The Waylaid Heart (21 page)

He raised an eyebrow in mute inquiry.

"Fish, tar, and rotting timber," she said with a smile.

He nodded in wry understanding then uncrossed his foot and strode to the drink cabinet to pour a glass for himself. "What about this journal you mentioned?" he said over his shoulder. "It is that, I gather, which set you to investigating your own brother?"

"Yes. Though I still find it difficult to believe him capable of murder, I do believe he is involved. The journal mentions business meetings with someone he calls 'H'."

"Haukstrom."

"So I believe. Mr. Waddley also wrote down what he believed to be a code phrase of some kind.
Talkers are no good doers
." He looked at her quizzically. "Isn't that from a play?"

She nodded. "
King Richard III
. I confess I didn't tumble to it until today, when I learned Randolph played the part of one of the murderers who speaks that line in a production Sir Elsdon did a few years ago."

He crossed his arms over his chest as he considered her story. "On the basis of circumstantial evidence, it would appear your brother is involved. But I agree with you. I do not believe Haukstrom has the stomach for murder."

"What I can't understand is how Mr. Thornbridge went from investigating my brother to searching out information on disappearing prostitutes."

"I believe I do. There has also been a Select Committee of the House of Commons set up this year to investigate incidents of this nature, though I believe they center their interest on the growing number of flash houses. They do not—or will not—broaden their area of inquiry to instances of white slavery."

"White slavery?"

"Yes, the capture and exportation of young English women to appease foreign appetites."

"Oh," Cecilia said in a small voice.

"I understand their favored quarries are blonds and redheads. Most of them come from the lower classes. Some kidnapped, some purchased from their parents. For a particular wealthy client, they may procure children or kidnap the daughters of the middle and upper classes. A girl from a titled family is worth a king's ransom."

Cecilia blanched, her eyes wide. She took a large sip of brandy, coughing as it burned its way down her throat. Branstoke strode over to her chair and leaned over her, a hand clasping either chair arm, holding her in place. On his face was a mask of dark emotion.

"This is the nature of the dragon you so blithely chase! It is larger, fiercer, and uglier than you can imagine. Verily, it comes from the deepest, blackest, caverns of hell!" He reached up to finger a lock of her pale blond hair. "And you are his favorite meal," he finished softly.

She shivered and pulled her head back until her hair fell from his fingers. "And Randolph is involved with it?"

He didn't say anything, but looked at her steadily.

She took a deep breath and nodded, then closed her eyes as pain shot through her. When she opened them her eyes were glistening. "Please," she whispered, "take me home now."

It was just before dawn, that coldest and darkest hour before the rising sun, when Sir Branstoke escorted a subdued Cecilia back to the Meriton townhouse. They didn't speak; too many words had already been spoken. There wasn't anything more to say that wouldn't lead to further distress and possible self-recrimination.

Though Cecilia and Jessamine joked about the skeletons in the family closet, never would they have imagined the depth of depravity to which Randolph had sunk. Cecilia felt unclean, as if by her relationship to Randolph she was somehow involved and responsible. She didn't know how to tell Jessamine, or if she even should. It was with a heavy heart she looked up at Branstoke to silently extend her thanks.

He looked at her face, so frail and pinched in appearance, and nodded in understanding, his own expression grim. He watched her safely enter the house before he turned to leave.

Cecilia threw the bolts home with relief and leaned back against the heavy entrance door. She looked about the hall with dim night vision and felt some of the ichors drain out of her. She was home. She was safe. Clutching the dressing case tightly to her chest, she made her weary way upstairs to her room.

Too tired to examine her small hoard from Cheney House, she opened a trunk in the corner of the room where many of her widow's clothes were stored. Lifting several tissue-wrapped bundles aside, she laid the dressing case in the trunk along with the papers she'd stuffed in her pockets. Then she hurriedly undressed and, shivering with cold, she laid Franklin's clothes in the trunk, carefully covering them with her widow's weeds.

She made her way to the bed and slipped the waiting nightdress over her head before collapsing on the big, wide bed. Pulling the heavy comforter over her shoulder, she sighed deeply, letting tense muscles find release. She was asleep, cradled in deep, exhausted slumber, in moments.

It was the rattling of china that woke her. She reluctantly opened her eyes. "Sarah, is that you?" she mumbled, struggling to raise herself on one elbow. "What time is it?"

"Yes, ma'am. It just wants ten o'clock. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you, ma'am. I thought you'd be awake by now."

"That's all right, Sarah. I should have been. What have you got there? Breakfast? Bring it here."

"Yes, ma'am." She laid the tray on Cecilia's lap then arranged the bed pillows behind her. "Lady Meriton is still sick, but not quite so pulled by it now, I think. Leastwise she was in good spirits when I took her tray to her. She'd like you to visit when you're dressed."

"Of course. I don't mean to be confined to my bed."

"Lord knows, ma'am, you've seen enough of that!"

Cecilia's lips twitched with humor. At least it appeared her deception was still firm with the servants. "I agree." She raised her chocolate cup up in salute. "Here's to good health. Sarah, would you be a dear and lay out my blue floral?"

"Certainly, ma'am. And ma'am, I could fix your hair too, I could," she said eagerly. "Just like I did at Oastley."

Cecilia looked at her shrewdly. "I believe, Sarah, you've settled in nicely to being a lady's maid."

The young woman blushed.

She laughed. "Do not be embarrassed, my dear. I don't know what I would have done without you."

"Thank you, ma'am," she said and happily went to the wardrobe.

Cecilia watched her over the rim of her cup. It served her purposes well for Sarah to do for her. Lady Meriton's woman possessed an eagle's eye for worry or fatigue, and with the arrogance of long-standing family retainers, she asked too many questions.

Cecilia turned her head to stare at the trunk in the corner. She'd slept overlong. Its secrets would have to wait. Now she must see to her aunt's well-being and prepare for whatever visitors might come by to inquire of her health.

She made her visit to Jessamine as quickly as she could; but still it was past noon when she quit the room only to be informed Sir Elsdon was below. She found him standing in front of the parlor windows staring into the street.

"Sir Elsdon?"

"Ah—your pardon, Mrs. Waddley. I was wool-gathering, I'm afraid. Reviewing my play in my head, contemplating improvements."

"We received your kind invitation early this morning. Thank you. I didn't realize you were quite so talented. But surely you're not planning any changes now. Isn't the performance scheduled for this Sunday evening?" she asked while gesturing toward a chair. She sat on the sofa at a right angle to the chair.

"Yes," he said, flipping the tails of his coat up before he sat down. "But I do not let that consideration stand in my way. Rather it is an incentive! This is my first entirely original play."

"So I understand. What is it about?"

"Ah—now that I wish to be a surprise to all the ton. I've sworn my players to secret as well."

"With your interest in the theater, it is unfortunate you could not take to the boards professionally."

"Yes, the sad fact of my position at birth. I am convinced that had I been born a lesser man, I would have been a greater man," he said whimsically.

Cecilia laughed as she felt cued, yet nonetheless, she thought she detected a bitter ring of truth to his words.

"I understand Lady Meriton is still not feeling up to snuff?"

"That is true, though when I left her this morning she looked much improved. I quite had the feeling I no longer have to run from her in fear of infection," she said lightly.

"Yes, I understand you must guard your health preciously."

She looked down at her hands. "That has been the case until recently. I hope the good health I have enjoyed as of late remains."

"As do I, Mrs. Waddley, as do I. Randolph tells me you were not sickly in youth, so perhaps it was only the strain of your husband's death which injured your good health."

"That is a thought I share."

"I do hope Lady Meriton will be well enough to attend our play on Sunday."

"As do we," Cecilia said honestly.

"Speaking of Randolph, did you know his house was broken into last night?" Elsdon said lightly.

Cecilia's head flew up, her eyes wide. "What?"

"Yes, someone broke into the house. Don't know how they got in, but they escaped by lowering themselves out a window."

"I'm shocked! Did—did they catch the person?"

"No. Randolph came home drunk and scared them off."

"Them? There was more than one?"

"Reggie says he saw two running down the streets, but as he was nearly as foxed as Randolph, he may have been seeing double."

"Was—was anything taken?"

"Not much, some papers and a few trinkets. They probably surprised them by coming in early. They came in before midnight, you see."

"Excuse me, Mrs. Waddley, but the Honorable Mr. Reginald Rippy is below. Shall I send him up?" Loudon asked from the doorway. By his frosty manner Cecilia could tell the butler was on his high ropes. She wondered if his anger was directed toward her for seeing gentlemen unchaperoned, or toward the gentlemen who were calling. Remembering his laxity with Sir Branstoke, she decided the latter.

"You may send him up, Loudon."

"I knew having you to myself was too good to be true for long."

Cecilia laughed. "And are you a greedy man, Sir Elsdon?"

"Very," he replied curtly, much to her surprise. Then he flashed her a broad smile that lit his face, and she thought she must be mistaken. He rose from his chair. "But Rippy is my friend and I know he feels to a disadvantage, so I will say my good-byes and gracefully give him the field."

She made a moue of dissatisfaction. He laughed and chucked her under the chin as the door opened to admit Mr. Rippy.

"I knew it," moaned that unfortunate gentleman. "I'm to be cut out again."

Cecilia laughed and rose to her feet. "Nonsense, sir. I believe I am merely learning what it is to be an outrageous flirt."

"Never say so, ma'am," protested Mr. Rippy.

Cecilia and Sir Elsdon laughed, then Elsdon turned, executed an elegant bow and bid them both good day. "And do not be more of a fool that you can help, my friend," he counseled Rippy, patting him heartily on the back as he passed.

Mr. Rippy's lips twisted downward into a pout. Observing his discomfort, Cecilia stifled a laugh and urged him to take the seat vacated by Sir Elsdon. Her glance fell to the bouquet in his hand. "Are those for me?"

"0h, yes," he stumbled, handing them to her with a blush surging to his hairline. "And—and I met some grubby little boy outside who was staring up at the house. He asked I give you this." He pulled a smudged and dirty cream bond envelope from his pocket and handed it to her.

"To me?" She turned it over. It was addressed to her with no other mark or seal upon it. "Did you know who it was, or who sent him?"

"No, for as soon as it went from his hand to mine he was off like the law were at his heels. And by the look of the grubby little brat, I'll wager the law's often after him, too. Please, don't stand on points with me. You'd better read it now. Might be important."

Cecilia shot him a look of warm thanks. He bristled and beamed in return. Quickly she opened the missive. The message was short, without salutation or signature and written with a well formed hand:

Don't question. Sell Waddley's.

And don't look back lest you be Lot's wife. Another man's palatable spice.

A puzzled frown furrowed her brow.

"Not bad news, I hope," said Mr. Rippy, uncertainty edging his tone.

"No, not exactly." She laughed. "I'm not quite sure what it is. I think I'm being confused with someone else."

"Happens. Wouldn't think they'd have your name though."

"I don't know," she said, refolding the letter and setting it on the table next to her. She smiled up at him. "But I do not wish to ponder it now. It would just give me a plaguey headache. So, tell me about this play you're in."

"Can't do that. Sworn to secrecy."

Cecilia laughed. "I was told so by Sir Elsdon, but I didn't believe he was serious!"

"Too serious. Don't know why. About the secrecy, that is. But that's what he wants."

"And you'll honor his wishes."

"Gave my word of honor. Man can't go back on his word of honor. What would this world be? Besides, he's pulled me out of some dashed uncomfortable scrapes. Do anything for a friend, would Elsdon. Kind of flighty in the cockloft sometimes, about acting and all. Decent fellow, though. There when the chips are down."

"Gracious, what an encomium!"

Mr. Rippy squirmed uncomfortably. "Now I've gone and done it. Praisin' him when I should be doing my best to cut him out," he said morosely.

Cecilia laughed and reached out to pat his hand reassuringly when the door opened to admit Sir James Branstoke. She drew back and glared up at him.

He strolled lazily into the room. "I told Loudon I would see myself up."

"I do not understand why Loudon should be lost to all propriety where you are concerned."

"We understand each other," he drawled, sitting next to her on the sofa. He nodded politely in Mr. Rippy's direction. "Don't you have a rehearsal or something to go to?"

"I do not believe Mrs. Waddley welcomes your appearance here. I suggest that you leave," said Mr. Rippy.

"On the contrary, Mrs. Waddley and I have an understanding. Why else would Lady Meriton's butler allow me free reign of the house?"

"Sir James!" warned Cecilia in dire accents.

"See, she uses my Christian name," Branstoke said pleasantly.

Cecilia ground her teeth at being caught out so and glared daggers at him.

Mr. Rippy rose, his face bright red. "I was on the point of leaving anyway. My regards to Lady Meriton, please." He bowed jerkily and left the room.

"How dare you?" Cecilia asked, her blue eyes dark as lapis.

"We need to talk and we did not need that puppy around to broadcast our conversation."

"So you don't think he'll broadcast the idea that we have an understanding?"

"On the contrary. I'm hoping he will. It may help to save your life. Have you examined those trinkets and papers you filched from your brother?"

"No. I awoke too late and after visiting with Jessamine have had nothing but visitors. But this came in with Mr. Rippy," she said grudgingly, pointing to the note on the table. "He claimed an urchin gave it to him to deliver to me."

Branstoke unfolded the note and read the contents, his brows pulling together and his lips thinning. " Things are more serious than I'd anticipated. Cecilia, I suggest you get your things packed and depart for an extended visit to your grandparents, or—perhaps better—I have a small estate near the lake district. You should be safe enough there."

"I am not going anywhere! And I'll thank you to stop trying to run my life for me."

"Don't you know what this note means? Lot's wife turned to a pillar of salt, a popular spice. It is obvious that whoever sent this intends to kidnap you for his brand of spice trade."

"Yes, I know that. That does not alter my decision. I owe it to Mr. Waddley to pursue this matter to the end."

"Did you love him so much?" he asked.

"Love him?" she looked confused. "No, no, but he was a good man, he was good to me. Really he was. He was gentle and—and treated me like a queen," she said

A sheen of perspiration glowed on her brow. She plucked her handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her forehead. She stood up and paced the room, wringing the handkerchief in her hands. "He talked to me of business, and people. He treated me well. He was not a demanding man either. He treated me special!"

Branstoke watched her, a hooded, preying expression to his eyes. "I've never heard you address him by his Christian name," he said softly.

"Nonsense. What a silly notion to take. You've not been listening, I'm sure. George was his name. George Waddley," she said, halting in her pacing, her hands fluttering wildly. "Lord and Master Waddley. If it wasn't for him, I'd be a charity case. Now I'm a wealthy widow. He was good to me. Really he was,” she insisted, her voice rising. “And—and—and I hated him!" she yelled, bursting into tears. "I hated him," she whimpered. She sagged against a burl table then sank to the floor, tears flowing down her cheeks.