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But realistically, what could she do? Raise enough doubts to damage his reputation, such as it was? Create a scandal he could never escape? Cause him humiliation?
It was not enough, but it would have to serve.
And this Lord Northington was crucial to his father’s downfall. She must not make any more mistakes.
The movement of the curricle had slowed in the congestion of traffic in the park. Celia studied Lord Northington as he handled the horses with expert efficiency, though she did so discreetly. It was rather like gauging an opponent, an odd dance around the truth while she considered her next move.
Sunlight gleamed on his dark hair; he wore it casually feathered over his ears and below his collar in the popular style, with short side-whiskers that ended at his earlobe. Strong bones delineated a forceful nature corroborated by a firm mouth and square jaw. In daylight, he was even more striking than he had been in the diffused glow of candles and crystal chandeliers. It was unnerving. How could this man be the son of the man she hated so badly? There should be a sign of some sort, a mark of the beast to signify his heritage.
But there was nothing other than his dark good looks to recommend him, and she turned her gaze to the
passing landscape of mottled trees. It reminded her of home, the crisp air of autumn that was always so invigorating and so lovely. She and Maman and Old Peter had often gone together to lie in grassy meadows on the fringe of Georgetown, where they would take a basket of food and while away the day with memories and plans for the future.
That had been before, of course, before Papa had died and the world had gone dark, before Lord Northington had come into their lives and poisoned the past and the future.
“You have proven to be more intriguing than I first thought you would be, Miss St. Clair.”
Northington sounded cynically amused, and she shot him a furtive glance. A faint, knowing smile curled his mouth. Her heart thumped in alarm. She’d gone too far. Jacqueline had warned her of the fine line between propriety and presumption.
“Have I, my lord? You sound disapproving.”
“Surprised, perhaps. A milk and water miss from the Colonies is hardly common in London, especially one who claims to be descended from French royalty.”
Her mouth tightened. “Claims? I’ve said nothing to that effect.”
“No, but your cousin certainly has. Do you disagree with her on that subject?”
“Why would I? Lady Leverton is in a much better position to know the truth than I am. She was there in—”
“Another revolution that left behind widows, orphans and impostors.”
“Into which category do you think I belong?” Anger made her voice sharp.
His gaze was bland. “That is something only you know, Miss St. Clair.”
“You speak of rudeness on my part, but your manners lack even the most rudimentary courtesies! Breeding is not an acquired virtue, but something one is born with. It can exist in a lowly milkmaid or an aristocrat, but it is certainly not found in men who behave like rutting boars. I resent your inferences.”
“And am I to infer that you’re comparing me to a rutting boar?”
“If you like!” Beyond anger, beyond caution, she gave him a furious stare that seemed to have no effect on him whatsoever. He merely smiled, an infuriating, maddening smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. A small muscle leaped in his jaw, as if he was clenching his teeth. With a start, Celia recognized his fury.
At last. She had reached him, managed to elicit an honest emotion from him even though he suppressed it. A cold light gleamed in eyes that had turned an ice-blue, narrowed at her now, the tautness of his mouth more of a grimace than the smile he was obviously attempting. A chill of sudden apprehension clutched at her.
Until now, he had seemed dangerous in a distant, safe kind of way, but at the moment she felt threatened. He said nothing, did nothing, but there was a taut, wolfish look to him, as if he sensed easy prey.
She felt hot and cold at the same time. What had she been thinking? This man was, after all, Northington’s son. His father had been capable of rape and murder, why should his son be any different?
With a hand that visibly shook, she put her fingers to her throat, an instinctive gesture of self-protection. She was glad for the maid still in the boot—a witness, a deterrent.
If Northington noticed her distress, he ignored it. His hands were capable, steady on the long reins as the matched bays picked up a brisk pace. The streets of London were no less crowded than Hyde Park. It took longer than usual to reach Bruton Street, and by the time the curricle halted before the five-story house, Celia had composed herself.
“Good day, my lord,” she said coolly, not waiting for him to help her step down from the vehicle. She swung open the low door and dropped to the ground, but her skirt hung up on the seat, catching on the latch. Cold air assaulted her legs, clad only in clocked stockings. She twisted to free herself, glared at the maid sitting bug-eyed in the boot and said, “Get out and help me, Janey.”
To her chagrin, Northington leaned across the seat before the maid could move, easily disengaging the velvet and braid hem. “An enticing view, Miss St. Clair,” he said with a wicked lift of his brow, and only laughed when she jerked her skirt free of his grasp.
An ignominious end to an afternoon that was already difficult.
It would be a miracle if she ever saw him again. Oh, not that she minded that so very much! But without Lord Northington, she must plan another way to reach the earl.
