The Waylaid Heart (18 page)

"Plaguey weather, ain't it? A good night to stage
King Lear
, I should think, what with all its references to rain and wind," Sir Elsdon cheerfully observed as he settled across from Cecilia and Lady Meriton in the commodious carriage he'd borrowed for the evening from one of his many friends. He took his beaver hat from his head and brushed the raindrops from its flat brim before resettling it rakishly on his red-gold locks. "So what's that they say? About April showers and May flowers? Never could remember poetry. Anyway, shouldn't complain, I'll warrant."

Cecilia smiled slightly. "I'll grant you that; however, I find such weather to be deleterious to my health. Brings on colds and chills, you know, and sometimes the most putrid sore throats."

"Oh, please, Cecilia, don't go borrowing trouble," said Lady Meriton.

"No, I shall try not to, only I have felt so remarkably well the past few weeks, I cannot help but be wary."

"I would think there shouldn't be any harm in that. Makes you careful, that's all," offered Elsdon.

"Why, thank you, Sir Elsdon. That's kind of you to say and such is my thought as well."

"Stands to reason. I daresay you're like one of those hothouse flowers, the kind that take special handling. I understand the result to be well worth the effort."

Cecilia could not help but pink with pleasure, even though she was certain his words were contrived for just that effect. She believed Randolph's friends were making a play for her atten-tions, in all probability to satisfy a wager. Nonetheless, she was woman enough that she couldn't help but be pleased. Sir Elsdon was a genial gentleman with a quick wit and ready smile. Doubt-lessly excellent traits for a gamester.

She tittered and coyly looked aside. "La, sir, I shall make certain I do not take your words seriously. They are too nicely done, by half."

"It is easy when the subject is worthy."

"I believe I shall count myself fortunate that we have arrived at our destination, and I do not need to respond to that," she said, laughing warmly.

"I am desolate. And here I thought to dazzle you with honeyed words. What is a courting gentleman to do?" he asked, swinging out of the carriage and turning to offer her, then Lady Meriton, his hand.

Cecilia chose not to respond to his outrageous sallies for fear he would cause more blushes to rise in her cheeks. Of all of Randolph's friends, he was the easiest to be with. That gave her a thought

"Do you know if my brother plans to attend this party?"

"Don't believe he does. Spoke of having an intimate little supper with a friend."

"Ah, Miss Angel Swafford by any chance?"

His rusty-colored eyebrows rose. "Now how would you know that name?"

She laughed. "The evening of the opera a very inebriated young man mistook me for her rival and thought to steal me away from Randolph by informing me of Miss Swafford's exist-ence."

"Nutley," he murmured, nodding. "And that's how you came to be in the company of Branstoke?"

"He, ah, relieved me of Mr. Nutley's presence," she explained, handing her cloak to a footman.

He frowned, thrusting out his lower lip. "Yes, well, you shouldn't have been left alone. I told Randy so, too. No malice in him, but sometimes quite a knuckleheaded fellow. Oh, excuse me, didn't mean to disparage your own brother like that. Not done. Bad Ton, y'know."

"Please, do not apologize. I well know my brother."

"Good, then for the nonce:
Illiterate him, I say, quite from your memory.
"

"Yes, Mrs. Malaprop," she said, laughing.

Still smiling, she went through the receiving line, greeting the Waymonds. Afterward, she found herself solicited for dances by numerous gentleman. Lord Havelock surprised her by asking for the waltz. Without knowing quite how it happened, she found herself enjoying the ball. That is until a twinge of uneasiness trickled down her spine. Instinctively she turned to find Sir Branstoke regarding her through his raised quizzing glass. Seeing he had her attention, he came forward.

Silently, Cecilia ground her teeth in vexation. Sir Branstoke was one gentleman she was not happy to see or speak with. He upset her equilibrium far too readily and made her feel the stuttering schoolgirl.

"Have you had an opportunity to speak with Mr. Thornbridge?" he asked.

"No, I have not Though I suppose you have. No doubt you have discovered everything and are here to tease me with it."

He looked at her in surprise. "On the contrary. After your words of yesterday I made certain I did not interfere. I would have thought you would have gone immediately to Dr. Heighton's."

"I would have," she grudgingly conceded, "however, Dr. Heighton would not allow me to visit. He claims his residence is not a place for women. He suggested I visit Mr. Thornbridge in the country at his father's home."

Branstoke frowned. "Odd. I had not received that impression from Dr. Heighton. Well, are you?"

"Am I what?"

"Going to visit Mr. Thornbridge in the country?"

She flushed. "I would, but I must admit I do not know where his people come from."

"Ah—" said Branstoke, his face clearing and a slight smile turning up the corners of his lips.

Cecilia groaned. "Do not tell me. You know where he comes from."

He shrugged in apology.

"Excuse me, Sir Branstoke, but I feel another of my dreadful headaches coming on. Somehow, that seems common around you," she snapped. With disregard for appearances, she whirled around and left him, his laughter trailing behind her.

Cecilia made her way to the corner of the room where the dowagers and matrons sat gossiping. Carefully she pulled Lady Meriton aside. "Do you think we might leave?"

Her aunt breathed a rasping sigh of relief. "I would be most happy to. I fear I have succumbed to that malady you claimed this weather fosters. I feel awful. I have not been able to do a single cutting all evening for my hands are weak and my head too achy for plain sight."

"Jessamine! Why did you not tell me? Of course, we will go. Let me but inform Sir Elsdon." She settled her aunt on a chair in the corner then sent a servant in search of him. Sir Elsdon was not to be found. Neither was Lord Havelock.

This was an interesting turn of events! Her eyes sparkled at the knowledge and she set off in her own investigation, or would have if she hadn't recalled her aunt. She bit her lower lip in frustration. She had to see to Jessamine's well-being.

She went down to the front hall to ask a footman to obtain a hackney for her and Lady Meriton.

"There is no need of that," said a languid voice coming out of the shadows. It was Branstoke. "I am on the point of leaving myself. My carriage has already been called. It will be here directly."

Cecilia compressed her lips at the thought of being beholden to this gentleman, but concern for her aunt stilled her too-ready tongue and would not let her reject his offer. "Thank you," she whispered. "I'll tell her we are ready to leave."

She hurried back up the stairs, refusing to consider how circumstance again had him managing her life. Tenderly she guided Lady Meriton down and saw her cloak wrapped warmly about her. She ignored Sir Branstoke as best she might. To her chagrin, he did not seem to notice. Then her argument with the man flew from her mind for her aunt was truly feverish.

A worried frown creased her fair brow. She settled next to Jessamine in the luxurious carriage, keeping close to her to help warm her. A silent Branstoke tucked fur throws about them both. At the Meriton townhouse he helped them to descend and by unspoken silent agreement he half-carried, half-led the weakening, feverish woman up the stairs and into the hands of her efficient dresser while Cecilia trailed helplessly behind.

In a shaky voice Cecilia offered her gratitude. "Truthfully, I am not much good with illness," she said apologetically.

A touch of his normal humor returned to his gold-flecked eyes. "Those who are rarely ill, seldom are."

She flushed, but refused to be drawn into another argument with him. "It is a wet, cold night. Would you care for a glass of port or something before you go back out into it?"

"Thank you, but no. As you say, it is a wet, cold night, and I do not care to leave my men and horses standing in it. Goodnight, Mrs. Waddley."

"Goodnight," she murmured, watching him leave.

Cecilia plumped the bed pillows behind Lady Meriton, then solicitously urged her aunt to lay back against them. Even after a night's rest, her aunt was no better, perhaps worse, She pulled up the counterpane, tucking it warmly about Jessamine while smoothing out the wrinkles.

"Isn't that more comfortable? Here, let me place this tray on your lap. I've prepared a special medicinal tea with honey from one of Great Aunt Martha's old recipes. It will help you breathe easier and soothe that raw throat," she said coaxingly.

"Thank you," rasped her aunt, carefully balancing the tray. Shaky hands grasped the cup and guided it to her mouth. She cautiously sipped the steaming drink. "It is good!" she exclaimed.

She quickly handed it back to Cecilia as a coughing spasm shook her frame. When she finished, her voice was husky, but clearer. "You shouldn't be here, my dear. I don't like you risking infection."

"Stuff and nonsense," returned Cecilia briskly, handing her back the cup. She watched as her aunt sipped more of the hot liquid. "You know as well as I that for all my counterfeiting, I don't have a sickly constitution."

"And I do? Illness is foreign to my nature as well, but ill I am." She set the cup down on the tray and absently plucked at her coverings. "It makes me terribly mawkish to be so low. And today I expect a load of Oastley ale to arrive. It needs to be locked away in the cellar lest it be consumed too readily by the servants. Can you see to it, Cecilia? My chatelaine is on that table," she said, pointing to a burl wood sideboard.

Cecilia crossed the room to pick up the key ring. "What is this key to?" she asked, singling out an especially large brass key.

Lady Meriton sneezed. "That's to Cheney House. Mother insists I have a key. It is her way of subtly reminding Randolph that though he lives there, Cheney House is not yet his."

"A wasted effort." Cecilia crossed back to her aunt's bedside. "Randolph needs to be cracked over the head. Subtlety is useless."

Lady Meriton's laugh ended in another coughing spasm. She collapsed back against the pillows. "I am not good company for you, my dear. It would make me feel better to see you get out in the fresh air. Perhaps you could find me a new novel at Hatchard's or Bell's?"

Cecilia laughed and sat down on the edge of the bed. "All right, I promise I shall leave you to the tender mercies of the servants this afternoon; but I shan't change my mind about attending Lady Orrick's gathering this evening."

"Cecilia, please go. I'm sure one of your callers would be only too happy to escort you."

"There you are mistaken, for it is my understanding they have plans for the evening."

"Plans? Is there a card party planned, or some debauchery?" Lady Meriton suggested with a laugh.

"Neither. I have it on the best authority that they are rehearsing a play."

Lady Meriton groaned. "Do not tell me Sir Elsdon is organizing another of his amateur theatricals?"

"Yes, and I understand this play is one Sir Elsdon wrote himself",

"Oh, no!" exclaimed Lady Meriton, torn between laughter and exasperation.

"I think you have the better of me and know something I don't. Has he written other plays before this?"

"Not exactly, but I do remember a ghastly rewrite he did of a Shakespeare play two or three years ago. All who saw it were shocked, and a trifle angered. Fortunately we were all kept laughing too much for there to be lasting malice."

"I don't think I've heard this tale. Please, tell me more! It may serve to prepare me for whatever he has in store for his audience. We have already received invitations, the first issued, I understand." She refilled her aunt's cup from the china pot then moved the tray onto a bedside table.

"It was a parody of sorts, though Sir Elsdon swore we were maligning him greatly to consider it such."

"What did he do, make a comedy out of
Hamlet
?"

"No, nothing so broad as that. He rewrote
King Richard III
, making that beastly king seem saintly and divinely led."

"Gracious! A Herculean effort! How successful was his interpretation?"

Lady Meriton rolled her eyes. "It was a bit much to accept, though it was all done with verve. Some characters were pricelessly drawn. The two murderers were wonderful, but there, I'll admit he didn't alter the play drastically. Now that I consider it, I believe Randolph played one of them."

Talkers are no good doers.

The line echoed in the passageways of her mind. It was the line Mr. Waddley recorded in his journal. It was the line Randolph tossed off at Lady Amblethorp’s musicale. It was a line from
King Richard III
!

"Cecilia, are you certain you are feeling well? You're looking terribly pale," worried Lady Meriton.

"What? No, I assure you, I'm fine. I'm afraid my mind was wandering, trying to recall what I could of the play. It will be interesting to see what Sir Elsdon has devised for his new theatrical. Were Mr. Rippy and Lord Havelock in that earlier production as well?"

Her aunt nodded. "Lord Havelock played Buckingham and Mr. Rippy, along with Randolph, bounded on and off stage in several different guises. It seemed to have a cast of thousands, and a very socially mixed lot it was, too. But that's common for any of the plays he decides to produce. This is an annual event with him, and has quite become a favorite with the ton."

"I never knew any of this! I mean, we all are familiar with Sir Elsdon's penchant for spouting lines from plays, but I didn't realize he was so enamored with the stage."

"Dear me, yes, it has been suggested that he could out-Kean Mr. Kean. That is sheer nonsense of course. No one can match the great Mr. Edmund Kean! Nonetheless, that gives you an idea of the degree of seriousness with which he approaches acting."

"Yes, indeed. Well, you've talked long enough. It's not good for your throat to do so much talking. Why don't you try to rest now, and when you wake I'll have a new novel for you."

Lady Meriton reached out to squeeze Cecilia's hand. "You are such a comfort to me while Meriton is out of the country. I'm so glad I have you with me."

"I'm glad to be here, too," she assured her.

She stood up and removed the cup from her aunt's hand, setting it on the tray then she pulled the blankets up farther on Jessamine's shoulder. "Now to sleep."

Lady Meriton nodded and turned on her side, her eyes already heavy.

Cecilia picked up the tray and carried it out of the room. Seeing Lady Meriton's dresser approaching her, she absently handed the tray to the woman. She restlessly tossed the chatelaine into the air two or three times, her mind analyzing possibilities and plots. She hurried down the stairs to the library to hopefully find a collection of Shakespeare's works that included
King Richard III
.

The chilling rain of the previous night had blown through London leaving the air fresh and clean though unseasonably colder. Cecilia, dressed in a warm, lavender wool gown topped by a russet spencer and thrust her hands deeply into her fur muff when she set out for Hatchard’s. In deference to her aunt, she was accompanied by Sarah, now officially raised to the status of lady's maid, and the two traveled via the Meriton carriage. Cecilia would have preferred walking briskly; but she knew that would not be in keeping with her public persona. She was beginning to chafe at the creation she made, and its attendant limitations. Nonetheless, she had high hopes her quest was nearing its end and she could quietly retire from society and be the person she wanted to be. Not that she was too sure who that person was. She only knew it wasn't the flighty, silly widgeon of London repute. She was also beginning to think it wasn't the retiring country widow. What, or who, was left in the gulf between troubled her.

She looked out the window as the carriage clattered round a corner. Until recently, that was how she viewed life, through a carriage window. Protected from the elements and from her fellowman. She sighed. She'd been an onlooker at life for five and twenty years. That was not how she wished to spend the next five and twenty years. Her dreams of bringing Mr. Waddley's murderer to book served as a catalyst. Now she was uncertain as to the final result.

This business with the play troubled her. It hinted at an evil madness. While it was true that the real King Richard III had been partially vindicated by history of the crimes claimed by Sir Thomas More and through him, Mr. Shakespeare, the fact that the play was used to perpetuate, and perhaps rationalize, crime, worried her. There was a sordidness to it. A joke gone awry, as Jessamine said Sir Elsdon's production had gone.

Did Sir Elsdon see himself as Richard? Did he possess that Machiavellian nature shown to such successful advantage in the play? Or was he yet another pawn?

She withdrew a kid-gloved hand from her muff and rubbed her throbbing temples. She'd not been prevaricating when she told Sir Branstoke that headaches plagued her. They were headaches of worry and uncertainty.

She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply, and letting her breath out slowly. She didn't open her eyes again until she felt the carriage stop and the footman jump down to open the door.

"Please, allow me." It was the measured deep tones of Lord Havelock. His tall frame stood at the door, a graceful white hand held out to her.

"Lord Havelock!"

"Mrs. Waddley," he returned with a bow.

"I mean, what a surprise meeting you here today! Such a coincidence and in my time of need," she said quickly as she placed her gloved hand in his as she stepped down from the carriage.

He raised a dark eyebrow, his lips lifting slightly in unvoiced question. "Ah, then I take it you have not come to Hatchard’s to see the most recent scurrilous cartoons created at our dear regent's expense?"

She laughed, "No, not at all, but I confess a curiosity to see the latest."

"A sad business, but come and see," he said, leading her toward the press of people about the window.

Skillfully he threaded her through the crowd until she was in front of the window where several cartoons were displayed. They were lampoons against Prinny and showed Princess Caro-line as the innocent victim.

"I swear, they are more comical against her for what she is not!" she blurted out, then hastily bit her lip. "Though I'm not certain I really understand them," she amended, looking up wide-eyed at Lord Havelock.

A puzzled expression flew across that gentleman's features.

"Do you think we might go in now?” she asked quickly. “It is so dreadfully cold out here. So easy to take a chill. Lady Meriton has one, you know, a chill that is. She is feeling low, so I've promised to find her a new novel to read. Can you recommend one, my lord?" she prattled, looking up at him guilelessly, damning her thoughtless comment. Curiosity about her was not what she wanted to raise.

He shrugged slightly. "Of course, Madame. I believe there are one or two new novels on the shelves, most likely written anonymously by
A Lady
or
A Gentleman
."

"I do so love novels! Everyone in them is full of good health and wit. It fatigues me just to contemplate how anyone could devise such stories, let alone take the time to write them out! I cannot understand why they would wish anonymity," she said.

"I understand that sometimes their characters are drawn from life and often not sympathetically, Their real-life models take offense," he explained as he steered her around a bin of maps.

"Oh. Is that why Sir Elsdon's version of
King Richard III
was not popular? Did he do that?"

He looked down at her, frowning. "What do you know of that?"

She shrugged. "Nothing really. Only that he rewrote some of it and that his changes were not looked upon with favor. Aunt Jessamine told me about it when we were discussing Sir Elsdon's upcoming production." She clapped her hands together, lacing the fingers tight. "She said Randolph played one of the murderers of the princes. I should have loved to see that. I can't imagine Randolph as a murderer, can you? Oh, that's a silly question. Of course you can. You were in the play too, she said, as Buckingham."

"A traitor's traitor," said Randolph, coming up behind them.

Cecilia turned around quickly and reached out to touch her brother’s arm. "Oh, I'm so glad to see you, Randolph. I’ve wanted to apologize for being so snappish at Oastley."

Lord Havelock bowed, leaving them to the private discourse. She smiled her appreciation.

"Eh?" Randolph looked at her in surprise. "What? Oh, that's quite all right, little sister. But you know, you could stand to listen to your brother now and again, especially as father is still off looking for cures for dropsy." He led her to an isolated bin of prints. Sarah followed behind them.

"Yes, I know, Randolph," she said humbly, her eyes downcast and her tongue set firmly between her teeth.

"You here without that dragon aunt of ours?"

Her eyes flashed upward then away as she recalled her supposed newfound humility. "She has been very nice to me. I don't like you talking of her so," she said, her gaze sliding to meet his. "Besides, she's sick, quite done up, poor thing. I know exactly how it is, too. I promised her I'd find her the latest novel to read."