The Waylaid Heart (16 page)

Cecilia chewed on her lower lip a moment. "Blast the man! There, see? How can I trust him? I tell him to stay out of my concerns and he ignores my words. Where is the trust in me?"

"Cecilia, you are hardly being fair. You don't know how he came about to see Mr. Thornbridge and know him not to be a medical man."

"All right, all right. I stand corrected. I shall not leap willy-nilly to conclusions. I suppose I'd best see him, to at least learn what he does know. Loudon, show him into the rose parlor. I'll be down directly." She turned toward her aunt, her handkerchief rubbing her cheeks. "How do I look? Is my complexion blotchy?"

"No, merely dewy. But straighten your fichu. There, you'll do; however, I do wish you'd smile. You look like some sacrificial victim."

Cecilia grimaced as she stood and shook out her skirt. "At the moment I feel that description to be very apt," she said wryly. Taking a deep breath, she walked toward the door. Behind her, Lady Meriton shook her head and smiled.

Cecilia closed the parlor door softly. She leaned back against its carved oak panels, her hands behind her back still clutching the door latch as if she were half-afraid to stay, to commit herself to talking with Branstoke.

"You wanted to see me?" she asked levelly, pleased at the light note she'd infused into her tone.

Branstoke stood in the middle of the room, regarding her dispassionately through hooded eyes. He waited.

Cecilia shifted uneasily, finally she straightened, releasing her death's grasp of the door latch. She took a few steps toward him, careful to keep her distance. She didn't trust being close to Sir Branstoke, but whether that was due to him or herself; she refused to examine.

"Is Lady Meriton to join us?" he asked, casually removing his snuffbox from his pocket and flicking the latch open with his thumb.

"No, she is occupied at present," Cecilia said, red surging up to stain her cheeks. She plucked her handkerchief from where she had tucked it at the end of her long sleeve and began wringing it with both hands. "You forget, sir, I am mistress of my own affairs and stand in no need of a chaperone. The idea is quite ludicrous at my age," she said with a tight laugh.

One dark eyebrow rose and it appeared his attention shifted to her full red lips. Noting the direction of his fixed gaze, Cecilia's discomfort increased for suddenly she remembered two occasions with him where a chaperone would have been wise.

She clasped her hands before her, tension evident in the tendons of her hand. "You mentioned Thornbridge to Loudon," she said formally. "How is it you know of his accident? I have just received a note from Dr. Heighton myself."

"Yes, Dr. Heighton informed me he sent around a reassuring missive." He took a pinch of snuff, snapped the tiny box shut and returned it to his pocket.

"Reassuring? Are his injuries graver than he intimated?"

"No. Though they well could have been. Cecilia, it is past time that we speak without prevarication or omission."

"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean," she said stiffly, her head flung up in silent challenge.

Branstoke crossed his arms over his chest, his head canted as he considered her, "I have observed a very interesting phenomena during the short time we have been acquainted," he drawled. "Did you know your eyes darken and a tiny pulse throbs in your neck when you lie to me? No, I don't suppose you do," he said with a thin smile as he watched color blazing into her cheeks again. "I assure you it is true. Now, shall we begin again? I am not a flat."

A tiny reluctant smile creased Cecilia's lips. "Is that in conjunction with not being a Borgia?" she couldn't resist asking.

Branstoke's eyes glowed in appreciation of her humor. "Yes, along with being a man with a surprisingly limited fount of patience where you are concerned," he warned darkly, stepping closer to her.

Cecilia moved gracefully to the right to put a table between them.

He stopped and impassively studied the obstruction. "I see," he murmured. He turned and sauntered toward the fireplace. He stood with his back to her, staring up at the portrait of Lady Meriton with her son Franklin as a young child. "But I believe we were discussing Mister Thornbridge, the youngest manager at Waddley Spice and Tea," he said urbanely, turning to look at her over his shoulder.

Cecilia placed her fingertips on the table in front of her. "I admit, Sir Branstoke, you have the advantage of me. How am I to take that?"

"Honestly, I beg of you."

She sighed and compressed her lips. "All right, I admit I lied about his position as my physician."

"Why?"

She shrugged slightly. "It just seemed easier. And truthfully, society expects me to receive numerous visits from a physician."

"To add credence to your various illnesses?"

"More to reinforce those illnesses," she said drily.

"All of which are imaginary."

She had the grace to blush. "Except for some of the headaches," she qualified ruefully. "Of late those have been more real than I care." She came around the table and sat dispiritedly on the sofa.

"What was Mr. Thornbridge doing for you that nearly caused his death?"

She winced. "Was it that obvious?"

"To me it was, once I discovered his true occupation."

She looked away from him, thinking, and chewed her lower lip. "I wonder if anyone else has connected him with me? As of yet, I doubt it. If they had, I do not believe someone of Mr. Peters' ilk would have been sent to do business with me," she murmured.

"Cecilia, what maggot have you in that devious little brain of yours?" Branstoke demanded. He did not like her considering expression nor the slight smile that went with it. He crossed to her side and sat down next to her.

She turned her head to look at him "I beg your pardon?" she asked loftily.

"Cut line, Cecilia. That pose will not work on me any better than your ill-health pose has. I did not cut my eyeteeth yesterday. What are you and Thornbridge involved with?"

"That is none of your concern. And who gave you leave to address me by my Christian name?"

"I did. I refuse to continue calling you Mrs. Waddley; it reminds me of a duck."

"How dare you!" she exclaimed, her eyes flaring.

Branstoke leaned back on the sofa and nonchalantly crossed his legs. "Oh, I dare a great deal where you are concerned. Lucky for Mr. Thornbridge that I do."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Otherwise Mr. Thornbridge would be dead and you would be carrying a load of guilt that I doubt you'd ever recover from."

Cecilia blanched at the reminder of how close Mr. Thornbridge came to dying. "Tell me about it, please. The accident, I mean."

"It wasn't an accident."

"I didn't think so. Did—did someone attack him?"

"More than one someone. Thornbridge would be dead if my man hadn't stepped forward to lend a hand. Hewitt informs me young Thornbridge displayed himself to advantage; unfortunately the numbers were not in his favor. Mr. Hewitt—believing rightly that I would wish him to—obligingly stepped forward to help. They routed the ruffians, but not before Thornbridge was stabbed. It caught him in his side. According to Dr. Heighton, it missed any vital organs by virtue of a rib."

Cecilia paled, her eyes wide. She stood up suddenly and began to pace before the sofa. "It was lucky your man—Hewitt you said?—was near."

Branstoke rose as she did, a wry smile on his lips. "Luck, my dear, had nothing to do with it."

She stopped. "What do you mean?"

"I mean exactly what I said. Mr. Hewitt was not coincidentally in the area. Prowling the wharfs near Waddley Spice and Tea is not his idea of a pleasant way to spend an evening."

"It did happen near the wharf?"

"Yes."

"Most likely in the same area Mr. Waddley was murdered," she mused.

Branstoke stilled.
What was she involved with?
He ran through his mind for what he knew of Mr. Waddley's death. Not much, for it was not a subject that unduly interested him. He did seem to remember someone commenting on his death in conjunction with the high crime along the river. He passed it off as an unfortunate run-in with that criminal element. But if Mr. Thornbridge was attacked in the same area and, according to Hewitt, by men lying in wait just for him, then might not that have been also true for Mr. Waddley?

He stepped forward, grabbing her by the shoulders and forcing her to look at him. "Cecilia, what was Thornbridge doing down by the wharfs at night?"

She shook her head. "I don't know," she said slowly.

His hands fell from her shoulders. He growled his disgust, "Stop it. Don't lie to me, Cecilia."

She glared at him. "You're the one who said you could tell when I was lying. Then you should know that I'm not lying now. I don't know what he was doing there. The last time I talked to him was the day you were here, before the Oastley house party. He was merely going to look into Randolph's financial affairs."

He ran a hand distractedly through his immaculate hair. "Which he did. And he learned something from all those bankers and lawyers that led his investigation on to a different line of questioning."

"What do you mean?"

"He began frequenting low resorts and asking questions about missing women."

"Prostitutes?"

Branstoke glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. "Yes."

"It doesn't make any sense. Maybe they're not related.. No—they have to be," she murmured. She compressed her lips and began pacing again, her eyes darting about. What could be the connection with Randolph? Or with Mr. Waddley, for that matter? If Thornbridge did investigate Randolph as—"Wait a moment." She stopped pacing and slowly turned to face Branstoke. "How do you know Mr. Thornbridge visited bankers and lawyers? And how do you know he was asking about prostitutes? You had him followed, didn't you?" she declared with rising anger. "Of course you did. That's why luck had nothing to do with your Mr. Hewitt being available. How dare you? How dare you have the effrontery to meddle in my affairs? What gave you the right?" she demanded wrathfully, her voice low-pitched, but nonetheless throbbing with the force of her anger.

"Concern," he said simply in a deceptively bland tone. The rich gold-brown of his eyes was well-hooded; yet he watched her keenly with a cat's studied disinterest.

"Concern? Ha! More like arrogant curiosity stemming from boredom. No wonder you look out at the world like you're half asleep! You are! For some reason I managed to pique your interest and wake you up. A novelty, I'm sure. So with the arrogance of your breed you casually decide to meddle in my affairs for entertainment. Have you had your share of laughs at my expense? Has the entertainment value been worth your time and effort? So what would you have me do for the second act? Prostrate myself before you in supplication? Vow undying gratitude for your interest in my affairs? Ha! I promise you, Sir James Branstoke, it will be a cold day in hell."

Branstoke's eyes narrowed and his jaw went rigid during her tirade. "Are you quite finished? For if you are not, please feel free to continue. I shall wait upon you."

"See? See what I mean? That attitude is a demonstration of precisely what I've been saying. You are an arrogant, self-interested bastard!"

"I shall take that to mean you are finished. I have just one question to ask."

"What?" she said ungraciously, her chest heaving. She glared up at his impassive visage.

"Would you rather Mr. Thornbridge had been murdered?"

The hand seemed to rise of its own volition, but the slap across his face had the strength of her entire body behind it. The crack resounded in the quiet room.

Cecilia stared, horror stricken, at the glowing red hand imprint on his cheek. She covered her mouth with a trembling hand and backed away a step. "I'm so sorry, Sir James. That was uncalled for. Please forgive me. I do know you meant well, really I do. And I am grateful Mr. Thornbridge is alive. I don't know what got into me. That was a terribly foolish thing to do," she babbled.

His eyes glittered behind their heavy lids and through the veil of his dark lashes. His hands clenched, the knuckles white, then relaxed. Carefully he straightened out each finger, easing the tension. "Come here, Cecilia," he said, his voice frighteningly void of expression.

"No—" she said, backing farther away.

"I said, come here," he commanded, his eyes locked with hers.

She inched forward a step, fighting the command yet knowing herself to be at fault. He was well within rights to extract some punishment. She was thankful someone watched out for Mr. Thornbridge. If she had ever imagined the danger his inquiries would lead him to, she would never have asked for his help.

She'd been a fool and Branstoke had saved her from a lifetime of guilt. In actuality, she held no anger toward Branstoke for having someone follow Mr. Thornbridge or even being interested in what she was doing. The galling truth eating at her was the attraction she felt toward the man; an attraction she wanted to deny and swore she didn't want. His proximity in a room set her pulse racing. That's why she slapped him. It was an abortive attempt to deny those insidious feelings within her. And she knew it.

"Come here, Cecilia," he repeated for the third time. He would not repeat it again, would not give her another chance to come forward on her own.

She came closer, her hand coming up tentatively to gently trace the pattern it had recently left. A twitch in his cheek muscle revealed his wariness. A single tear trailed out the corner of her eye. She ignored it. "I'm sorry," she whispered, her heart in her throat.

He settled his hands around her back drawing her closer. With what seemed an exaggerated slowness, his head bent closer to hers, telegraphing his actions. Cecilia emitted a soft cry of part fear, part desire, and infinitesimally raised her head to meet his kiss.

His lips came down on hers hard and demanding, full of checked anger and passion. Commandingly he drank her soul from her lips until she weakened, certain her knees would give way beneath her. Then the kiss changed, deepened, softened, and seemed to return more than it had ever taken. Filled with an intense longing to melt into him, to be one with him, she clung weakly to his shoulders and let the sensations ripple through her.

When finally he lifted his head to stare down into her twilight-darkened eyes, she didn't know what to say or do. Confusion ran riot through her. She returned his kiss with an honesty that told more of her secrets than she'd ever privileged anyone to know. That frightened her; yet curiously gave her peace. That dichotomy provoked her to nervously retreat before him.

He stared at her a long moment in silence. "I will be waiting until you realize you both want and need me," he said rawly. "Give my regards to Lady Meriton." He bowed formally and left, flinging open the parlor door with an uncommon force.

Lady Jessamine Meriton, coming down from her studio, paused on the last stair, her hand resting on the newel post. She looked up to see Sir James Branstoke striding toward her with unnatural haste. She opened her mouth to greet him amiably; but the words died on her lips. A set mask of black anger contorted his features until he little resembled the suave, urbane gentleman of her acquaintance.