Lady Lightfingers (35 page)

‘Frederick is mature enough to cope. In fact, I thought Lottie might like to take care of him. She seems to like animals. I've called him Spot.'

‘Very original,' she said drily. ‘Lottie will be delighted with him. She has a lovely nature and the little things in life please her.'

‘I imagine it's because she didn't have much to begin with. You're exactly the same, my dear . . . only you delight in the emotional, such as the pleasures of music and the written word. It's as though by being denied proper access to them, you now have a thirst for them.'

‘You read me too well, I think . . . and you're easily swayed by a sad story, Reverend.'

He got to his feet. ‘I do know the difference between genuine need and self-interest, my dear.'

‘You make me feel ashamed.'

‘For what . . . your vulnerability? I think we both needed each other when we met. I imagine the almighty had a hand in bringing us together, don't you?'

‘Are you saying he helped me to steal your watch?'

He chuckled. ‘An interesting concept, but hardly.'

‘You know, very few of the poor would consider the almighty a benefactor, unless they can take more out of the offertory plate as it's being passed around than they put in.'

‘Out of personal interest—'

She grinned at him. ‘No . . . I certainly did not steal from an offertory plate, which is not to say that I wouldn't have, if I'd been in need and thought of it at the time. Stop being such a provocative creature, and don't forget to wear your topcoat. You
will
be careful while you're out, won't you? I feel uneasy after what happened, especially since Bessie knows where we live.'

‘I'll take a cab and ask the driver to wait, if that will reassure you. Just make sure you keep the doors locked while I'm out. Mrs Packer won't be long and she has her instructions.'

‘Why don't you invite your partner to dinner tonight? I could meet him then.'

‘That might be a very good idea.' He brightened her mood with a smile, and was gone.

Celia didn't want Charles to think her ungrateful, so she wrote him a letter, and placed it on top of his cloak.

Imogene Harris arrived at eleven, and Mrs Packer let her in before going to the kitchen to arrange some refreshment. She settled herself on the sofa in a skirt the colour of toasted almonds, scattered with delicately embroidered sprigs of lavender. The same shade was picked up by her bodice.

Celia found herself the object of a thorough inspection, then Imogene gave a short huff of laughter. ‘You do not look as ill-used as Charles suggested you might be.'

Feeling at a disadvantage in her skirt, which was no longer fresh, Celia managed a smile. ‘Your son worried needlessly.'

‘Needlessly? Charles tells me that he and his companions marched into that woman's establishment and rescued you. Were you aware of the danger you were in?'

‘Yes, but I would rather die than have him endangered.'

‘Tell me what happened, then.'

‘Your son was magnificent. He pretended to be a Prince of Venice, and wore a mask.' The horror of it suddenly came back to her, and along with it a touch of hysteria. She found it difficult to breathe, until the woman waved a small vial of smelling salts under her nose. The smell exploded in her head and her eyes widened. ‘Charles was so very brave . . . and I'll be forever grateful.'

‘I take it that you're aware of my son's feelings towards you?'

This woman would not want her for a daughter-in-law, and Celia attempted to put her mind at rest. ‘I cannot help but know, when he has declared them. But you needn't worry. I've resolved never to marry. I'm not good enough for him, especially now.' She began to hurt inside at the thought of never seeing Charles again. ‘He cannot want me now, anyway. I'm too much beneath him.'

‘Yes . . . I suppose you are. Are you going to indulge in self-pity?'

Dashing away the tears that threatened to engulf her, she said heatedly, ‘I am trying not to, but you needn't worry about Charles making an unsuitable marriage. I've decided never to marry, but to act as companion to Reverend Thomas Hambert and his sister, Abigail. I intend to live quietly in the country and bring up my sister.'

‘How very noble of you. On their largesse, no doubt.'

She bowed her head. ‘It is as you say, for I'll have very little money of my own. But I will do my best to justify their trust in me by being useful to them in every way that I can. The alternative is to return to the slums.'

‘So . . . You intend to discard the man who risked his life and reputation to pluck you from life in a whorehouse.'

‘
Mrs Harris!
' She blenched at the woman's frankness, and was equally frank. ‘You are too outspoken. And just because he rescued me, it does not mean I am, or ever have been a whore. Surely you cannot want me for a daughter-in-law.'

‘Not in particular. There is a certain amount of grubbiness attached to your background, and I don't think Charles knows it all. I don't want him to marry in haste, then see him ruined by his folly. But neither do I want to see his regard for you cast aside, as though it was worth nothing.'

Neither did Celia, but she said nothing.

After a while, and with some exasperation, Imogene asked, ‘Why did you return that money to my son? You could have kept it, and nobody would have been the wiser.'

Celia retreated into herself. ‘You're being inquisitive, and I don't feel the need to answer any more of your questions, Mrs Harris.'

‘Answer me one thing. Do you love my son?'

Did she love Charles Curtis? Yes, with everything in her that lived and breathed. Not a minute passed when she didn't think of him. In front of her was his mother, the woman who'd given birth to him, and had loved and nursed him through childhood, as only a mother could. It was understandable that she wouldn't want him to marry a woman from the slums.

She drew in a deep breath. ‘You must understand, Mrs Harris, that Charles pursued me. It was not the other way around. Twice now, he has attempted to buy me, and in doing so has made it very clear that the price he paid gives him possession of me. Not once has he thought that this attention is less than flattering to me. Were I a woman from a more respectable background, he would not have presumed on such a bargain being anything more than an insult.'

‘Do you love my son?' she asked again.

Celia didn't want to disappoint the woman. ‘In all honesty . . .' and a lie had never been harder to utter. ‘I cannot bring myself to tell you that I do.'

There was silence for a few moments, in which time Imogene rose to her feet. Scornfully, she said, as she picked up her son's cloak, ‘You are not worth the money Charles was willing to pay for your favour, and I will tell him so.'

A sob tore from Celia's throat. ‘Do you think I don't know that? I've already told him so. It's in that letter on top of his cloak. Perhaps you would be good enough to take it with you.'

The young woman's heartbreaking sobs followed Imogene into the hall, and guilt beset her. She'd been there to counsel her, not accuse. Celia Laws had already been through enough.

There was more than met the eyes about what was going on. A girl with Celia's background should have jumped at the chance to marry someone like Charles, whether she loved him or not.

Whose side am I on?
Imogene thought. Charles, who had always been a good judge of character, had asked her to help him, not crush the young woman, who seemed very low in spirit at the moment.

Placing the cloak on the hallstand she went back into the drawing room. ‘You do love Charles . . . I know it.'

‘With my heart and soul . . . That's why I must let him go.'

‘Oh, my dear.' Imogene took the girl in her arms and held her tight. ‘You will do no such thing. You're too distressed to even think coherently, let alone make a decision that will make you both miserable. Come, we will throw the letter on the fire, and you will tell me all about it. What happened to you in that dreadful place?'

Did she really want to know what happened to Celia? If the girl had been forced into . . . well, if she'd been
used
, then she'd be duty bound to inform Charles.

A shuddering sob went through the girl as she imperceptibly drew away, in both body and mind. It was though she'd pulled an invisible door between them and stood behind it for the few seconds it took to compose herself. ‘I have no intention of discussing this any further with you, Mrs Harris. My decision is made. Please do not try to push me any further.'

‘Is it now,' Imogene whispered as her carriage bore her away. Celia Laws knew very little about her son if she thought she could discard him so easily. To start with, she wouldn't be able to avoid him socially, since they'd be connected through James Kent. Charles would not let Celia slip through his fingers.

Imogene smiled, having no doubt that if Charles wanted Celia, he'd get her. She discovered that she didn't mind the thought of having Celia Laws for a daughter-in-law – she didn't mind it at all. The girl was interesting, and there was nothing insipid about her.

On the other side of town, Charles was waking from his slumber. He had no choice. Someone was pounding on his head with a mallet.

He opened one eye and quickly closed it again. The sun was up.

‘Charles . . . Are you going to open this door or shall I fetch the porter with an axe.'

It was Bart's voice . . . and the pounding came from Bart applying his fist to the door panel. ‘Let me in; the constables are after you for impersonating Venetian royalty.'

Charles opened one eye again, mumbled something uncomplimentary, then croaked, ‘There's no such charge, is there?'

‘How would I know; you're the lawyer.'

The lawyer grimaced, for he felt more like what remained of last Sunday's dinner than a legal gentleman of note . . . or even one without note. ‘I'm coming.'

Bart carried in a tray of coffee, and poured them both a cup. A cursory glance came his way and Bart handed him the cup and saucer. ‘You look like death while its decomposing a body. Drink up.'

Charles shuddered at the image Bart had conjured up. He was still fully dressed, his evening suit crumpled, while in contrast Bart looked as though he'd just stepped out of a tailor's establishment. ‘Why is it you sound so cheerful?'

‘Because I know I don't feel as ghastly as you do. I stopped drinking when it became obvious you intended to drink us all into the ground. Someone had to look after you.'

‘Well, you don't have to look so bloody smug about it. Where's everyone else?'

‘Gone . . . There was a bit of a riot over at Bessie's, I hear. She's been arrested.'

Alarm jiggled painfully through him. ‘What for?'

‘Everything you can think of. The authorities have had enough of her, and she'll be going to prison for a long time. We were lucky we got your poppet out in time before the raid took place, else she'd have been arrested along with Bessie's girls. They've closed the house down.'

Thank God, Charles thought, though he knew it would soon reopen under another proprietor. At least Celia would no longer be in danger from Bessie and her crew. He nearly scalded his throat as he swallowed down his coffee and gave a surprised yelp. ‘Celia told me she didn't want me.'

‘So that accounts for the attempt to drink yourself under the table.' Bart shrugged. ‘Women change their minds all the time. Ignore her for a week, and she'll come running.'

‘Do you think so?'

‘It stands to reason. I admire your taste though, and who can ignore a damsel in distress, who also happens to be an all-in-wrestler. I thought she was going to use that knife on Bessie; the way she sliced her bodice open would have put any surgeon to shame. Bessie's breasts sprang out of the top like monkeys out of a barrel, and they blacked both her eyes. It was fascinating.'

Charles managed a short-lived grin, mainly because the movement of his mouth sent a pain soaring into his head. ‘Shut up, Bart, it's too painful to laugh.'

‘And your lady-love has a nice turn of phrase when she's pushed to it. Bessie will never get over being called a heap of flea bites.'

Charles chuckled. ‘I thought that to be a nice touch, myself. It's a line from a play, but I can't remember where I heard it.'

‘Finished that coffee? Right then, I'll take you home to your mama, delightful creature that she is. You were blessed when mothers were allocated. Can you stand?'

‘Just about.' The world spun around him and he groaned piteously. ‘I'll never drink again . . . well, not to excess anyway. Have you seen my other shoe anywhere?'

‘If you open your other eye you'll discover you have two legs, with a shoe on each foot,' Bart said helpfully.

‘I thought they were already both open.' He gazed blearily at his friend. ‘What's the time?'

‘Noon.'

‘Already? Good God!' he groaned, hoping he didn't look as pathetic as he sounded and felt.

‘Do you have an appointment then?'

‘No . . . I was hoping it was bedtime, that's all.'