The Waylaid Heart (11 page)

"I say, Haukstrom, hadn't realized until we came here what a devilishly fine filly your little sister is when tricked out properly," declared Lord Havelock later that day as he watched Haukstrom rack up the balls for billiards.

Randolph straightened and cast Lord Havelock a long look. "Cecilia? Well enough, I suppose, but e'gad, who'd want to be leg shackled to a walking apothecary?"

Sir James Branstoke, seated in a nearby chair reading the newspaper, raised his head to listen.

"Don't seem too afflicted to me," said the Honorable Mr. Rippy, chalking his cue stick.

Randolph snorted. "I've done the pretty by her the past few months—escorted her to some dashed dull affairs, too; just as you suggested, Harry, to raise my esteem in society. Which it has, I'll own. But let me tell you, this is one of her good spells. No, no gentleman. Only consider who she's been married to!"

"Ecod Randolph, don't be such a snob. It isn't as if she smells of the shop, not being brought up that way and all," protested Sir Harry. "
If you were men, as men you are in show, You would not use a gentle lady so.
"

"It is my understanding that it was a marriage you and your father arranged to see you through some, shall we say, rough seas?" offered Branstoke raising from his seat and sauntering toward the group. What an ill-assorted group, too. He wondered what drew them all together. Deep play?

"Well, what of it? That's all in the past. I'm Nye's heir now, and Waddley's dead."

"Precisely," Branstoke said blandly. "So I ask, why the prejudice against your sister?"

"I ain't prejudice against Cecilia. At least not directly. I don't like how that Waddley fellow changed her. Nor all the strings he placed on the ready when I was not so plump in the pocket." He picked up his mug of ale from the sideboard.

"Changed her?"

Randolph grunted and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Before she married him, she always was a quiet, biddable little thing. Looked at you with big blue eyes, all innocent-like."

"Perhaps she just grew up," suggested Branstoke.

"That wouldn't make her harp about her confounded health, or try to cut a wheedle when you talk to her about Waddley or of that confounded business of his."

"But as you said, that Waddley fellow's dead.
Nothing in his life became him like the leaving it . . .
Now it's your sister as has all his money. Be a good chap," cajoled Sir Harry, buffeting him on the arm. "Consider your friends. We don't have any rich relations giving us healthy allowances. Let us have a chance at her."

"Eh, what? Yes. Let the best man win and all that!" agreed Mr. Rippy.

Randolph pulled at the tip of his nose. "Does seem a damned shame to let all that money rest in her hands. She'd probably just spend it on one quack physician after another."

"It might answer," murmured Lord Havelock looking at the ceiling, his lips pursed in thought.

"Am I to understand you gentlemen are going to take up the pursuit of Mrs. Waddley?" Branstoke asked, pulling out his snuff box and flicking it open with his thumb.

"Yes, just so. Care to place a wager, Branstoke, on the chances of any of us succeeding?" Sir Harry asked, the light of play in his eyes.

Branstoke smiled. "No, gentlemen. That bet I will not take. Not because I believe any of you will succeed. More because I know you won't," he said softly. Smiling casually, he made his farewells and quietly left the room.

"Dashed queer fish," muttered Randolph. He turned back to his friends. "So, Reggie, think you can beat me, eh? Show me the color of your money and we'll just see. . ."

Never before had Cecilia felt suffocated in a press of people. Seated next to her on the sofa was Sir Elsdon. Standing behind her, breathing down her bare shoulder with wine-soured breath, was the Honorable Mr. Reginald Rippy. Seated in a chair drawn up too close for propriety was Lord Havelock. To close this circle was her brother, blithely and enthusiastically enumerating each gentleman's sterling characteristics. She was ready to scream. What was this, feast or famine? Though she wanted to get to know each gentleman better, this was impossible! Undeniably a climate in which Miss Amblethorp would say society manners completely obscured a gentleman's true measure.

None of her normal ruses was working. When she complained of the heat, one of them took her fan and obligingly fanned her. When she swore her heart was pounding in her chest till she was nigh on swooning, they produced vinaigrettes, asafetida drops, and feathers which they offered to burn. In passing, she actually considered staging a fainting spell, but rejected the idea for fear that one of them—or all! —would conceive the plan of carrying her upstairs. The thought of any of them holding her in an intimate manner was repugnant. Why couldn't grandmother have planned dancing for this evening in addition to the ball tomorrow evening?

She perfunctorily accepted a lavender-water drenched handkerchief from Sir Elsdon, absently looking about the room as she held it to her brow. Unfortunately, her need for the lavender water was real, not imaginary. Her head ached. Lady Meriton was not helping matters. Seeing the little group, she proclaimed it a marvelous study and begged they all refrain from moving about while she cut the tableau.

Out of the corner of her eye, Cecilia saw Sir Branstoke in company with Miss Cresswell. There was a peevish set to that beauty's features and her full red lips were turned down in a decided pout. With the defection of Randolph and his cronies, her court was diminished, and she did not like that at all. She glared at Cecilia and whispered nasty little asides to Sir Branstoke; but he did not respond with the shared humor she hoped to garner. So she sat, simmering, glowering, and throwing dagger glances Cecilia's way. Cecilia wished her new entourage would return to worshipping at the Cresswell altar. From there she could pick them off, like ripe fruit, one at a time for questioning.

Sir Branstoke might have been asleep as he sat there with his tortoise shell eyes gleaming gold highlights from under dark lashes. A wisp of a smile pulled at his finely chiseled lips. Cecilia looked to him, a request for succor fleeting across her pale, expressive face. In response, his smile pulled his lips tighter revealing straight white teeth. He inclined his head slightly in understanding and promptly turned his attention to Miss Cresswell.

Cecilia clenched her teeth, damning herself for the momentary weakness that let her expect rescue from Sir Branstoke. She spied Janine sitting off to the side under one of the more grisly scenes depicted in the Mortlake tapestries collection. As her illnesses were strangely not affecting these gentlemen, she would try another venue: the older woman seeing that the shy young miss is not forgotten. She glanced at her aunt. It appeared Lady Meriton had nearly completed her cutting.

"I am overwhelmed at the kindness you gentlemen have bestowed upon me," she said in a tone heavily laced with treacle. "I'm sure it is quite unfair to the other ladies, especially when one considers how my miserable illnesses have aged me."

The gentlemen were quick to refute her comment, but she airily waved their words aside.

"No, no, not another word or I shall be forced to assume you are making a May-game of me. Or a wager?" she ventured, remembering Sir Branstoke's earlier words about men's viler instincts surfacing in a group.

A purple blush suffused her brother's dissipated countenance. "Dash it all, Cecilia! Here are my friends anxious to do the pretty and be nice to my poor widowed sister, and you display this sniveling suspicion. Ecod! Can't you have the grace to accept a few sincerely proffered compliments?" he grumbled and pouted, though she did note a sheen of sweat on his brow.

Cecilia's eyes sparked, then banked. Closing her eyes briefly, she pulled confusion and uncertainty into her expression. She simpered, her hands fluttering. "Compliments! Oh, my word, I haven't had compliments since I was a giddy young girl. Gentlemen, forgive me please, I had no idea. I mean, it's so unusual, and after this morning—Well, what was I to think?" she said guilelessly, opening her royal blue eyes wide and staring at each of them in turn.

"Mrs. Waddley, you are too intelligent for us," said Lord Havelock smoothly, taking her small hand between his long slender fingers. "But you are incorrect as to its genesis. The unfortunate occurrence this morning led us to see beyond what we may have casually observed." His tone was florid and designed to wheedle a woman into good humor. Cecilia knew that, but couldn't help responding positively to this overture. She wondered to what extent her reaction was caused by Miss Amblethorp's revelations.

"Yes," said the Honorable Mr. Rippy, his head bobbing nearly as sharply as his Adam's apple. "Stands to reason. Always knew Randolph was a gudgeon."

"That's doing it too brown. You're just knocked acock because I beat you at billiards!" declared Randolph.

"Easy, lads," said Sir Elsdon, laughing. "We've all been a pack of blind sap skulls, Mrs. Waddley. Make no mistake about that. We're just trying to amend matters in our clumsy fashion."

"Thank you, Sir Elsdon, your truthfulness does you honor," said Cecilia.

"Honor, bah! I'd like to soak your head," grumbled Randolph.

"At least, Randolph, I may depend upon the regularity of your opinion, of little value though I may deem it," retorted Cecilia, affecting an exaggerated pout.

"Ho, she's got you there, Randy!" crowed Mr. Rippy, slapping him heartily on the back.

"I realize," she continued coolly, watching Mr. Rippy's reaction out of the corner of her eye, "it can't be helped—considering the company you keep."

"Huzzah! She has you, too, Reggie!" said Sir Elsdon, thumping his friend in turn. "
A crew of patches, rude mechanicals.
That's how we appear, no doubt."

Randolph grumbled under his breath but refrained from further comment.

During the momentary discomfort suffered by the group, Cecilia made her excuses and left to join Miss Amblethorp.

"I depend upon you, Miss Amblethorp, to be my salvation," she said
sotto voce
as she slid into a chair next to the young woman.

"Well, you may have it only if you will refrain from addressing me as Miss Amblethorp. I am fagged to death of Miss Amblethorp," returned her friend with no little asperity.

Cecilia grinned and relaxed. "I knew I could depend upon you to relieve the stale air. I tell you truthfully, my head aches, yet not for a moment would that group grant me reprieve! I really don't know what has occasioned their solicitude. Nothing, I assure you, that I have, done! It is most disquieting."

"It is you who are most disquieting," returned Janine sharply. Then she blushed furiously at her rudeness and looked down to where her hands were grasping and twisting her fan tightly. The delicate sticks snapped under the pressure. "Oh-h-h, no," moaned Janine dismally, loosening her grip on the maltreated fan to survey the damage. "Your behavior is so changeable, I don't understand it."

There was a moment of silence between the two women. Cecilia covered Janine's shaking hand with her own as the young woman unconsciously traced the break in the sticks.

"All I can say," Cecilia began slowly, her eyes intent on Janine's flushed face, "is that there are reasons for my behavior, no matter how good or bad they are. All I can ask is that you trust me."

Trust me.

The phrase echoed in her head, mocking her. Trust was something she did not grant easily. When one granted trust, one placed an emotional burden on the other person. Those burdens were too heavy. Such burdens should be personal, not something to be willy-nilly handed over to another. Who was she to ask another to share the weight of her emotional burdens? Her fears and problems? She stared at the carved plaster and wood ceiling a moment and sighed heavily, for no answer would come.

"I think I should retire. I cannot seem to think clearly any longer." She absently patted Janine's hand and stood up slowly, moving like a person who'd long ago run her race. She bid the young woman goodnight, then went to her aunt and grandmother, exchanging similar words. Smiling charmingly, vacantly, she wished the rest of the company good evening and headed for the door.

Sir James Branstoke was before her. He lounged against the door frame, absently studying the filigree snuffbox he held in one hand. "Still claiming to blend with the furnishings?" he murmured when she got to the door.

She turned her head to consider him, her lips pursed. There was laughter glinting out from under those heavy eyelids. She'd wager he knew the instigator for her new entourage. She would not be surprised to discover he had a hand in suggesting it in some macabre fashion. "What has happened?" she demanded bluntly.

His eyebrows rose and he looked at her with social credulity. "My dear Mrs. Waddley, isn't it obvious?"

"Do you take me for a flat, sir?"

His thin lips tightened in a ghost of a smile. It sent tingling rivulets down her back.

"Never that, Mrs. Waddley. Many other things, perhaps, such as a beautiful, willful woman, but never a flat."