Lady Lightfingers (19 page)

‘A pen name?' She shrugged. ‘I wouldn't know what to call myself. How can it be true tales if I make the stories up and use a false name?'

Thomas gazed with approval upon her. ‘I see you haven't neglected your education, or your need to query everything. Your mind reaches out in all directions. The truth is often exaggerated or sacrificed in publishing, as the title of our book was. Famous, the stories were not.'

‘But they will be when everybody buys our book, won't they?'

Thomas laughed. ‘Exactly, and people will buy the books because they're given to understand that the stories are famous. But Celia, we have had this conversation before. The magazine publishes original fiction, therefore the stories must appear in fictional form.'

Celia grinned and tut-tutted. ‘You mean the editor tells lies. I'm surprised you would condone such a concept, Reverend.'

‘I doubt if anything would surprise you, young lady.'

‘You certainly have. Why didn't you tell me about your profession?'

‘Celia!' Harriet admonished faintly.

Hearing her, James, who was examining the contents of the jigsaw box with Lottie pressed against his knee, whispered from the corner of his mouth, ‘It's obvious you haven't observed the two of them argue the point before, Miss Price. I'll be interested to see who wins this round. My money is on my uncle.'

‘If I had any money to waste it would be on my niece,' she came back with.

‘You never asked me what my profession was,' Thomas reminded Celia. ‘Let's get back to the point. To be offered a contract for twelve stories is a testament to your talent. If you turn it down it will be an opportunity wasted, and most likely it will never be offered again.'

The truth of that statement filled her with confidence. ‘That's true, but I never had any intention of refusing, and I shall accept with my aunt's permission.' Not that she needed it, but her aunt liked the niceties of life to be observed, and it was a courtesy.

‘Checkmate,' Harriet whispered, and when James grinned at her she turned to Celia. ‘You must decide for yourself, Celia.'

‘What shall I use as a pen name?'

‘Lightfingers?' James suggested without thinking, barely able to hide his chuckle.

Harriet gazed at James, puzzled. ‘What a very odd name.'

His brow furrowed in a frown when Celia sent him a warning look, for she hadn't revealed that part of her life to Harriet. There were so many secrets to keep hidden, and she had to be careful not to allow them to escape, lest they scandalize people.

‘Ah yes, but your niece is an odd person, and she has a fine sense of humour.'

And indeed, Celia was laughing inside, firstly because the name was so apt, but mostly because of the interest James was taking in her aunt. He seemed to be intrigued by her.

After tea, he stood, as tall and straight as an arrow. He was soberly dressed in grey trousers, a darker grey jacket and a blue waistcoat of satin brocade. Celia watched him bow over her aunt's hand, then look directly up at her with a quirky smile. ‘Thank you for your hospitality, Miss Price; I so enjoyed meeting you.'

Once again, a delicate blush suffused her aunt's cheeks. Goodness, Celia thought, grinning. A relationship between them might be worth encouraging.

James' head slanted to one side. ‘Celia, I'm glad to see you looking so well, and so grown-up. I've enjoyed your company.' He slanted a smile towards Harriet. ‘I'm sorry we can't stay longer and I look forward to seeing you on Saturday.'

‘Please visit any time you're passing,' Celia dared to say. ‘I'm sure my aunt won't mind.' Celia kissed James' cheek, then Thomas Hambert's. ‘I'm so pleased to see you both again. Thank you for coming, and for the gift, Reverend. I'll treasure it.'

‘The gift is inside it, Celia, in our words and thoughts, and for all to share.' Thomas gazed at her for a moment, suspicion filling his eyes. When he patted his pockets she offered him her most cherubic smile and shook her head in a gentle reproof. ‘How could you think such an awful thing of me?'

Behind her, James slanted Harriet a look and laughed. ‘Match to Celia, I believe,' a remark that left her looking puzzled.

After their guests had gone, Harriet looked her directly in the eyes. ‘Explain,
Lightfingers
to me.'

‘Ah, yes, I imagined you'd ask. Brace yourself, Aunt, because you are not going to like this. As well as beg, I used to pick pockets in London. I stole Reverend Hambert's watch. Then I returned it to him. That's how we met.'

Harriet gasped. ‘Is there anything illegal you haven't done?'

‘Yes there is, Aunt, and it's because you gave me shelter and unconditional friendship when I needed it . . . otherwise I'd be lost now. Reverend Hambert was kind to me and we became friends. If he'd had me arrested, which was his right, I would have been transported, or worse. He's more than I deserve.'

‘He certainly is,' she said tartly. ‘While he was visiting I remembered who he was. The man is a respected poet, and well known in reform circles.'

‘Then he must have reformed me, for I've done hardly anything illegal since I met him, and you have my promise that I never will, if it can be avoided.'

She turned her mind to the one hundred pounds she'd taken from somebody on false pretences . . . though it wasn't really false pretences, since she'd given Charles Curtis the kiss he'd paid for. The imprint of it was still on her mouth, to remind her at odd times of the debt she still owed. She still had the money hidden away, and one day she'd hand it back to him – the man who'd tried to buy the use of her body to satisfy his lust.

She turned her aunt's mind aside with, ‘I've never been to a social dinner. What will we wear?'

‘Oh Lord, it's been years . . . It will be dinner suits and evening gowns with lace or frills. Let's go upstairs and see what we can find in the wardrobes. Luckily, my sister and mother were fashion conscious.'

When Saturday came Harriet looked elegant in a dark-rose taffeta gown that had belonged to her mother and had never been worn.

Celia's gown was the colour of bluebells. They'd shopped in Dorchester, buying a layered lace collar and matching trim for the sleeves. Celia paid for it herself, with the royalty money that had been left by Thomas. She bought some matching ribbons for her hair.

Between them they dressed each other's hair in the fashionable style, parted in the middle and drawn into the side, giggling like children all the while, in case they singed each other's ringlets with the curling tongs.

Lottie smiled when she saw them. ‘You both look so pretty, like princesses.'

‘Thank you, my dove,' Harriet said. ‘I certainly feel like a princess.'

Celia bent to kiss her sister when she heard the carriage. It was late afternoon, the shadows long when they left. Evening would soon be upon them. But it promised to be a clear night with a three-quarter moon to light their way. ‘Be good for Millie. We'll be home tomorrow, and I'll tell you all about it.'

Cloaks around them, for it was going to be a cold night, Celia picked up the bag that contained their overnight necessities. She'd been reading out loud all week, and was word perfect, though she admitted she was a little nervous.

They were handed into the carriage, where an elderly man and his wife were comfortably ensconced. A blanket was tucked over their knees for warmth, something they were grateful for. The couple introduced themselves as Reverend and Mrs Emery. After a few pleasantries they promptly fell asleep, one in each corner, and began to snore.

Soon the daylight faded and they were passing through the busy town of Poole. The quay was crowded with seamen and labourers going about their business in the dusky light, and the dark, tangled, swaying masts of the ships were outlined against the darkening sky. Seagulls shrieked overhead as they headed back to their nests.

Abigail Kent's house was situated halfway up a hill, with a fine view over the harbour. Their companions woke with a start when the carriage stopped, yawning behind their hands.

Some of the guests had already arrived. Thomas called his sister over. After introductions, a maid showed Celia and Harriet to a dimly lit room on the second floor, where two beds waited. A fire burned in the grate and shadows danced upon the walls. The maid turned the gaslights up, revealing a room prettily decorated with wallpaper of delicate blue stripes on cream, and colourful patchwork quilts.

There was a note on one of the beds.

‘James Kent is a fine gentleman,' Harriet said with a faint smile.

‘I think he's attracted to you, too,' Celia teased, which earned her a reproving look.

‘I did not say I was attracted to him, Celia.'

‘But you are, aren't you?'

‘I refuse to answer that.' Harriet laughed and threw a cushion at her.

The three of them went down together, and James introduced them. There were magistrates and churchmen present, including a bishop. And there was a younger man – a man who made Celia's heart thud with sudden alarm.

‘This is my partner, Charles Curtis. Chas, may I introduce Miss Harriet Price and Miss Celia Laws from Hanbury Cross.'

‘My pleasure, ladies.'

Charles Curtis was tall, taller than Celia remembered, and more handsome. The youthfulness he'd displayed the last time they'd met had been honed into an interestingly angled, and manly face. His eyes were still as black as night, his hair a dark torrent and his mouth . . . her own tingled and flamed into life as the kiss was remembered in all its glory to crowd into her senses. How could the effects of a kiss, even one so potent as the one they'd exchanged, last such an annoyingly long time?

She felt herself fall apart. The effect he had on her was catastrophic, especially when she gazed into his eyes. The least of that problem was that he might recognize her. She was a crumble of shards . . . a small pile of rubble at his feet, waiting to be rebuilt.

Then she remembered she'd used the name of Lizzie Carter and began to breathe easier.

‘Ah . . .' he said, as though he'd just tasted something that had given him much pleasure, and his smile became, all at once, ironic. ‘I understand you're to be part of the entertainment for the evening, Miss Laws. A little romantic story for our delight, no doubt.'

How patronizing of him to assume such a thing. ‘Please feel free to leave if something as mundane as romance displeases you, but preferably not when I'm reading. If you do I shall take off my shoe and throw it at your retreating back.'

He chuckled at that. ‘I shall make a point of staying if it will make you happy.'

‘I shall try to contain my delirium at the notion.'

His eyes suddenly impaled her. ‘Have we met before, Miss Laws? I feel as though I should know you.'

He didn't recognize her
! She drew her defences around her. She would get through this with as much coolness as she could muster. Her nerves cemented themselves together again and she said, ‘We may have, though I can't remember you.'

He raised an eyebrow and chuckled. ‘How crushing it is not to be remembered . . . or is this a defensive stance you're taking because we danced together at Mrs Maybury's summer ball and I trod all over your toes?'

A huff of spontaneous laughter escaped her. Although fascinating, he had a streak of arrogance that pleased her. ‘Yes, I agree, it is crushing not to be remembered. As for Mrs Maybury's ball . . . now let me see,' she teased, and took a moment to appear to think about it. ‘No, I didn't attend it, so it must have been another unfortunate woman's toes you stomped on.'

He wouldn't be put off. ‘Still, I'm sure we've met before. London comes to mind, a social gathering of some sort. There can't be another woman on earth who has eyes of such a deep and beguiling blue.'

She blinkered them with her eyelids and gazed at the toes of his highly polished black evening shoes. ‘I haven't been to London for some time.'

‘Neither have I. Don't sound piqued because I can't quite remember you, Miss Laws. It will come to me eventually.'

Celia hoped not, but she felt relieved rather than miffed, and hoped he'd never recall the occasion. Enough people knew her secret, and if he did remember she'd have to lie her way out of it . . . and just as she was making a habit of being honest! Damn him for turning up again in her life. ‘I'm not at all piqued.'

‘I don't mind you admiring my guests, Chas, but your approach is embarrassing to Celia, I believe.'

‘So speaks a man who hasn't courted a woman in years.'

‘All that could change,' and James turned his smile on Harriet, who promptly blushed.

Celia raised an eyebrow as she exchanged a glance with Charles Curtis, who grinned. ‘Ah . . . so that's the way the wind blows, is it?' He shrugged, and a smile spread across his face, altogether warm and genuine as he kissed Harriet's hand. ‘Well, I can only admire your taste, James. What do you expect from me when you bring two perfectly exquisite females to dinner and keep them both for yourself? You would have more than your share with only one of them on your arm.'

While Celia was admiring a small scimitar of dark hair that curled against Charles' ear, his glance unexpectedly shifted back to her, something she wasn't quick enough to avoid. ‘I'm looking forward to hearing you read your work, Miss Laws. Forgive me if I embarrassed you in any way.' He inclined his head as they moved away.