The Waylaid Heart (13 page)

Cecilia was in mixed spirits when she returned to the ball. Her mind was so troubled she threw herself into the gaiety, searching for some numbing balm for the riotous emotions she felt.

She laughed and danced willingly, first with Sir Branstoke and then with her grandfather. After them, she whirled across the floor with every male who could claim a dance. So full was her dance card, not all could. She was gay with a feverish intensity that had some matrons looking at her askance. Dire mutterings behind gloved hands said she'd no doubt be confined to her bed on the morrow. Even Jessamine, who was well acquainted with her stratagems, felt it behooved her to drop a word in her ear.

"Fudge. My reputation is quite ruined anyway," Cecilia said breezily.

"What are you talking about?"

"Randolph caught Branstoke and me together in the Long Gallery and came up with the most amazing conclusions," she said, carefully omitting the substance of the encounter.

Lady Meriton dismissed her fears. "Randolph judges everyone by his own lamentable standard."

"True, but I should not have been alone with a gentlemen. In defense I shall say it was not deliberate."

"There is no need to tell me that! I well know your opinion of Sir Branstoke. Although when I consider it, it would do well for Randolph to spread his scandalous story, whatever it may be. You cannot be taken amiss for being in Branstoke's company as you could among any of those ramshackle court cards Randolph calls friends. It will actually do you credit."

"Credit?" asked Cecilia, remembering how she responded with searing intensity to his kiss. She pinked at the memory.

"Yes, for he is considered a gentleman of exquisite taste and manners." She cocked her head to study her niece. "You know, my dear, I do like the new way Sarah has of doing your hair. It will cut out beautifully. Will you sit for me now?"

"Jessamine, you must have hundreds of pictures done of me."

"Yes, but none in quite this style. Come, I've my own corner arranged with proper light and everything." She hooked Cecilia's arm in hers and guided her toward the corner she'd been using. "Besides, I think you need a respite. Your color is a trifle higher than I like."

"At least that won't appear in your picture."

Lady Meriton chuckled. "Most unfortunate. Here, now sit down and turn your head to the right. Lift it up a bit . . . perfect." She sat down in a nearby Hepplewhite chair and pulled her portable desk onto her lap. "I've noticed Randolph's friends have been as attentive this evening as they were last night. What have you done to encourage those connections?"

"Nothing! I swear, I did nothing, other than perhaps hope, pray, and scheme to claim their attention. Suddenly last night they were huddled around me like bees around honey. My suspicion is that Randolph has said something to remind them of my wealth, and they, being unscrupulous as to the source of my funds, have decided I am worth pursuing."

Lady Meriton clucked her tongue and paused in cutting to push her glasses up on her nose. Cecilia stared out over the throng of guests. She was surprised, yet gratified to see Sir James Branstoke dancing with Miss Janine Amblethorp. But she did not examine her gratification too closely for she didn't know if she was glad he was dancing with Janine or glad he wasn't dancing with Miss Cresswell.

She pursed her lips. What business was it of hers if he danced with Miss Cresswell or not? She pulled her eyes away from where the couple promenaded down the line.

"Cecilia, I wish you would relax your mouth. If I cut your profile in that manner you'd look like a fish."

Cecilia dutifully did as requested then wrinkled her nose when she saw one of Randolph's coterie headed determinedly in her direction.

"Cecilia, please. I am attempting a close profile which is much more demanding than a group portrait. You must refrain from contorting your features."

"I'm sorry, Jessamine. Please, take as long as you like. I'm in no hurry to quit your side."

Lady Meriton looked up from her paper, blinking owlishly. "What—?"

"Um—um, excuse me, Mrs. Waddley, ma'am?" The Honorable Reginald Rippy eased down next to her on the Egyptian-style fainting couch complete with crocodile feet.

"Not so close, please, Mr. Rippy, my aunt is engaged in cutting my silhouette."

"Oh! Right—sorry," he said, edging to a far corner.

"Now, how may I serve you, Mr. Rippy," Cecilia asked blandly.

"Serve me? Oh, dear me, no, ma'am," he assured her, mopping his brow with a large white handkerchief. "It is just—well, you see, as we'll all be returning to London tomorrow, I was wondering—that is, I hoped, that you would allow me—" he paused, mopping his brow again and running a finger under his tight stock. "What I mean, ma'am, is I hope you'll allow me to call on you in London," he finished rapidly.

"Certainly, Mr. Rippy. I believe that would be quite pleasant." She turned to her aunt. "Have you finished, Jessamine?"

"Yes, dear. I believe I am. Just allow me a moment to look it over carefully one last time."

"Thank you for your kind consideration, Mr. Rippy. I shall look forward to receiving you in London," Cecilia said, summarily dismissing him. He stuttered and stumbled a moment more, then made his leg and retired to the card room.

"You see, I told you being in Branstoke's company would stand you in good stead," said Lady Meriton.

Cecilia made a face, then groaned. "Now it is Lord Havelock coming this way. I fear, Jessamine, I may have unleashed a demon."
Or perhaps more aptly, a dragon
, she thought, remembering Sir Branstoke's willingness to battle the beasts.

Wearily, she curved her lips in a pleasant smile and contrived to speak cordially to Lord Havelock, and in his turn, Sir Elsdon. All three gentlemen solicited permission to call on her, and to all three she granted permission. Now, perhaps, she could learn something to good purpose. She should have been pleased that events were falling so naturally into place.

Why then did a heaviness fill her chest? It couldn't have anything to do with Branstoke waltzing with Miss Cresswell—could it?

Like a ship in heavy seas, Cecilia's emotions rose and fell with seemingly unending repetition for the remainder of the ball and on into the next day with her return to London. And like that ship on a storm-tossed sea, all she could do was helplessly ride the waves of emotions as they swept through her.

There was one niggling thought that kept her anchored in the worst of the buffeting. It was the image of Randolph yanking a ring off his right hand and shoving it in his pocket. Why was that ring important? She was confident that's what Randolph was referring to when he told whomever was in the room with him that it was an oversight. But of what import could a ring be?

She wondered if it was the unfamiliar signet ring she saw in his room. If it was important, surely he would not have left it out in plain sight! Then again, he hardly would have expected anyone to go sneaking about in his room. And carelessness on Randolph's part was typical of him It was also the reason she'd decided to look in his room.

She wanted to see that signet ring again. She thought she might recognize it if she saw it, though she could not form a clear image in her mind of the device carved on its flat surface.

She needed to see Mr. Thornbridge. If the ring was important, maybe he'd come across some mention of it in his investigation of Randolph's affairs. She sent a message ahead from Oastley advising of her return that day and requesting him to visit in the afternoon. A hurriedly scrawled note greeted her return, one that sent uneasy ripples through her being. She read it again, for the fifth time:

Mrs. Waddley,

I beg you will hold me excused until tomorrow. I think I may have answers, though my thoughts are so heinous, I pray I am wrong. Tonight I go to discover the truth. I daren't say more. My thoughts are unworthy.

David Thornbridge

It too closely echoed the last entry in Mr. Waddley's journal, the one he made the day he died. Her hand closed convulsively about the letter, crumbling it in her hand. She should never have asked Mr. Thornbridge for help. Now an unreasoning fear built within her as thoughts and fancies filled her head. She paced Lady Meriton's front parlor, consumed by a restless energy that would not let her be still. Something was about to happen. She knew it, but could not say what or how she knew. The feeling was like waiting for the actors to enter and the play to start. Anticipation shivered through her.

Lady Meriton was occupied with the cook and the ordering of staples. There was no help in that quarter for conversation and speculation that might ease her mind. Her pale brow furrowed and her eyes narrowed in thought. Outside the bright morning sun was giving way to a slate sky, and a rising wind clicked together branches covered with new, pale green leaves.

When the knocker fell twice, deliberately and heavily against the white, carved oak front door, Cecilia stilled. She stared at the closed double doors to the parlor until they opened slightly to admit Loudon.

"Excuse me, ma'am, but there's a gentleman below who would like to see you on a business matter."

A pale eyebrow rose. "Oh? Do I know him?"

"I would venture to say no, ma'am. Here is his card." He held out the small silver plate carrying a dull ivory card.

She picked it up.
Hiram Peters, Solicitor,
, it read, with an address off of Fleet Street. She looked up at Loudon. "A business matter, he said?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Cecilia pursed her lips a moment then nodded. "All right. Show him up."

"Shall I inform Lady Meriton?"

Cecilia laughed. "Loudon, I am not a young girl in need of a chaperone. No, do not bother her. I shall see my guest alone."

After he bowed and left, Cecilia smoothed out Mr. Thornbridge’s crumbled note then refolded it and tucked it into her bodice. She positioned herself on her aunt's rose-colored sofa in a semi-recumbent position, tossing a woolen shawl across her feet to complete the image. She sprinkled lavender water on her handkerchief from a vial resting on a nearby table. She lightly held it to her forehead, thankful this time she would not reek of the scent.

She watched the door, her alert eyes shielded by the hand raised to her brow.

Mr. Hiram Peters brushed Loudon aside and walked confidently into the parlor. He was a thin, scraggly-looking man attired in rusty black. His hair was a mop of lank gray still laced with strands of a darker, indeterminate hue. His eyebrows were grizzled and stood out, prominent above deep-set, black eyes. He walked with a self-confident strut with his shoulders so far back it was a wonder he didn't fall backward.

"Mrs. Waddley, so kind of you to see me on short notice. I do apologize, but you will understand when I explain all," he said lugubriously, his eyebrows wriggling.

He extended his hand to take one of hers in his, but she pretended not to see it. Truthfully, she saw it only too well, and the black dirt under his nails did not speak well of the gentleman. His hand fell to his side with a small arrow of uncertainty piercing his confident air. Cecilia saw it and was pleased. She allowed her hand clutching the handkerchief to fall limply to the sofa. With the other she feebly waved him into a straight backed chair.

"Loudon tells me you are here on a business matter, Mr. Peters," she said faintly.

"Yes, Mrs. Waddley, and my errand is such that it will bring you joy."

"Then please, proceed, Mr. Peters. I'll own I am so fatigued and threatened with incipient illness that I stand in great need of joy. You find me a most attentive audience," she said feebly. An image of Branstoke's amused reaction to her mien tickled her mind, but she brushed it aside.

"I am empowered to offer you a very generous contract for the purchase of all the London operations and holdings of Waddley Spice and Tea."

Cecilia's body went rigid. "I see. Who wants to buy the company?" she asked in a carefully neutral tone, though warning bells clanged and clamored in her mind.

"That I am not at liberty to say. And it is not the entire company my client wishes to purchase, only the London portion."

She dabbed her handkerchief to her head, stalling. "I—I hardly know what to say! No, that's not true. I believe I know what Mr. Waddley's reaction would be to your proposition," she said.

"Yes?" Peters said with faint stirrings of unease. This interview was not proceeding with the dispatch he'd anticipated. She was not supposed to be a woman with the wherewithal to ask questions.

Her soft voice grew firmer. "You come to me, a stranger and agent for another, proposing to buy my late husband's company, yet you will not divulge the purchaser's identity. No, I am sorry, Mr. Peters. My late husband would not do business in that manner, and neither will I."

"Now see here, Mrs. Waddley. At least listen to the terms I am empowered to make. They are very generous. Nay! Too generous! But such are my instructions."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Peters, but there is no reason to prolong this conversation," she said distractedly. She knew she had to get rid of this pompous windbag before she could think clearly. "Mrs. Waddley, you are acting in a highly irrational manner," declared Mr. Peters angrily. His tone was like that reserved for underlings and social inferiors.

Cecilia gasped. "If I am, you are most impertinent to say so. This interview is at an end." She reached toward the bell pull to summon Loudon.

Mr. Peters caught her hand in a cruel grip before she touched the rope. "Mrs. Waddley, my client is used to getting what he desires, and if he desires Waddley Spice and Tea, then he will get it, one way or another. At least this way he is offering you a profit. His subsequent methods may not prove as genteel," he threatened.

Cecilia glared at him and methodically pulled her hand free while her eyes, turned dark as lapis, held his in challenge. Her hand claimed the bell pull and gave it an imperious tug. "Get out!" she whispered. The venom that dripped from her soft tones accented her words like no loud, screaming order could.

A flicker of uncertainty crossed Mr. Peters' face and he backed away awkwardly. When the door opened to admit Loudon, he seemed to draw himself together.

"You'll regret this, Mrs. Waddley."

"Show Mr. Peters the door, Loudon. He will not be returning," she said meaningfully.

Mr. Peters scowled and hesitated, then flung himself toward the open door, a muttered oath on his lips.

A long shuddering breath passed her lips. She swung her legs to the floor and sat on the edge of the sofa, her arms wrapped about her stomach. She rocked slightly, her mind recalling every word of her conversation with Mr. Peters. She was angry, and a little frightened,

Ruthlessly she pushed the latter emotion aside. How dare he threaten her! An anonymous buyer, bah! She must be close to discovering something. Why else the offer to purchase the London operation? It was well known that trade through London had decreased in recent years in favor of other ports closer to the manufacturing centers, such as Bristol and Liverpool. Truthfully, Mr. Waddley made most of his money in London as an insurance investor and speculator. Cecilia really didn't know why he even maintained the London operation, though she suspected an emotional attachment on her husband's part to what had been started by his grandfather and grown substantially under his father. She had no particular attachment to the firm, and did hope to one day sell it—in its entirety. But she wouldn't sell it in a havey cavey manner. Nor would she sell it until she solved the mystery of her husband's death or satisfied herself it was a cause well lost.

She surged to her feet and began pacing the room. The veneer of manners on Mr. Peters was like cheap gilding. What manner of person would hire a vulgar, dirty lout to make his business dealings? She ventured it could be no one interested in pound dealing. Or anyone with a regard for her intellect. And that worm wanted to kiss her hand? Her instincts were right when she ignored the gesture. Ugh! The thought of the greasy man with his supercilious air made her shudder. It also sharpened her anger,

"Excuse me, ma'am," ventured Loudon from the doorway.

"Yes, what is it?" snapped Cecilia, continuing to pace.

Loudon flinched. "Sir James Branstoke is below," he said half-apologetically.

"I am in no mood for further visitors, Loudon. Please inform him so," she said, not pausing in her frenetic pacing.

Regret, will I?
she thought. She stopped and stared sightlessly out the window, her hands planted firmly on her slim hips. "In a pig's eye!" she said.

"Lady Meriton's man warned you were not in spirits," drawled Sir Branstoke from the doorway.

Cecilia whirled around. "Who let you up here? I gave Loudon orders that I was not seeing anyone!"

He closed the doors behind him. "Yes, your sails are flying, aren't they? Who got your wind up?"

"That is none of your concern. Get out. I don't want to see anyone, particularly you!" she said, still smarting from his defection last evening back to Miss Cresswell's camp and her embarrassment at the shared kiss.

"Tsk, Tsk," he said mildly, advancing farther into the room.

"I am tired of people flagrantly doubting my intelligence."

"Never I."

"And attempting to manipulate me as if I were some featherbrained silly widgeon."

"I can't imagine anyone so rash."

"Imagine, the audacity of someone hiring a—a toad like Mr. Peters to try to buy Waddley's from me!"

"He should have his cork drawn."

"And then daring to—to threaten me when I refused! It is not to be borne.”

Sir Branstoke paused in withdrawing his snuffbox from his waistcoat pocket. He looked at Cecilia as she stormed up and down the room, studying her high color and the martial light glittering in her blue eyes.
What the hell has been going on!

He stuffed the box back into his pocket and strode over to her, grasping her by the shoulders. "Cecilia! What are you talking about? Who threatened you?"

"Peters, of course," she snapped, looking at him as if he were a simpleton. She pulled out of his grasp and continued her peroration. "Claims his anonymous client is being generous." She turned to pace in front of the fireplace.