The Waylaid Heart (14 page)

"Who's client?" he demanded, following her.

"Hiram Peters. Says all his so-called client wants is the London operation."

"Cecilia! You are speaking disjointedly. Slow down, tell me everything from the beginning."

"He went so far as to say if I didn't agree to sell, his mysterious client has
other
methods of obtaining what he wants. Ha! We shall see about that!" she continued heatedly, ignoring his request.

"Confound it, woman," stormed Branstoke. He reached out, stopping her in mid-stride. A soft growl emanated from his throat as he yanked her toward him, his lips coming down on hers with a blazing intensity. There was fury, exasperation, and passion in his punishing kiss. The feelings it roused in Cecilia descended to her toes curled inside her satin slippers and ricocheted back up to the top of her head which tingled and threatened to float away.

Then the punishing pressure gave way to a sensuous investigation of her mouth and drifted up the side of her face to her temple. The kiss slowly ended with a faint, feather-light promise for the future. Cecilia mewed and sighed. He gently held her against him while he guided her to the sofa. She let him seat her with him beside her, before she came out of her sensuous haze. Her cheeks flushed pink. She bit her lip and looked away.

Long, tapered fingers reached out to cup her chin and turn her back to face him. A wry smile twisted his lips and the warmth of banked fires came from his rich golden brown eyes, but he was too much the gentleman to allow them to flame.

A shy nervousness overcame her. She glanced furtively at him then down to her hands in her lap where she was twisting her handkerchief tight. "I'm sorry, I was a bit overwrought, wasn't I?" she said tightly. "I must say, you do use unconventional methods, don't you?"

"Is that all it was, Cecilia?" he asked, his voice a whispered thread of sound that wound itself around her senses.

She laughed shrilly. "Of course. What else could it be? Your reputation is well known. You hunt but shun the kill."

"Perhaps I've only been waiting for the ultimate prey," he offered whimsically, his eyes echoing his smile.

"Yes, well, that may be the reason you haven't ended your hunt. But really, I—I don't think I could take to being merely an exercise," she said lamely, staring up at him with stricken, but determined, eyes.

He smiled gently at her. "You, my dear, are anything but an exercise."

Cecilia wasn't quite sure she understood his meaning. She fidgeted a moment, then rose to cross to the table at the other end of the sofa. She unstopped the bottle of lavender water and sprinkled more on her handkerchief. She was disconcerted to note a slight trembling in her hand. She touched the damp white muslin and lace to her forehead, cooling her fevered brow. Without looking toward Sir Branstoke, who was observing her carefully for all his sleepy, relaxed demeanor, she wandered slowly to the window and looked out onto the street below.

Shadows were lengthening. The bright promise of the spring morning had through the long day been devoured by thickening clouds and a freshening northern wind that reminded man and beast that winter was not far in the past. The barrow boys, milk women, and other denizens of the streets by day were wandering each to his home, be it hovel or house. Passing carriages clattered swiftly through the emptying streets, their lanterns rocking, and their coachmen all mufflered.

Why did it now resemble nothing so much as an alien landscape? Unfamiliar and frightening in aspect? Why was her own behavior more like a Billingsgate fishwife than that of someone suffering from various ills? Her chest rose and fell as she took deep breaths.

"I had not thought to be so shattered after my grandparent's house party. Now I find my thoughts fractured, my nerves sadly shaken." She turned to look back at Sir Branstoke and smiled wanly. "I cannot think your remedy for a person suffering from a nervous disorder to have been successful. If anything, it has left your patient in a sadder fashion."

"I don't believe that, Cecilia. And neither do you," he said softly.

"La! You don't know what a trial my fragile nerves are to me, how they set my heart beating in a frightening manner and make me feel faint all over," she said easily, her patter descending over her like a protective cloak.

"Cut line, Cecilia. That won't fadge," he said sharply.

She looked at him warily. He took a couple steps toward her, then stopped. "You may halt the silly, sickly female ploy. I know it is foreign to your nature. You may continue to maintain that image in front of others, if you like, but in front of me, I will have your true nature. Good day, Mrs. Waddley," he said softly, his face impassive as he made his bow.

Turning on his heel, he left her, never looking back, never seeing her hand come up beseechingly, asking for what her lips could not shape into words.

Lady Meriton found her later in a room gone dark with night and guttered candles. She was curled up in a corner of the rose-colored sofa, her satin slippers off, her feet curled under her. Her elbow rested on a sofa arm so her head might be cradled in her hand. She didn't look up when Jessamine entered, merely shifted her eyes and let out a deep sigh.

"Gracious! What has you suffering blue megrims?" Lady Meriton asked, bustling about with the tinderbox. "Oh, blast, I've never been a dab hand at this," she muttered, struggling to get a punk lit. When it flamed, she smiled, satisfied, and lit branches of candles. Soon the room was bathed in a warm, rosy glow. She blew out the punk, set it down in a tray, then crossed the room to sit at Cecilia's side.

"Well?" she asked.

"I beg your pardon, Jessamine, what did you say?"

Jessamine patter Cecilia’s hand. "What has you so dismal?" she asked.

"I've been contemplating stupidity, foolishness, and rash decisions."

"The universal concepts or do you have specifics in mind?" her aunt asked wryly.

Cecilia shook her head, a melancholy smile on her lips. "My own, of course." She sighed. "I've finally deduced my motivations for searching out Mr. Waddley's murderer. They are not pretty."

"One could hardly expect them to be all sunlight and roses, my dear."

A thin laugh escaped passed Cecilia's lips. "No, I suppose not, for murder is never pretty. But it is not the murder, per se, which compels me. It is more a search for identity which bears the strongest consideration. I have begun to feel that my life with Mr. Waddley was—well, it was stultifying. I existed like a doll in a shop window, or perhaps more accurately, like one of the animals at the Exeter Exchange. And while I've begun to feel that way, I also feel guilty for those sentiments. Mr. Waddley was a good man to me. Jessamine, it seems somehow, I don't know, evil perhaps, to even think that what I was fortunate enough to have was not enough." Cecilia gnawed on her lower lip, looking forlorn.

Lady Meriton smiled understandingly and wrapped her arm about her niece's shoulder in comfort. "It's Sir James Branstoke, isn't it?" she asked gently.

"What?" Cecilia's head flew up. She looked at her aunt, horror and hope mirrored in her deep blue eyes.

Lady Meriton laughed and leaned back on the sofa. "And I'll wager my best diamond studs that it's mutual. Though I'll own it is not what I'd have envisioned for you, I dare swear it will admirably serve."

"Jessamine, now you are being even more nonsensical than I!"

"Gammon," said Lady Meriton, serenely. Then she sobered and sat straight on the sofa, taking Cecilia's hands in both of. hers. "It is not disloyalty to Mr. Waddley for you to seek the chance for a better life. You were happy before because you did not know what you were missing. Except for shopping jaunts or opera expeditions, you might as well say you were living as cloistered as a nun. Now you are free of that stuffy convent; free to see more, to feel more, to experience more. Cecilia, you are free to fall in love. Don't be afraid of that, whether it be Sir Branstoke or someone else. Don't live in the past. It's not necessary nor wise, and you, my dear, have a store of innate wisdom. Follow it."

Cecilia's eyes blurred as she listened to her aunt. When she finished, Cecilia gave a watery chuckle. "All right, I hear you and I will try to take your words to heart. But how did you get to be so wise?" she teased, pulling a handkerchief out of her sleeve and dabbing her eyes with it.

"Age, my dear, merely age."

"Oh, pooh! I must tell you, however, that while I will admit to developing a warm regard for Sir Branstoke, I will not agree that his emotions are likewise engaged. He is a hunter interested only in the thrill of the chase. He is not in it for the kill, let alone its denouement."

Lady Meriton cocked her head to the side. "Um-m-m, we shall see," she said, smiling slightly. "Come upstairs with me and throw some cool water on your face, change your clothes and fix your hair and you'll feel much better. Then we'll have a quiet dinner and a comfortable gossip about all that happened at Oastley," she said, rising to her feet and pulling Cecilia up with her.

Cecilia came willingly, even laughingly. "All right, all right, I believe I have received your message. No moping allowed."

"Perfect. Come along," she said, tucking her arm in Cecilia's. She drew her close to her side. "Did you hear what the under-housemaid found in Lord Bourqoin's chamber . . ."

Not so much as the creak of a stair nor the nay of a horse betrayed the intruder. He silently lifted the wooden latch to the groom's chamber and slithered inside, keeping well into the shadows until he knew the layout of the small room. Stealthily he crossed a moonlit swath to stand beside the snoring sleeper. He prodded the man with the cudgel he held. His victim murmured and turned in his sleep. Disgusted, he prodded him harder. The man woke with a start, thrashing, and emitting a quickly muffled yelp.

"Snabble it!" hissed the intruder, his hand pressed hard against the man's mouth.

The groom blinked, his eyes wide. He nodded as best he could against the unrelenting pressure of the hand against his lips, his eyes watching the raised, threatening cudgel.

"Yer soft, Romley. Yer shouldn't be taken by surprise like that. Gots t'sleep with one eye cocked if yer want t'see yer old age," advised his visitor, removing his hand and lowering the raised club. He settled on the edge of the bed.

"What do you want, Hewitt?" growled Romley, embarrassment feeding belligerence.

"Why, t'see his nibs, o'course. The house is all shut tight, or else I'd a taken myself on in," he explained congenially, his grin looking like a death's head grimace in the waning moonlight. "As it is, I need yer fiz to get me past his people."

"At this hour?"

Hewitt grabbed Romley by the collar and hauled him up. He was a small wiry man with a sinewy strength belied by his stature. Romley was surprised at how easily he was lifted. His respect went up a notch and he bit back a particularly vulgar epithet.

"Now see here, laddie, I wouldn't be here if it worn't for this little job his nibs give me. Showing my fiz in these parts ain't too healthy. Get me in t'see him, now. And I don't care if he's beddin' a baker's dozen. I gots to see him."

"All right, all right. Jest let me get me clothes on," said Romley, fumbling with the bedcovers. He hurriedly dressed, his eyes darting to his visitor. Ugly enough in the light of day, in moonlight and shadows Dabney Hewitt was a ghoulish figure. He seemed perfectly at ease now, but Romley knew only something very important would have brought him here. That was one of the conditions he strongly stressed when Rowley met him at the Pye-Eyed Cock.

He led him down the narrow stairs and through the stables and the small back garden of the neat townhouse to a window on the ground floor. He rapped lightly on the glass. In a few moments a mob-capped figure with a wool shawl draped over her night rail appeared at the window. Hewitt made a thin, appreciative whistle. Romley turned to snarl at him causing Hewitt to grin cheekily.

The window opened slightly, squealing stridently in protest. "Georgie, what are you doin' here at this hour?" whispered the young woman, her eyes round as saucers..

"Come unlock the door, Sophy, we got to see his nibs!"

"But he's asleep!"

"I know that, but it's important."

"I could lose me position," she said doubtfully.

"If this here bloke's information is as important as I think, we'll both more'n likely git rewards. Come on, be a dearie and do as I ask," he wheedled.

"Al—all right," she whispered, "come to the back door, but be quiet. Cook's a light sleeper, y'know."

"Aye, I remember," Romley said, grinning at her.

The woman blushed and hurriedly shut the window.

The two men crept to the door and waited for the sound of the bolt sliding back. The door opened, letting wavering light from the one candle held in Sophy's hand spill out. They quickly entered the stone-floored kitchen.

Sophy gasped and began to shake at the sight of the stranger with George Romley. "I—Is that blood," she stammered, pointing to the dark stains streaked across his coat.

Hewitt glanced down at his coat. "Happens it is," he said blandly.

Sophy raised a hand to her lips and bit on a knuckle, whimpering softly.

"Here now, none of that," Romley chided, though he glared at Hewitt. He grabbed up two candle holders from the sideboard. "Be a good girl and light these. I'll take him on into the library while you fetch Sir Branstoke."

"Me?!"

"Yes, you," Romley said, giving her a gentle shove.

She went hesitantly before them, glancing over her shoulder several times as she went. She hurried on up the stairs when she heard the library door close behind them. Timidly she went down the thickly carpeted hall at the top of the stairs and paused before Branstoke's bed chamber. She knocked lightly on the door.

There was no response. She bit her knuckle again for a moment then tentatively reached out to knock again.

"Sir Branstoke, sir?" she called softly. If any of the other servants caught her she swore she'd die of mortification. She knocked a third time. "Sir Branstoke?"

The door swung swiftly open. She fell back a step, shaking. Branstoke finished knotting the sash to his long dressing gown and ran a hand through his disheveled hair. "Yes, what is it," he asked gently, for the little maid was obviously frightened.

"It—It's George, sir, George Romley. He and another gentleman are here to see you, sir. They say it's right important!"

"Where are they now?"

"In the library, sir," she answered briskly, feeling calmer now that Sir Branstoke was here and seemingly not put out by the late-night intrusion.

"Good. You've done well. Let me light a candle from yours, then I suggest you return to your bed."

"Yes, sir, thank you, sir," she said, bobbing a curtsy.

Branstoke descended the stairs and paused outside the library double doors, wondering what could possibly bring Hewitt at this hour, for he knew the second gentlemen could be no other than that ferret-faced former trooper. His expression grew grave, for his presence boded ill. He pushed open the door. Sprawled at his leisure before the desk sat Hewitt, a glass of his best brandy in hand. Romley knelt on the floor before the fireplace stoking glowing embers to life.

"I see you gentlemen have made yourselves at home," he drawled. His eyes paused infinitesimally on the stains on Hewitt's waistcoat and coat, then went on to the man's cheekily smiling countenance.

"I knew ye'd insist, guv'ner," said Hewitt cheerfully.

"Yes," Branstoke ironically agreed. He crossed to the brandy cabinet and poured himself and Romley glasses as well. He carried them over to the desk along with the bottle and eased himself into his chair, his narrowly open eyes taking in every aspect of Hewitt's appearance. He shoved a glass in Romley's direction then leaned back, waiting.

Hewitt eyed him cagily for a moment then grinned. Sir Branstoke was too smart to leap into conversation. He was neatly reminding him of his position. Hewitt nodded, pulled on a scarred, half-ripped earlobe, then rubbed his chin.

"I ain't by nature of bein' no thief taker, nor I ever squeaked beef 'afore, it not bein' a healthy occupation for a man o' my parts yer might say." He pulled a worn pipe with a well chewed stem out of his pocket. He tapped it out on a small tray on the desk then patted his pockets in search of his tobacco pouch. He pulled it out empty and made a disgusted sound. He looked up at Branstoke, his expression one of cultivated cherubic innocence. "Yer got any fogus, guv'ner, that you might tip me a gage?"

Romley growled in, protest, but Branstoke held up his hand to calm his groom. He rose languidly and crossed to an inlaid burl cabinet. Opening it, he removed a painted porcelain canister and brought it over to the desk, offering its aromatic content to his unexpected guest.

Hewitt pinched a wad for his pipe, tamping it down with a stained and dirty finger. He lit a sliver of tinder at a branch of candles and held it to his pipe, sucking in deeply and blowing out contented clouds of smoke.

Branstoke watched the ritual, amused. "Please feel free to replenish your tobacco pouch as well."

Hewitt took him up on his offer with alacrity. "Now that' right kindly of yer, guv'ner. Always wor a gentlemanly sort, fer a flash cove."

"Now that we have observed the amenities of drink and tobacco, I assume you have news of some import that it necessitates a personal visit at this hour? Or are you—as I believe they say—cadging the lay?"

Hewitt feigned shock and offense. "I couldn't do that, yer saved me life. Not many flash coves would do the same fer the likes o' me."

"I shall refrain from commenting," drawled Branstoke, leaning back in his chair. "What exactly brings you here, Hewitt?"

Hewitt puffed on his pipe a moment. "This Thornbridge yer set me to foller, he's a reg'lar bob cull, peery and not cow'hearted. Pluck up to the backbone, he is. Still, no 'countin' for why he's been in places he don't belong, if yer catch my drift. But, I figures that's why yer arsked me to foller the cull."

"Such contingencies had occurred to me," murmured Branstoke.

Hewitt nodded and rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. "First few days he jest made the rounds o' the City, like I reported to Rowley here."

"To the various banking and legal establishments, asking questions about Randolph Haukstrom?"

"Aye. Couldn't figure his interest in that cove. Bad cess. Then it's wot starts gettin' interest'n like. He dons an old mish and topper," he said, grabbing his coat lapels in example, "and visits gull gropers and abbesses. All manner of 'em. He finally comes out of one house, his fiz white and all queer-like. After he went home t'bed, I nipped back there reet quick."

"And?"

"He worn't arsk'n about Haukstrom. He wor arsk'n questions 'bout missin' gels. He learnt from one bawd of a parlor boarder wot wor sold fer a fiver to a flash cove. Purty ginger-hackled thing she wor, and fresh from the country. No one's heard wot happened to her."

"Sounds a bad business. Any idea what caused him to ask those questions?"

"No, I'm sorry to say. Next night he gets all fancied dressed like some curst dandy and visits the fancy bawds. Afterwards, they worn't as forthcoming to yurs truly as I'd a liked, howsomever, he wor arsk'n the same sorta questions. After this, he begins to look'n real peaky. He spends long hours at his office, and wanders down on the wharf in deep thinkin', arsk'n more fool questions." Hewitt drained his brandy glass.

Branstoke leaned forward to refill it. "I somehow get the impression that we are approaching the reason behind this meeting. Proceed, Mr. Hewitt."

"Someone didn't like wot he's doin', that's fer sure. I've a mind to do some extry checkin' on my own. I don't like deep secretive rumbles of flash coves with lays in me district. T'ain't seemly. Nor coves settin' themselves up as badgers when it's plain as a pikestaff they ain't."

Branstoke straightened, his eyes narrowing even more as he studied Mr. Hewitt.

The man relit his pipe and sucked in deeply. "The bob cull was bit, sar, and would be cockin' his toes now if it worn't fer yers truly."

"Thornbridge was attacked?"

"Attacked? Lor' guv'ner, worn't no simple thievery they had in mind. They wanted to hush the cull, and that's a fact. He's a game cock, though. Looked to advantage. But there wor too many of 'em and I seed he wor tirin', so I squeaked beef and laid club law on 'em. That set the sniveling lot running. The bob cull took a chive in his side. Claret flowed purty freely 'afore I could get him to a bone setter."

"He's still alive?"

"Aye, and likely to stay that way if he rests. Kept ramblin' on, though, bout Mrs. Waddley." He shook his head. "Wouldn't a taken him as one to give a feller horns."

Branstoke smiled grimly. "I assure you, he did not. It's Mrs. Waddley who requested he investigate certain matters for her. Haukstrom's her brother."

Hewitt whistled softly.

"Exactly. But what I want to know is what does Haukstrom have to do with missing prostitutes? Was Haukstrom the one who bought the girl?"

"No, I already checked that, guv'ner. The descriptions don't match."

Branstoke was silent a moment, his lips pursed in thought. He looked at Hewitt. "I know your debt to be cleared by your saving Mr. Thornbridge's life, and I thank you. However, I have further need of your assistance."

A slow grin pulled Hewitt's thin face tight. "I was hopin' yer might, guv'ner. Of course, this bein' a business-like arrangement . . ."

"Yes, Mr. Hewitt, you will be well paid for your time. I want you to see if you can discover what the connection is, and where Thornbridge's line of questioning was leading him. Since you no longer have to watch over Mr. Thornbridge, that should free you considerably."

"Aye, that it will."

"Now my concern becomes for Mrs. Waddley. I shudder to imagine what she shall attempt once she learns of Thornbridge's misfortune. George, we need to see that no harm comes to her. I want her followed and her house watched. Arrange for it. I don't trust her not to do something foolish, like attempt a midnight foray to the wharf."

"Plucky wench," observed Mr. Hewitt.

Branstoke grinned. "How right you are, Mr. Hewitt. How right you are."

"Excuse me, my lady, there is another gentleman here to see Mrs. Waddley," said Loudon.

By his tone and abject expression it was clear this third caller no more met with his approval than the previous two had. Cecilia laid her needlework in her lap and exchanged long suffering sighs with her Aunt Jessamine.