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PART I
“The heart has reasons of which reason has no knowledge.”
—Pascal, Pensées
Prologue
Georgetown, District of Columbia
1810
Danger wore an elegant coat and arrogance. When twelve-year-old Celia Sinclair opened the door that cool autumn evening, a tall man with features as sharp as a hawk stood on the stoop. His voice was impatient and brusque, the words clipped, the accent unmistakably British.
“I have come to visit Madame.”
When she did not reply, but continued to stare at him, he added impatiently, “This is the home of Léonie St. Remy, is it not?”
Celia smoothed her hands over the blue kersey of her dress, suddenly aware of how shabby she must look. “Madame Sinclair is busy at the moment, sir. If you will leave your card, I will—”
“My card? Rather pretentious of you, considering this humble abode, I think. Go and fetch your mistress, girl.” He pushed her hand away when she moved to close the door, and wedged his body inside. “Inform her that Lord Northington wishes to see her at once.”
Brown eyes stared down at her from a face pitted with the faint remnants of scars. His mouth was full, his cheekbones high and stark, the slash of black eyebrows a marked contrast to his powdered hair.
This was Lord Northington, the man her mother had once said was a beast!
“Don’t stand there gaping at me, girl,” he said sharply. “I’ll see you’re dismissed from your post for this impertinence. Fetch Madame at once!”
“I am not a servant, my lord,” she replied, crossing her arms over her chest. “I have no intention of fetching Madame. Leave your card, and when she returns, I shall give it to her.”
“Impudent brat,” he spat. “I know she’s here. I followed her.” Even in the gloom, she could see the hot flare of anger in his eyes, the white lines that cut grooves on each side of his mouth as he grated, “It would serve you best to do as you’re told. The consequences can so often be…unpleasant.”
Celia’s brief spurt of courage failed her. She took a backward step, her heart hammering fearfully in her chest.
“You have no authority here!”
“I have no intention of remaining here to bandy words with an insolent brat.”
Ignoring her choked cry, he brushed past her. Boot-steps echoed loudly on the bare wooden floors as he moved down the hallway to the tiny parlor. His glance into the empty room was dismissive, his lip curled.
Celia saw it as he must see it, so bare now of the once lovely furnishings; not even linen scarves were left to adorn the single drum table that had yet to be sold, and the upholstered settee looked alone and forlorn in front of the cold fireplace. The years of deprivation since her father’s death were obvious, the remnants of their once comfortable life pitiful. Northington moved past the parlor.
“You must not!” she cried as he pushed open the door that led to the kitchen. Panic drove her, and unreasoning fear that he meant to harm her mother. She caught at his sleeve, but he jerked free.
The covered walkway was short, and he closed the distance in only three strides, then pushed open the door. “There you are, Madame!”
His change from contemptuous to beguiling was instant and shocking. Celia hung back, trembling as her mother turned to face the intruder with a serenity that belied the taut set of her mouth. Blond hair waved back from her high, intelligent forehead, and green eyes studied the man with an emotion Celia couldn’t interpret. Fear? Disdain?
“Lord Northington. This is certainly a surprise.”
“A pleasant one, I trust.”
“Would it matter if it were not, my lord?”
It was said lightly, but Celia recognized the steel beneath her mother’s velvet tone. Behind her, Old Peter stood silent and stiff, disapproval radiating from his dusky face.
Maman and the viscount spoke French, the language lending itself to subtle nuances that even a child could identify.
“My dear Madame,” Northington said with a soft laugh, “I crave your approval as none other.”
“Would that were true, my lord. Tell me what brings you to my home.”
“Need you ask?”
