A Reckless Encounter. Rosemary Rogers

card? Rather pretentious of you, considering this humble abode, I think. Go and fetch your mistress, girl.” He pushed her hand away when she moved to close the door, and wedged his body inside. “Inform her that Lord Northington wishes to see her at once.”

      Brown eyes stared down at her from a face pitted with the faint remnants of scars. His mouth was full, his cheekbones high and stark, the slash of black eyebrows a marked contrast to his powdered hair.

      This was Lord Northington, the man her mother had once said was a beast!

      “Don’t stand there gaping at me, girl,” he said sharply. “I’ll see you’re dismissed from your post for this impertinence. Fetch Madame at once!”

      “I am not a servant, my lord,” she replied, crossing her arms over her chest. “I have no intention of fetching Madame. Leave your card, and when she returns, I shall give it to her.”

      “Impudent brat,” he spat. “I know she’s here. I followed her.” Even in the gloom, she could see the hot flare of anger in his eyes, the white lines that cut grooves on each side of his mouth as he grated, “It would serve you best to do as you’re told. The consequences can so often be…unpleasant.”

      Celia’s brief spurt of courage failed her. She took a backward step, her heart hammering fearfully in her chest.

      “You have no authority here!”

      “I have no intention of remaining here to bandy words with an insolent brat.”

      Ignoring her choked cry, he brushed past her. Boot-steps echoed loudly on the bare wooden floors as he moved down the hallway to the tiny parlor. His glance into the empty room was dismissive, his lip curled.

      Celia saw it as he must see it, so bare now of the once lovely furnishings; not even linen scarves were left to adorn the single drum table that had yet to be sold, and the upholstered settee looked alone and forlorn in front of the cold fireplace. The years of deprivation since her father’s death were obvious, the remnants of their once comfortable life pitiful. Northington moved past the parlor.

      “You must not!” she cried as he pushed open the door that led to the kitchen. Panic drove her, and unreasoning fear that he meant to harm her mother. She caught at his sleeve, but he jerked free.

      The covered walkway was short, and he closed the distance in only three strides, then pushed open the door. “There you are, Madame!”

      His change from contemptuous to beguiling was instant and shocking. Celia hung back, trembling as her mother turned to face the intruder with a serenity that belied the taut set of her mouth. Blond hair waved back from her high, intelligent forehead, and green eyes studied the man with an emotion Celia couldn’t interpret. Fear? Disdain?

      “Lord Northington. This is certainly a surprise.”

      “A pleasant one, I trust.”

      “Would it matter if it were not, my lord?”

      It was said lightly, but Celia recognized the steel beneath her mother’s velvet tone. Behind her, Old Peter stood silent and stiff, disapproval radiating from his dusky face.

      Maman and the viscount spoke French, the language lending itself to subtle nuances that even a child could identify.

      “My dear Madame,” Northington said with a soft laugh, “I crave your approval as none other.”

      “Would that were true, my lord. Tell me what brings you to my home.”

      “Need you ask?”

      Celia saw her mother flush.

      “Not in front of my daughter, if you please, my lord!”

      “Your daughter? This pretty child?” He turned toward Celia. “I should have known. That glorious fair hair and green eyes are too exquisite to be duplicated in mere dross. Come here, child, and tell me your name.”

      Though she made no effort to move, her mother stepped in front of Celia as if to protect her. She gazed coolly at Northington as she said, “Stay here, little one. Peter will serve your supper.”

      “But I wish to wait for you, Maman.”

      “I will return to you soon, my love.”

      Old Peter put a hand on Celia’s shoulder when she would have protested more, and she fell silent as her mother preceded Northington from the kitchen. The clatter of a pot lid made a staccato sound. After a moment, Old Peter said softly, “He is bold, that one. To come here after her—”

      “I do not like him.” Celia jerked away from Peter’s grasp to go to the kitchen door. A hard knot formed in her chest. “He is quite rude. Maman does not like him, either. I saw it in her eyes.”

      She whirled around to face the old man. “Do you think he’ll hurt her?”

      Old Peter shook his head, but she noticed that his hand trembled slightly as he ladled soup into a bowl. Steam rose in a thin cloud from the pot.

      “He would not dare, lamb. Not even an English lord can escape the law. Here. Come and sit down. Eat your soup, and some of these apples you love. The bread—Did you bring back Madame’s market bag from the front room?”

      “Oh. I forgot it…Shall I go and fetch it? I left it at the front door when he came.”

      “No. No, I’ll get it. You stay here and eat, child.”

      Celia sat on the long bench drawn up to the scarred oak table that was incongruously set with the silver and a few pieces of china—remnants of better days. She was no longer hungry. Not even the apples were tempting.

      Glumly she watched her soup cool, waiting for Old Peter’s return with the bread Maman had bought on her way home from teaching French to the children of wealthy townspeople.

      Time passed and she began to fret. What could be taking so long? Why had Old Peter not returned? And where was Maman?

      Finally, as the fire dimmed and the usually warm kitchen grew cool, Celia abandoned her untouched soup. It had grown even colder outside; as she crossed the breezeway to the main house, the wind tugged at her blue dress and loosened pale coils of her hair from beneath the white cap she wore. The smell of winter was in the air.

      Shivering, she eased into the house and paused, uncertain. It was ominously quiet. The tall case clock that Maman had said now belonged to a new owner ticked softly in the hallway. A lamp had been lit, a thin thread of light from beneath a door guiding her down the hallway.

      A feeling of dread enveloped her as she reached the parlor door; it was partially open. She began to shake. It was so quiet, deathly quiet…

      “Maman?” Her hand spread on the door and pushed; it didn’t move. No sound greeted her as she wedged her body into the parlor. A low lamp burned in a wall sconce, casting the settee into a stark silhouette that seemed suddenly ominous. Her heart thudded painfully as she took a step into the room, glancing down at the obstruction holding the door. A scream locked in her throat.

      Old Peter lay there motionless. His mouth was agape, his eyes closed. She knelt beside him, but he made no sound when she whispered his name. His dark face was so still.

      Panic nearly paralyzed her, but she rose again and turned, walking toward the settee. Boards creaked beneath her feet, familiar but now much too loud in the soft gloom.

      “Maman?”

      It was a faint whisper, tentative and afraid. Her hand curled over the back of the settee, the horsehair-stuffed upholstery unyielding beneath the pressure of her clutching fingers. A bundle of rags lay upon the seat, shapeless and bulky.

      But when she slipped around the end of the settee to inspect further, the bundle moaned 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