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“Take off that damned hat,” he said finally, and she jerked at the strings.
Her hair had come loose from the braids she usually wore, pale strands like a cape around her shoulders. She leaned into him, warm against his chest, soft and somehow vulnerable despite her prickly manner.
It would be easy to believe she was honest, but long experience had taught him to recognize when people held secrets. And Celia St. Clair had secrets behind those lovely sea-green eyes.
18
Celia looked white as milk, Jacqueline thought as she knelt beside her to put a snifter of brandy into her trembling hand and close her fingers around it. Carolyn was near tears again, her earlier hysterics calmed at last by a sharp word from Northington.
Scowling blackly, the viscount leaned against the mantel in the parlor, arms crossed over his ches
t as he regarded them all.
“Tell me again why you were there,” he said, his brow cocked when Jacqueline threw him a frowning glance. His mouth quirked in a sardonic smile. “Humor me.”
“No, I don’t mind,” Celia said when Jacqueline began to protest, and stared at Northington. “As we told you, we only wanted to ride along the beach. Carolyn saw the trail leading down, and we took it. And as you surely saw, my horse bolted when those shots were fired.”
Jacqueline shuddered. “Why was someone shooting at you, my lord? And are you certain they were truly shooting at you, or was it perhaps a hunter?”
“Unless he was hunting fish with a rifle, I doubt seriously that it was a hunter, madam.”
He pushed away from the mantel, two long strides taking him to stare down at Celia. “I find it strange that you didn’t see anyone from atop the ridge. Your cousin had sense enough to ride out of danger’s way. Why didn’t you?”
Celia’s chin came up, and a stubborn light that Jacqueline was beginning to recognize sparked in her eyes as she glared at him.
“You know very well why! I was given an untrained mount, and no one bothered to inform me that she wasn’t docile. I could have been killed, yet I don’t hear any concern from you about that.”
His eyes were hooded, the faint smile on his mouth cynical. “It seems you don’t have a habit of being very confiding, Miss St. Clair. You should have told Santiago you were an inexperienced rider. That mare is too damned blooded to be ridden by a novice.”
Celia rose to her feet, still holding the brandy in one hand. “You need not worry about me any longer, for I intend to leave early in the morning. My visit is ended.” She paused, then said softly, “It was a mistake to come here at all.”
“But Celia dear,” Jacqueline started to protest, then halted when she saw the determined set of Celia’s mouth. A glance at Northington convinced her it was for the best; he wore a dark, thunderous expression on his handsome face that didn’t bode well for a congenial stay.
“Yes,” she agreed. “Perhaps it’s best if we return to the city, my lord. Celia and Caro are quite upset by the day’s events, though that is certainly no fault of yours.”
Sir John, who had been sitting in a chair by the window, said mildly, “No need to run away. I daresay once the shock has abated, you’ll all feel much better.”
“They’re free to leave,” Northington said. “Miss St. Clair is right. It would be a mistake for them to stay.”
There were undercurrents to his tone that Jacqueline heard but could not identify. Anger? Regret? Oh, it was so difficult to tell with him, his face was such a mask of impassivity. But surely he was just worried about their safety.
And Celia looked so…so distraught, and unusually disheveled. Of course, after falling from her horse and then having to lie on the ground to avoid being shot, she could certainly be excused for her distress and appearance. But Mrs. Pemberton had looked quite askance at her when the viscount had dismounted in front of the house and then lifted Celia down, his hands lingering a shade too long around her waist, his touch somehow—familiar. Yes, that was it. Familiar.
Jacqueline’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. There was much more to this than it seemed on the surface, and trust that wretched gossip Agatha Pemberton to ferret it out. If her tongue wagged freely once they returned to London, it may very well do great damage. Oh, why had Northington invited the old tabby!
When Celia moved toward the parlor door, Renfroe appeared with a discreet cough to snare Northington’s attention.
“My lord,” he said. “You have another visitor.”
“No need to announce me, Renfroe,” a voice said behind him, and a tall, silver-haired man Jacqueline recognized at once entered the parlor. “Though I am a bit surprised to find guests here this time of year. Hullo, Colter, glad to see you in residence.”
Lord Easton, Northington’s uncle, strode across the floor to greet his nephew, the very model of urbanity and sophistication as always. Attired immaculately, high-point collars and an intricately tied neckcloth suited more for the city than the country, he smiled upon them all with the obvious expectations of a man assured of his welcome.
“I see we have a lovely gathering. Do make the introductions, Northington, though I am well acquainted with Lady Leverton, of course.”
“How pleasant it is to see you again, Lord Easton,” Jacqueline said. “And what a lovely surprise.”
Northington introduced Celia and Carolyn, then Harvey, whom Easton already seemed to know. Mrs. Pemberton and Olivia Freestone chose that moment to arrive and they were also introduced, Mrs. Pemberton beaming her delight.
