The Waylaid Heart (6 page)

She bit her lip as again the odd fluttering assailed her. She rose from the sofa to pace the room, as if trying to outrun the butterflies. What was it about the man? Was it possible that she could be following the wrong lead in pursuing her brother and his associates? Could Sir James Branstoke be the key she searched for and dreamed to find? What did she know about him? What did anyone know about him? He was as enigmatic in personality as was his lazy, devastating smile.

"Jessamine, how long have you known Sir Branstoke?" Cecilia Waddley casually asked as she paced back and forth across her aunt's small, private parlor.

"What's that, dear?" Lady Meriton shuffled through a sheaf of papers lying on a small ebony and gilt writing desk, a thoughtful, distracted frown pulling down the corners of her pale lips.

Cecilia paused in her restless pacing. She stared, unfocused, as she wrestled with herself. She swung around to face her aunt. "I was just wondering how long you've known Sir Branstoke?" she said slowly, with thin lightness.

Lady Meriton pushed her glasses up her nose as she looked at her niece. "I don't really know. Three or four years, I suppose—no, it's three years since he sold out—"

"Sold out? He was in the military?"

"Oh, dear me, yes. In the Peninsular campaign, like Sheridan. He's been on the town since he returned. I vaguely recall meeting him earlier; however, I cannot place when. Is it important?"

"Yes—I mean, no!" Cecilia compressed her lips. "I'm just curious. He seems to know everyone and to be invited everywhere."

"That's true enough. He is a perfect guest, and just the ticket for rounding out numbers for dinner. Particularly at those occasions where the company is dreadfully mixed and one despairs of success. He possesses excellent address, wit, and a decent if not sizable fortune. Though he is often dry and given to sarcasm, he is never arrogant. That is a trait I find too deplorably common these days in the legions of men-about-town."

"A pattern card of virtue!"

Lady Meriton laughed, laying down her quill. "Hardly. He is far too enigmatic for perfection. If it were not for his wit, the man would be a dry stick. No doubt that will be his old age fate. But why all this sudden interest in Sir Branstoke?"

Cecilia shrugged. "Curiosity," she said lightly.

Restlessly, she crossed to the small sofa and sat down. She fumbled in her work basket on the floor, drawing out a needlepoint seat cover with a developing brick and gold Etruscan key design. She was not a dab hand at artistic needlework, needlepoint being her singular accomplishment. For her it was a soothing accomplishment, something for when her mind ran steadily and relentlessly on like one of those new steam engines. The seat cover was one of four destined for the chairs around the card table in the drawing room.

"I saw him last night at the opera," Cecilia said, her needle plunging rapidly back and forth through the canvas, keeping pace with her thoughts.

"Who?" her aunt asked absently as she dipped her quill in ink.

"Jessamine! Sir Branstoke, of course, who else have we been discussing?"

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize we were still discussing him." Looking up from her needlework, Cecilia threw Jessamine a disgusted look, drawing an answering smile from her aunt.

"I found the gentleman's behavior quite odd," Cecilia explained, "particularly for a man who is reputed to be so languid."

"Cecilia, my love, have your wits gone a-begging? This is Sir James Branstoke we're speaking of. What could he possibly have done to rouse your suspicions? Sir James Branstoke is one of the most polite and courteous men of this generation."

"I don't say he isn't. But that is precisely the point. Don't you see? He is too perfect. It's—it's unnatural, that's what it is."

"Cecilia, I'm surprised at you," chastised Lady Meriton.

Her niece fidgeted. "I suspect he is merely acting in order to cover something else."

"And what would that be?"

"I don't know," she admitted. She pursed her lips, sliding a glance at her aunt. "But I am beginning to suspect some involvement on his part in Mr. Waddley's death."

"Sir Branstoke!" Lady Meriton swiftly rose from her seat by the desk and crossed to her niece's side, laying a cool hand on her brow. "You do not feel feverish. Odd. I was certain you must be to suggest such a thing."

Cecilia captured her aunt's wrist. "Jessamine. There has to be some logical explanation to the gentleman's attentions. Heaven knows I've worked hard enough to present an image of undesirability with a coterie of illnesses. There is no reason for a man of Sir Branstoke's ilk to pay the slightest attention to me."

Her grip on her aunt's arm loosened, then fell away.

Surreptitiously, Lady Meriton began massaging that maltreated member. "I'll own it is odd. But he has always been a unique man, a style unto himself'

"Well, I hope he doesn't intend to adopt me as his latest flirt. It could be difficult then to make acquaintances in Randolph's crowd. From my observation, they operate in different orbs."

"Very true! Though the odd thing about Sir Branstoke is that he is readily accepted everywhere, and by every group and type of people. Around politicos, those interested in furthering the arts and letters, those who are science minded—even the evangelicals! Why, on the list of prospective guests for mama's upcoming house party, he was among the first names she wrote!"

"What house party?"

Lady Meriton sighed. "I knew you were not attending me at breakfast this morning. I told you that last night I received a long letter from mother. In summary, instead of coming to London this season, they wish London to come to them. She and father are planning a three-day house party culminating in a large ball to which the world, it appears, is to be invited."

"At Oastley Hall?"

"Where else? There are to be at least thirty to forty people for the first two nights, and I would fain not guess at the numbers for the ball."

"Gracious!"

"Most of the invitations went out yesterday. Mama left a few gaps in her invitation list that she wishes me to fill based on who is new and interesting this season. A harder request I've never had."

"May I see the list?"

"Of course. And if you can offer any suggestions, I'll certainly be appreciative. It appears the list is short on younger single men. I don't believe the young women on this list would appreciate the aged roués who number as father's friends."

Cecilia studied the list in silence for a moment, then a broad grin showed small pearl-white teeth. "This is a perfect opportunity for us to do a little more investigation."

"I don't trust that look in your eyes, Cecilia. What deviltry are you planning?"

"No deviltry, just an opportunity to bring together a group of possible suspects and do a little eavesdropping and snooping. Oh, don't look at me like that, Jessamine. Last evening I realized I need to become better acquainted with Randolph's cronies. But how can I do so under normal social circumstances? A house party where we are all thrown together is perfect! We shall round out Grandmama's list with friends of Randolph's."

"Do you think they'd come?"

"Naturally. If not for the company, though the Duke of Houghton still carries a certain cachet, then at least for the opportunity to drink endless amounts of Oastley ale."

"I don't believe it was ever mama's intention to invite Randolph's friends. She thinks they're all as ramshackle as Randolph and therefore bad influences upon him."

"They are. But if there are people she doesn't want invited, she should tell you, or do the entire list herself."

Lady Meriton looked doubtful. Cecilia took one of her hands in both of hers. "Look, I've realized that until this week I never actually saw any hope of discovering Mr. Waddley’s murderer. All my talk over the last few months has been merely a means of aiding my recovery from the shock of his death. I know that. Now, to suddenly be confronted with a possible avenue for investigation is a miracle! I can't let it go to waste, can I? Besides, what harm can it do to invite Randolph's friends? It would be far more volatile to invite my father!"

Lady Meriton smiled. "Though the Baron Haukstrom has mellowed with age, the Duke of Houghton has not."

"What the baron has mellowed with is dropsy," Cecilia said drily. "But to return to the invitation list, I must tell you Jessamine, I am as suspicious of Sir Branstoke as I am of Randolph, and Branstoke is already on the invitation list. What harm can it be to assemble the rest of the possible suspects together?"

"If they are suspects, which I very much doubt," Lady Meriton said repressively, though there was a thoughtful, considering expression on her face.

Cecilia shrugged and smiled. "Then allow this to be an opportunity for me to learn that," she said winningly.

Her aunt sighed, her lips compressed in a thin line as she considered Cecilia. She was silent a moment, then nodded shortly. "All right. I will have invitations sent out to Randolph's friends. Do you have any particular names in mind?" she asked, rising to cross to her desk.

"A few. I was hoping you could suggest others."

"I don't make any promises, but I'll see what we can do."

Cecilia smiled and it reached her eyes.

Lady Meriton was amazed at the brilliance reflected there. She decided whatever happened, it was worth it just to bring that light into Cecilia's expressive eyes.

In the end, they winnowed down the list of Randolph's cohorts to three names: The Honorable Reginald Rippy and Sir Harry Elsdon, both of whom were with Randolph after the opera; and Lord Havelock whose family's estate had burned to the ground some years past. There were, perhaps, one or two others of his cronies that he spent as much (if not more) time with; however, in correlating their lists, those three names were the only ones of his immediate circle who were in attendance at Lady Amblethorp's musicale. They were also, interestingly enough, the only ones that they agreed were likely to possess the moral turpitude for murder.

Afterward, Lady Meriton professed herself amazed at the number of gentlemen she considered capable of cold-blooded murder. It made her shiver just to consider it. In high dudgeon she wrote a letter to her husband relating that fact, and in agitated tones she importuned Lord Meriton to return to England at his earliest convenience. It was the most crossed and recrossed letter she'd ever written to her globe-trotting spouse, and one she nearly did not send. In the end, Loudon saw it conveyed to the mails and Lady Meriton heaved a sigh of relief. She'd finally told him of her niece's madcap schemes and therefore felt absolved of ultimate responsibility. Happily she returned to her paper and scissors, taking care to order from the stationers adequate supplies for her journey south to Oastley Hall.

As Cecilia anticipated, Randolph's friends were quick to respond to the invitation. Randolph nearly cried off, but his friends shamed him into attending. He grumbled and argued that Oastley was "a dashed dull dog of a place," but no one listened to him; after all, it was the home of the infamous Franklin Cheney, one time rumored highwayman and smuggler, now fourth Duke of Houghton.

Soon talk of the proposed house party dominated salon conversation throughout Mayfair, and Lady Iantha Cheney, the Duchess of Houghton, was moved to write an agitated letter to her daughter demanding to know what stories were being circulated about the proposed gathering. It seemed she was suddenly besieged with letters from people proclaiming long lost friendship and saying wouldn't it be nice to visit together. It was keeping her secretary busy devising imaginative delays. The duke, on the other hand, replied to any who had the effrontery to write him in a similar vein with the words, "
No, and be damned!
" As it was a response in keeping with this eccentric peer's personality, no offense was taken in any quarter.

Ultimately, thirty-eight guests would stay at Oastley, well within the bounds of the capabilities of the Cheney staff, some of whom were long time retainers who remembered the wild orgies held by the duke in his bachelor days. Those parties saw over one hundred young bucks and doxies in attendance. Of course, with that crowd private accommodations were not always necessary, nor private beds a requirement.

But those days were long past and the thirty-eight guests invited to stay at Oastley would fill the guests rooms nicely. On the night of the ball, with the addition of the surrounding gentry to the lists, the mansion would be filled to the rafters. As a consequence of the enormity of the party, Cecilia and Lady Meriton journeyed to Oastley three days before the invited guests in order to help oversee the final arrangements. They took with them Lady Meriton's dresser and Sarah, a young housemaid with aspirations to be a lady's maid.

Cecilia entered into the preparations with a verve that raised her grandmother's thin, aristocratic eyebrows and caused her grandfather to pound her on the back and bluffly proclaim he knew her various and sundry illnesses stemmed solely from inactivity. It was unfortunate his action coincided with her swallowing a small sip of sherry. It set her coughing and sputtering dreadfully, for which he glared at her and stumped away.

Nonetheless, it was with a feverish excitement that Cecilia met the first guests as their carriages pulled up before the estate. Anticipation sizzled through her veins. With her color high and a decided sparkle in her eyes, never had she looked prettier. The gown she wore was new for the occasion—ordered so by her grandmother—and designed to compliment her fair coloring. It featured twining spring flowers printed on a white ground and trimmed with rose-colored silk ribbons. Her shawl was of a deeper rose shade and edged with long tassels. In lieu of a lace cap, again by order of her grandmother, Cecilia's silver-blond locks were dressed high on her head, adding inches to her petite stature. A spray of artificial flowers, cunningly wrought to resemble the arrangement printed on her gown, was pinned among the pale curls. The overall effect of her attire was refreshingly spring like and elegant. Banished, by order of Lady Houghton, were the lavenders and grays of lingering mourning.