Wicked Wager (10 page)

She knew how much Raphael hated it when she cried, but as the tears fell he chose not to notice. Releasing her, he left swiftly, saying abruptly over his shoulder as he entered the sanctuary of the passage, ‘Call Mary in so you can give her your answer. You can tell Lord Peregrine that you'll meet with him as soon as he desires.'

Chapter Seven

Late that afternoon, accompanied by Mary, Celeste entered the viewing rooms of the celebrity painter whose work she admired and who'd recently enjoyed wide public acclaim for his series of vignettes featuring a beautiful society matron. For Celeste to view them in the company of her maid and on the eve of her marriage would not be considered beyond the realms of respectability. Her conversation with her secret admirer, however, might well be. For what Raphael had requested of her would require a level of coquetry and skill she feared she did not possess.

The smell of turpentine and oils struck Celeste with force as she raised the pink and green striped skirts of her fashionable chintz
à la française
to step across the threshold and into the long gallery, which was located in a lofty attic lit by large skylights. She'd dressed with care—or rather, Raphael had overseen with care the way Mary had dressed her—in a new season's gown that was cut low across the bosom, and filled with a lace fichu. She'd felt beautiful when her toilette had been complete and she'd stared at her reflection and seen hope luminescent in her clear blue gaze, her powdered hair topped with a somewhat rakish straw hat festooned with flowers.

Raphael had poisoned that image when he'd declared, ‘Innocence and experience,' as he'd assessed her critically. ‘What designing rake would not be intrigued?'

The fact that these words came from the man who would soon be her husband and who, himself, felt nothing of such sentiments should not have pained her so greatly. She'd gracefully inclined her head in response to his bald stipulation that she needn't return until she'd completed her mission. After all, her heart was equally without desire for Raphael.

Now it pumped with a different sensation. Did the locket have such meaning that Raphael would truly sanction her to do
anything
to reclaim it? She felt ill with excitement; still, this was not how she wished matters were ordered.

The fact that Raphael was using her, trading her, without compunction, was one thing.

But what of Lord Peregrine? He did not love her. In all likelihood he'd sought her out due to his suspicion of her involvement with his sister's betrothed; which, of course, meant his motives were as calculating as Raphael's.

But each time her thoughts returned to the combustion of their brief, passionate exchanges, she could not rid herself of the feeling that Lord Peregrine
had
felt something for her that was real and pure.

Even if he had not intended such feelings to intrude.

Tugging nervously at her gloves, Celeste tried to adopt an expression of distant admiration for the works of art surrounding her. She was a lady of fashion with a love of art and must not draw attention to herself.

Canvases in various degrees of completion leaned against the sides of the walls, and on easels, while a gauze-draped chaise longue in the far corner suggested where the artist's model might repose when she sat for the artist.

A well-dressed couple at the far end of the room, speaking with the painter, were the only other occupants, she noticed with beating heart as she searched for Lord Peregrine.

She was unsure if she were relieved or otherwise that he was not here, but the possibilities so tantalisingly within reach made her mouth dry and her palms clammy as she gazed at the serene visage of the artist's beautiful muse and wondered what it must be like to enjoy such freedom.

Perhaps one day Celeste might know peace when she'd done all that Raphael required of her; though what entertainment would be on offer after she was married and gone to Jamaica was another matter. This afternoon's little jaunt, sanctioned by Raphael and with such clear instructions on what she must achieve, was the most license she'd been granted since she'd worn her hair loose and unpowdered.

Taking a few regal steps towards a cluster of oils, she glanced about the room. He was still not here.

Oh dear Lord, she felt sick with anticipation. Soon she'd have to put to the test her abilities to extract information from someone far more experienced than she in the arts of sophisticated obfuscation. She bent towards a painting of a girl on a swing, closing her eyes as her thoughts whirled.

Then a rustling beside her and a familiar murmur made the blood rush to her head.

‘The beauty of the artist's muse is but a pale imitation of yours, Miss Rosington.'

So he was here. She tried not to be discomposed by his words, not batting an eyelid as she took the arm the viscount offered her, inclining her head in polite appreciation as he indicated a painting of the titian-haired beauty dressed in Grecian robes appearing to rise up from the sea.

‘You flatter me, my lord,' she replied under her breath, as she obediently allowed herself to be led to the most secluded part of the room. ‘There is no need for it, though. I came, didn't I?'

‘You came, and I can't tell you how pleased I am, though we did not part on the best of terms,' he conceded, strolling past painting upon painting with barely a glance. ‘This time I promise to be better behaved.'

‘I feel relatively safe in such a public place,' Celeste replied wryly.

So far, so good, she thought. She'd managed to hide the visible signs of her palpitating heart.

He stopped and stared thoughtfully ahead. For the moment, all trace of the infamous seducer had vanished. His contemplative gaze was full of intelligence, his mouth cast in a pleasant curve and her heart lurched a little. But when he looked down at her, his eyes were suddenly hooded and there was speculation in his expression.

Celeste turned away, disliking what she saw. He regarded her as an opportunity or a conquest, rather than an attractive woman, and the knowledge was deeply dampening. How thrilling life had been when she believed Lord Peregrine genuinely entranced.

Misery swamped her. ‘You think I'm guilty in my dealings with Harry Carstairs, don't you, my lord?' She slanted a desperate look at him, as surprised by her spontaneous candour as clearly the viscount was, but before he could answer she forced herself to go on. Now she knew how she must proceed: with the truth. Without transparency there could be nothing gained from this association. Yes, Raphael had counselled her to use every feminine wile at her disposal to prise the locket from Lord Peregrine, but Celeste was a poor liar. She'd stumble at the first post. And oh, it was a bitter pill to understand the real reason for Lord Peregrine's interest.

‘You pursued me, my lord, both at Vauxhall and at Lord and Lady Cowdril's house party—after you learned I was the woman last seen with Harry.' The breeze through the open window ruffled the tendrils of hair at the nape of her neck and she shivered, for now there was no turning back. Squaring her chin, she added, ‘So either you are intent on punishing me, or there is some other means by which you believe you can profit by our association … is that not so, my lord?'

She observed the flare of surprise in his eyes, followed by a more thoughtful look as he straightened his queue, the froth of lace at his wrists obscuring for a moment the working of his features. ‘Come, Miss Rosington. Step over the threshold into the next room for but a moment. Your maid will not miss you.'

He took her hand and led her into the gloom beneath the low eaves. A room clearly not intended for visitors. She should not go, of course. He would try and kiss her and maybe she would let him; yes, and fondle her and make her feel things that would serve forever as a reminder of how much she was missing in her real marriage.

She should not go when she knew his intentions went no further than base seduction, but oh, just to
feel
for a few moments would be worth all the years of loneliness that stretched ahead of her; even if he was just a grubby seducer with such different motivations from the ones she'd originally attributed to him.

Obediently she allowed him to lead her over the threshold, her nod to Mary leaving the girl in no doubt that they were not to be disturbed.

In the darkness she could just discern the outline of his face as he loomed above her. He held her hands up to his lips and gently kissed her knuckles.

‘You are an honest woman, Miss Rosington,' he murmured, ‘and brave too. Yes, you are right, I did seek you out after I learned from my sister of your association with Harry.'

She heard his gentle sigh as he stooped to bring his head closer. ‘An association which has brought her great torment and which you've not begun to explain.' He released her hands and gently cupped her face, his expression searching as he whispered, ‘Miss Rosington … will you explain to me your interest in Harry Carstairs before I am candid about my interest in you?'

Celeste closed her eyes as he began to caress her cheek, surrendering herself to his gentle touch as he traced the outline of her lips with his forefinger, mesmerised as he went on in a low murmur, ‘For I am more than interested, but I must know if Harry is your lover.'

‘My lover!' She jerked her head away, stepping back quickly as she shook her head. ‘Harry Carstairs is
not
my lover!'

A shaft of light from a grimy skylight spilled onto the floorboards between them. Across the pool of dancing sunbeams, Celeste faced him squarely. Raphael would wring her neck to hear her speak so plainly but Lord Peregrine was not a fool or likely to be easily deceived. Nor, fortunately, was he looking at her as if he suspected she was trying to deceive him.

She took a deep breath, focusing on a dancing sunbeam rather than Lord Peregrine's face. In that instant she determined that she
would
tell him the truth: everything she knew, Raphael be damned. Clenching her fists she took a deep breath and prepared herself, wondering if Lord Peregrine would manage to contain his inscrutable mask by the time she was done and wishing she were as practised at keeping her real thoughts to herself.

‘Harry Carstairs is a friend of my cousin and intended, Lord Ogilvy,' she said carefully. Lord, honesty was one thing but she must ensure no hint of scandal attach to any of them by the time she was done. It wasn't just Celeste's reputation that hung in the balance, for if she were responsible for tarnishing Raphael or Harry, her existence would be intolerable. Choosing her words with even greater care, she went on. ‘When Harry disappeared mysteriously shortly after arriving in England, Raphael was beside himself with worry. More so when he learned Harry was in danger.'

‘In danger?' Lord Peregrine raised an eyebrow.

So he had not known? That was some small relief. Celeste nodded. ‘Harry had been supposed to meet Raphael, that is, Lord Ogilvy, immediately after visiting his lawyer but he never turned up. When Raphael made enquiries, he was told Harry had not returned to his townhouse which, if you did not know, was engulfed by fire only a week ago, though whether that has any bearing on what happened to Harry cannot be known. Then finally Raphael received a message from Harry.' Celeste sighed, remembering Raphael's relief when he learned that his friend was safe.

‘Go on,' Lord Peregrine signalled with a slight nod.

There was nothing to be gained by keeping anything back. ‘The note had been written in haste by Harry to Raphael, telling him Harry had been held captive on the way back from his lawyer's. He said he'd escaped and was in hiding in the basement of his townhouse and his life was in danger; that those who would see him dead were just waiting for him to come out.' She had to tread carefully now, for the truth was one thing but the reasons behind it could not be divulged. She slanted a look up at Lord Peregrine. ‘He said he truly believed that unless he could escape, in disguise, his throat would be cut.'

‘Good God! Harry Carstairs must have had some formidable foes if he believed that … unless he were not of rational mind.' Lord Peregrine lowered his head. ‘Have you any idea who these cutthroats were and why they wanted Carstairs?'

Celeste was glad of the gloom. Lord Peregrine would be less likely to discern the nervous working of her features and suspect she was not telling him everything. ‘I think these men felt they'd been cheated. Harry owed a lot of people rather a lot of money.'

She was relieved when that seemed to satisfy Lord Peregrine, who said, ‘And I presume the message came in the locket asking you to bring him clothes to effect his disguise?'

Celeste nodded, glad he could see the connection and hoping he believed it exonerated her.

‘But why send the locket?' He straightened and gripped her forearms, frowning. ‘And why did Lord Ogilvy send
you
to rescue Harry, my dear, if such danger threatened?'

Celeste dropped her head. ‘Raphael believed I was the only one he could trust to do what needed to be done.' She remembered her own dismay at being faced with such a terrifying situation. Mary had accompanied her to the basement door after Raphael had walked them silently through the streets, ensuring to the best of his ability that no one saw Celeste enter. He'd hired a street urchin to create a minor disturbance a few yards away, pretending the lad had stolen from him so all attention would be diverted from someone entering the Cadogan Square premises.

‘The locket was very valuable apparently,' Celeste added. ‘Harry knew Raphael would understand the graveness of his situation if he sent it rather than just a note, which might go astray. He also suggested that I be sent as I could discard my cloak and several petticoats and so effect his means of escape, without compromising mine.'

‘What a brave young woman you are.' Lord Peregrine smiled wryly but Celeste was unable to see the humour. The events of that night were still too raw.