Lady Lightfingers (25 page)

‘Damn the woman, what evidence has she got? All she can charge me with is incompetence with regard to the accounting.'

‘I could demand that an independent audit be done.'

‘You'd need an order from a magistrate for that.'

‘I am a magistrate.' At least, he would be in a few weeks' time.

Avery began to bluster. ‘Her sister and mother were spendthrifts.'

‘I have copies of the wills, and every account you ever presented to Miss Price or her late mother. She has also kept an account of her own expenditure – a set of books which is a meticulous record that follows on from those she kept on her mother's behalf.'

‘Harriet kept records for her mother?'

‘Her accounting is excellent, the receipts go back for several years.' And so the man wouldn't think he was bluffing, which he was, he added, ‘It includes an amount paid to you by Mrs Price two months before her death, which doesn't appear to have been repaid.'

‘An investment that went wrong, I imagine.'

‘Or which didn't take place at all. My partner will follow every bill of sale through to the source for comparison, and will personally interview every person concerned. He has already approached several people, only to discover misrepresentation such as a nought added where there shouldn't have been one, or a charge for services that were never ordered, or which never took place.'

‘A slip of the pen, I imagine. We all make mistakes from time to time.'

‘There were several slips of the pen – too many to be mere coincidences. It's thievery, Mr Avery, pure and simple. You've fraudulently dealt with a client who trusted you – one who you thought you could squeeze the last brick and nail from.'

‘Miss Price is a spinster I offered marriage to in exchange. She should have been grateful someone was interested in her. I felt sorry for her.'

For the first time in his life James felt like punching someone. But the man was older than himself, and he looked unfit. Besides . . . Harriet wouldn't have approved.

He sucked in a breath, slowly exhaling it. ‘Despite the fact that I have a personal interest invested in this matter I'll let that remark pass, since I know the client concerned is a decent, caring, and useful member of the community in which she resides. However, should the matter go to court, Miss Price will be represented by my partner, Charles Curtis, who is fast gaining a reputation amongst his peers. Believe me, he will leave no stone unturned, and all will be aired.'

‘It would ruin me.' Arthur paled as James' former words sank in. ‘What personal interest are you talking about?'

‘Miss Price and I are to be married. So there you are, Mr Avery. Now you know exactly where I stand, and where you stand. If you'd prefer to do the gentlemanly thing and quietly settle out of court – an action that would protect Miss Price from the unwelcome publicity that would ensue, and save your own reputation from complete and utter ruin into the bargain – you may submit your offer to my clerk. If the offer is realistic, then our client will be advised to drop the matter.'

Arthur Avery's face had turned the colour of clay, and his hands trembled so much that James almost felt sorry for him.

‘I'll do what you ask.'

James stood, smiling a little, for his business had progressed faster than he'd imagined it would. On the strength of it he intended to visit his lady on the way home and sweet-talk her into a kiss or two as a reward.

‘I promise you it's the wiser of the two options. Good day, Mr Avery.'

Fifteen

The first of Thomas and Celia's readings was at the home of a poetry society. About fifty people attended the meeting where members read their own work, either too timidly to have any performance value, or in voices shaking with nervousness, or with too much drama, waving their arms about and bellowing.

Celia recognized her own early appearances to the public in them and stifled her laughter.

One young mother called Addie was so shy and choked up that Celia felt sorry for her. Joining her, she stood beside her and began to read with her, a lovely poem dedicated to her child that she'd called Cradle Song.

As Addie's voice strengthened Celia retreated to her chair and left her to it. She read the remaining five verses with such emotion in her voice that even Thomas had tears in his eyes.

Afterwards there were refreshments.

When Addie approached her for a signature in her copy of the book, and expressed her gratitude at being rescued, Celia smile and whispered, ‘I enjoyed your poem. I thought it the best of the poems read out. What's your baby's name?'

‘He's called Edward, after his grandfather. He's so sweet.'

‘I'm sure he is. Would you like me to introduce you to Reverend Hambert. I know he enjoyed your poem.'

‘I don't think I'd know what to say, since I'm totally in awe of him. Your story was wonderful, Miss Laws. It was so sad that the little girl died of starvation, though a fitting end for an unwanted child who has no relatives to care for them.'

Thomas, who stood within earshot, cleared his throat, and Celia bit back an urge to shoot the woman with a hot and hasty retort, saying instead, with a sugary sweetness that was alien to her thoughts, ‘Thank goodness your own dear child will never be in the position to need the charity of strangers.'

‘Yes indeed,' she said, and Celia felt the young woman begin to quiver as they neared Thomas. ‘What shall I say to a learned man like him?' she whispered.

‘Oh, the reverend won't be lost for words, I assure you, Addie. He's very sweet, and will be happy to personally sign your book for you, too.'

Thomas, who Celia knew always kept his ear cocked for what he described as her misplaced crumbs of wisdom, raised an eyebrow at her and smiled when she introduced Addie, saying, ‘Ah my dear lady, such a lovely poem, so moving and full of motherly love.'

He soon had Addie talking, if a little shyly, and he autographed her book and kissed her hand.

Something drew Celia's glance across the room and there was Charles, half a head taller than most of the men in the room. He was conversing with another man near the door, his face tilted slightly down towards him, grave and in a listening attitude. The wintry grey of Charles' suit was warmed by a silk, burgundy waistcoat over a pleated white shirt and bow tie. His hair was shorter than the last time she'd seen him and curled crisply.

The air around her seemed to vibrate with danger. Her heart plunged, then each beat swooped it up into her throat, where it spread in both directions to stroke in noisy panic at the depths of her ears. She tasted salt on her tongue as her wayward heart settled back into a more normal rhythm.

‘Charles Curtis, how can the sight of you affect me this way,' she said under her breath, and he chose that moment to look her way. His smile was a white gleam in the sensual curve of his mouth. Without being obvious, he placed a finger to his lips and sent a tiny kiss quivering across the room towards her. Her body came alive, but she resisted the urge to touch her mouth.

The contact between them held for several seconds. Celia felt it in a shockingly physical way, the peaks of her breasts pushing against her bodice and the secret woman part of her swelling between her thighs and achingly moist, so she wanted to place her hand against its sudden and seductive invitation. She'd never felt like this before, so aware of herself . . . of him . . . so knowing of where this arousal in her would lead if it were pandered to.

She didn't know who moved first, him or her, but he was standing before her, gazing down at her and saying softly, ‘I haven't been able to get near you in the crush until now.'

‘They're here to admire the reverend really. He's immensely popular, and I'm lucky to be part of his circle of friends, even though I often feel out of place.'

‘I'm here to admire you, Celia,‘ he said softly.

A fragrance lingered about him, a faint warm touch of sandalwood, and underneath – underneath was a note of something sharp and lemony. Charles was attractive; he must have experienced relations with certain types of women. Was he aware of her feelings? Did he know how she reacted to him?

Suddenly it hit her. She was now thinking about women like her mother, who did what they did to stay alive! Regret roiled in her when she remembered that Charles Curtis was like any other man, and had been willing to buy her services for a week when she'd been hardly more than a child. Who'd been the whore in that case?

He took her hands in his, this devil of persuasion, bore them both to his lips and left the imprint of his mouth on each one, like a brand. His cufflinks were small gold shields attached to posts and, while he looked into her eyes, her fingerstips strayed to them, to the pulse pounding life through his wrist under his shirt cuff and tickling her fingertips. While he was distracted, it would take just a moment to slip them out and into her pocket, and she already knew which pocket he kept his card case in. The temptation of it was almost overwhelming, and she knew she missed the excitement and danger of her former occupation.

She remembered him telling her she'd had sensitive hands, and he'd enjoyed the feel of them when she'd lifted his card case before. She recalled the beat, beat, of his heart under the silk of his waistcoat, the way it quickened against her fingertips at that moment when he'd realized what she was up to.

She became aware that he was now standing too close, not only for her own comfort but for the sake of propriety – as if they were the only two people existing in the room. She took a step backwards, removing her hands from his before anyone noticed them, trying not to grin at the thought of robbing him.

The amusement in his eyes spoke of the awareness she'd feared – but it was not of her past life as a dip in the London slums, or as the daughter of a seamstress and occasional whore – but of her present life as a young woman he desired. Was this a light-hearted flirtation on his part, or a serious attempt to court her? She must not encourage him in either course of behaviour. If he got too close to her, James Kent was bound to warn him of her past, and Charles would begin to despise her.

‘You look warm, Celia; shall I fetch you a glass of lemonade?'

Lemonade? A full tub wouldn't quench the fire he'd lit in her! She sighed. This sort of problem she didn't need. ‘Thank you, Charles.'

She sipped it as fast as she dare.

‘I hate these literary circles where the intellectual try to outdo each other with their cleverness and those not so intellectual pretend to be,' he remarked, and she nearly choked on her last mouthful.

‘Then why did you come?'

‘I told you . . . it's because I wanted to admire you.'

She noted the gleam in his eye and laughed. ‘I don't want to be admired by you, Charles.'

‘Nonsense, you're a woman; of course you do.'

‘You look very fine. Perhaps it's the other way around and you've come to be admired.'

‘Do you think so?'

‘It wouldn't surprise me. You think far too much of yourself.'

Thomas joined them. ‘Ah . . . Charles, I thought it was you. Celia, dear, it's about time we departed so we can be home before dark. You're enjoying being in London again, I trust, Charles.'

‘I'd forgotten how many social occasions one is obliged to attend, and I do miss the countryside. You don't seem to notice the glory of the seasons in the capital quite so well. There, I believe I have turned into a country bumpkin.'

‘The air is certainly more agreeable there . . . on the whole.'

‘Perhaps you'll allow me to call on you now you're home, Reverend. Would Thursday be convenient?'

Before Thomas could nod, Celia said, ‘Let me reassure you, Charles, you are under no obligation to call on us, at all.'

When Thomas gazed at her in surprise, Charles gave an easy laugh. ‘Celia is convinced I'm here to be admired rather than admire her. My dear Celia, in your case the visit will not be an obligation, but an extreme pleasure.'

‘Come for dinner, Charles,' Thomas said, gazing with interest from one to another.

‘Thank you, I will. I'll regale you with who said what about you after you've departed from here.'

And he did. Celia had dressed for the occasion of his visit in a modest blue skirt and bodice, a lace collar its only adornment.

‘You should avoid that large woman in the purple frock . . . she sings most excruciatingly out of tune, and we had to sit through half an hour of her warbling. She wouldn't be quiet, until someone stuffed a hand muff in her mouth.'

‘You have a wicked tongue, Charles. What do you say to them about the reverend and myself when we're not present?'

The chuckle he gave was almost a purr. ‘I tell them the reverend is a saint and Miss Laws is an angel. A couple of husbands were browbeaten by their jealous wives for praising you too much, Celia.'

She laughed. ‘I don't believe you.'

‘The draughts from all those swaying crinolines caused smoke to bellow into the room, and when Mrs Eggleston stood, she needed five yards of space to accommodate her skirt in every direction. She was mistaken for a table, and six gentlemen drew up their chairs around her and began to play cards on her skirt.'

Dissolving into giggles, Celia spluttered, ‘Nonsense.'

‘Not at all.' Charles' eyes gleamed. ‘As for you, Reverend, you were quite the celebrity. Several of the widows fainted clean away after you left, and they enjoyed the experience so much that they plan to go to the next reading to repeat the experience.'