The Waylaid Heart (19 page)

"Someone sick besides you! Pon'rep if that ain't something! I was asked the other day—and dash it if I can recall by who—I was asked if you were sickly as a child.” He rocked back on his heels. “Had to think on that. Don't recall you ever so plagued."

Asked! She'd give a monkey to know by whom. "Not so much, no," she admitted carefully. "My health broke when Mr. Waddley died, you see. Both my spirit and my body crumbled. Dear, dear Mr. Waddley, such a gentle, God-fearing man," she murmured as she thumbed idly through a bin of prints.

Randolph gave a shout of laughter, drawing eyes from every corner of the establishment. "That's rich! What a naive little doll you are. That's what he referred to you as, y'know, his little doll."

"Randolph, what are you saying?" Cecilia demanded, dropping the simpering manner as if it were a hot coal.

"I'm sick of hearing you sing praises to Saint George Waddley. He was a nosy, prosy, hypocrite with—"

"Haukstrom!" snapped Lord Havelock, striding toward them. "We'd best be going. Elsdon's expecting us."

Cecilia watched, astounded, as Randolph virtually deflated before her eyes. She turned questioningly toward Lord Havelock.

He bowed, his lips set in a grim line. "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Waddley, I didn't mean to intrude, but we will be late. Elsdon is a tyrant about his productions and does not tolerate tardiness. You will excuse us?" he said rhetorically, taking Randolph by the elbow.

"I'm sorry, Cecilia. Best just forget what I said,” he brother said softly, strangely and altogether too quickly subdues. “My anger gets the best of me sometimes."

"Yes, yes of course," she said helplessly. At the moment, she could cheerfully have throttled Lord Havelock. What did he not want Randolph to say? His interruption was blatantly well-timed, especially as she saw him out of the corner of her eye surreptitiously listening to their conversation. Lord Havelock definitely had something to hide.

Sarah came up beside her. “Are you all right, ma’am?” she asked.

“What? Oh, yes, it is just my brother has the ability to rattle me.”

Quickly she picked out a new book for Lady Meriton, paid for her purchase, and headed back for Meriton House, her mind busy.

"Any callers while I was gone, Loudon?" Cecilia asked as she handed her muff, gloves, and hat to Sarah to take upstairs.

"Yes, ma'am, Two. Sir James Branstoke—here is his card” he said, indicating the lone card on the silver salver on the table. “And the Honorable Mr. Rippy. He left this little nosegay of violets for you, ma'am," he said, handing her the delicate purple flowers. "Both gentlemen declined to leave a message and left quickly when appraised of Lady Meriton's continued ill health."

"Thank you, Loudon. I should like a tray with Lady Meriton this evening. I shall be staying in. As it will be a quiet night, I'm sure we can grant a few holidays among the servants."

"Yes, ma'am, and thank you, ma'am."

She laughed as she turned to mount the stairs. "Don't thank me, thank Lady Meriton. She has taught me well!"

"May I say, ma'am, there's not all that would agree with Lady Meriton."

"I know, but isn't there an old proverb which states the proof is in the pudding?"

"Just so, ma'am," Loudon said, but she was already up the stairs.

Cecilia peeked in on Jessamine, delighted to see she was sleeping peacefully, then tiptoed out and went on to her room. She had plans to make and things to do that would be best if there were fewer servants abroad to observe her actions. Quickly she changed and went out into the hall. As it was late in the day and most cleaning done, there were no housemaids above stairs. She crept down the hall to Franklin Meriton's empty room. Looking first up and down the hall, she went inside, wondering if she was to make a habit of surreptitiously entering men's rooms. Though away at school, Cecilia wagered her cousin hadn't taken all his clothes with him She crossed to the wardrobe, pulling it open. It was nearly empty; however, her hunch proved correct. Aside from two outrageously colored waistcoats and a bright green jacket, there was a dark blue jacket and knee breeches along with a dove-colored waistcoat. Though she knew Franklin to be slight for his sixteen years, she wagered this suit was left behind as being too small. Eagerly she took it out and held it up to herself. It looked like it would fit well enough. Searching the drawers below, she came up with a shirt and several cravats. A search about the room failed to turn up a pair of shoes or boots, though she had her doubts of those fitting anyway. She was also disappointed not to discover a suitable hat, only a schoolboy's cap. It would have to do. Bundling her treasures together, she scurried back to her room.

It was not yet past eleven when the slim figure of a youth emerged from the Meriton townhouse, closing the door softly behind. It would not have been remarked upon if it weren't for the youth's furtive behavior. Closer examination revealed a woman's black kid boots on the youth's small feet. Then there was also the consideration that only the ladies or their guests used the front door, and that youth hadn't been seen going in.

The watcher from the shadows spit into the street then scratched his head, knocking his hat sideways. "Holy Mother and all the saints," he swore, "his nibs, he be a knowin' one al'right." Keeping to the shadows, he loped off after her in a curiously rolling, bandy-legged fashion. He hoped she weren't going far, and he wondered how he was going to get to tell his nibs about this hidey-ho.

Old Tim Ryan followed his quarry as closely as he dared through dark streets. Despite his concerns for his charge (for thus he readily took responsibility), he had to smile to himself when the slender youth avoided the Charlies, lights, inebriated gentlemen, and once a lady of uncertain charms. His grizzled brows rose when she turned onto the street where Branstoke lived, then his forehead furrowed deeply as the way led him past and around the corner. Finally his charge stopped before a large house on the next corner. The house was circled carefully. Tim knew note was taken of lights in the windows. The house was dark except for light from two windows on the ground floor near a side entrance. Satisfied servants weren't about, his charge walked boldly up to the front door, stuck a key in the lock, and entered.

Tim didn't know what to do. He scratched his chin and spat before he made up his mind. Branstoke's home was only a little over a block away. He turned and ran, rocking from side to side, running faster than he had in many a year.

The stable door banged open against the wall. "Romley! Romley! Wake up, man!"

A bang and a clatter greeted the call, followed by repeated thumps before a door opened above. A disheveled George Romley appeared at the top of the stairs, jumping on one booted foot while stuffing a bare foot in the other boot as he came. "What? Ryan! What are yer doing here? Yer aren't due ta be relieved yet."

"I'm doing what I's supposed to. Keepin' an eye on the mort. She piked, dressed like a grubby schoolboy."

"What?" George clattered down the stairs, bringing his braces up over his shoulders as he came.

"Aye. I followed her to a house in the next block. She had a key and nipped inside, nice as yer please, but very secretive, like she don't want to be seen. Go tell his nibs. I got to get back," Tim said, rocking toward the door.

"Wait! Yer aint told me which house!"

"The Dooks, that big one on the corner," he said before he disappeared back into the dark.

Romley grabbed a coat and hat from the peg and set out at a run for St. James, for he knew his employer, believing Mrs. Waddley to be spending the evening at home, was indulging in a quiet evening at his club.

The softly voiced words that erupted from Sir James Branstoke on being appraised of Mrs. Waddley's activities drew a reluctant smile from his groom. For all his society manners, he could still swear like a trooper. He'd also still be the man Romley would like to have on his side of a fight. Hearing him, Romley didn't think he'd care to be in Mrs. Waddley's shoes when Sir Branstoke caught up with her. Didn't the fool woman know he was trying to protect her? As he kept pace with Branstoke, he couldn't help but remember all that blood on Hewitt's coat. Whatever was going on, it was serious business.

Tim came out of the shadows as the two men neared.

"Hasn't she come out yet, Tim?"

"Unless she did when I riled Romley, I don't think so, guv'ner. I seed a light flickerin' in a winder, right there," he said, pointing to a corner first floor window.

"Carriage coming," warned Romley.

"I suggest, gentlemen, that we remove ourselves from sight," said Branstoke, though it was obvious his thoughts were not on the approaching carriage. The trio melted into the shadowed entryway of a house across the street.

The carriage drew up before Cheney House, disgorging three gentlemen: Haukstrom, the Honorable Mr. Rippy, and another man Branstoke didn't recognize. It was obvious that young Haukstrom was drunk and his two companions were equally well lit. They talked loudly, singing catches of drinking songs, and hung onto each other for support. They slowly maneuvered up the short flight of steps to the door were Haukstrom then stood, weaving for several moments, before pulling a large brass key from his pocket. He was too drunk to fit it to the lock, so he kicked the door. He nearly fell forward on his face when it smoothly swung open.

Cecilia heard the raucous singing as she rummaged through the drawer of the small desk in the withdrawing room off Randolph's bedchamber. Hurriedly she stuffed handfuls of the miscellaneous papers it held into her pockets. Passing through the room into Randolph's bedchamber, she crossed to the tall window fronting the street. She looked out to see her worst fears. Randolph and his friends struggling up the steps.

Surely it was just midnight. She was certain he'd be occupied until all hours of the morning, if not with the play, then with drinking and gambling afterward. It appeared the drinking took its toll early.

She'd hardly begun searching upstairs. She spent far too long uselessly examining the library. She should have known the library was not a room Randolph would frequent, even for his business purposes. Now she'd have to find a way to escape Cheney House without detection. It would probably be best to hide in one of the many uninhabited bedchambers and wait until the household resettled for the night.

She ran back to the withdrawing room, heading for the door when she heard voices on the stairs. Randolph's drunken revels had awakened a servant who was urging Randolph's friends to abandon him into his care. He'd see him put to bed immediately.

Cecilia chewed on her lower lip. She didn't dare come out of the room now for fear they'd see her crossing the upstairs landing to another bedchamber. She had two choices. She could hide somewhere within Randolph's room until he fell asleep, or she could go out a window.

She opted for the window.

She ran quietly back to Randolph's room. It was a large corner room with two windows facing the street and one on the side of the house. She went this time to the side window and slid it cautiously open. It opened with little sound. She stuck her head out and looked down. It was too far to jump, she'd need some form of rope. She ducked her head back into the room and searched for something usable. Tearing the sheets off the bed would be cumbersome. She fingered the thick drapes; so, too, would pulling these down. Cravats! She could tie cravats together! But would there be time? She started to turn toward his bureau when her hand slid down the drape encountering the satin rope swaging the drapery panel aside. Perfect! She unhooked it from the roundel at the edge of the window, pleased to see the looped rope ends were long, dangling to the floor. Still, one would not be long enough. She yanked its companion loose and knotted them together. The roundel was firmly embedded in the wall so she looped one end tight around it.

Voices were getting louder. Her hands began to shake. With the window open and the rope dangling, they would know someone had been in the room. She had to make it look like robbery.

Quickly she grabbed up the black leather dressing case with the embossed coat of Cheney arms on the lid from the vanity table and ran back to the window. She stuffed the long, flat case into the waistband of her breeches, then lowered the rope out the window. She scraped her knuckles on the rough stone window ledge and the slick rope burned her delicate hands. Ignoring the pain, she lowered herself as quickly as she could. She felt the two satin ropes slipping free of the knot that bound them.