The Waylaid Heart (8 page)

Cecilia's sense of humor vanished. A cold arrogance chilled her eyes to blue ice. "Grandfather," she said slowly, "I'll not allow you to say one word against Mr. Waddley. Because of him, I do not have to live my life as some parasitic charity case grateful for whatever crumbs are thrown my way!" Her voice was low yet quavered with painfully suppressed emotion.

Lord Cheney laughed. "Listen to her, like a she-wolf protecting her cub," he said indulgently. Around them, a growing number of people stopped talking to unabashedly eavesdrop.

A rare anger flared in Cecilia, shaking her to the core. She stamped her foot. "Mr. Waddley was good to me," she insisted.

"Aye, I'll grant the man was a good enough sort, but not good enough for a Cheney."

She threw her head back and glared challengingly up at him. "Then it's fortunate that I am a Haukstrom and not a Cheney!" she declared frostily.

The room was as unnaturally still as the air before a storm. The duke's bushy brown and gray brows clamped down over his eyes.

"Mrs. Waddley, I have been curious about these wall hangings," Branstoke said placidly, as if totally unaware of the palpable anger coalescing in black clouds above Cecilia and her grandfather, threatening to explode in lightning fury. He hooked his arm in hers and turned her toward the closest wall hanging. "Are they Mortlake tapestries?" he asked, raising his quizzing glass to study the elegant weavings. Behind them, the seething duke stumped away.

Mrs. Waddley's chest rose and fell rapidly in the wake of the anger coursing through her. Branstoke allowed her time to recover, pretending an absorption in the detail work of the tapestry.

"Yes—yes, they are Mortlake tapestries," she managed. She tossed her head to clear it of lingering anger and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "Grandmother had this room redecorated some years back to display them to better advantage." She touched her handkerchief to her lips, a delicate shudder rippling through her body.

Branstoke looked at her closely, then noncommittally steered her toward the next tapestry hanging on the walls.

"This room was originally known as the Great Parlor. Of recent years it's been called the Tapestry Parlor, or identified by the modern term—the salon," she continued neutrally as they circumnavigated the room. "As a child I spent many hours staring at these tapestries, making up stories to complement each scene." Finally, she dared look at Sir Branstoke, her breath coming out on a long sigh, a gentle, wistful expression on her face. "Thank you," she murmured.

He smiled. It was a pleasant, non-threatening smile. "Occasionally fribbles such as myself have their uses," he said. He casually swung his quizzing glass by its riband. "Actually, I believe we may be the best sorts for routing dragons. So unexpected, you see."

Cecilia froze at the word "dragon."

Branstoke looked at her pointedly, waiting for her reaction. He could see her battling inwardly with some emotion. Color came and went on her face leaving dark blue eyes blazing out of a pinched countenance. She blinked rapidly and her face cleared. She simpered and clutched her handkerchief to her chest.

"Would you mind if I left you to your perusal of the tapestries by yourself, Sir Branstoke?" she said weakly. "I must sit down a moment. I feel one of my dreadful headaches coming on. So unfortunate for I have been much better here. It is my nerves. I know it is just that, but la! little good does knowing do me," she prattled on and laughed shrilly, edging toward a vacant chair.

Branstoke allowed her to escape while maintaining a phlegmatic expression on his face and perfunctory words of consolation on his lips. Mrs. Waddley needed to come to terms with his intuition and to learn he was not a threat. He would not pursue her further tonight, merely allow her time to assimilate this knowledge. It was a chancy game he played; nevertheless, he'd wager an intelligent woman hid behind that social ninny hammer.

Dragons! What could he know of dragons?
She sat down weakly and delicately mopped her brow with a shaking hand.

Coward!
The accusation rang in her head, yet the part of her that instinctively reacted to Sir James Branstoke was clamoring loudly. No longer could she continue to confine the jangling nerves and hollow flutterings. They exploded free, leaving her limbs trembling.

Why did he have to look at her like that? That sleepy, bored expression he habitually wore concealing a keen discernment in those brown-gold eyes. Why did he have to turn that discernment in her direction and look at her more intently than anyone ever did, including her own family? For years she'd been safe within herself, no one bothering to delve into her thoughts or feelings other than on a superficial level. She was able to keep herself inviolate and private from others and therefore safe and in control of her life. Sir James Branstoke had an uncanny ability to blast open those hidden doors and pull her out into the light. She didn't like that. It knocked her out of control. Worse, it forced her to acknowledge a burgeoning attraction for this enigmatic peer. Ruthlessly she forced those feelings aside.

That attraction, she decided, probably grew from some insidious weakness or desire within herself to turn her problems over to another to solve. She would not allow herself to fall back into such weakness. She could and would manage her own life. She would discover Mr. Waddley's murderer and display before society the seamy underbelly of its glittering, superficial existence. Then she would hire as companion a woman who did not desire to spend her life as a charity case at her relatives' beck and call, sell her holdings in London, and retire to the country.

Her decisive thoughts did much to ease the jangling nerves. Carefully she tucked away the last of the besetting emotions. A small smile curled up the corners of her mouth. It was certainly comical that she feigned irritation of the nerves, yet when actually afflicted, she worked hard to dispel the complaint. She did not understand why anyone would actually submit to wild emotions. It left one so out of control and vulnerable. So inelegant, too.

She counted herself fortunate to have escaped the emotional, nerve-wracking feelings until her present age. The maturity of age allowed her to dispassionately examine the sensations and place them in their proper perspective. She did wonder why she was now experiencing these emotions. Why was she spared until her five and twentieth year? And there was not only her reaction to Branstoke to consider; there was also her unnatural burst of anger with her grandfather.

All in all, she supposed she should own to a modicum of gratitude that she was finally experiencing emotional upheavals. It gave her an understanding of the concept of crimes of passion.

She wondered to what extent Mr. Waddley's death was due to his murderer being in the grips of some uncontrolled emotion. Truthfully, she hoped his death stemmed from a spontaneous, emotional rage versus a planned, cold-blooded murder. Somehow, it wouldn't seem so hideous then.

She looked up to search out Sir Branstoke, to see if he was still watching her. He wasn't. He was back, comfortably ensconced amongst Miss Cresswell's coterie. Loud laughter from the vicinity of the door drew her attention in that direction. It was Randolph, late as always, entering with the Honorable Mr. Rippy and Lord Havelock.

She rose gracefully, switched her skirts into place, then moved to the doorway to greet her brother and his friends.

"Randolph, I fear I'd despaired of your ever coming down before dinner," she said, gliding up to his side and laying a hand on his arm.

"Dash it all, Cecilia, a man needs time to set himself to rights. Especially after traveling on horseback to get here. Don't know why I let Rippy here talk me into bearing him company instead of traveling by coach."

"But Randy, old fellow, said yourself this was great riding country," protested Mr. Rippy.

"So it is, but ain't good riding to," Randolph stubbornly complained.

"I fear the close confines of a carriage over that abominable road would have been worse," drawled Lord Havelock, closing his eyes. Boredom with a topic that had obviously been discussed before was evident in his tone. Slowly he opened his eyes and looked down his nose at Cecilia. "Randolph, as you love me, please introduce me to this fair creature who stands before us.

"Oh, right! Right at that. Yes, ah—Cecilia, this is Charles Dernly, Marquis Havelock. Havelock, this is my sister, Cecilia, Mrs. Waddley, you know."

The marquis bowed punctiliously over her hand, granting it a chaste salute. "I would not have dreamed my friend Randolph could have sprung from among angels," he said smoothly, keeping hold of her hand a moment longer than was seemly.

Deliberately, Cecilia withdrew her hand, though her expression remained friendly. She was not deceived by Lord Havelock's unctuous behavior. The degree of his bow and the feather light perfunctory nature of his kiss on her hand told another tale. The marquis possessed an elevated opinion of himself. He contrived to make certain others knew his lofty elevation and re-spected it. Though he might rub elbows with the riffraff of life at a prize fight or in a tavern, he was certain to control the degree of interaction and throughout maintain his separateness. Cecilia was willing to wager even his mistresses were allowed only a limited degree of intimacy.

"Please, I beg of you, Lord Havelock, spare my blushes," Cecilia said coyly.

"E'gad, is that spider-shanks butler come to announce dinner already?" whined Randolph. "I've not had a moment's rest."

Cecilia laughed softly. "Well, come have a hearty dinner and become so redolent you fall asleep."

Randolph's friends laughed along with her; but he pouted and glared at his sister.

"There is sometimes a lack of delicacy in you, Cecilia, that I find deplorable. No ton at all."

"Yes, well, consider I missed that somewhere in my education process," she said lightly.

Lord Havelock and Mr. Rippy smirked at the implied slur on Randolph, but as Cecilia expected, her comment sailed over her brother's head, her deeper meaning lost to him.

"Mrs. Waddley, may I have the honor of escorting you to dinner?" Lord Havelock asked, full of appreciation for her unexpected wit.

"Certainly, sir." Cecilia gracefully laid her arm on his and allowed him to lead her out into the hall and up the stairs to the Great Chamber where dinner awaited them. She remonstrated herself for falling out of her simpering character. But not too severely. She had to own a certain pride at getting a part of her own back. After all, she was proud of the machinations that achieved her purpose of claiming Lord Havelock's attention. A smug little smile tilted up the corners of her bow-shaped lips.

From across the room Sir Branstoke saw that smile and his lips turned downward to a corresponding degree.

The dew blanketing the pale green blades of spring grass glinted and shone like polished heirloom silver in the scraggly morning sun. The air was cold, yet still, and in the dips and valleys fog clung to the land.

Cecilia Waddley softly closed the heavy oak door and paused on the wide stone steps of the servants' entrance to stare out at the silent landscape. She breathed in deeply, savoring the smell of damp earth and vegetation. She pulled the serviceable blue wool shawl she wore over her head and shoulders, one hand clasping it under her chin while in her other she carried a bonnet-shaped willow basket. Stepping off the stone steps, she made her way toward the old herb garden laid out at the end of the east wing and banded by tall, precision cut yews. Dew sprayed up as she walked through the thick grass, soaking the sturdy brown leather boots and the hem of her plain gown. At the entrance to the garden was a black iron gate. As she lifted the latch and pulled it open, it protested, creaking and groaning loudly in the still morning air, Cecilia bit her lip at the horrid, strident sound and glanced up at the row of windows of the state apartments that looked out over the tiny garden. They were small bedchambers, designed over two hundred years ago for royalty's retinue, should any visit. As far as Cecilia knew, none had. Now they were the rooms assigned to the single gentleman guests of the house party.

She screened her eyes against the pale morning sun. Not a curtain moved nor a hand or face appeared at any window. Apparently they were all sleeping late. She had it from one of the footmen that most of the gentlemen stayed up until night lost its inky darkness playing cards and billiards and drinking deeply of Oastley ale or the special stock found in the wine cellars. Stock that Cecilia knew never entered the country by legal routes.

None of the gentlemen were yet awake to see her; nonetheless, she dared not risk closing the gate lest the repeat sound succeed where the first failed. She needed this time alone to sort out her wayward thoughts and to plan without emotional pressures or reactions.

She walked down the moss-covered stone pathways inspecting the beds as she passed. The garden had been a favored haunt for the child suddenly uprooted from a decaying manor and endlessly abjured to be a lady. It was as if by being ladylike she could somehow make amends for her father's and brother's profligate existence. No one wanted to know how she felt. It was more important what others thought of her. The garden had been a place she ran to when she was confused and hurt. There she worked to tend the plants alongside Great Aunt Martha, an elderly spinster sister of her grandmother's. Under Great Aunt Martha's guidance, the garden was a lush, fragrant oasis. But the old woman didn't limit her herb gathering to the garden. She trudged far and wide across the countryside for plants. A worn copy of
Culpeper's Complete Herbal and English Physician
was her treasured possession. From Great Aunt Martha Cecilia learned the lore of herbs and their medicinal uses. It was a knowledge that curiously aided her now in her sickly acts. She missed Great Aunt Martha. She passed away quietly in her sleep shortly after Cecilia married Mr. Waddley. Cecilia doubted the garden had been tended since then, save for the small cook's patch and the roses for bouquets. Two days ago she set the gardener to cleaning out the dead and overgrown plants. In the few days she was at Oastley Hall, she would thin and transplant the surviving plants. Slips from some she would take back to London to plant in Jessamine's tiny back garden.

She shook her head dismally at the sight of the thin and scraggly chamomile border. To return it to the thick and lush condition of her memory, it would need additional pruning and some division of the thicker clumps. It looked like the comfrey, sweet woodruff, and other plants would need a similar treatment. Sighing, Cecilia wandered on down the stone paths, her object this morning to cut slips for rooting in Great Aunt Martha's potting boxes that were yet kept in the stillroom.

Great Aunt Martha. It was odd, but she had not thought of that dear lady in years. Cecilia had been the closest to her of any of her relations for there was a gentle, non-intrusive understanding in her sweet smile. She never expected Cecilia to be anyone but herself. She accepted Cecilia's stubbornness, her fears and lack of trust, yet by her actions alone, Great Aunt Martha built trust. She was the only member of the family not to harangue Cecilia to be a lady, nor fault her for her retiring demeanor, for she knew it did not stem from a shy personality. It grew out of Baron Haukstrom's impatience with his daughter's existence coupled with the sour knowledge that her dowry was untouchable.

Cecilia sighed at the memories. So many reminded her of the necessity to live without encumbrances. If it weren't for the investigation, she would already be living a retiring life in the country where she would not be a burden to anyone—not to her grandparents, her aunt, her father, her brother, nor to Waddley Spice and Tea.

But now she felt she had a responsibility to George Waddley. It took precedence over her own heart's desires.

She stooped to clip a wormwood plant and place the stem on the damp cloth that lined her basket.

At dinner last evening she sat between Lord Havelock and the Reverend Septimus Whilber. It was not quite the auspicious positioning she'd hoped. The effusive gallantry Lord Havelock displayed before dinner did not extend to the table. Once they were seated, his conversation became directed to the young matron who sat on his right. To Cecilia's curious, half-listening ear, he beguiled the woman with the same flattery he'd bestowed on her. He was like a library with one book. Cecilia wondered caustically if he intended to read from the same volume to all the women in the company.

She went over in her mind what she knew of the gentleman. Lord Havelock was a well-known figure in London society. A man of exquisite taste, he was arrogant and self-indulgent in personality tempered by an exacting politeness and elegance of manner. He was reputed to have a more than easy competence, yet occasionally speculation rose as to why he declined to have Havelock Manor rebuilt after a fire six years ago destroyed the beautiful mansion. He chose instead to live in rooms in London, though it was seen that he purchased a prodigiously handsome townhouse in Bath for his mother and sister. He intrigued Cecilia for the apparent dichotomy in his personality. On the other hand, as a person she could not think well of the man. To be fair, she supposed that his overwhelming self-indulgence smacked too closely of the attributes characterized by her father and brother, and that was what disgusted her, not the man himself. Nonetheless, she was thankful she did not have to listen too long to his elegant bouncers! They put her to the blush more than she cared to admit. But, she wondered, could he not, perhaps, be leading society astray as to the thickness of his wallet? Could Lord Havelock's elegant bouncers be designed to hide greater lies?

Then there was the Honorable Reginald Rippy to consider. He was one of Randolph's constant shadows. With his bony build and protruding Adam's apple, he was an exaggerated dandy. But shadows don't make suggestions such as he did as to his desire to ride to Oastley. Nor do they persuade men of Randolph's ilk, let alone that of Lord Havelock, to dispense with their comforts to accompany him! How did he do it? He was seated across from her last evening and appeared decidedly uncomfortable throughout the dinner, though he had a favored place next to Miss Cresswell. On his other side was Jessamine, and despite her best conversational efforts, he did not return more than a few monosyllables, and those were in agreement to her comments rather than venturing anything of his own.

Sir Harry Elsdon, when he wasn't dramatizing, was the most at ease and natural of Randolph's confederates. His taste in dress was simple, yet elegant. His manner was open and friendly. He was a generally well-liked gentleman. He seemed to always have something to smile about and encouraged those around him to smile, too. On him, with his carrot-colored hair and light dusting of freckles on his pale skin, his smiles reminded one of country folks' tales of mischievous elves and fairies. At dinner he appeared to adroitly entertain old Mrs. Martcombe and Miss Amblethorp, for there was much laughter coming from their end of the table.

Following dinner, when the men finally rejoined the ladies in the parlor, there was little occasion for private conversation. Three of the young ladies (who possessed marriage-minded mamas) were pushed to show off their skills at singing and playing the pianoforte or harp. After this forced entertainment (which Cecilia was thankful being a widow allowed her escape), the gentlemen retired to the billiard room before more could be offered, leaving the ladies with no recourse but to continue gossiping among themselves or to seek their own beds. Cecilia, envying the gentlemen their retirement to the billiard room, opted for the latter choice.

The company would be at Oastley for two and a half more days. In that time she must discover ways to ingratiate herself with Randolph and his friends and learn more about them. Once everyone returned to London, her task would be more difficult. Her first endeavor, she decided, should be to search Randolph's room, then perhaps those rooms assigned to the other gentlemen. She hoped to find something within Randolph's chambers, for the idea of entering a single man's chambers was somehow embarrassing, not to mention the ramifications should she be caught. But she would not be caught. She would be very careful of that.

She clipped a couple stems of pennyroyal and placed them in her basket, then crossed to the back of the garden to see how the new marigold and heliotrope shoots were faring. She crouched down to thin the beds to encourage stronger growth.

Behind her Cecilia heard brisk, light footsteps. She turned around, instinctively crouching lower. She watched motionless as Miss Amblethorp ran down one of the stone paths. Seeing the stone bench at the end of the path, she flung herself down on it and hunched over, her face in her hands.

Rising, Cecilia stripped off her work gloves and dropped them into the basket slung over her arm. The young woman was obviously in great distress and probably came to the herb garden to be alone. Cecilia understood the need to be alone. She'd come to the garden for the same purpose. Unfortunately, there was no way Cecilia could leave without Miss Amblethorp seeing her. It would likely embarrass the poor child. The only recourse was to brazenly offer help and sympathy.

Cecilia walked slowly toward the distressed young woman, uncertain how to make her appearance known without unduly startling her. She worried her lip a moment, then sighed and bent closer.

"Excuse me, Miss Amblethorp? Is there some way that I may be of assistance?"

Miss Amblethorp's head flew up, bright color flowing over her rather common features.

"I'm sorry, I did not mean to intrude, only I was already here when you entered," Cecilia offered apologetically.

"Oh! I did not see you!"

"That is hardly surprising. I was crouched down, tending some plants. May I?" she asked, indicating the stone bench with a sweep of her hand.

"Yes, of course." Miss Amblethorp slid over to make room all the while staring at the willow basket and its contents. "You like to garden?" she asked slowly, surprise rippling through her voice.

Cecilia laughed. "It brings back fond memories," she said, startled by her own truthfulness. "But really, Miss Amblethorp, is there some way in which I may help?"

"Please call me Janine. I've never been comfortable with Miss Amblethorp. That's what my elder sisters were called, never me. But to answer your kind question, there is no way you can help unless you can convince my mother to allow me to retire to our home. I just do not seem to have the constitution for London." She wilted visibly. "I find I cannot get excited about balls, gossip, or the ultimate purpose of a Season—husband hunting."

"Don't you wish to marry?"

"Oh, yes, indeed. However, I have yet to meet a gentleman who feels as I do about the social whirl."

Cecilia nodded and laid an understanding hand on Janine's arm. "And if they exist, which I assure you they do, you would not find them in London. They avoid it like the very plague."

"You see my problem," Janine said, some of the frightened doe image receding. "And I do know they exist, or rather have existed before being twisted and jaded in the social milieu. I hold the example I know of in my heart in hopes of meeting another more immune to society's siren call as a panacea for unhappiness," she confessed, bitterness gnawing at her words.

"Gracious, my dear, don't tell me that you have suffered a disappointment in love!"

"If it was a disappointment, it was a disappointment in calf love for I was a child of twelve. No, the gentleman I knew has been changed these seven long years and while he lived, I was merely a neighbor's granddaughter upon whom he bestowed a few kindnesses. But I always thought I should want to marry a man like he was then."

"I have never considered myself a prodigiously inquisitive person, but you have me intrigued."

Janine laughed mirthlessly. "It is difficult even for me to fathom, but I carry around within me an infatuation for the former Viscount Dernley, a personage who no longer exists."

"The Marquis of Havelock? Lord Havelock?"

"Knowing him now, it does seem incredulous, But he was not always so arrogant and self-absorbed. At one time he was extremely personable and charming. My eldest sister, Sophia, had set her cap for him and was confident she could bring him up to scratch."

"Ah-h—"

"Though she did intend to change his mind about London's delights," Janine added wryly. "It used to make me angry to hear her prattle on about changing him, molding him to be the man she wanted him to be. Now look at him."

Cecilia shook her head. She couldn't imagine Lord Havelock being the man Janine described. Oh, for the innocent eyes of youth! "What happened?" she asked softly.

Janine's mouth twisted bitterly. "Havelock Manor burned, the conflagration claiming the life of his father and younger brother. In a fit of pain and sorrow, his mother blamed him for he was away that night, attending a lecture on modern agricultural techniques. Grandmother told me she made his life an unending misery for weeks. Finally he left, disappearing for over a year. He returned the man we now know."