Dunham

Chapter 28

28

Celia awoke with a start and a gasp, blinking into the darkness unremitted by any light whatsoever. It reminded her of the fortnight she had spent shackled in the hold of the Carnivale whilst Skirrow attempted to navigate. He'd left them hopelessly wandering the eastern parts of the Mediterranean, easy prey for any Ottoman who held a grudge for him. Then, she could expect to hear either Solomon or Bridge speak to her low, soothingly, to calm her racing heart and grieving soul.

Now she lay next to her mother in her chamber in the home of Rear-Admiral Lord Rathbone, who was, as he had been for the last nearly twenty years, not in residence. She felt her mother's hand on her arm, squeezing lightly.

What had awakened them?

A moan.

Celia huffed. Aunt Harrie. "God's teeth. Is it possible that woman is more insatiable than I?" Celia muttered.

"She cannot sleep, Celia. You know that and you know why."

Indeed. Aunt Harriet was notorious amongst the ton for having a string of lovers in and out of her bed to fill the long hours of darkness. Now, because of the bitterness in her mother's voice, Celia realized that Mary had likely also sought solace by losing herself in a man's arms.

I wanted a woman in whom to seek solace, but ... I was desperate enough to take what I could get.

Anyone would do.

Mary continued. "I dare say you have never lain with a man for any reason other than your own gratification, so you would not understand. Keep your thoughts on the matter to yourself."

Celia did understand, but had done such a thing only once as it brought her no relief and thus was a worthless endeavor. She had sought relief from her heartbreak another way and had the scars to remind her.

"I'm sorry, Mama," she said low, thoroughly chastened. "I'll not speak of it again."

"'Tis time to begin your task anyway. I was about to awaken you, as I cannot sleep, either."

"Aye, you're right," Celia said, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. She felt around on the side table for the flint, then lit the candle and checked her chronometer. One of the morning. It would give her an extra hour to work. The servants would be abed until half past four. Aunt Harriet would be occupied until a bit before dawn, at which time her current lover would depart. Then she would appear two hours later in her own library, elegantly attired and coifed, ostensibly to write mounds of correspondence, invitations, menus, and party lists, only to fall asleep at her desk or in a comfortable chair until noon.

Celia pulled on black: black stockings, breeches, shirt, moccasins, and mobcap, into which she stuffed her hair. She blew out the candle, sneaked out the bedchamber door, and down the steps, avoiding every squeaky step along the way. Soon she was at the double doors to the marquess's library, which was locked. Fortunately, George (the brazen little hoyden) had been able to charm a footman until she had opportunity to steal the key, whereupon Celia had sent her straightaway to make a copy and return before anyone noticed its absence. That had taken a precious sennight to accomplish.

Tonight was only the fifth night in the four weeks since she had arrived in London that she would be spending with the task Maarten had set her—three years ago.

Are you certain it is in his home?

Ja. Nowhere else it could be. I've had people through his accounts, his bank box, his foreign offices, his ship, and his estate in Northumberland. You're the only person I know and trust who can get into his townhouse without suspicion.