Jacqueline’s daughter had already been fitted for her gowns, and she had declined to accompany them for Celia’s fittings. Though not antagonistic, Carolyn was very reserved in her welcome, and there had been a certain restraint between them at first.
It had been Carolyn who dictated the rudiments of proper address, the tangle of titles so confusing that Celia made her laugh with her errors.
“No, no,” Caro had said when she mistakenly referred to a duke as Sir Charles. “Dukes are always your grace, or the duke of Marlborough, never Sir. His son would be called my lord, as would a viscount, marquess or earl. And never call anyone Lord John unless he is a younger son of a duke or marquess. It’s simple, really, if you can remember that the only nobles are princes and dukes. Everyone else, even earls, are commoners. All male peers except dukes are called Lord whatever their title name is, do you see?”
“No,” Celia said frankly, and Carolyn had laughed, easing some of the first tension between them.
“We shall continue our lessons until you know it all very well,” Caro had assured her, and the past week had been devoted to lessons in protocol as well as titles.
Oh, it was all so much to learn, and nothing could have properly prepared her for the vast differences. Soon it would all be put to the test.
After her first resistance, Celia was now glad she had yielded to the inevitable. It would give her access to Northington.
“And it is, after all, only the small Season, so you need not feel overwhelmed,” Jacqueline had said gaily. “It is quite entertaining with everyone arriving back in London after the summer heat.”
So it would be endured to achieve her goal. After that, obscurity, no doubt, and a return to America where her services would always be in demand as a French tutor. As long as she allowed no scandal to follow her…
The fickle vagaries of human nature allowed a man like Northington to ignore murder yet condemned a woman who was innocent of all crime. The memory of Maman’s shame would haunt Celia for the rest of her life.
A pregnant widow of two years was not allowed in decent homes, regardless of the circumstances. At times Celia thought bitterly that what had really killed Maman was the humiliation she had suffered.
It was true Celia was only a child then, but she’d been old enough to recognize her mother’s torment, and old enough to vow vengeance on the man responsible.…
Now, at last, she was old enough to carry out that vengeance.…
4
“Why must you take such vulgar modes of transport, Colter? You have a perfectly lovely carriage-and-four at your disposal. It’s unseemly to travel about London in hired hacks.”
Colter leaned forward, gave his mother the customary peck on her cheek. She smelled of lavender, a familiar, powdery fragrance he always associated with her. He straightened, a dark brow cocked.
“You make it sound as if I arrived in the butcher’s cart.”
“You might as well have.” Lady Moreland flicked an elegant hand at the maid to indicate where she wished her breakfast tray set. When the servant had gone, she turned to regard her son with an arched brow. “I’m pleased you found time to visit me. I began to wonder if I had offended you in some way.”
Colter braced one arm atop the mantel where a cheery fire burned behind brass firedogs. “You know why I don’t come more often.”
“Yes. I do.” She perched daintily upon an upholstered settee, still youthful and graceful despite her years. “Your father has inquired about you.”
“Has he.” Colter shifted restlessly. “Why?”
“Can a father not inquire about his son without undue suspicion?”
“Other fathers, perhaps. Not mine.” Colter moved past his mother to stare out the window into the gardens below. Stone statuary graced fading flower beds, and a fountain trickled cold water from a jug held by a Grecian goddess. Venus, he thought, though Attila the Hun would be more appropriate for the Moreland garden.
“Really, Colter,” his mother said behind him. “You should make more effort to compromise.”
He turned to face her. Thin sunlight streamed through the windows, creating an aura around Lady Moreland that was almost ethereal. She resembled an elegant stone angel, save for the faint lines of strain that fanned from the corners of her eyes. Her hand shook slightly as she poured hot chocolate into a cup; rich aromatic steam rose in wispy tendrils. She didn’t look at him, her attention focused upon the silver tray laden with biscuits, cake and serving ware.
He scowled at her obvious tension.
“What has he been on at you about? Don’t deny it. You can’t even look at me. Christ above, what tear is he on now that he’s upset you?”
Anger edged his words, made them hard and brittle so that his mother set down the china pot and folded her hands in her lap before she looked up at him.
“It’s that business with the East India company. The new docks that he’s financing have gone beyond the budget, and he’s convinced that his uncle is involved in a scheme to ruin him.”
“Given Philip’s propensity for idleness, I find that accusation unlikely.” Colter shrugged when his mother made a small sound of dismay. “You must admit all the animosity seems to come from my father. While Philip may resent the fact that my father inherited when fever took the first heir, he hides it well enough. And he’s t