the way. An unaccompanied lady is so at the mercy of rude men. But the loss of a maid is easily remedied. You are here now and shall have all that is necessary. Here. Sit beside me on the chaise while Lily puts away your things for you, and tell me of your plans.”
“Plans? I suppose I have none. I’ve just…just been so unhappy since Maman died.” There was no need for subterfuge now, for the tears still came when she spoke of her mother. “You’re all the family I know, all I have left. I hope—I hope I am welcome.”
“Of course, you poor child! How could you think you would not be? I am just sorry you waited so long to come to us! You are a St. Remy, as am I on my mother’s side. We are of the same blood. Odd, that Jarvis said St. Clair instead of Sinclair, but I knew at once who you were, of course. I recognized your father’s name.”
“Actually, I have begun using St. Clair instead of Sinclair,” Celia explained, having carefully rehearsed her intention for using a name that Northington may not easily recognize. “Maman changed it after Papa died, because she was afraid some of the English officers would attempt vengeance on us for Papa’s part in the war.” She paused, then said, “The Sinclair family lost everything in the war, and Papa was the only one left. Then he died in a skirmish with one of Napoleon’s ships. His ship was later sold, I heard, as were other seized United States ships. Maman said we must learn to adapt. So I have.”
“Léonie always was the practical one, even when we were children. You may now revert to your dear papa’s name, of course, for there is no danger to you here.”
“I’ve used St. Clair so long, it’s my name now. It is no insult to Papa, for the original usage was St. Clair, I’ve been told. Names do not matter so much in America.”
“So true…names there change to suit the bearer. Ah well. C’est la vie! We must learn to adapt to all things in time.” Jacqueline smiled. “Léonie and I learned that lesson quite early, you know. We changed our names a dozen times during the dark days, but always we knew who we were and our true heritage. That is what matters most.”
“When you speak of her, it’s as if Maman is alive for me again.”
“But of course, petite. Our childhoods were glorious. That was before the Terror, when life seemed so bright and promising and France was still so elegant. But the world changed for us, as it has for you. Now, tomorrow will be your first day here, and you will meet my daughter. My son is at Oxford, but Carolyn is more your age, a bit younger than you, but already betrothed. We shall see what we can do about your future!”
“No, please,” Celia said with a soft laugh. “I am far too content just being here with you to even consider such a thing.”
“So you say now,” Jacqueline said slyly. “But that will soon change. Here is Lily with your dressing gown. One of the footmen will bring up hot water for your bath, then you must rest while you can. You look so weary. Would you prefer having a light supper in your room?”
“I…I am rather tired. If it wouldn’t offend you—”
“Of course it won’t offend me. Just rest this evening. I intend to do all I can for you, just as Léonie would have done for my Caro.”
It was a bit overwhelming. Celia found herself whisked to an overheated room off her bedchamber where a huge brass tub was filled with scented water and thick cotton towels warmed before a cheery fire. A ladies’ maid waited patiently to assist her in undressing and bathing, but Celia shook her head.
“Please—Lily, is it? I’d rather do it myself.”
It was novel, this pampered existence, and she thought again of her mother, and how she had once lived in a lovely château in the French countryside, the pampered, petted daughter of aristocrats. Upheaval and tragedy had displaced her, but she’d finally found happiness, however briefly. Nothing lasted. Everything changed.
Hadn’t her own life changed so drastically? Yes, and now it was changed again. After years of watching from the other side while people moved in a privileged world, she was at last part of it. The years of scrimping and saving, planning for this, had come to pass. Could she do it? Could she fit into his world long enough to exact some kind of retribution against Northington? God knows, I’ve wanted it long enough, she thought fiercely.
And it wasn’t just for herself. It was for Maman and Old Peter. They deserved justice.
2
“Pistols at Chalk Farm? Hardly worth the trouble, I’d think.” Robert George Colter Hampton—Lord Northington—regarded Harvey with a cynical smile that didn’t quite reach his cold blue eyes.
“So I thought.” Sir John Harvey gave his companion a glance of hopeful appeal. “Unfortunately I’m not the marksman you are. ‘Pistols for two, breakfast for one’ will be my likely fate. Sir Skeffington’s liable to call me out about this little tart. Any chance you’ll be my second?”
“And take your place when you suddenly fall ill?” Leaning back in his chair, he stretched lazily. “You’ve played that game before. I have no desire to meet anyone at dawn unless it’s a buxom wench with light skirts and a willing smile.”
Harvey sighed. “I feared you’d say that.”
“No, you knew I’d refuse. I don’t interfere in other men’s quarrels.” Northington downed the last of his brandy to indicate his desire to leave the club.
Raggett, the proprietor of White’s, came to sweep ashes and crumbs from the top of the green baize table, obliging and efficient in the art of catering to his patrons—and always on the watch for a stray coin.
Northington stifled a yawn. It was late. Or early, depending upon the point of view. His interest had begun to wane several hours before, but it was bad form to bankrupt a man at cards and not give him at least a small chance to recoup.
The night had been profitable. Not only Harvey, but the young Wharton had lost several thousand pounds on the turn of the cards. Harvey was an inveterate gambler, and no doubt would one day ruin himself.
Wharton was another matter. He was young, with only a pale downy stubble on his jaw, a green youth at both cards and life. Christ. They seemed to get younger every year. Had he ever been this young? Yes, but not this foolish.
More brandy appeared at his elbow, amber fire in cut crystal. He regarded Wharton over the rim of the snifter.
“Are you done, sir?”
Wharton gave a start, pale cheeks flushed with an emotion Northington recognized as extreme distress.
“Done up is more like it, my lord.” He attempted a smile that wobbled on his mouth. “I’m under the hatches, I fear. Will you accept my vowels?”
Northington leaned forward, raked the counters toward him with a lazy swipe of one hand. “A man should never bet what he cannot pay, Wharton.”
Harvey, who had leaned his chair back on the two rear legs, sat forward with a loud thump.
“Sermons? From you? Good God, we must both be foxed!”
Northington spared him a glance. “I assume you speak for yourself. I always pay my debts.”
“Yes,
