The Waylaid Heart (4 page)

Cecilia turned back to look at Sir Branstoke. She wrinkled her nose and had the grace to look chagrined. "That was an accident. I was hoping the pungent odor was noticeable only to myself."

"I regret to tell you it is not," he said solemnly though his eyes twinkled at her.

Cecilia wanted to respond in jest, but dared not. She pursed her lips and cast her eyes down. Her fingers plaited the fringe of the blanket thrown over her legs. She sighed. "I don't know what is wrong with me lately. I am so fidgety I constantly drop and spill things quite in the manner of the Countess of Seaverness."

"Rest assured, madam, no one could be in the countess's league," he said drily. "The woman is a walking disaster, most of the time to the detriment of others. Perhaps you are, as your physician suggested, in need of rest."

"I believe you are correct," Cecilia said, leaning back against the pillows. If that was what he would believe, then that is what she would pretend. She allowed her body to relax, and her eyes to droop in a sleepy manner. "Every day since Mr. Waddley died I've discovered my energies flagging. I tell you, sir, it causes me no end of suffering, to be without strength. I confess that sometimes I fear I shall fade away." Her voice died away to a mere thread. She looked at him wanly and allowed the tiniest hint of a smile to grace her lips. She sighed, her eyelids fluttering.

"I understand that you and Mr. Waddley lived quiet lives. Perhaps you are merely unused to racketing about London during the season," suggested Sir Branstoke. He sipped his ale and watched her over the rim of the tankard.

That was not the idea she wished to give him! Racketing, as he called it, about London was necessary to her plans for discovering Mr. Waddley's murderer. She opened her eyes wider to mitigate the idea that she was exhausted. "You may be correct," she conceded, "nonetheless, I refuse to give in to weakness of any kind. I do not care to be an invalid. Also, I believe activity fosters energy and good health later. If I do not push myself unduly, I shall daily improve my health."

"A commendable philosophy, Mrs. Waddley. Are you perhaps husbanding your energies today in order to expend them this evening?"

"As it happens, I am. My brother has very kindly engaged to take me to King's Theater this evening."

"You are an Italian Opera enthusiast?"

"Why, yes, Sir Branstoke, I am."

"I enjoy it also. It is infinitely preferable to the English translations staged at Covent Garden."

"I have no experience of opera at Covent Garden, but I have heard it is lacking."

"Sadly."

"There, done!" declared Lady Meriton.

Cecilia Waddley and Sir Branstoke turned toward Lady Meriton. That lady proudly held up her completed silhouette. It was not solely of Sir Branstoke. The dark red paper featured Cecilia as well. Lady Meriton had captured them close together, moments before Sir Branstoke wiped the sugar from her chin. The poses relayed a magnetism between the two figures without recourse to expressions. Cut of vibrant red paper, it was a hauntingly intimate picture.

Cecilia's heart beat faster. Proud of her cutting, Jessamine detected none of the undercurrents she did. Cecilia stole a look at Sir Branstoke.

Branstoke caught her eye. A smile flickered on his lips. He raised an eyebrow in amused inquiry, his brown eyes dancing.

Cecilia groaned softly and flopped back against her pillows, closing her eyes. Now she knew she was in trouble.

"Bravo!" Randolph shouted. He clapped wildly and rose from his seat as the opera company took their bows. He tossed his head to flick back a shock of dark blond hair from his brow and yelled his approval again, a broad grin lighting his handsome, dissipated features.

Cecilia looked askance at her elder brother. She wondered acidly if perhaps he shouldn't be on the stage below. Randolph's enthusiasm was markedly at odds with the behavior he displayed during the performance. His interest in the proceedings on stage had been erratic. For most of the opera he sat slumped in his chair, an expression of boredom on his face. Only on three occasions that she recalled did he take any interest in the entertainment. That was when the stage was crowded with chorus members. Shrewdly, Cecilia thought he must have a
cher amie
amongst the cast. Otherwise, his only reasons for attending the Nonsensical Screechings, as he called opera sung in Italian, would be to view society and strut about to be seen in return. Most likely he would not be in a box either, preferring the pit and the company of other dandies. She believed she recognized one or two of his friends in that milling throng of sartorial elegance mixed with lesser lights.

She was a trifle surprised that none of his friends visited their box during the interval. How was she to proceed with her investigations if Randolph's cronies never came around? Had she played her part too well in the past? It might do well to decrease the frequency of attacks of illness in favor of excessive silliness. After all, the goal she set herself when she adopted the sickly mien was to become someone people took for granted and talked around, almost as if she didn't exist. Like people do around children. It would not suit her purposes to be avoided by others.

Randolph abruptly broke off clapping and swung around to gather his greatcoat and curly brimmed beaver hat from an empty chair. "No sense you bestirring yourself, sister dear. Press of people leaving. Bound to make you feverish or fidgety, or something. I'll just pop on down to watch for John with the carriage. I'll return to get you," he said jovially, though he curiously avoided Cecilia's questioning gaze. He backed out of the box without waiting to hear her response.

Cecilia compressed her lips in exasperation; then the humor of her brother's behavior forced her to smile and shake her head in wonderment. Ruefully, she decided she'd wager her best diamond earrings that Randolph went in search of whatever barque of frailty in the chorus was the current recipient of his ardent regard.

No matter. Randolph made the offer to attend the opera, she did not ask him to serve as her escort. Over the past six months since she'd entered society she'd only occasionally availed herself of Randolph's company. She little dreamed that any of his crowd could possibly aid her in the investigation, let alone be involved; therefore she did not waste her time cultivating their acquaintance. She would use this invitation as open permission to expect Randolph to dance attendance on her and thereby introduce her to his friends. They would not avoid his company forever! Poor Randolph, he was about to find her exceedingly demanding.

A shout from below drew her attention to the pit. Several elegantly dressed gentlemen still strolled about that area, ogling the orange girls and the other bits of muslin that invested in the price of a ticket in hopes of greater evening returns. The shout came from a nattily attired young man who was looking up at the boxes. Seeing he'd drawn Cecilia's attention, he grinned cheekily and pantomimed an invitation to join him.

Cecilia frowned and shook her head, looking determinedly away. Her gaze traveled around the horseshoe tiers of boxes, most of which were now empty. Halfway around the horseshoe and one level up her gaze stopped. Sir Branstoke sat in that box. And he was staring at her! She knew he was though his eyes appeared nearly closed. What had she done to warrant his attention? A flare of unreasoning anger burned through her. Perhaps if she knew, she thought caustically, she'd be more successful in drawing Randolph and his friends to her side.

His gaze didn't waiver. Under his steady, unnerving regard, vivid red swept up her neck. Quickly she raised her handkerchief to her lips and began coughing, mentally damning her unwanted reaction and ducking her head down to hide the tell-tale color.

A slight smile curved Sir James Branstoke's thin lips as he observed Mrs. Waddley's antics. He wondered where that boor of a brother of hers had gone to. He saw Randolph with her during the performance. Now he was gone, leaving her haplessly open to undesirable attentions from young bucks on the prowl. From his limited experience of Mrs. Waddley, he'd wager she thought herself equal to any situation. The woman was confident in her charade, and he owned she did it skillfully. Nonetheless that brand of confidence was ripe for a fall. He couldn't help question the rationale for her behavior. There was some mystery there, something other than discomfort in society. She struck him as a determined woman. He wondered at the focus of that determination.

"I cannot help noticing the direction of your attention. Have you met Mrs. Waddley?" a soft voice asked him, humor underlying the words.

Sir Branstoke turned to his hostess, nodding slowly. "A most interesting woman. Do you know her, Lady St. Ryne?"

"I've only met her briefly. Unfortunately, at the time she was suffering from, I believe, palpitations of her heart. Or so she said."

Her husband, the Viscount St. Ryne laughed. "When I was introduced she was recovering from a severe headache, one that left her weak and fretful, she said. She is the most tiresome woman I have ever had the misfortune to meet. And when my mother was in the throes of matchmaking, I met many. Mrs. Waddley is a complete ninny hammer," he said dismissively.

Sir Branstoke's lips twisted wryly. "So you really think so. Interesting."

Lady St, Ryne laughed. "Our friend is being enigmatic again, my love."

Her husband smirked. "This time we'll find the astute Sir James Branstoke has made an error if he sees aught behind her behavior other than the woman is a dashed flibbertigibbet." He turned to pick up his wife's cloak from the back of the box.

"I must confess, sir, that though we do not know Mrs. Waddley well, we do know a gentleman who is far better acquainted," the Viscountess St. Ryne said as her husband settled her cloak about her shoulders.

Branstoke raised an eyebrow, encouraging his hostess to continue as he drew a gold enameled snuffbox from his waistcoat pocket and opened it with a dexterous flick of his thumb.

She fastened the cloak at her collar. "The son of our clergyman at Larchside is employed by Waddley Spice and Tea. He is a manager there. A very personable young man. He's done well there and seems quite happy in his position. From what I've heard of Waddley Spice and Tea, I dare say Mr. Waddley must have been an extraordinary gentleman. Not at all the merchant to demand his pound of flesh."

"Really," murmured Branstoke, taking a pinch of snuff.

"Yes. Mr. Thornbridge gets down to Larchside fairly often to visit his father. Evidently the company has always been considerate of family obligations."

Branstoke stilled. "Mr. Thornbridge, you say?"

"Yes, Mr. David Thornbridge. Do you know him?"

The ghost of a smile curved Sir James Branstoke's lips, his lazy lids closing again to mere slits as he turned to look back at Mrs. Waddley. "I believe I may," he said softly.

The Viscount and Viscountess St. Ryne looked at each other quizzically. Lady St. Ryne shrugged slightly then gathered up the folds of her cloak. "Will you be coming back with us?" she asked Branstoke.

"No. Thank you anyway, Lady St. Ryne. And thank you for inviting me to join you this evening. It has been a most illuminating evening."

Lady St. Ryne pursed her lips and shook her head at the inexplicableness of Sir Branstoke. She looked up at her husband but found no help there. Sir James Branstoke was the deepest person of her acquaintance. She gave it up and exchanged courteous goodnights with their guest before leaving the box on her husband's arm.

Branstoke bowed politely as they left, then turned back to study Mrs. Waddley. A shuttered expression hardened his features. The gentleman from the pit was now in Mrs. Waddley's box. Judging by his erratic movements, Branstoke judged him to be well in his cups. Too foxed to be daunted by Mrs. Waddley's various and sundry claims to illness, he was ardently professing his enchantment with her person. Where was that fool, Haukstrom? He should be looking out for her, no matter how tiresome she might sometimes be.

Branstoke turned on his heel, hastily grabbing up his greatcoat and hat as he left the box, all the while calling down deprecations upon Randolph Haukstrom's head under his breath as he went.

"Now what's a vision of beauty the likes of you doin' by your lonesome, eh?"

Cecilia whirled around in her seat to confront the reeling figure of the nattily attired gentleman from the pit. "This is a private box. I must ask that you leave," she said quietly.

"I say, that's a fine voice you've got. Where'd ol' randy Randolph find you, my pretty? He's got the devil's own luck he has.' He stumbled toward her, laying a hand on her bare shoulder.

Cecilia jerked away and stood up in one fluid motion leaving the gentleman unbalanced. He fell over the back of the chair, his feet kicking up in the air. Cecilia swallowed an involuntary laugh.

As she watched the man struggle to get up, she raised her fan and began agitatedly fanning her face. "Oh, my nerves!' she wailed, backing away from him. "You—you brute! I can just feel my heart pounding in my chest. I shall have one of my spell now, I know!" She dramatically laid the back of a shaking hand to her forehead.

"Wha'd you go and do that for?" the man said petulantly "You ain't the only pretty bird feathering Randolph's nest. Angel Swafford's got a neat little place from him over by Leicester Fields. He's down in the greenroom with Angel now, y'know, saw him myself before I came up." He moved toward Cecilia, his arms outstretched. "The blighter ain't worth it, love." He hiccupped and stumbled, catching himself against the back of another chair. He leered at her; but only managed to look the jester.

Cecilia was angered, and suddenly a little afraid, by the man's persistence. Never before had she suffered difficulty in dissuading a gentleman's attention. Unfortunately, judging by his glassy eyes and gin-perfumed breath, he was in no condition to understand her words. She edged toward the back of the box, careful to keep chairs between herself and her unwelcome visitor.
If Randolph is with his mistress, I will ring a peal, over his head he'll not long forget
, she silently vowed.

Coughing behind her fan, she made little mewing sounds "Please, I feel quite ill. Do not come any closer lest I—I cast up my accounts upon your elegant person!" she threatened, nearing the exit. "I swear I am sick enough to do so!
Ohh
!" she cried, colliding against a solid object. A pair of warm, strong arms wrapped around her.

"We have to stop meeting like this," the owner of those arms murmured in her ear.

Branstoke!
She struggled to regain her balance and stand free of him, but he held her fast. She turned startled, agonized eyes up at him.

He glanced briefly down at her face, pulled in by the deep purple rims of her wide open, twilight blue eyes. He was stunned by the vulnerability there. From somewhere inside him, a closed empty space cracked open. Abruptly, he set her away from him, guiding her into a chair.

"Nutley, a word in your ear," Branstoke said softly, grasping the gentleman by the elbow and firmly leading him to the back of the box.

"Dash it all, Branstoke, I saw her first," complained Jerome Nutley, hiccupping again and swaying against Branstoke.

"I am not in the habit of taking up with diseased ladies," Branstoke drawled.

"Diseased?" repeated Nutley. He blinked owlishly and turned to look over his shoulder at Cecilia, nearly overbalancing himself in the process. Branstoke steadied him.

Taking her cue, Cecilia closed her eyes and agitatedly fanned herself while moaning some more.

"You're right. She don't look so good. What's she got?" he asked in a stage whisper.

"Guess," Branstoke replied curtly.

"The French Disease?" Nutley asked.

Branstoke shrugged faintly. "Well, you don't see any smallpox."

"Egad. And so pretty and delicate looking too," Nutley said, awed.

Branstoke maneuvered him to the exit, shoving him out of the box. "You're lucky I was here to warn you," he said solemnly.

"Obliged to you, Branstoke. Does Haukstrom know?"

"I wouldn't venture to guess what Haukstrom knows."

Nutley nodded wisely, tapping his temple with his index finger. "I think he does. Why else leave her here alone? Probably trying to get rid of her. Damn if I don't have a word with him on this shabby trick he's trying to play." He turned and sauntered off down the hall, weaving and banging into the wall in the process.

Branstoke watched until Nutley rounded the curve heading toward the stairs, a half smile playing upon his lips. He turned back to the box.

Alternately infuriated and amused at Sir Branstoke's tactics, Cecilia didn't know whether to burst into giggles or stamp her feet. She opted for anger, since it was outrageous for him to even imply that she could be so tainted! She sat up straight in her chair and glared at him. "How dare you!" she ground out through clenched teeth.

"You are looking amazingly better. Am I to infer that your illnesses are subject to sudden stops as they are to starts?" he asked with unruffled composure. He sat down in a chair near her, crossing his legs and hooking his clasped hands around his knee.

Cecilia drew her breath in sharply and began fanning herself again, as much to play the ailing woman as to hide a threatening smile. "No woman of quality likes to be accosted as a common prostitute, let alone as one with a venereal disease," she attempted pettishly.

"Do not worry, Mrs. Waddley. The one thing no one could take you to be is common," he returned. "Now how is it that you are here alone and open to such unfortunate importunities?" he continued before she could draw breath to issue a retort.