A Reckless Encounter

“Hate you? I could never hate you, but now I’ll never know if he is married to me because he loves me or because of his honor—and I once thought he had no honor! Oh God!”

Her laugh bordered on hysteria, and she clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle the unnatural sound.

Jacqueline knelt beside her, her hands clasping Celia’s tightly, her eyes earnest and swimming with tears. “Did I not tell you once that my Jules thinks highly of him and he is never wrong about people? Oh my lovely child, after all that you’ve suffered…you should have told me about Léonie, for I would have understood. As will he.”

“No, that’s just it, don’t you see? He knows. He knows and he still married me. Now I know why…after all that was said, those horrible things…even his own mother. Oh, you should have seen his face! We were there when his father—the man I have hated for so long—had another of what the physician called his seizures. Shock brought it on, his mother said, but I think it was guilt. Perhaps he did have a conscien

ce, after all.”

She rose from the settee, moved jerkily toward the fire to warm hands that had gone cold as ice. “Afterward—oh, it was all so…so civilized, with the countess offering me tea or chocolate, and Colter standing there like a stone statue, with no emotion or blame or accusations. But his eyes were so empty and I knew he had to wonder why I was there, but he never asked.”

“Because he had to know, petite.” Jacqueline’s voice was soft, sympathetic. “Northington has never been what one would call oblivious to things, and he had to realize that you wanted to confront his father.”

“And realize why I came to England. My entire time here has been based on lies—lies to you and to him. How can we live together with all those lies between us?”

“You won’t,” Jacqueline said frankly, and rose to put her hands on Celia’s cheeks, palms warm and comforting. “When he returns, you will talk to him and the lies will be behind you.”

“Yes, if he returns. He never told me where he was going and I don’t know if he wants to come back.”

“Of course he does! Celia, you mustn’t torture yourself with all this guilt. Yes, you should have been honest, but it is understandable why you were not. Speak frankly to him, and I know all will be well.”

Green silk rustled as Celia surveyed her stained skirts with hands that shook only slightly, and she managed a smile. “I know you’re right. I’ve been a coward and it’s time to face him and the truth. We must start our lives without lies.”

“You are so strong, child, and so brave. Oh, yes, don’t look so surprised. Not many would have the courage to do what you have done, and I know Léonie would be proud of you. You have her courage.”

“Maman never lived a lie.”

“Léonie St. Remy was practical enough to live a lie in order to survive. Do you think we were allowed to leave France during the Terror? No. We had to lie, and steal, and cheat to escape, but we did what we had to because we knew it was the only way to survive. Now.” She came to Celia and took her arm. “Enough of this. When he comes, you will tell him all the truths. There will be no more lies between you.”

No, there would be no more lies, Celia thought. And if there would be no more at all between them, she would deal with that, too. There was really no other choice. Like Maman, she was a survivor, but now it would be the truth that gave her freedom, not lies or vengeance, or even love. God help her, she loved him so. He must know that, must feel it when she was with him, and if it was enough, if it made up for all the rest, then they had a chance.

And if it did not…

“Let me ring for James to come and clean up the spilled chocolate,” she turned to say to Jacqueline, and smiled a little at the look of chagrin on her cousin’s face. “If this is the worst that happens today, we should be grateful.”

“Such a lovely pot—Chelsea ware?” Jacqueline asked as she stared down at the spreading stain and porcelain pot lying on its side on the rug, her tone curiously serene. “An interesting pattern.”

No one answered Celia’s ring, and she moved to the half-open door of the parlor to call for Renfroe. Silence muffled the entrance hall, no sounds from either the elderly butler, Barbara, the housekeeper, or from James, whom Colter had installed in the house as a sort of footman and bodyguard.

Puzzled, she moved across the gleaming floor toward the double doors that led down to the kitchens. The only sound was her footsteps, an eerie absence set her teeth on edge. It was never this quiet, this tense, as if waiting.

As she moved down the short, narrow stairwell to the kitchen, she heard a muted sound as of a sob, and paused, her heart thumping with alarm.

Before she could move, Renfroe appeared in front of her, his eyes wide with distress as he staggered forward.

“Whatever is the matter?” She reached out for him, but as she did, she saw from the corner of her eye a movement behind her and tried to move. It was impossible in the tight corridor, and she heard Renfroe cry out a protest as an arm slashed down to strike her against the side of her head.

Reeling, Celia tried to keep her balance, but it all happened so fast. She heard everything as if through a wall of water, moving away from her and then back, waves of sound receding and darkness slowly claiming her so that she saw nothing, heard nothing.

The raw day mirrored his mood as Colter reined in his mount on the crest of a chalky ridge that ran above the English Channel. Sea winds dampened his hair and misted on his face. Broadstairs lay below. A sandy scythe of land cupped stone buildings that staggered up the steep hill guarding the bay. On the wooded ridge, warning towers of the Revenue House kept watch for smugglers.

He found Harvey at the Albion in Broadstairs, nursing a pint and not seeming very surprised to see him.

“I’ve been expecting you,” he said, indicating an empty chair across from him. “Was it much trouble finding me?”

“Not much. I inquired at every public house between here and Dover.”

A faint grin wavered on Harvey’s mouth; red-rimmed eyes met his briefly before looking away. “I suppose you’ve come to call me out.”