A Reckless Encounter Read online

  Jacqueline gave a small gasp of delight. “It is Northington!”

  A chill shivered down Celia’s spine. She steeled herself to turn and look toward Lord Northington at last, and drew in a deep breath for courage.

  Yet she could not find him. She had thought there would be instant recognition, that the hatred she had nursed all these years would immediately focus on Northington despite the time that had passed. Yet none of the men present had the face of her childhood nightmares.

  She had a vague impression of a tall man with dark hair, impeccably dressed and with an air of polite boredom in his movements, but her gaze focused beyond him.

  “This must be the young lady who has captured Sir John’s instant admiration,” a deep voice said, the tone slow, rich, seductive.

  He reached for her hand, took it in his broad palm, held her fingers in a light clasp as he bent to place a kiss upon her gloved knuckles.

  Celia did not resist. She felt as if all eyes were watching, waiting for her response. Panic swelled, coupled with an overwhelming need to escape. But it was his touch that unnerved her most.

  Faintly, she managed to say, “If you will excuse me, I must attend to some personal business.”

  Celia maneuvered a path through the crowd without taking flight or stumbling. She had to escape that penetrating gaze and the discovery that this Northington was not the man she had hated for so long, was not the man she had come to ruin.

  There had to be two Lord Northingtons.

  Also available from ROSEMARY ROGERS and MIRA Books

  SWEET SAVAGE LOVE

  SAVAGE DESIRE

  WICKED LOVING LIES

  ROSEMARY ROGERS

  A RECKLESS ENCOUNTER

  To my family

  To all my readers, lifelong and new. I cherish your loyalty much more than I can say. And to my wonderful editors at MIRA Books, Dianne Moggy and Martha Keenan. Here’s to a glorious future!

  CONTENTS

  PART I

  PROLOGUE

  PART II

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  PART III

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  PART IV

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  EPIGRAPH

  EPILOGUE

  PART I

  “The heart has reasons of which reason has no knowledge.”

  —Pascal, Pensées

  Prologue

  Georgetown, District of Columbia

  1810

  Danger wore an elegant coat and arrogance. When twelve-year-old Celia Sinclair opened the door that cool autumn evening, a tall man with features as sharp as a hawk stood on the stoop. His voice was impatient and brusque, the words clipped, the accent unmistakably British.

  “I have come to visit Madame.”

  When she did not reply, but continued to stare at him, he added impatiently, “This is the home of Léonie St. Remy, is it not?”

  Celia smoothed her hands over the blue kersey of her dress, suddenly aware of how shabby she must look. “Madame Sinclair is busy at the moment, sir. If you will leave your card, I will—”

  “My card? Rather pretentious of you, considering this humble abode, I think. Go and fetch your mistress, girl.” He pushed her hand away when she moved to close the door, and wedged his body inside. “Inform her that Lord Northington wishes to see her at once.”

  Brown eyes stared down at her from a face pitted with the faint remnants of scars. His mouth was full, his cheekbones high and stark, the slash of black eyebrows a marked contrast to his powdered hair.

  This was Lord Northington, the man her mother had once said was a beast!

  “Don’t stand there gaping at me, girl,” he said sharply. “I’ll see you’re dismissed from your post for this impertinence. Fetch Madame at once!”

  “I am not a servant, my lord,” she replied, crossing her arms over her chest. “I have no intention of fetching Madame. Leave your card, and when she returns, I shall give it to her.”

  “Impudent brat,” he spat. “I know she’s here. I followed her.” Even in the gloom, she could see the hot flare of anger in his eyes, the white lines that cut grooves on each side of his mouth as he grated, “It would serve you best to do as you’re told. The consequences can so often be…unpleasant.”

  Celia’s brief spurt of courage failed her. She took a backward step, her heart hammering fearfully in her chest.

  “You have no authority here!”

  “I have no intention of remaining here to bandy words with an insolent brat.”

  Ignoring her choked cry, he brushed past her. Boot-steps echoed loudly on the bare wooden floors as he moved down the hallway to the tiny parlor. His glance into the empty room was dismissive, his lip curled.

  Celia saw it as he must see it, so bare now of the once lovely furnishings; not even linen scarves were left to adorn the single drum table that had yet to be sold, and the upholstered settee looked alone and forlorn in front of the cold fireplace. The years of deprivation since her father’s death were obvious, the remnants of their once comfortable life pitiful. Northington moved past the parlor.

  “You must not!” she cried as he pushed open the door that led to the kitchen. Panic drove her, and unreasoning fear that he meant to harm her mother. She caught at his sleeve, but he jerked free.

  The covered walkway was short, and he closed the distance in only three strides, then pushed open the door. “There you are, Madame!”

  His change from contemptuous to beguiling was instant and shocking. Celia hung back, trembling as her mother turned to face the intruder with a serenity that belied the taut set of her mouth. Blond hair waved back from her high, intelligent forehead, and green eyes studied the man with an emotion Celia couldn’t interpret. Fear? Disdain?

  “Lord Northington. This is certainly a surprise.”

  “A pleasant one, I trust.”

  “Would it matter if it were not, my lord?”

  It was said lightly, but Celia recognized the steel beneath her mother’s velvet tone. Behind her, Old Peter stood silent and stiff, disapproval radiating from his dusky face.

  Maman and the viscount spoke French, the language lending itself to subtle nuances that even a child could identify.

  “My dear Madame,” Northington said with a soft laugh, “I crave your approval as none other.”

  “Would that were true, my lord. Tell me what brings you to my home.”

  “Need you ask?”

  Celia saw her mother flush.

  “Not in front of my daughter, if you please, my lord!”

  “Your daughter? This pretty child?” He turned toward Celia. “I should have known. That glorious fair hair and green eyes are too exquisite to be duplicated in mere dross. Come here, child, and tell me your name.”

  Though she made no effort to move, her mother stepped in front of Celia as if to protect her. She gazed coolly at Northington as she said, “Stay here, little one. Peter will serve your supper.”

  “But I wish to wait for you, Maman.
”

  “I will return to you soon, my love.”

  Old Peter put a hand on Celia’s shoulder when she would have protested more, and she fell silent as her mother preceded Northington from the kitchen. The clatter of a pot lid made a staccato sound. After a moment, Old Peter said softly, “He is bold, that one. To come here after her—”

  “I do not like him.” Celia jerked away from Peter’s grasp to go to the kitchen door. A hard knot formed in her chest. “He is quite rude. Maman does not like him, either. I saw it in her eyes.”

  She whirled around to face the old man. “Do you think he’ll hurt her?”

  Old Peter shook his head, but she noticed that his hand trembled slightly as he ladled soup into a bowl. Steam rose in a thin cloud from the pot.

  “He would not dare, lamb. Not even an English lord can escape the law. Here. Come and sit down. Eat your soup, and some of these apples you love. The bread—Did you bring back Madame’s market bag from the front room?”

  “Oh. I forgot it…Shall I go and fetch it? I left it at the front door when he came.”

  “No. No, I’ll get it. You stay here and eat, child.”

  Celia sat on the long bench drawn up to the scarred oak table that was incongruously set with the silver and a few pieces of china—remnants of better days. She was no longer hungry. Not even the apples were tempting.

  Glumly she watched her soup cool, waiting for Old Peter’s return with the bread Maman had bought on her way home from teaching French to the children of wealthy townspeople.

  Time passed and she began to fret. What could be taking so long? Why had Old Peter not returned? And where was Maman?

  Finally, as the fire dimmed and the usually warm kitchen grew cool, Celia abandoned her untouched soup. It had grown even colder outside; as she crossed the breezeway to the main house, the wind tugged at her blue dress and loosened pale coils of her hair from beneath the white cap she wore. The smell of winter was in the air.

  Shivering, she eased into the house and paused, uncertain. It was ominously quiet. The tall case clock that Maman had said now belonged to a new owner ticked softly in the hallway. A lamp had been lit, a thin thread of light from beneath a door guiding her down the hallway.

  A feeling of dread enveloped her as she reached the parlor door; it was partially open. She began to shake. It was so quiet, deathly quiet…

  “Maman?” Her hand spread on the door and pushed; it didn’t move. No sound greeted her as she wedged her body into the parlor. A low lamp burned in a wall sconce, casting the settee into a stark silhouette that seemed suddenly ominous. Her heart thudded painfully as she took a step into the room, glancing down at the obstruction holding the door. A scream locked in her throat.

  Old Peter lay there motionless. His mouth was agape, his eyes closed. She knelt beside him, but he made no sound when she whispered his name. His dark face was so still.

  Panic nearly paralyzed her, but she rose again and turned, walking toward the settee. Boards creaked beneath her feet, familiar but now much too loud in the soft gloom.

  “Maman?”

  It was a faint whisper, tentative and afraid. Her hand curled over the back of the settee, the horsehair-stuffed upholstery unyielding beneath the pressure of her clutching fingers. A bundle of rags lay upon the seat, shapeless and bulky.

  But when she slipped around the end of the settee to inspect further, the bundle moaned softly.

  “Maman! Oh, Maman!”

  A feeble hand reached out for her, and then Celia saw that her mother’s skirts were up around her waist, her lower body naked. Immediately she pulled the skirts over Maman’s legs, then knelt beside her.

  “Maman—you’re hurt! And Old Peter won’t wake. I must fetch the physician.”

  “No…” The moan formed a refusal.

  “But you’ll die, and Old Peter is so still…I’m afraid for you and I don’t know what to do!” Sobs thickened her words and she felt her mother’s hand graze her cheek in a comforting gesture.

  “Help…Peter. I’m…fine. Truly. Go to Peter.”

  But Old Peter was past help, dead from a grievous blow to the side of his head.

  Celia spent the next few weeks in a daze. Maman had never been very strong, and now her meager reserves of strength were depleted by Lord Northington’s brutal rape. He had hurt much more than just her body; the light had gone from Léonie’s eyes, leaving behind an empty shell.

  Anger sparked, the helpless rage of a child who has lost all comfort and security.

  Léonie tried to recover; she dragged herself from the bed to do the sewing that helped to support them, but her heart was no longer in it. Northington had destroyed something inside her that Celia couldn’t understand.

  “It is no use, petite,” Maman said sadly when Celia insisted she go to the authorities again. “They do not see me, do not care to see me. And it no longer matters. He’s gone now, back to England.”

  “But we have papers. I read them, Maman! Charges were brought—”

  “Against a man who is inviolate, a peer of the realm with access to money for bribes. Not even Peter’s murder will be avenged, so my charge is even less likely to be acknowledged. I am familiar with the advantages of power, my petite. Once, I lived with it. I know what it can do, what it can accomplish. It is no use to fight it.”

  “No!” Celia raged, her voice almost a howl that alarmed her mother. “He has to pay for what he’s done, Maman. He has to be punished! Where is the justice? Why can he escape—”

  Léonie grabbed her close, held her as tears wet their cheeks. “Justice is not always in this life,” she said at last, stroking Celia’s hair with a trembling hand. “I have seen too much to expect evil deeds to always be punished.”

  Anger and resentment burned inside Celia’s breast, but she held her tongue. It only made things worse to remind Maman of what had happened. But one day—one day she would find a way to make Lord Northington pay for what he had done!

  PART II

  “And whatever sky’s above me,

  Here’s a heart for any fate.”

  —Lord Byron

  LONDON, ENGLAND

  September, 1819

  1

  Traveling under the name St. Clair, Celia stared over the rail of the ship nosing a watery trough up the Thames. It had been a tedious voyage save for a storm that she’d been convinced would destroy them all. But now she was here at last. At last! She knotted her hands in the folds of the reticule she carried; a letter crackled softly in the velvet bag. It was her future, the letter to Maman’s cousin, Jacqueline Fournier Leverton. Jacqueline and Léonie St. Remy had fled Paris during that bloody Revolution that had cost so many lives. Jacqueline had married an English baron, while Léonie wed the dashing American captain Samuel Sinclair and left England behind forever.

  Perhaps Léonie had worried what might happen one day, for, when Celia was still an infant, she’d written a letter to her cousin about her daughter. She’d kept Jacqueline’s reply, her promise to stand as godmother to the child she hoped to one day meet. That letter was old, the pages yellowed and the ink faint, but it would serve as a letter of introduction to this godmother Celia had never met.

  And now the time had come. So many fears, so much pain and heartache behind her…but she would let nothing stand in her way. Not now. Not after so many years.

  Coming to England was not just the start of a new life, it was an act of vengeance. For nearly ten years, she had hated Lord Northington. At times, it had been all that let her feel alive.

  Celia’s hands tightened on the ship rail as the London docks grew sharper in the gray mist that cloaked the river and hazed the forest of tall, swaying masts that looked like so many reeds choking the waterway. Shrouds seemed to part sullenly as the prow eased through debris and water, a lingering fog that diffused the sharper outlines of the city’s gray spires and forbidding towers.

  So close, so close. It was nearly time now…all the planning, and now she was here at las
t. Maman would have wanted her to come to England.

  Maman.…

  It was nine years since her death, nine years since Celia had watched helplessly as Léonie bled to death in the childbed. Her infant son had lived only a few minutes more than his mother, Northington’s babe drawing only a few gasps of air. They were buried together, a simple grave in a corner of the cemetery where paupers were granted space for their eternity.

  At thirteen, Celia had found herself orphaned and alone. There had been no relatives to take her in, no one but the kind nuns at a foundling home. As Léonie had once done, Celia taught French to students, saving every penny she earned through the years. Even after her eighteenth birthday, she’d stayed on, saving her money, a goal firmly fixed in her mind, her sworn revenge keeping her strong.

  It was the death of her mother that had formed the need for vengeance, formed the burning desire to find Northington and, if nothing else, confront him with his crimes. Why should he be allowed to forget the woman he had raped or the old man he had killed? Didn’t she live with their memories every day, the pain as fresh at times as it had been when she’d lost them? Yes, and Northington would soon find a reminder of what he’d done on his doorstep.

  In the reticule with the letter to Lady Leverton was a document with the old charges against the viscount. It bore the seal of the Georgetown magistrate where it had been filed so many years before—the only proof of Northington’s crime. A charge of murder still held weight even after so long, though the death of a freed slave had not been important enough to halt Northington’s flight.

  But it was important to me, Celia thought fiercely as the docks became more visible in the fog. Old Peter was still a sharp memory, she’d never forget him.

  It was the careless indifference that rankled most, the viscount’s arrogant claim that the old man had assaulted him. It had been a farce, a travesty of justice.

  But Celia intended to see that he acknowledged his acts, to expose him for the cruel killer that he was and to seek justice for the wrongs done not only to Old Peter, but to her mother and an innocent babe.