Lady Lightfingers (26 page)

Thomas laughed. ‘Then you must come to the next meeting and point them out to me so I can escape while they're still unconscious.'

‘Oh, I intend to be there. I wouldn't miss Celia's performance for the world. As a spectacle you'll have competition though; they are hanging the Frenchman Emile Barthelemy on that same day.'

‘Wasn't he suspected of being a spy for the French?'

‘He shot a policeman in France and was jailed for life. After the uprising Barthelemy was released. He came to England a couple of years ago, fought a duel with a naval officer and was sentenced to two months for manslaughter. The death sentence was handed down after he shot and killed his former employer and the man's neighbour, who tried to prevent his escape. I have no sympathy for Barthelemy. He had several chances to reform.'

Thomas sighed. ‘It will be a popular hanging that's well attended. I'll pray for his soul.'

‘I doubt if he has one,' Charles replied.

Celia shuddered. The lad who'd killed her mother would have been given a death sentence, or so she'd been told by the constable, a decent man who'd retrieved and returned her mother's wage to her. On his advice she hadn't gone to the trial in case her mother's name was slandered, and by people who could only see what was obvious. All the same, the killer had only been young, and her mother wouldn't have wanted him punished in that way.

‘Is that what happened to that lad, Reverend?'

Thomas' glance came to her, his expression puzzled. ‘What lad was that?'

‘The one who killed my—' No! Charles didn't know the nature of her mother's death! ‘The one who killed that
woman
in London.'

Because she'd denied her mother in this instance, Celia felt like a Judas. Grief for her was a sudden, depressing sea of misery into which she plunged head first. It wrapped tight tentacles around her and held her fast in its sticky folds.

The cup clattered on her saucer as her hands began to tremble. She stared at him, stricken by her slip of the tongue and unable to overcome the almost overpowering need to weep. Then she realized that she'd have to go on denying her mother were she ever to wear the guise of respectability.

Thomas took the cup and saucer from her and placed it on the table, awareness in his eyes. ‘My dear, this is not a subject that we should have discussed in front of you.' He began to gently pat her hand, to what purpose she couldn't imagine. ‘See how upset you are.'

As if the hanging of a vile man who'd deliberately killed several people would upset her.

She'd attended a hanging once. It had been conducted early Monday morning and the roads surrounding Newgate prison had seethed with people who'd pushed and shoved for a view of the event. Celia had been too short to see anything from her position, but she'd heard a verse of a hymn sung by a single voice in one of the spectator windows in the building behind her. The hymn had been taken up by the crowd, raising the fine hairs on her neck and arms, then a bell had chimed and a great triumphant roar had filled the air.

Celia had been almost trampled underfoot as the spectators had dispersed, some hurrying to their place of work, others to their homes or the nearby markets, where she'd intended to do a little work of her own. Even at the tender age of twelve, she'd reached the conclusion that a public hanging was a form of entertainment. It was the last indignity for the criminal, who'd been hunted down like a fox, questioned until he'd confessed, then punished by the public spectacle of hanging at the end of a rope and jerking about until there was no life left in the body.

Charles looked utterly repentant. ‘It was entirely my fault and I can't apologize enough. I forgot that my own study of the criminal underclass is not to the taste of everyone, especially someone ignorant of their ways.'

Ignorant of their ways . . . Hah! It was Charles Curtis who was ignorant of their ways. Wasn't she one of the people he studied, the unfortunate
underclass!

‘I'll go and find Mrs Packer and see if she has any smelling salts,' Thomas murmured.

She did feel rather drained at this moment, but struggled against it. ‘I'll be all right in a moment or two.'

But Thomas had gone. Charles took his place. He slid his arm around her and supported her head in the crook of his shoulder while he gently stroked her hair.

Celia enjoyed the closeness for all of ten seconds while her trembling eased, then said, ‘I feel stronger, so you may release me now.'

‘Such a miraculous cure. Perhaps I should have taken up doctoring instead of the law,' he whispered into her hair. ‘Does my proximity disturb you?'

‘Yes . . . no you don't . . . why should you think that?'

‘No reason at all. Look at me, Celia dear, allow me to see if the colour has returned to your face.'

She looked into his melting eyes and was lost because she knew exactly what he was going to do next, and said on her next outward breath, but not very convincingly, ‘No, Charles . . .'

‘Yes, my sweet Celia.' His mouth touched a tender kiss against her mouth, as soft as a butterfly. When she closed her eyes he placed a kiss against each lid, then her mouth again, firmer this time, leaving his claim there because she hadn't repulsed him that first time.

She wanted to cry even more because that kiss told her she'd fallen in love, but it was a love that could never be. No matter how much she tried, she wasn't good enough for someone like him, and he'd spurn her once he learned of her past – break her heart.

When they heard a footfall, Charles laid her gently back against the cushions. A smile played around his mouth as he said with complete disregard of Thomas Hambert's sensibilities, ‘My diagnosis is that your corselette is too tight. There . . . that's brought colour to your face.'

His words certainly had. She did feel better, and when the smelling salts were passed under her nose her eyes widened and her head cleared with a sudden jolt. She felt skittish afterwards, as though the salts had blown the cobwebs from her brain in all directions with one mighty puff. It left her mind so sharply honed that she wanted to leap from the sofa, stamp her feet, and box his ears all at the same time, for taking such liberties with her.

She had a sudden urge to laugh at the thought, and only just stifled it.

Charles smiled, as if he knew her thoughts exactly. ‘Perhaps you'd both be my guests at the theatre while you're in London,' he said. ‘There's a new play on at the Adelphi by Boucicoult which I think might pander to Celia's taste of the dramatic. It's titled
Janet Pride
.'

‘I'd heard it has a rather long prologue.'

‘Oh . . . a real play . . . that would be wonderful. I've never been to one, at least, not a professional one on a proper stage. Please may we go and see it, Reverend?' she said, and her eyes began to shine.

Thomas gazed from one to the other and sighed. He was not immune to what was going on under his nose. Charles Curtis was a personable and charming young man, Celia, incandescent in his presence. She would be vulnerable as well as susceptible, having spent her childhood absorbing a standard of moral behaviour lower than now expected of her.

It was a complication he'd rather not have. He reminded himself that although Celia was not his responsibility, he'd assumed the role of mentor to her. She was in London at his behest, and it was his duty to look after her, though he had to admit that she probably knew the dangers of London better than he did.

But she was a young woman, and her eyes were brimming over with such excitement at the thought of going to the theatre that he didn't have the heart to refuse. What had she done to raise this protective fatherly feeling inside him? Nothing he'd observed to be untoward, except her smile was too bright when she looked at Charles, her cheeks too pink, and her manner too self-conscious.

He was not her father, but, Thomas wondered, should he have a word with her? But with what words did fathers caution young ladies about gentlemen like Charles? Indeed, he knew hardly anything about his guest and might do him an injustice.

His glance flicked to Charles and he smiled. Perhaps it would be better if he had a word with the young man, instead.

Sixteen

After Celia had retired for the night, Thomas said to Charles, ‘I do believe you're trying to turn the child's head.'

Charles didn't bother to deny it. ‘Celia is hardly a child, but a beautiful young woman with a lively mind, whose company I enjoy. It's she who is turning mine.'

‘Celia is only beginning to venture into society, and it's very different to the one she grew up in. She's susceptible to flattery.'

‘From what I see of her family background, it's sound.'

Thomas had forgotten that Charles knew nothing of Celia's background except what he saw and assumed. He remembered it now, and told himself he'd have to be careful. ‘Which is why I'd rather not see her encouraged to attach her affections to a man whose intentions are spurious, to say the least.'

‘An assumption in itself, Reverend. May I enquire; what motivates your own interest in Celia?'

‘My interest in her is purely academic. She has skills I've been encouraging.'

‘For whose benefit, hers or yours?'

‘I beg your pardon,' he spluttered.

‘Come, come, Reverend, I've been to one of two of your gatherings. While Celia seems unaffected by the fuss – indeed she's unassuming where her own creative talent is concerned – you bask in her reflected glory, and as her mentor take credit.'

Thomas was horrified by such a notion. ‘You think so? I'm immensely proud of her, you know. Oh, dear . . . I'm mortified to think that I should appear prideful on my own account, and for my own small contribution. If you'd known her when—' Aware of his slip of the tongue, he shrugged. ‘I will not excuse my behaviour, but rather I'll try and change it. Celia has such a thirst for knowledge, and her welfare is dear to my heart.'

‘I apologize, Reverend; I spoke out of turn, and as a reaction to your accusation that my own interest in her is spurious. As a matter of curiosity, why do you feel you must nurture her mind?'

‘Some things come about without reason, Charles, as though God meant them to be, but with Celia it's different.'

‘Like love?'

‘In one of its many forms. If you're asking if I hold a great affection for Celia Laws, the answer is, yes, I do. My own daughter bore the same name, and would be about the same age had she lived. That's why I asked you not to try and turn Celia's head. She's already had enough problems in her life. How well do you love her, Charles?'

The man spoke without thinking that Thomas' phrasing was odd. ‘How . . . with my body and my heart. She is rapidly becoming an addiction, like opium is to the soul, or like one more glass of wine intoxicates the brain.'

Thomas hummed softly in his throat. ‘Love is not to be found in the gratification of one's appetite, however strong the turmoil of that feeling, or the instant, but temporary relief brought by satiation of the flesh.' Thomas smiled when his guest appeared a little uncomfortable. ‘Would you like a glass of port?'

Charles rose. ‘It's about time I left, so I think not, Reverend. My ears are already glowing. You're skilled in verbal sparring and would make a fine legal advocate if you didn't allow your heart to rule your head.'

Thomas followed him into the hall and, when Charles shrugged into his coat, said, ‘And Celia Laws . . . what of her?'

‘Neither of us can profess to be experts in the art of love . . . you taking a spiritual approach while I'm at the opposite end, by needing to express it in a more ungodly manner.'

‘Ah yes . . . The blood runs hotly when one is young.'

‘In deference to yours, I was not going to mention age, Reverend. Be reassured though, your words have not fallen on deaf ears.'

‘Then you'll no longer pursue Celia?'

‘I didn't say that, Reverend – I didn't say that, at all. I imagine I'll simply change my tactics. Like that glass of good wine, it's become obvious that Celia needs to be allowed to breathe for a short time before being savoured. Goodnight, sir.'

Placing his hat on his head Charles gave him a grin, picked up a silver-topped cane and went out into the night – leaving Thomas with a broad smile on his face.

Celia donned her favourite blue dress with the lace collar for the theatre and Mrs Packer dressed her hair, using the tongs to create side ringlets.

Charles had taken a box at the Adelphi Theatre and had invited his family to join them. Celia received a shock when she was introduced to his mother and stepfather.

Like all the men, Joshua Harris was elegant in his evening suit. Charles' mother, Imogene, was beautifully and finely gowned in pale lilac. Her eyes flared in a moment of uncertain recognition when they were introduced. ‘Miss Laws . . . I feel as though I've already met you. Have we been introduced before?'

Celia blessed the dim light, and not only because it hid the fact that her gown was a little shabby. She didn't want to lie; she'd told so many to conceal her past, and they now seemed to be expanding with every breath, she thought, as she twisted her answer in a way designed to avoid being entirely untruthful. ‘I think you're the first people I've met with the surname of Harris. It's a Scottish name isn't it?'

Joshua smiled and said in a perfectly modulated English, ‘I think my family may have originated in Scotland, but it was a long time ago.'

‘I'm so pleased to meet you, Mrs Harris. Charles has told us he has a baby sister. He seems to be very fond of her.'