He went back to Harmony Hill only to get a fresh horse, then took the London road north. During the long ride he began to think again, as he had not done for a long time, of the ancient teachings he’d picked up from the old Hindu who’d taught him the art of healing by massage. Karma. Under the law of karma, the next life was determined by the deeds of the past life. If the life was worthy, that person would be reborn in a higher form; if not, the person would live again in a lower form, possibly even that of an animal.
How, he wondered wryly, would he return? So far, he had nothing to recommend that he come back as anything more evolved than an eel. It was hardly the moment to
be so introspective, but if he didn’t think of the abstract while he rode, he would think of Celia, and remember her tears when he’d left her behind, her soft pleas to go with him.
He should have listened, should have overcome his concern that she’d be harmed. She was right, after all, and he should have kept her safe.
Christ, if anything happened to her he was to blame for it, and it would eat at him forever, never fade, always be at the back of his mind, one more ghost. But unlike the others, the faceless forms of the nameless dead, this ghost would be personal.
This ghost had a face and a name.
Colter swore to himself. Now he knew he could never get her out of his mind, would always feel incomplete. Celia had managed to worm her way into his very soul.
It was a hell of a time to find that out.
Philip Worth’s London home held no sign of his presence, and his valet swore vehemently to Colter that he hadn’t seen him.
“I swear it, Lord Northington. If he is in the city he has not come here!”
There was an air of leashed violence in him that scared not just Easton’s servants, but Colter’s own. He’d been to Harvey’s lodgings as well, and neither of the men had been seen. When he went to his own town house, Beaton regarded him with a mixture of astonishment and agitation, his usual impassive countenance not quite enough to hide his inner turmoil.
“Excuse me for saying it, but I have never seen you in such disarray, my lord,” he ventured when Colter flung his muddy garments to a low bench in the dressing room. “Your country valet has been shockingly remiss.”
“Renfroe is an old family retainer, not a valet at all, as you well know. No, give me my other boots. It’s too damn wet to bother with clean ones.”
“My lord.” Wooden-faced, Beaton stubbornly held out the clean boots, gleaming with boot polish.
Colter glanced at him as he shoved his feet into the hightop boots and reached for a clean neckcloth. Beaton held out a snowy length of linen, then arranged it in neat folds around his neck.
“Dammit, Beaton, I can do that myself,” Colter said impatiently, then took pity on the valet and let him finish.
“Have my horse brought round,” he said, and strode from the dressing room without answering the question in Beaton’s eyes. Downstairs, he went into his study, drew out a clean sheet of paper and scrawled a note on it. He gave it to Beaton when he came to announce that his lordship’s horse had been brought round.
“See that this is delivered if I do not return,” he said. Beaton took the proffered note though his gaze was troubled.
“My lord, if I may be so bold—”
“No,” Colter said softly, “you may not. There is little to be said now.”
It was true. Whatever came after, he was done with turning his back. Done with letting it go.
The Moreland house on Curzon Street wasn’t far from the Leverton house, and he would visit Celia’s cousin when he was done. It was the least he could do. And by some miracle, there may be word about Celia.
Garner, the new butler who had replaced the ancient Karns, opened the door to him while a stable boy held his horse.
“I won’t be here long, Garner,” he said, and strode past him across the gleaming black-and-white floors to the wide staircase. He went immediately to his father’s room.
The door stood slightly ajar, and he shoved it open, then came to an abrupt, disbelieving halt.
Beyond the sitting room, he heard an unmistakable soft drawl. He recognized that tone, though he had to move closer to hear what she was saying. Celia.
Brewster hovered anxiously over the earl, tucking the edges of a blanket around him as Celia stared at him.
Her heart pounded furiously in her chest and her mouth was dry, her hands shaking. This was the face of the man who had haunted her waking and sleeping nightmares, the man who had taken so much from her with his careless indifference.
Yet he was old, frail, a broken man now, though there was a fierce vigor in those hooded eyes that was familiar. The pockmarked flesh sagged, and one side of his face looked as if it had melted into disuse. Palsied hands gripped the gold head of a cane, and it was obvious from that dark stare that he knew her.
She wanted to rail at him, to howl her anguish and hate after all these years, but no words would come. It had taken her so long to get here, to finally drum up the courage and damn the risks, and now she couldn’t speak. Oh God, she’d struggled so hard, overcome obstacles and waited and planned for so long, and now that the time was here she saw that fate had dealt with him much more harshly than any vengeance she could manage.