Lady Lightfingers (34 page)

‘Enough, Celia,' he said sharply. ‘You're safe now, and you're being hysterical. Take in some deep breaths and gather your wits together.'

It was enough to bring her to her senses. ‘I feel sick,' she said, her voice shaking.

He shouted for Edmund to stop the carriage, and opened the door for her. She could only dry retch. She hadn't eaten or drunk anything for a while, so that explained why. She gave a small scream when a figure appeared from behind the carriage.

‘It's all right. It's my friend, Bart. I'll introduce you properly some other time.'

Bart gave her a smile then turned to Charles. ‘I'm going back to the club while I can still find my way. I'll see you later.'

‘Ask them to put some champagne on ice.'

As soon as the man disappeared the carriage began to move again. Charles gathered her against him and she could feel the steady beat of his heart against her ear. ‘Are you all right . . . were you
ill-treated?
'

‘I was kept in a hole under the floor. I had nothing to eat or drink and I was stripped of my clothing and made to wear that . . .
garment
. Bessie put water on it so it would cling to my body. I felt so ashamed.'

‘From what I saw you have nothing to feel ashamed of.'

‘You don't understand, Charles. It was the faces of the men as they looked at me through that window . . . as though I was nothing but a piece of meat for sale. Only another woman could understand the loathsome feeling that comes with it. They made my skin crawl . . . saw me as something I didn't want to be.'

‘Of course you didn't.'

‘But I would have been if I hadn't fled from the slums to leave my past behind.' But for all this time, the past had been waiting to remind her of what she was and where she had come from. She started to shake as the horror of her ordeal began to sink in. ‘I don't want to talk about what happened. I just want to go home, go to bed, go to sleep and forget about it.'

‘You can't sleep for ever.'

‘I can try.' She realized she was being churlish. ‘I haven't thanked you for rescuing me. Thank you, Charles. Thank your friends on my behalf, as well. I'm truly grateful and I hope nobody got hurt.'

There was a quiver of a smile in his voice. ‘My friends can take care of themselves. Believe me, they would have enjoyed that little brawl.'

‘I'm glad somebody did. The reverend must be sick with worry about me.'

A smile touched his lips. ‘I imagine he'll be relieved to see you. You've made a good friend there.'

His breath stirred warmly against her scalp. ‘Charles . . . let me go,' she pleaded, for she didn't want to feel close to him.

‘Let you go? But I've just paid one thousand pounds to get you back.'

She knew the remark was an attempt at humour. It was a great deal of money – a great deal, and if love was measured by money she was worth a lot to him. But it wasn't. Love had no price. It was an exchange of emotion and trust. At the moment she no longer trusted anyone, including Charles, for he'd looked her over in exactly the same way as the other men had, with the need to conquer and possess in his eyes.

‘I was never yours to begin with,' she said dispiritedly.

‘You've been mine since the first moment I set eyes on you, and you know it,
Lizzie Carter
.' He tipped up her chin, placed a brief kiss on her mouth and allowed her to remove herself from his embrace.

They turned into Bedford Square, stopping outside the reverend's house. Tiredness crept over her when the door opened and the reverend stood there in the misty yellow light. He looked like her guardian angel.

‘I'm not yours, Charles. I can never be yours.' She shoved the satchel into his hands and sniffed back her tears. ‘Here's your money. I always knew my skills would be used for good one day.' She gently kissed his cheek, knowing she was heartsick. ‘You've been a good friend and that's all you can ever be. Go back to your club and celebrate with your friends . . . Goodnight.'

He looked at the satchel, clearly astounded. ‘How did you get hold of this?'

‘Did you really think I attacked Bessie Jones with no purpose in mind but to kill her?' Tears beginning to trickle down her cheeks, she descended from the carriage when the reverend opened the door for her.

Thomas had a relieved smile on his face. ‘You're safe, Celia.'

‘Yes . . . I'm safe.'

‘Thank God, my prayers were answered.'

Somehow, Celia rustled up a smile to match her mentor's. ‘Thank the Prince of Venice, instead.'

He looked puzzled. ‘The Prince of Venice?'

‘No doubt Charles will enlighten you.'

‘Charles, I cannot thank you enough,' he said effusively. ‘Will you come in?'

‘I've arranged to meet my friends, sir,' the man who loved her more than an astounding one thousand pounds said.

His friends would laugh over her predicament and the evening's events would become an adventure to laugh over, then they'd drink themselves into insensibility to celebrate, no doubt.

‘Rest assured, this affair will not become public knowledge.'

This affair!
As though they were lovers, furtive, so any feelings that might develop between them must be kept secret from the eyes of decent folk and would shrivel up inside her – and because she was not fit to become wife and mother, only a bed partner.

‘Thank you,' Thomas Hambert said, and the pair of them shook hands.

He was a hypocrite . . . they both were. She had never felt so low. Never wanted to howl so loudly, so that her self-pitying tears and mindless rage would wash her rescuer from her mind. Charles was so sure of himself – of what he wanted, and of his ability to get it.

Well . . . so was she! She hadn't come this far to slip back into the mire. So she called on some false courage, snorted, and walked past them, away up the stairs and into the room she called hers.

The two men gazed at each other when the door shut after her with a rather definite thud.

‘She's upset,' Charles said ineffectually, and swiftly outlined what Celia had been through. ‘With your permission, I'll ask my mother to call on her in the morning. I think she needs a woman's counsel.'

Thomas could feel only relief at the thought.

Charles thought, as the carriage left Bedford Square, that Celia's smile had been as brittle as the first crazed layer of ice on the window in winter, and as brilliant as the most delicate shard of crystal when it caught the light. One tiny crack would shatter her, and then she'd be lost to him forever.

A lonely ache throbbed inside him at the thought. Celia was emotional and sensitive. She found pleasure in music and books, responded to his overtures with a shy eagerness. Tonight he'd seen another side of her, a poor, hunted creature with enough courage in reserve to take on a predator. She'd been magnificent in both her courage and her temper.

Where had he taken the wrong turn tonight? When had the game turned away from him? What had she said in the carriage . . .? That the expressions on the faces of the men had made her skin crawl?

Had he made her skin crawl? He'd been acting a part, she must be aware of that. But no . . . he'd seen what the other men had seen, Celia in her nakedness, her small waist and long elegant legs, the tilted breasts jutting against the fragile shift. He'd wanted to tear the filmy chemise from her body, and kiss the triangle of dusky darkness guarding the prize he'd been willing to pay one thousand pounds, or more for. Hell, he'd have handed over his entire fortune for Celia Laws. She was perfection.

He'd not listened to what she'd said. He'd been too insensitive to her feelings, seeing the object of his desire through the heated eyes and throbbing loins of his lust.

She'd thrust the money at him, and by doing so had regained her pride. He'd never be able to buy her, as he'd never been able to buy Lizzie Carter – that had been made perfectly clear to him. He would have to take her on her own terms. As yet, those terms had not been made clear to him.

Some women didn't like intimacy, he'd heard, and he frowned. What if someone had violated her while Bessie had her held prisoner?

What if someone has
? the voice in his head mocked. What will you do then?

He put the question from his head. He needed advice. His mother had always been there for him in the past, but he was no longer a boy; he was a grown man. Still, he needn't be specific with his questions. His mother would instinctively know what he meant. She always did.

He shouted to Edmund to be dropped off at Hanover Square. ‘I'll try and get to the club a little later, Edmund, but in case I don't, the drinks are on me tonight.'

Drawn by the sound of music, he found his mother and stepfather in the drawing room, where a fire burned cheerily in the grate. As he waited for her to complete her piece, he answered the enquiry in Joshua's eyes with a slight nod.

‘Charles, we weren't expecting you,' his mother said when she'd finished, and he crossed to where she stood.

He smiled as he kissed her, elegant in her gown of dark rose, and always serene. ‘I was on my way to my club and thought I'd drop in.'

‘Is the fog clearing?'

‘A little. How is my baby sister?'

‘Beautiful, just like her mother,' Joshua said proudly.

Tenderly, Imogene touched Charles' cheek. ‘Your face is bruised, my dear.'

‘It's nothing, and it's not the first bruise I've ever had.'

‘You have dirt on your suit, your jacket has a tear, your shoes are scuffed and your hair is messy. You've been in a scuffle?'

He shrugged. ‘It was nothing.'

‘I'm relieved to hear that.'

How calm his mother was. She had never been one to fuss unnecessarily about him when he was growing up, but allowed him to progress through childhood with his scrapes and bruises worn as a symbol of his maleness, he thought.

‘Are you staying the night? Your room is kept ready.'

‘I thought I might stay at my club. We have a little celebrating to do. Have you anything arranged for the morning, Mother.'

She gazed up at him, head tilted to one side like an inquisitive bird, suspicion forming in her eyes. ‘What's on your mind, Charles?'

‘There's a young woman I'd like you to call on. She's had a hard time of late, and I think she needs a woman's counsel.'

‘I take it the young woman is Miss Laws?'

He nodded. ‘How did you know?'

She laughed. ‘You're my son. My instincts are alerted when you have something on your mind and I've seen the way you look at that young woman.' Her smile faded as she indicated a chair. ‘Do stop looming over me, Charles, it gives me a crick in the neck. Have you got this young woman into trouble?'

Joshua got to his feet and casually stretched. ‘I think I'll go and find something to do.'

‘You most certainly will not, Joshua Harris. You'll stay here. You've been restless all evening, gazing out of the window and fidgeting, so I knew something was up. Now Charles has turned up looking as though he's been run over by a horse and cart, and you've exchanged enough significant looks to alert the whole of London to the fact that there's a conspiracy between you. I intend to get to the bottom of it. After which, he may go off and celebrate with his friends, and you can damned well go with him, if you feel you must.'

The two men grinned sheepishly at each other.

‘Fetch Charles a brandy, and pour one for yourself, Joshua. In fact, you can pour me a small one, too. Make up your mind to it. Neither of you are going anywhere until I know exactly what has been going on.'

Twenty-One

The morning dawned brightly.

Celia was late down to breakfast. Mrs Packer had gone off to the market. Puffy-eyed from weeping half the night, Celia faced Thomas over the breakfast table as she chased a piece of bacon round her plate with her fork. ‘I must apologize for my churlish behaviour last night.'

He touched her hand. ‘It's all right, Celia my dear. Charles has told me what happened, so I quite understand. I don't blame you for being upset.'

‘Do you want me to leave your home?'

‘Leave? Why should I want you to do that?'

‘I was rude, and you've always been so very kind and charitable to me. However, after what has happened . . .'

‘What happened was not of your doing, and you are back amongst those who love you, and unharmed. Celia, my dear . . . It will take a little time for you to recover from your ordeal, but you eventually will.'

‘When are we going home?'

‘Tomorrow. We'll be catching the eleven o'clock train. I have to visit my printing shop this morning. I wanted you to meet my partner in the venture, but it would be better if you spent a quiet day, and rested. I believe Charles has asked his mother to call on you.'

Damn Charles for his presumption, she thought. How many more people were to be told of her escapade? The elegant Imogene would probably look down her nose at her now.

There was a yap from below and something furry rubbed around her ankles. She gazed at the black puppy with the white spot, then smiled and scooped it up into her lap. It licked her hand and yawned before snuggling against her with a whine. It was odd how something so small, warm, and silky had such a calming effect.

‘What happened to me is all your fault,' she told it, then smiled at Thomas. ‘You're such a dear. I'm glad you took the puppy in, though Frederick will be annoyed when he discovers he's been usurped.'