A Reckless Encounter. Rosemary Rogers

him when he came onto the upper deck.

      He was dressed casually in tight-fitting buff trousers and knee-high jackboots, his white shirt and open coat giving him the appearance of a country squire.

      But there was something primitive, predatory about him, as if he was a man accustomed to command and instant obedience. His lean face was like the blade of a hatchet, the features too well-defined to belong to a simple squire. He seemed—dangerous.

      Leaning against the wall of the deckhouse, he was engaged in conversation with the first mate, but happened to glance up and catch her staring at him. A mocking smile tucked the corners of his mouth inward, and he inclined his head in her direction to acknowledge her gaze.

      Celia flushed and looked casually away, as if she’d only been searching for a companion.

      Fortunately Mister Carlisle, a fellow passenger who had boarded only the day before but had already made himself known to her, chose that moment to approach her at the rail, his smile wide and friendly.

      “Miss St. Clair,” he said agreeably. “It seems we made it to London in good time.”

      “Yes, so it does, Mister Carlisle.”

      As the ship glided down the Thames, the decks were frenetic with activity; ropes hummed through the shrouds and canvas snapped with heavy weight.

      A brisk wind tugged at her skirts and threatened to loosen her hat. Celia grabbed at the ribbons to hold her hat in place and managed a smile. If she hadn’t been caught staring so rudely at another passenger, she would have been quite cool to Mister Carlisle. Since boarding the Liberty, he had seemed to take a special interest in her, dogging her steps every time she came above deck.

      Now his smile was ingratiating, his manner a bit too bluff and hearty.

      “So, Miss St. Clair, do you have family or friends meeting you?”

      “I couldn’t say, Mister Carlisle. Arrival dates are so uncertain, you know.”

      “Yes, it’s so easy to miscalculate, especially when the vessel arrives ahead of schedule.” He hesitated, his brown eyes observing her with obvious admiration. “London is a huge, busy city, and it’s very easy to get lost or taken advantage of if you aren’t familiar with the streets and byways. Perhaps I could see you to your destination, if it wouldn’t be too presumptuous of me to suggest it.”

      Her smile cooled. “That really isn’t necessary, Mister Carlisle. I’m quite capable of reaching my family on my own, thank you.”

      “But I thought you’d never been to London—”

      “No, but one doesn’t have to have lived here to be able to hire a hack, I’m quite certain.”

      Carlisle shrugged. “True enough, yet a hired hack is hardly suitable for a woman of your presence.”

      He moved closer, his tone shifting. It became more intimate, husky and cajoling. Just his supposition that she would be susceptible made her answer him sharply when he offered again to take her in his own coach.

      “Perhaps you misunderstood me, Mister Carlisle. I do not care to be alone in your company.”

      Undeterred, he smiled broadly. “You have come all the way across the Atlantic alone. I didn’t think you would consider yourself in danger being alone with me in a public carriage. But since you’re reluctant—”

      “Yes, I am reluctant. I do not really know you. An acquaintance made aboard ship is not really what one could call proper.”

      He bowed slightly. “I beg your pardon if I offended you, as it seems I have. Here, do let me loan you my city directory. Hired hacks so often take advantage of visitors to London, and he may well try to overcharge you since you are unfamiliar with the streets.”

      When she hesitated, he smiled disarmingly. “I have a sister I would wish protected, Miss St. Clair. I would hope some gentleman would be so kind as to offer his assistance should she be in need of it. I want nothing in return but your safety.”

      “Very well,” she said, and smiled back at him. “I’m grateful for your concern. What is this directory?”

      “It is a map of main streets and routes in London. See, here is the Tower, and this is Parliament over here.…” He traced the route with his fingertip. “If you know your destination, you’ll be able to find the general area on this map, then not allow any dishonest hackman to take you the long way round.”

      “Yes,” she said. “Oh my, this map is so detailed and the print so small I don’t know if I can find my street.”

      “If you’d like, tell me the name of your street and I’ll point to it. You don’t have to share the address. London is a big city, and it’s easy to get lost.”

      “Very well,” she said after a moment, for he was quite right in that it seemed to be much larger than she had anticipated. “Please show me Bruton Street.”

      “Ah, tell the driver to take you to Mayfair. Here. Go by way of these main roads and you should get there quite quickly.” He traced a route with his finger, then smiled as he pressed the small map into her hand. “Keep it for now, but do be kind enough to return it to me, if you will, once you’ve used it. Have it delivered by post, or messenger if you like, to the Carlisle in Shoreditch. It’s a public house owned by my brother.”

      “Thank you, sir, for your kindness,” she said as she tucked the directory into her reticule. Perhaps she should not be so suspicious, she thought, but a woman traveling alone dare not attract too much attention. Why, most of the voyage had been spent in her cabin, a stuffy corner not much larger than a water closet and smelling very similar.

      As the Liberty edged close to the dock, the decks grew quite crowded and loud, and Celia realized that, in the press of crowd and crew, James Carlisle had vanished. It was faintly surprising. He’d seemed so insistent, and now he’d just disappeared in the chaos, leaving her alone to make her way ashore.

      Celia dismissed Carlisle from her mind when the hack rolled to a halt before the buff stone facade of Lord Leverton’s Mayfair home. It was imposing, a veritable five-story tower with staircases that curved up each side to the entrance. It was a house that radiated power and position.

      It was this kind of house, this kind of wealth, that bred men like Lord Northington.…

      She was shown into the entrance hall and bade wait, and the butler who greeted her looked down his long thin nose at her as if she were an interloper.

      “Lady Leverton is not accepting visitors, I fear,” he said coldly. “However, you may leave your card.”

      But Celia was not to be denied. “I will wait in the parlor.” She made her tone as lofty as his, with just a touch of arrogance. “Please be so good as to direct me. Lady Leverton will be pleased to see me, I assure you.”

      There were, she thought, few things more intimidating than a proper English servant. He regarded her as if she were an insect, but at last briefly inclined his head, and beckoned to a young maid.

      “Show Miss—” He studied the card she’d given him for an instant, then continued, “St. Clair into the small parlor to wait, Hester.”

      The uniformed maid led her to a wide set of double doors that opened into a room much larger than any she’d seen. If it was named the small parlor, she would truly be amazed at any larger chamber.

      Richly furnished, there was a warm fire in the grate and thick rugs on the floors. Plush settees upholstered in embroidered velvet were placed before the hearth. Ornate vases and Dresden figurines adorned baroque tables that gleamed with the sheen of highly polished mahogany. Fresh flowers spilled from crystal vases.

      Celia felt suddenly awkward and graceless in such a room, and wondered with a spurt of panic if she could truly pretend to be what she was not. How could she keep up the masquerade?

      And while she may dislike deceiving her own godmother with