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“Lord Easton, it is so charming to finally meet you, though I daresay you do not remember our connection. My husband is Clive Pemberton of—”
“Of Exchequer Bank of England. Yes, of course, I am well aware of that connection, Mrs. Pemberton. I see that my nephew is keeping good company after all, and I need not worry.”
“I wasn’t aware you were prone to worrying about my companions,” Northington said dryly, and his uncle turned to him with a grin.
“I always worry about you, my boy. You’re my favorite nephew.”
“Your only surviving nephew,” Northington replied, and Easton laughed.
“Trust you to make that distinction.”
“So what brings you back from the Continent?”
“Boring details that we can discuss later.” Easton dismissed it with a smile, his attention turning toward Celia. “Miss—St. Clair, you said? You seem quite familiar to me. Have we met before?”
“No, my lord,” Celia said stiffly. “I don’t believe we have.”
“Yet you seem so familiar to me. Perhaps in Paris?”
“I’ve never been to France, my lord.” Celia’s smile seemed rather brittle, and Jacqueline gave her a concerned glance.
“Celia is from America,” Jacqueline explained, “and has only been in England for the past two months. She’s my cousin’s child, and my goddaughter.”
“Oh, I see.” Easton smiled, but his dark eyes were sharp and thoughtful, holding more than admiration in their depths as he regarded Celia for another moment before turning his attention to Miss Freestone.
Celia stood still and silent, but her heart pounded furiously. She was sore from the fall, residual terror at the danger leaving her temper frayed and her stomach all in knots. And now this man—Colter’s uncle!—seemed far too acquainted with her cousin. Would he remember Maman? He was old enough to have known her.
As graciously as she could manage, she excused herself and fled to her room. Nothing was as it should be. She felt so uncertain, as if all was about to fall apart around her.
Perhaps she should never have come to England for vengeance. If she’d only realized how different it was here, how unified the peerage was, she would have known better than to entertain such a foolish notion. In theory it had seemed so simple, gaining justice by presenting the documents charging Northington with Old Peter’s murder. Yet now that she was here, she saw that it would make no difference. Old Peter’s death had mattered to no one but her and Maman.
The small trunk she’d brought from London was tucked into an alcove, and Celia knelt in front of it to unlock the clasp. The papers were in the reticule she’d brought from Georgetown; it was too risky leaving them behind to chance their discovery by Lily or another maid. They were all the evidence she had, the only proof that the earl of Moreland had committed such a heinous crime. Now the only option left was to confront the earl with this reminder of what he’d done.
But now even that satisfaction would be diluted. If Lord Easton recognized her, then Moreland would know why she was there, and the shock of her charge would lose any surprise and effect she’d hoped to gain.
Opening the velvet reticule, she pulled out the old document and unfolded it, her fingers smoothing the yellowed page. It crackled dully in her hands. The ink was faded but still legible. Perhaps if she could not have complete
vengeance, she would get a private audience with the earl. A confrontation, the sight of his face when she reminded him of her mother and what he had done. But did a man like Moreland even have a conscience?
Celia refolded the document and slid it back into the reticule. When it resisted, she peered inside. It was wedged against the directory she’d borrowed from Mister Carlisle. Oh, she’d forgotten it again. The directory really should have been returned by now. He would think she was completely ungrateful and rude. As soon as she got back to London, she would send it immediately to Carlisle’s brother’s pub in Shore-ditch. And she’d write a nice note of gratitude for its loan, and her apologies for being so late in returning it to him after his kindness in lending it to her. It had been of some use, after all, for the hired hack had indeed been a rather crafty man who had tried to take her on a tour rather than straight to the Leverton house.
She thumbed it idly. The directory was a thin pamphlet, and Mister Carlisle had underlined in ink several streets, with faint X’s marked along the map at intervals. Well used, it seemed. She tucked it back with the documents and pulled tight the strings to close it, then replaced it in the chest and rang for Janey.
“Help me pack, please,” she said when the little maid answered her summons. “We’ll be leaving early tomorrow.”
“Yes, miss.” Janey asked no questions; like all servants worth a shilling, she no doubt knew all about the shots fired earlier, and suspected that was the reason for an early departure.
It was only partially true.
“It would be a mistake for them to stay,” he’d said, his eyes hard and blue as he looked at her. She’d known then that what had happened between them the night before was only one more conquest, as she’d once told him she’d never be. How foolish she’d been!
It was the same with most men. They put women up on pedestals as long as they conformed to the masculine ideal of what a woman should be and do and say. Any woman who dared stray from that ideal was regarded as a demi-rep, a courtesan accustomed to the touch of many men. And she had been careless enough to let—no, invite—his touch.
She couldn’t return to London fast enough. It was too much to stay and endure his company. How could she? There had been no words of love between them, and really, she didn’t know how she felt about him. How should she feel? It was so confusing. At first she’d thought she could use him to get to his father, but now…now her emotions were so tangled, everything she felt for him and about his father a contradiction. How could she reconcile strong hatred with such vulnerability?
Thank God she had very little time to brood on the injustices in the days that followed their return to London, days turning into weeks that were filled with activity. Penned invitations piled high on the silver tray in the entrance hall every morning were brought to her at breakfast with Jacqueline and Carolyn. As she drank hot chocolate, she read them aloud to her delighted cousins. There were invitations to this or that ball or soirée, gala or opera, but not a word from the one man she had thought would at least send a note.
She didn’t know whether to be glad or sorry that Northington ignored her. Feminine pride would have liked at least an acknowledgment. After all, much more had passed between them than mere conversation! But there was nothing. Was he even back from the country? Perhaps he’d been shot by whoever had been out on the seaside that day. Irrationally she prayed that he was alive, and in the next instant, thought it would serve him right to be shot!
