mary by her side. She heard the two servants discuss her disrobing as if she were a mere doll, but she was unable to do anything for herself. Strangely, she was not consumed by terror now; merely a mild distress, and a great desire for sleep.
All would be right, she tried to assure herself. Lord Peregrine would come soon. He would help her, comfort her … and explain.
He’d bring the Special Licence. She might feel unwell but that wouldn’t stop her from being married.
When she was laid out in a lawn night-rail, her clothes neatly folded on the kist at the end of the bed, she forced open her eyes one last time as Mary and the housekeeper retreated, closing the door the behind them, their whispered concern overlaid by the high-pitched tones of Mrs Carstairs, whose confusion was clearly as great as Celeste’s own.
Still Lord Peregrine did not come. Celeste tried to keep her mind alert and her eyes open for as long as she could. Where was he? What could be keeping him?
And why was she lying in a bed in the house of Harry Carstairs’ aunt?
Finally she could cling to consciousness no longer. Her eyes fluttered closed as she drifted gently upon a tide of heavy lethargy, until she was claimed by sleep’s comforting embrace.
All would be well, she reassured herself. Lord Peregrine would ensure her safety. Beneath the exterior he chose to show the world he was kind and loving.
And he loved her.
***
An eternity later Celeste awoke to the quiet turning of the doorknob. Opening heavy lids, she blinked at the silhouette of a tall gentleman against the dim light of the corridor. For a moment he stood there, simply looking at her, then quietly he closed the door behind him as he stepped inside the chamber.
‘Lord Peregrine?’ Celeste whispered, immediately chastising herself for her lack of discretion with what few wits remained to her, for her limbs were so heavy she could barely move.
He did not answer, and despite her condition she felt a jolt of alarm.
If this was not Lord Peregrine, then what gentleman would be admitted to a lady’s private chamber in a respectable house?
But of course. It must be the doctor.
The stranger took a few steps towards the bed and lowered himself onto the chair at her side. In the darkness, Celeste heard his heavy breathing while she waited for the inevitable question that would begin the examination.
She was surprised by the sound of a gentle thud upon the floor, followed by another.
She forced open her eyes and her mind struggled to assimilate the man’s actions, for what doctor would remove his boots?
And what gentlemen would then divest himself of his coat, and waistcoat, and cravat, she wondered in growing alarm, as these items of clothing were followed by his pantaloons and stockings. The gentleman loomed over her, his expression utterly indiscernible in the dim light, while his voice conveyed both great reluctance and regret.
She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came. Whatever lethargy had taken control of her body had also rendered her voiceless.
‘Forgive me, Miss Rosington. I wish this as much as you,’ he muttered, as he removed his shirt and climbed, naked, beneath the covers.
His next words were both shocking, inexplicable and of no comfort at all. ‘‘But please don’t be afraid, for I shan’t hurt you.’ He sighed deeply as he drew the covers up to his chin while Celeste struggled to move away from him. ‘You may not believe me now,’ his voice was grim, ‘but distasteful though my actions are to both of us, they are done to ensure your safety, and preserve the lives of those we love.’
And then, with the horror, darkness swept over Celeste and carried her thankfully into oblivion.