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“Very well,” she said, and smiled back at him. “I’m grateful for your concern. What is this directory?”
“It is a map of main streets and routes in London. See, here is the Tower, and this is Parliament over here.…” He traced the route with his fingertip. “If you know your destination, you’ll be able to find the general area on this map, then not allow any dishonest hackman to take you the long way round.”
“Yes,” she said. “Oh my, this map is so detailed and the print so small I don’t know if I can find my street.”
“If you’d like, tell me the name of your street and I’ll point to it. You don’t have to share the address. London is a big city, and it’s easy to get lost.”
“Very well,” she said after a moment, for he was quite right in that it seemed to be much larger than she had anticipated. “Please show me Bruton Street.”
“Ah, tell the driver to take you to Mayfair. Here. Go by way of these main roads and you should get there quite quickly.” He traced a route with his finger, then smiled as he pressed the small map into her hand. “Keep it for now, but do be kind enough to return it to me, if you will, once you’ve used it. Have it delivered by post, or messenger if you like, to the Carlisle in Shoreditch. It’s a public house owned by my brother.”
“Thank you, sir, for your kindness,” she said as she tucked the directory into her reticule. Perhaps she should not be so suspicious, she thought, but a woman traveling alone dare not attract too much attention. Why, most of the voyage had been spent in her cabin, a stuffy corner not much larger than a water closet and smelling very similar.
As the Liberty edged close to the dock, the decks grew quite crowded and loud, and Celia realized that, in the press of crowd and crew, James Carlisle had vanished. It was faintly surprising. He’d seemed so insistent, and now he’d just disappeared in the chaos, leaving her alone to make her way ashore.
Celia dismissed Carlisle from her mind when the hack rolled to a halt before the buff stone facade of Lord Leverton’s Mayfair home. It was imposing, a veritable five-story tower with staircases that curved up each side to the entrance. It was a house that radiated power and position.
It was this kind of house, this kind of wealth, that bred men like Lord Northington.…
She was shown into the entrance hall and bade wait, and the butler who greeted her looked down his long thin nose at her as if she were an interloper.
“Lady Leverton is not accepting visitors, I fear,” he said coldly. “However, you may leave your card.”
But Celia was not to be denied. “I will wait in the parlor.” She made her tone as lofty as his, with just a touch of arrogance. “Please be so good as to direct me. Lady Leverton will be pleased to see me, I assure you.”
There were, she thought, few things more intimidating than a proper English servant. He regarded her as if she were an insect, but at last briefly inclined his head, and beckoned to a young maid.
“Show Miss—” He studied the card she’d given him for an instant, then continued, “St. Clair into the small parlor to wait,
Hester.”
The uniformed maid led her to a wide set of double doors that opened into a room much larger than any she’d seen. If it was named the small parlor, she would truly be amazed at any larger chamber.
Richly furnished, there was a warm fire in the grate and thick rugs on the floors. Plush settees upholstered in embroidered velvet were placed before the hearth. Ornate vases and Dresden figurines adorned baroque tables that gleamed with the sheen of highly polished mahogany. Fresh flowers spilled from crystal vases.
Celia felt suddenly awkward and graceless in such a room, and wondered with a spurt of panic if she could truly pretend to be what she was not. How could she keep up the masquerade?
And while she may dislike deceiving her own godmother with the charade, she had little choice. She had to be the woman she posed herself to be, or she would never be able to fit in the society of those surrounding Northington.
That was, after all, her goal. To do less would be to fail.
But the success in her plan hinged on her acceptance here, with Jacqueline Leverton. Tension made her nerves taut, and she drew in a deep breath to steady herself. What if her godmother should not wish her to stay? She had never met her, after all, and their brief correspondence had been rather stilted.
A light laugh preceded the appearance of a tiny dark-haired woman in the doorway. “Celia Sinclair? Could it be?” she cried, and moved swiftly toward her. “I cannot believe it! You did come, after all. Oh my, you are the very image of your dear mother…my beautiful Léonie.”
Unexpected tears stung her eyes as Celia was drawn into a warm embrace. There was none of the awkwardness of their written correspondence, and no question of being accepted. She found herself seated on the settee answering questions about her mother, telling Jacqueline—“But you must call me Jacque, my dearest, as do all my friends,”—about her mother’s death.
She left out the details, saying only that Maman had died of a fever. It was difficult not dissolving in tears, but Jacqueline proved to be more pragmatic than her bubbly nature promised.
“It is a dreadful thing, but life is not always kind, I have learned,” she sighed in her accented English. “My poor Léonie. She was always so beautiful, so bright. I adored her, you know. Just as I shall adore you. Your mother’s marriage was so romantic, and your father—Ah! So handsome he was,” Jacqueline said with a smile. “And so much in love with Léonie! But of course, every man who met her fell in love with her. She was so beautiful, how could they not? Once, before she met your dear papa, she said her face was a curse, not a blessing. But I am glad that it proved not to be true.”
Celia’s jaw set. But it had been true, in the end. Her mother’s blessing had turned to a curse because of Lord Northington.
“Ah, my lovely one,” Jacqueline was saying, “you will be the toast of all London, I am quite certain! With those marvelous green eyes and that lovely blond hair, you shall break the hearts of all the men, and perhaps marry a duke, or even a prince one day!”
She laughed, her dark head tilted to one side like a saucy little bird, and Celia found herself smiling back at her.
“Now come, Celia,” Jacqueline said, and held out her hand to draw her with her. “I shall show you to your room and see you settled in until supper. Tomorrow we shall set about showing you London.”
