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And then she saw him at an affair one evening not long before Christmas. It was crowded with the ton and as noisy as always, reeking of perfume and the press of too many bodies packed into limited space. Her heart leaped, and her stomach twisted into a tight knot of—misery?
He was with another woman, a gorgeous dark-haired creature that seemed familiar and very possessive, and it wasn’t until Jacqueline reminded her that Celia recalled Lady Cresswood, who was married to an earl.
Until that moment Celia hadn’t considered how jarring it would be to look up and meet those cold sapphire-blue eyes, to be jolted to the very core by a strange, unthinkable yearning to feel his mouth against hers again, to hear his voice in her ear, husky and soft, calling her “love.”
It had all been a lie, his tender touch and the words in her ear—even her own response to him. A masquerade that had been perpetuated by the myth that she could fall in love with the son of the man responsible for Maman’s death.
Colter was very polite, remote as they spoke briefly the casual words of courteous strangers, but underneath the civility was a thin thread of tension. She saw it in his eyes, a flicker of light as he regarded her. It was too much to bear.
“Forgive me if I seem rude,” she said quickly, “but I promised this dance to Mister Harwood.”
She felt his gaze on her as she moved away, and saw a small, curious smile on Lady Cresswood’s mouth. No doubt she thought her a complete idiot. She would ignore them both, and pretend that she didn’t care.
Yet, even though she danced with Harwood and countless others that night, she was far too aware of Northington, and could have wept when he left with Lady Cresswood.
It was the most difficult thing she had ever done, to dance and smile throughout the long evening, laugh at witticisms, when inside she felt cold and dead. She was relieved when they finally left for home.
Not even the warmth of a cheery fire in her bedchamber eased her chill, and Celia sat up long after Jacqueline and all in the house were asleep. No maid attended her as she sat at the carved mahogany dresser, a hairbrush in her hand, her thick mane of hair in a tangle down her back. She didn’t have the energy to brush it, but stared at her reflection and the stranger she had become.
When had it all happened? When had she become this lost person? She looked the same outwardly: wide green eyes, pale hair, mouth a little too generous, her cheekbones high and defined like Maman’s…Maman.
Despair rose in a choking knot to lodge in her throat. Once it had seemed so simple to avenge Maman’s memory, to face the earl with her knowledge of his crime and see the shame in his eyes, or at least the realization that it had not gone unnoticed and was not forgotten. But now…now it was so futile. All her hopes had come unraveled by her own actions. Could she still confront the earl when she had been intimate with his son?
But this was different, she told herself fiercely. It was an act of love and not brutality!
Love. It could be love she’d felt. She’d thought it was at the time, an excitement that she’d never experienced before with any man. And she’d thought he felt the same.
Oh God, it was all so mixed up now. It was obvious that Colter did not love her. She’d been a fool to think it even for an instant.
Her hand throbbed and she looked down, noting with some surprise that she’d almost bent the silver handle of the brush she still held. Red marks creased her palm and fingers. She slowly flexed her hand, easing the sting. The pain cleared her head, and oddly, cemented her resolve.
My God, she thought fiercely, I’ve spent half my life in pursuit of justice for Maman, and I will not stop now that I’m so close. There must be a way to confront the earl with what he did! If there is—If there is, I’ll find it. I will find it and I will at last have the satisfaction of keeping my vow, no matter the cost!
19
It was pitch-dark in this section of London, the slum alleys near St. Giles littered with ramshackle buildings and gin shops. No light penetrated even during the day, and with the setting of the sun, the shadows were impenetrable. A fetid stink permeated the dense January night.
Colter carried a loaded pistol tucked into his belt, easily accessible, and a lethal dagger was stuck in the cuff of his knee-boot. The latent violence learned in warfare was unacceptable in a civilized society, but had saved his life more times than he could remember. Years spent fighting Napoleon’s forces had taught him a lot. Fighting in South America and Spanish California had honed his instincts, taught him a different kind of warfare—taught him survival.
This was survival of a different sort, with a different kind of enemy lurking in the shadows; there was no grand and glorious cause, nothing other than idle viciousness or empty bellies driving men to cut throats and purses with equal indifference. Even the children had the same empty look in their eyes, a total lack of compassion or humanity in faces pinched with years of depravity.
Tyler was late and looked disheveled when he finally arrived. Torchlight from the end of the alley shed a fitful glow that silhouetted him in hazy shadow.
Another recruit, the man known only as Tyler was one of their best. Though he preferred to remain anonymous, Colter recognized that he was educated, a man familiar with elegant drawing rooms as well as the slums of St. Giles.
“The Runners are out,” Tyler muttered, “and looking for me.”
“They won’t come here.”
A grin split Tyler’s face, a muted gleam in the dark. “That’s right, mate, they won’t. Not even the Bow Street Runners dare enter this hell.”
“What news?”
“It’s a conspiracy, right enough. The Spenceans. With the radical Thistlewood in control now and Watson demoted, they’re planning some kind of vengeance for the Peterloo Massacre. Thistlewood is even talking revolution. He claims he can raise fifteen thousand men in half an hour.”
“Are they armed?”
Tyler nodded. “They’ve got munitions stashed all over London. Ruthven reports there’s some kind of log with all the hiding places listed, but he hasn’t seen it.”
