“How intriguing.” His smile did not alter, but a sharp light glittered in his eyes. “Come into my study with me and I’ll try to explain to you again that your cousin is not with me.”
“But you know where she is. Do not deny it.”
Once they were in the study and the door closed behind them, Northington seated her opposite his desk. He leaned back against it, long legs crossed at the ankles, his stance negligent but his eyes war
y.
“Your note mentioned a missing purse. Why would you think I want it?”
“Because that’s what those men were searching for when they broke into my house the night of the opera. I have it.” She smiled when his eyes narrowed dangerously, and leaned forward. “I don’t know why you want it, or why those men want it, but I do know it must be important or no one would go to so much trouble to find it. I ask you again, does Celia know the importance of what she has?”
“Ah, so that’s what you meant. A rather cryptic query, and I had no idea how to answer.”
“You prevaricate, my lord. Shall I tell you how I know it must have some value? The footpads who robbed us that day in Berkley Square cared not only for our jewels, but for our reticules, as well. I wore an emerald ring and a diamond pin that should have interested any self-respecting thief. But my reticule? I began to wonder about it later, once the shock had worn off, and came to the realization that they had seemed far more interested in the papers I happened to carry that day. Now, shall you tell me if this has anything at all to do with my goddaughter’s disappearance? And more importantly, is she safe?”
Silence fell between them. After a moment, he said softly, “I can tell you she is well and safe. That’s all you need to know. I warn you, if you truly hold something that’s already spurred men to violence, you’d best put it into the proper hands.”
“I thought you might say that. But I have never thought it very fair to make an uneven exchange.” She leaned forward to stare at him intently. “It will all come out that Celia has been compromised, then any hope of a good match for her will be ruined. You’ve tread dangerously close to ruining her yourself and don’t think I haven’t noticed. It’s been by God’s own grace that her name hasn’t been dragged through the gossip mills by now.”
“I perceive that you wish a bargain,” he said wryly, but there was a taut set to his mouth. She had the sudden thought that perhaps she had gone too far.
“Yes, I do.” She hesitated, but could tell nothing from his face. “In exchange for restoring Celia’s good reputation, I will tell you where to find what you’re looking for, sir. That’s my proposition.”
“And if I agree?”
“Then you’ll secure what others are willing to kill for, it seems.”
“How do I know you have what I’ve been looking for?”
She drew in another deep breath, then made a decision. With a swift tug, she opened the strings of her reticule and drew out a city directory. She held it out to him, and knew from the sudden opacity of his eyes that she was right.
“Well, my lord,” she asked, “do we have a bargain?”
25
It had snowed during the night. Celia pushed aside the flimsy curtain to peer outside, shivering in the cold air inside the wagon. An ingenious little stove that held hot coals usually kept it warm enough, but the embers had died to gray ash now.
She scrubbed a hand through her hair, dyed dark at the insistence of Santiago, and she wore gypsy clothes—bright skirts and blouses—with nothing underneath. She had to admit it was much more comfortable than wearing confining stays. The stain on her hair made it rather stiff and dry, so that she usually wore it loose instead of up on her head or in neat plaits. Thankfully the dye was fading, the pale natural color returning with the passage of time.
Perhaps the danger had faded as well. No one had come near the camp, not in all the weeks she’d been here. It was on Northington land, the estate just beyond the line of woods and hill, and sometimes she thought she could almost see it if she walked to the top of the nearest hill. Most of the time she stayed in the wagon, and her one encounter with Marita had been unpleasant.
And revealing.
Tossing long dark hair, the girl had confronted her when no one else was near, the men gone hunting or into the village to peddle cheap wares.
“So,” Marita said, a sneer curling red lips. “Do you think because he has left you here that you are safe?”
“If I’m not, it will be your father who’s at fault,” Celia countered coolly. “He promised Lord Northington that I would come to no harm here. A matter of pride, he said.”
A hiss escaped between her teeth as Marita moved a step closer; tension vibrated through her slender body. She wore no cape or cloak for warmth, only several layers of wool skirts and blouses, her legs bare beneath the folds of striped red-and-blue wool. They stood at the edge of the small wooded copse where the wagons formed a tight circle, and save for a woman by the fire in the center and a string of horses tethered beyond the camp, it was deserted.
“Foolish one,” Marita said. “It is not safe anytime you are with us, for the good English citizens find reasons to drive us away whenever they can. We must travel constantly, and find ways to live. Few are like him. He has respect for us, and we repay it with honor. My father would never do anything to lose that trust, but even he has no control over men who do not mind destroying their own.”
“What are you talking about?” Celia didn’t like Marita; the girl was too bold, too arrogant, and she seemed to regard Colter as if he belonged to her.
Swinging her hips, Marita sauntered closer. “You were with him when those men fired at him, were you not? I can remember how angry everyone was and how you were thrown from your horse—”
“I jumped. And it was a horse that hadn’t even been trained, as you well know.”