softly.
“Maman! Oh, Maman!”
A feeble hand reached out for her, and then Celia saw that her mother’s skirts were up around her waist, her lower body naked. Immediately she pulled the skirts over Maman’s legs, then knelt beside her.
“Maman—you’re hurt! And Old Peter won’t wake. I must fetch the physician.”
“No…” The moan formed a refusal.
“But you’ll die, and Old Peter is so still…I’m afraid for you and I don’t know what to do!” Sobs thickened her words and she felt her mother’s hand graze her cheek in a comforting gesture.
“Help…Peter. I’m…fine. Truly. Go to Peter.”
But Old Peter was past help, dead from a grievous blow to the side of his head.
Celia spent the next few weeks in a daze. Maman had never been very strong, and now her meager reserves of strength were depleted by Lord Northington’s brutal rape. He had hurt much more than just her body; the light had gone from Léonie’s eyes, leaving behind an empty shell.
Anger sparked, the helpless rage of a child who has lost all comfort and security.
Léonie tried to recover; she dragged herself from the bed to do the sewing that helped to support them, but her heart was no longer in it. Northington had destroyed something inside her that Celia couldn’t understand.
“It is no use, petite,” Maman said sadly when Celia insisted she go to the authorities again. “They do not see me, do not care to see me. And it no longer matters. He’s gone now, back to England.”
“But we have papers. I read them, Maman! Charges were brought—”
“Against a man who is inviolate, a peer of the realm with access to money for bribes. Not even Peter’s murder will be avenged, so my charge is even less likely to be acknowledged. I am familiar with the advantages of power, my petite. Once, I lived with it. I know what it can do, what it can accomplish. It is no use to fight it.”
“No!” Celia raged, her voice almost a howl that alarmed her mother. “He has to pay for what he’s done, Maman. He has to be punished! Where is the justice? Why can he escape—”
Léonie grabbed her close, held her as tears wet their cheeks. “Justice is not always in this life,” she said at last, stroking Celia’s hair with a trembling hand. “I have seen too much to expect evil deeds to always be punished.”
Anger and resentment burned inside Celia’s breast, but she held her tongue. It only made things worse to remind Maman of what had happened. But one day—one day she would find a way to make Lord Northington pay for what he had done!
PART II
“And whatever sky’s above me,
Here’s a heart for any fate.”
—Lord Byron
LONDON, ENGLAND
September, 1819
1
Traveling under the name St. Clair, Celia stared over the rail of the ship nosing a watery trough up the Thames. It had been a tedious voyage save for a storm that she’d been convinced would destroy them all. But now she was here at last. At last! She knotted her hands in the folds of the reticule she carried; a letter crackled softly in the velvet bag. It was her future, the letter to Maman’s cousin, Jacqueline Fournier Leverton. Jacqueline and Léonie St. Remy had fled Paris during that bloody Revolution that had cost so many lives. Jacqueline had married an English baron, while Léonie wed the dashing American captain Samuel Sinclair and left England behind forever.
Perhaps Léonie had worried what might happen one day, for, when Celia was still an infant, she’d written a letter to her cousin about her daughter. She’d kept Jacqueline’s reply, her promise to stand as godmother to the child she hoped to one day meet. That letter was old, the pages yellowed and the ink faint, but it would serve as a letter of introduction to this godmother Celia had never met.
And now the time had come. So many fears, so much pain and heartache behind her…but she would let nothing stand in her way. Not now. Not after so many years.
Coming to England was not just the start of a new life, it was an act of vengeance. For nearly ten years, she had hated Lord Northington. At times, it had been all that let her feel alive.
Celia’s hands tightened on the ship rail as the London docks grew sharper in the gray mist that cloaked the river and hazed the forest of tall, swaying masts that looked like so many reeds choking the waterway. Shrouds seemed to part sullenly as the prow eased through debris and water, a lingering fog that diffused the sharper outlines of the city’s gray spires and forbidding towers.
So close, so close. It was nearly time now…all the planning, and now she was here at last. Maman would have wanted her to come to England.
Maman.…
It was nine years since her death, nine years since Celia had watched helplessly as Léonie bled to death in the childbed. Her infant son had lived only a few minutes more than his mother, Northington’s babe drawing only a few gasps of air. They were buried together, a simple grave in a corner of the cemetery where paupers were granted space for their eternity.
At thirteen, Celia had found herself orphaned and alone. There had been no relatives to take her in, no one but the kind nuns at a foundling home. As Léonie had once done, Celia taught French to students, saving every penny she earned through the years. Even after her eighteenth birthday, she’d stayed on, saving her money, a goal firmly fixed in her mind, her sworn revenge keeping her strong.
It was the death of her mother that had formed the need for vengeance, formed the burning desire to find Northington and, if nothing else, confront him with his crimes. Why should he be allowed to forget the woman he had raped or the old man he had killed? Didn’t she live with their memories every day, the pain as fresh at times as it had been when she’d lost them? Yes, and Northington would soon find a reminder of what he’d done on his doorstep.
In the reticule with the letter to Lady Leverton was a document with the old charges against the viscount. It bore the seal of the Georgetown magistrate where it had been filed so many years before—the only proof of Northington’s crime. A charge of murder still held weight even after so long, though the death of a freed slave had not been important enough to halt Northington’s flight.
But it was important to me, Celia thought fiercely as the docks became more visible in the fog. Old Peter was still a sharp memory, she’d never forget him.
It was the careless indifference that rankled most, the viscount’s arrogant claim that the old man had assaulted him. It had been a farce, a travesty of justice.
But Celia intended to see that he acknowledged his acts, to expose him for the cruel killer that he was and to seek justice for the wrongs done not only to Old Peter, but to her mother and an innocent babe.
The nuns had taught her a great deal about atonement for sins committed, and she would educate Northington. He would have his name shamed in the society he kept, and endure the scourge of public scorn. I just hope he’s still alive to suffer it! she thought fiercely.
A chill wind blew across the decks, but she paid no heed to it, or to the sidelong glances she received from some of the deckhands. Most of the passengers aboard ship were from America, but the Liberty had briefly docked in Liverpool the day before, and several men had boarded for the trip around the southern coast of England to London. For the most part, they seemed inoffensive, though she had noticed one man in particular who stood out from the others.
Tall, dark, with an inbred arrogance that reminded her far too clearly of the kind of man she detested, he remained aloof from the others, keeping company instead with the captain of the vessel as if they were old friends. Yet there was