The Waylaid Heart (23 page)

"No, not at all I think it would be best if you refused any further visitors. Put it about that you're prostrate with grief.”

"For Randolph?"

His thin smile quirked upward on one side. "How about your infamous irritation of the nerves?"

Cecilia frowned, but Jessamine agreed with Branstoke. "Cecilia, whoever is behind this sordid business is vicious and merciless. And they must truly hate women. If Randolph was murdered, it was most likely to prevent him from interfering in plans for you. We cannot take the risk. If what Mr. Thornbridge says is true, the climax of these events cannot be far away. We cannot be too careful."

Cecilia nodded reluctantly.

Branstoke rose to leave. "I'll go to Cheney House before anyone there gets the notion to clean the library. From there I'll try to track down members of the committee and contact Bow Street again. I'll take these with me," he said, dropping the ring and note in his pocket. "Do not look to see me again until tomorrow. Rest assured," he said to Lady Meriton, "I'll leave your house well guarded." He turned to leave.

"James!" called Cecilia after him. He paused at the door to look back at her. "Take care of yourself," she said softly.

He smiled lazily, his eyes shining through the veil of his lashes, and tipped his head in assent.

Cecilia and Jessamine stared at each other, each alone with their thoughts on the implications of the threat to Cecilia. Lady Meriton sighed. "I wish Meriton was here."

"I'd best write a note for father and set someone on his trail," Cecilia said tiredly, picking up the lap desk and sitting down with it. "Though what good it will do, I don't know. His reaction will most likely be to get drunk for a week. At least it's something to keep my mind occupied."

Lady Meriton nodded. "I'll arrange for a light dinner to be served us here. I doubt either of us will have much of an appetite," she said, rising and walking slowly toward the door.

The gloom of twilight cast long gray shadows when Loudon removed a scarcely touched dinner from the small parlor. The two ladies engaged in desultory needlework to pass the time little noticed the growing darkness until Loudon silently made the rounds of the room lighting branches of candles. Surprised at the sudden light, they looked up, blinking like owls in the light, before sending a thankful nod the butler's way. The endless ticking of the clock punctuated by the occasional sigh and rustle of fabric were the only sounds to be heard in the small room. Even the outside world quieted, leaving the ladies with loud voices in their heads for company; voices that shouted unanswerable questions and impossible "what ifs."

Cecilia kept glancing up at the clock, judging if enough time had passed to allow the duke or the old baron to be found and return to the city. She knew she saw little hope of seeing them before morning, still, she watched the clock and its seemingly infinitesimal forward march of time. Surely garden snails moved faster. She chafed at her inactivity. She felt she should be up and doing something, going somewhere; but she didn't know what. Perhaps she should have gone to view the body. Wasn't that a proper thing to do? Then, while at Cheney House, she could also interview the servants, see if anyone heard anything unusual last night. No, it would be a redundant exercise. Someone, Branstoke or a member of the constabulary, would have asked those questions. She would have liked to search for clues, perhaps find some more notes that would lead them closer to their quarry. Lamentably, she'd promised to stay at Meriton House.

She wondered where Lord Havelock was and what he was doing. As arrogant as the man was, she found it difficult to believe he could be a kidnapper and slave trader. Then again, she found it difficult to believe anyone would so vilely traffic in human flesh! Except, perhaps, for her husband. Though she'd rejected the idea at first, the longer she thought on it, the more convinced she became there was truth to David Thornbridge's suppositions.

Taking his guilt as given, when one analyzed his past comments and actions, there was a certain logic and flow in them. He did keep her like a harem concubine, cut off from the world, yet pampered with worldly things. She was encouraged to read and learn, to develop her wit, to be another Madame Stael or Pompadour. His actions could be seen as a training, preparing her for sale to another. Yet with each passing year he kept her by his side. Surely as she grew older her worth decreased. The taste among gentlemen was for the nubile flesh of youth, of children actually. The jaded hedonism of the age thirsted for untouched, unripe fruit to defile. It provided feelings of power and glory to have such supplicants at their feet. Her value would be declining, wouldn't it?

She thought back to her strange marriage day. She considered Mr. Waddley's reaction when he discovered his bride, his surprise and anger. How naive she'd been to think his anger was for her sake. His anger was at a prospected loss of revenue. He could not ship her off for Randolph saw to it that the notice of their marriage made the columns of the Morning Gazette. Randolph neatly outmaneuvered Mr. Waddley. How was he able to do so? He never struck Cecilia as a man with two thoughts to rub together unless they were dealing with money. Perhaps he felt he stood more to gain with her married to Waddley. Maybe he really did see Mr. Waddley as a purse without bottom. Better that than a one-time payment for purchasing her body and soul. But Mr. Waddley extracted his vengeance. Randolph continued to work with him even after he became heir to the Cheney fortune.

"Franklin is now grandfather's heir," she mused aloud, her needle plunging rhythmically in and out of the canvas.

"Meriton will not be pleased," her aunt said. "I can't say as I am either. It makes him prime vulture bait."

"Have more faith in your son, Jessamine. He's always been a steady youth."

"Yes, but people often change with their fortunes."

Like Lord Havelock?
Cecilia silently wondered. "Perhaps you can convince uncle and grandfather not to grant him an allowance. I wager they'd be amenable to that suggestion. That way he won't have an immediate change of fortune. Chances are uncle and grandfather will live to see ripe old ages before Franklin comes into his inheritance. By then he ought to be settled enough to handle it," Cecilia offered drily.

Lady Meriton sighed, her needlework lying idle in her lap. "I suppose you're right. Still, I wish he didn't stand to inherit."

"No more than I do," murmured Cecilia, turning her head away to hide a sheen of tears.

"Oh, Cecilia, I'm so sorry. That was a thoughtless thing for me to say."

Cecilia gave a half-hearted, watery chuckle. "What will be the duke's reaction when he discovers his grandson has managed to blot the family escutcheon worse than he ever did?"

"Outraged, and perhaps a little envious—though not for the subject of his crime. Father has always seen himself as a knight errant rescuing damsels from distress, not putting them in distress. He would be livid if he knew the full nature of Randolph's crimes. Must we tell him?"

"I don't know. It will depend on what transpires within the next few days, I would imagine. I also wonder what it will do to my father. Life has been whipping him roundly for his early profligacy. Now he is constantly in pain and is afflicted with a maudlin temperament. His existence revolves around finding relief from the unremitting pain."

"If I know Baron Haukstrom, he will curse your brother roundly. He will accuse him of dying just to make his life more miserable."

Cecilia nodded, bringing her handkerchief to her face to blot the threatening tears. "I don't know why I should be so emotional. It is not as if we were particularly close."

"Death does that. It removes all the accumulated filth and garbage that colors our thoughts and controls our emotions. Despite all that he's done or hasn't done, Randolph is your brother, he is another human being and as such his death affects you. In some way, it affects all of us who knew him. Don't be ashamed or angry at your tears."

Cecilia lowered her handkerchief and smiled at her aunt.

"And how did you come by all this wisdom?" she asked with forced lightness.

"Age."

"Bah!"

From the open parlor door came a discrete cough. "Excuse me, my lady, but there is a young person below desirous of seeing Mrs. Waddley."

Lady Meriton frowned at her butler. "A young person? Can you be a bit more precise, Loudon."

The butler emitted a long-suffering sigh, his hang-dog eyes rolling mournfully. "A young person who goes by the unlikely sobriquet of Angel, Miss Angel Swafford, my lady."

"Angel Swafford, here?" asked Cecilia, glancing at Jessamine to see if she was aware of Miss Swafford. She shook her head mutely.

"Yes, ma'am. Shall I send her about her business?"

"No! Send her up, please, Loudon."

Loudon looked at her severely before bowing and exiting the room, his back more rigid than Cecilia had ever seen it.

"Poor Loudon, I feel I have been a sad trial for him since I've lived with you."

"Fustian. Loudon would not be happy unless he could look down his nose at something. Who is this Miss Swafford he has obviously taken a dislike to? Do you know her?"

"It is my understanding that she is, or was, Randolph's mistress. He even has a house for her. I am very curious as to why she should be here."

"Probably to touch you for money. Randolph may have provided a house but most likely kept her short of funds."

"Oh, stop it, Jessamine. Cynicism ill becomes you."

"Miss Swafford, ma'am," announced Loudon in repressing, stentorian tones. Lady Meriton scowled at him and vowed it was high time she trimmed his sails. He sailed too near the wind for her liking. But her frown relented when she saw their new guest. She exchanged quick, surprised glances with Cecilia, then her niece was rising and extending a hand to the unusual vision before them.

Angel Swafford minced into the parlor on ridiculously high-heeled black kid boots. The nature of her footwear, along with the black clocks on the stockings worn with them being immediately apparent owing to the inordinately high hem of her black bombazine gown. The dress was a marvel of stiff black ruchings and furbelows that stood away from the body of the gown like independent sculptures. A black lace veil attached to the wide brim of her bonnet obscured her face from view. A large black net bow vied with similarly colored ostrich feathers to give increased height to the diminutive figure in mourning attire.

"Mrs. Waddley?" inquired a low, husky voice.

Cecilia rose to greet her guest. "I am Mrs. Waddley. This is my aunt, Lady Meriton. I understand you were a particular friend of my late brother?" she said formally, rigidly.

The little veiled woman seemed to collapse inwardly at her haughty tone. Instantly Cecilia knew she'd hurt and intimidated her. Embarrassed at her rudeness, she hurried to make amends.

"Please, Miss Swafford, won't you sit down?" she asked in a friendlier manner, waving her to the sofa where she'd been sitting.

The woman bobbed her head in acquiescence sending long black ostrich plumes swaying. Seated, she reached up to roll the lacy veil upward, laying it across the broad brim of the hat. This task accomplished, she looked up at Cecilia, her pale gray eyes wide open and the color of morning fog. They matched the gray hollows circling her eyes. Bright patches of color in an otherwise pinched white face attested to the abundant use of the rouge pot. Ringlets, curled to frame a delicate heart-shaped face, were richly dyed with henna. The red ringlets and red patches of rouge were the only colors on her. She should have appeared garish, but somehow the entire ensemble seemed to suit her. Primly, she interlaced her fingers and laid them firmly in her lap.

"Mrs. Waddley, I realize it is highly irregular for me to pay a call upon you like this. Please, I beg of you, bear with me," asked the deep, rolling voice that somehow reminded Cecilia of water flowing over pebbles in a stream. It was also a voice that hinted at some culture. Cecilia was intrigued.

"Certainly, Miss Swafford. In what way may I help you?"

A blush crept up the woman's neck. "I am not here for money, if that is what you think." She glanced over at Lady Meriton. "Do you think we might talk alone?"

Cecilia raised a brow. "Lady Meriton is discreet. You may trust her."

The woman licked her pale lips. "I don't mean any disrespect. I know it is not proper. But please, ma'am . . ." she trailed off, looking hopelessly from Cecilia to Lady Meriton.

Lady Meriton folded her needlework and put it away. "I shall be in my studio," she said, rising gracefully.

"Oh, please, Jessamine.”

"No, Cecilia, this woman obviously needs to talk to you. I think we should bow to her desires."

"Th—Thank you, Lady Meriton," whispered the woman huskily, tears welling in her eyes.

"Here, now, none of that. Take my handkerchief and dry your eyes," Lady Meriton instructed briskly, holding out a square of linen.

Miss Swafford took it thankfully, dabbing at her eyes as Lady Meriton left the room.

"Would you care for a glass of sherry or perhaps brandy?" Cecilia asked, rising to cross to a tray of decanters and glasses that Loudon had left in the room that afternoon.

"A little sherry, please," she said meekly. "And please, just call me Angel. It's what everyone calls me. My real name is Mary Jane, but that wasn't stagey enough," she confessed. Prosaically she blew her nose.

Cecilia smiled at the action. She handed her a glass then sat down beside her. "All right, Angel. What is it? I have a feeling it is more than my brother's untimely death that brings you here today."

The woman nodded and sipped the sherry.

"Randy, I mean, Mr. Haukstrom—"

Cecilia smiled. "You may call him Randy if that makes it easier."

"Yes, thank you. Anyway, Randy told me earlier this week that if anything happened to him, I was to nip over here and talk to you as soon as possible."

"He foresaw his own death?"

The woman looked down at her glass of sherry, seemingly mesmerized by its dark golden color. "I'm not so sure but that death wasn't a release for him. A release from the hell he lived."

"Tell me," encouraged Cecilia softly.

She took another sip of sherry then licked the remnants from her lips. Her hand, Cecilia noticed, trembled slightly.

"About nine or ten years ago, he bought a young girl from her parents to give to a friend as a gift. He was young and it seemed a great joke, a lark; and the girl no more important than a snuffbox—less possibly. His gift was a great success and he was accounted clever for the thought. He preened on such compliments."

"I can well imagine," Cecilia said drily.

"Yes, well, shortly after that, he was approached to provide a similar girl, but this time he was offered money for his efforts. He agreed that time and a second and third time as well. He thought nothing of it. The girls were from the lower classes, their parents desperate for money. He thought it a fair exchange."

"Trust Randolph to be able to rationalize his actions," Cecilia said.

Angel blushed painfully. "He was just like the little boy who didn't understand the nature of his misbehavior, or why he should be punished simply because no one ever told him that the specific action he took was wrong."

Cecilia looked closely at her. "You loved my brother, didn't you?"

She nodded, not meeting Cecilia's eyes.

Cecilia laid a hand over hers. "Thank you for that. I shall not make any more disparaging comments. Please, continue."

"Eventually he was asked to join in a kidnapping. He thought it was to be another drab. To his horror, their victim was from the middle class, a surveyor's daughter. His associates averred that she was no different than the other girls he'd bought. He agreed, but his conclusions differed from theirs. He saw that he was wrong in what he'd done from the first. But it was too late. The money was too good, the evidence against him too damaging should he try to quit the group."

She paused to drain the last of the sherry from the glass and set it on a table. "Then one day, a young girl was described who would be perfect for a discriminating customer in the Mediterranean. She was small with white-blond hair and dark blue eyes. She attended a certain girls' academy in Bath."

"Me," Cecilia interjected.

Angel licked her lips and nodded. "But you see, you were wrongly named. Randy realized that at once. He knew it was only a matter of time before the error was discovered. He convinced Mr. Waddley, whose ships actually carried the girls overseas, that he needed to marry into the aristocracy to raise his credit and to solidify his cover."

Cecilia covered her eyes with her hand and groaned. "I know the rest of this story. You don't need to go on."

"But I don't think you do. Not really all the rest. Like how Mr. Waddley died."

Cecilia's hand dropped like a stone into her lap. "You know about that as well?"

She nodded. "Randy told me everything. His head in my lap, he sobbed his heart out, poor dear. He was tortured by the past. He wanted to make sure that if anything happened to him, someone would know the truth. You see, Randy killed him,"

"Randolph did? He killed Mr. Waddley?"

"Yes. Because Randy was convinced he was getting prepared to have you disappear."

"What?"

Angel nodded. "It's true, that's what Randy believed. Only, I don't know if Mr. Waddley really was or not. There's another gentleman involved . . ." she trailed off, uncertain how to proceed. Fear haunted the pale gray eyes that turned toward Cecilia.

She nodded. "I know about him."

Relief swept Angel's piquant face. She sighed. "Then I needn't say much about him. Frankly, I don't think I could. He has always frightened me. His eyes can be so empty at times. I could feel him looking at me sometimes. Contemplating my value. Lucky for me, Randy offered his protection else I'd have been shipped out long ago."

"I understand."

Angel blinked, pushing unshared images aside with a shudder, and continued: "It seems Mr. Waddley was getting too independent-minded. He was making noises like he didn't need the overseas connections any longer. The story of Mr. Waddley sending you away may solely have been fuel to rile Randy to get him to do his dirty work. Randy may not have been much of a brother as brothers go, but he held great stock in family."

"Forgive me, Angel, if I have trouble adjusting to your vision of my brother. I have for so long viewed him as interested in money above all else."

"I know." Threatening tears spilled over her bottom lashes and traced dark courses down her pale cheeks. "I asked him why he didn't tell you the truth—about Mr. Waddley and him. Randy said you were sincerely attached to Mr. Waddley and would not hear anything bad of your husband."

Cecilia shook her head sadly. "No, I was never attached to him. I felt some measure of gratitude for being saved from a life as a charity case, and I did enjoy the intellectual freedom he fostered by encouraging me to read voraciously; but truthfully, I was confined. Like a doll locked in a glass case. I carried around with me a sizable piece of guilt that I didn't care for him more, and that I was stifled. It reeked so of ingratitude, you see. My meager attempts to discover his murderer have acted like a medicinal restorative on me. They've given me a focus for myself around which I may coalesce. That was the reason I've wanted so to discover his murderer. It was a way to absolve myself."

She looked down at her hands in her lap restlessly folding and unfolding a handkerchief. “We really didn't know each other, did we?" Cecilia whispered mournfully, choking back a veil of tears.

Angel shook her head, her eyes darting up to, then away from, Cecilia's face. Her chin quivered with the effort to fight back a new surge of tears. "I must be going now," she said, her slightly gravelly voice liquid with tears.

"Go? Where will you go? You must stay here with me. Your life may also be in danger. I can't allow that on my conscience. Haukstrom is a big enough burden as it is."

"No, I must go. He is already suspicious of me. He knows Randy tended to get pious at home. And, if I do not show up at the theater tonight, he will be suspicious."

"Does he rule your life as well?"

"He is not a man I would cross willingly. If he knew I was here, or what we talked about, your life wouldn't be worth a penny."

"Or your own either, I'd wager."

She shrugged. "I can take care of myself. I always have."

"No, I won't have it. I think you should know that Sir Branstoke has set Bow Street on the case. We are determined to end this heinous trafficking. I want you to stay here until this matter is sorted out."

A flicker of hope leapt up Angel Swafford's face only to be dashed down again. "A part of me would like to, I'm not denying that. But it would be too dangerous for us all if I did. If I do not show up at the theater tonight, he would ferret out my location through one of his many cullies. I have to go to the theater and give a performance—a lackluster one at best, but a performance. Afterward, I can truly claim to be overcome with Randy's death. I will go straight home from the theater."

Cecilia smiled. "Pleading a headache and an irritation of the nerves."

"Well, yes, I think that would be best, but how did you know?"

"It is a ploy I'm conversant with," she said drily. "Instead of going home, why don't you come here? No one would think to look for you until tomorrow."

She nodded slightly. "It might work, though I will have to be seen entering my house first. I shall change, pack a few essentials in a shawl, then wait an hour or so before coming. It would be best if I came in the back way."

"I shall see to it that you are admitted, no matter the hour."

Angel looked up at her with trusting eyes. "I don't know how to thank you." Her low voice sounded unnaturally gruff.

"It is my gift to my brother, late though it may be."

Angel nodded, then sniffed and blotted the tears away with the handkerchief Lady Meriton had given her. "I'd best be going now. I shall be a trifle late as it is. Luckily our stage manager is a congenial old soul. He'll cover for me."

Cecilia rose as her guest stood to leave and escorted her to the parlor door. "Don't worry," she murmured. "It will all work out."

Angel Swafford smiled tightly and blinked back more tears before turning abruptly and hurrying out the door.

It was after midnight before Cecilia was roused from the light slumber she'd fallen into while sitting up waiting for Angel Swafford to arrive. The noise came from the front of the house. Angel had said she'd enter from the back, and so she had told the servants. Curious, Cecilia went out into the hall to hear what was going on.

Cecilia smiled. It was Branstoke, but he wasn't getting by Loudon as successfully at this hour of the morning.

"It's all right, Loudon, let him come up," she called down the stairs.

She watched the steady, solid grace with which Branstoke mounted the stairs. Trying to see him dispassionately was increasingly difficult the closer he came. Outwardly the mantle of languid posture and dry wit was evident; but she saw beyond the image society accepted. Butterflies erupted in a storm of fluttering wings inside her stomach. Her breath caught in her chest. Inwardly this man was a seething caldron threatening to boil over. There was more energy and life in him than in ten society dandies.

He paused three steps down. He looked up at her, his finely chiseled lips turning up in the wry smile that was uniquely his. Cecilia pressed a hand to her stomach as if to still the wild fluttering.

"I didn't think you'd be to your bed yet," he said softly.

The word bed drew forth a kaleidoscope of images in Cecilia's mind. She blushed and stammered. "No, I—I couldn't think of sleeping. Please come up. I have news." She whirled away from him, hurrying into the parlor before him and taking a position in front of a chair.

Branstoke followed behind. His quick glance took in the tumble of blankets on the sofa and her position in front of a chair set at right angles to its neighbor. He smiled. Cecilia was aware of him as a man just as he was headily aware of her womanhood. He was touched at her determination to keep propriety appeased. With the fires that smoldered between them, it would prove all but impossible if it weren't for the danger that threatened. To ease her mind, he obligingly went toward the other chair. Visibly her muscles relaxed and she waved him to be seated as she sank limply onto her chair.