The Waylaid Heart (3 page)

"I've always contended that it was unfortunate he was born first. Sheridan was worth ten Trentons."

"Jessamine, we are rambling again. Mr. Thornbridge has no interest in the skeletons rattling about in our family closet." Cecilia's head tilted, a thoughtful expression narrowing her blue eyes to slits. She tapped a fingernail against her chin. "Though I must admit, thinking of those skeletons does affirm my fears that Randolph may be involved with my husband's death. The family tree is not filled with the most upright and honest of relations, despite our so-called aristocratic blood."

"Yes, and when one considers that father was once a highwayman—"

Mr. Thornbridge choked and sputtered on a sip of tea. "A highwayman? The Duke of Houghton?"

Laughter burbled from Cecilia. "And a smuggler. Jessamine, I believe we have shocked poor Mr. Thornbridge! Do not worry, sir. Grandmother claims the history is more dramatic than the actuality. She refers to that time in the duke's life as a minor indiscretion. Now he is the model of straitlaced propriety. If anyone challenges him on the contradiction of his life, he calls it the luxury of old age. But my point is, Mr. Thornbridge, that it would not be singular for my brother to be involved in illegal activities. It is in his blood." She leaned forward to pick up her cup. She sipped the tepid brew as she watched conflicting emotions chase across Mr. Thornbridge's face.

"I admit, Mrs. Waddley, to astonishment at your revelations. Nonetheless, if Mr. Haukstrom did begin receiving a healthy allowance as the next heir to the Marquis of Nye and the Duke of Houghton before Mr. Waddley's death, why would he continue engaging in nefarious activities?"

"That I cannot answer. What I can suppose is that there was some sort of adventure attached to his activities or perhaps the depths of his involvement prevented his extrication. But we are getting ahead of ourselves. We have no proof, only surmises. What I would like you to do, Mr. Thornbridge, is to investigate my brother's financial situation. How does he spend his money? Does he owe anyone? Is he involved in any unusual investments or business ventures? What about his cronies, what are their financial states?"

"I understand, Mrs. Waddley."

"But, Mr. Thornbridge, please be careful. I suspect additional involvement by someone within Waddley Spice and Tea, though I have no idea who that person could be."

"If you are speaking of involvement among the managers, that is only a handful of men, myself included."

"And we satisfied ourselves in regards to you weeks ago. It is a moot concern. But tell me, do you have any trouble among the other managers at Waddley's with visiting me?"

"No, quite the reverse, actually. As the manager possessing the least seniority, I handle the dirtiest jobs. Calling upon you, or pandering to the bereaved widow, as it is known in the company, is considered one of those jobs," he drawled, the gleam of shared secrets in his eyes.

Lady Meriton pursed her lips and ducked her head to hide a smile. Spotting her lap desk on the floor, she reached down to pick it up.

Cecilia was temporarily nonplussed. Then she smiled ruefully and nodded. "The idea that you are forced to dance attendance upon a silly ninny hammer should give you freedom to come and go as you please. Excellent."

"Particularly a ninny hammer who is forever relating to anyone unfortunate enough to be at hand the sad state of her health.

"It would drive most men to distraction," offered Lady Meriton as she rummaged through her lap desk.

"Yes, I believe I have become quite imaginative in that regard."

A sharp knock on the drawing room door drew the startled attention of its occupants. Quickly Cecilia slouched back on the sofa adopting a languid posture. Lady Meriton called out her permission to enter.

At the sight of the thinning pate of Loudon, her aunt's sad-eyed butler, Cecilia relaxed. He was one of the few servants aware of her dissembling.

"Excuse me, my lady, but there is a gentleman below who begs a visit with Mrs. Waddley."

Cecilia sat up straight, her features animated again. "A gentleman? Who is it, Loudon?"

Silently the butler held out a small white card to his mistress. Lady Meriton fixed her butler with a frown as she fumbled to adjust the small rimmed glasses she wore on her nose, then she glanced down at the card. "Cecilia! It's Sir James Branstoke!"

"What? I knew the man was trouble! I can't see him. I don't dare." Cecilia's hands fluttered about her, her complexion growing paler than usual without recourse to rice powder. She turned to glare mockingly at her aunt. "I thought you said my blue megrims would drive any man to distraction."

"Most men," corrected Lady Meriton. "But you are getting frantic without cause. I have known Sir Branstoke these many years. Allow me to assure you that he is a veritable walking somnambulist. The man does not see beyond the end of his nose unless he is looking at someone's attire. He is a tyro for sartorial elegance."

"Who is Sir Branstoke?" asked Mr. Thornbridge.

"He is merely a gentleman who came to Cecilia's aid last evening when he thought she was ill. My niece now would have it that he doubts her ill health."

"He does, and I swear he is not the quintessential dandy he appears. Trust one artificer to recognize another, Jessamine. Loudon, send him away, say I am indisposed. Yes! That's it, I am indisposed and closeted with my physician."

The butler cleared his throat and looked sheepishly at Mrs. Waddley. "Begging your pardon, ma'am, but I took the liberty of informing the gentleman of your visit with your—ahem,
doctor
. He informed me he would wait. A most courteous gentleman, but rather implacable, I would say,"

"I'm afraid that is a very proper summation, Loudon." Cecilia sighed then compressed her lips. "All right. You may show him up, Loudon. Mr. Thornbridge, quickly fetch the blanket folded on the settee over there while I douse a handkerchief in lavender water to bathe my feverish brow. I shall probably need it in actuality before this interview is over."

"Cecilia, you are refining too much on last evening's occurrence," protested Lady Meriton.

"I hope you are correct, Jessamine. Oh, blast! I've spilled lavender water on my dress. I dare say I shall reek for hours. No matter. Spread that blanket across my legs, Mr. Thornbridge, then hover over me like you are checking my pulse, or fever, or something."

"I must protest, Mrs. Waddley. To feign a doctor's position for the servants' benefit is a dashed nuisance; but to portray one to a member of Society…”

"Is no different. Do not turn squeamish on me, Mr. Thornbridge. I would not believe it. Any man willingly engaging in nocturnal forays to a black dock on which another man has been murdered cannot be easily daunted," Cecilia admonished before slapping a lavender-water drenched handkerchief against her forehead, dribbling more of the liquid down the front of her gown.

"Let me assure you, Mrs. Waddley, there is an immense difference between the two tasks," Mr. Thornbridge said fervently, clasping her wrist as the drawing room door opened.

"Sir Branstoke, my lady," announced Loudon, standing in front of the man while he ascertained that the room's occupants were ready to receive their guest, Satisfied at Mrs. Waddley's invalid position, he stood aside and allowed Sir Branstoke to enter.

The butler's maneuver did not go unregarded by Sir Branstoke. Nonetheless, his visage remained impassive to the point of bored. He lifted his quizzing glass to his eyes and surveyed the drawing room.

"Lady Meriton, forgive this intrusion at this impossible hour of the morning. It is not my desire to discommode you. I told your man I would wait, but leave I could not without first ascertaining Mrs. Waddley's condition."

His heavily lidded brown eyes turned to Mrs. Waddley. Gowned in an ethereal looking pale blue and gray confection and sporting a lacy matron's cap over her white-blond hair, she was artistically posed in a nest of pink and rose-colored satin pillows. A blanket was tucked around her legs and at her elbow stood a small table covered with medicinal bottles and vials. With one hand she held a lace-edged handkerchief to her forehead. Her other was held by the gentleman standing at her side. For some reason, the entire scene reminded Branstoke of some Rowlandson cartoon. He wondered why. He stepped toward Cecilia.

"My dear lady, I am devastated to see you as yet unrecovered from the exigencies of yesterday evening. Cannot your medical man do anything to relieve your suffering?" he asked languidly, his sleepy-eyed gaze resting on David Thornbridge.

The young Waddley's manager dropped her hand abruptly as he fought a tide of red threatening to sweep up his neck. He coughed to clear his throat and ran nervous fingers through his hair.

Cecilia limply removed the saturated handkerchief from her forehead and waved Mr. Thornbridge away. "You are mistaken, sir, I am much better today, just tired. Doctor Thornbridge is a veritable miracle worker. Oh, forgive me," she tittered, raising a slender hand to cover her lips in contrition. "So silly. My wits have gone begging. You gentlemen have not been introduced. Sir Branstoke, allow me to present my dear physician and pillar of strength, Dr. David Thornbridge."

A soft, strangling sound came from Mr. Thornbridge. Cecilia shot him an admonishing glance. "Your modesty is commendable, but totally unnecessary. I neither flatter nor lie," she said sweetly.

Lady Meriton's pale blue eyes widened and her mouth opened and closed spasmodically. She did not know where to look lest she reveal her knowledge of her niece's bouncers.

"Now I am rambling again. Dr. Thornbridge, this is Sir James Branstoke," Cecilia serenely continued, apparently oblivious to the reactions of her confederates.

The gentlemen exchanged greetings.

"I will be going now, Mrs. Waddley," Mr. Thornbridge said gravely.

"Oh, yes, I know. You have your rounds to make."

"My what? Ah, yes indeed, my rounds to make. Umm—uh, get plenty of rest today. You should feel much better by tomorrow," Mr. Thornbridge finished in a rush while backing toward the door. "Lady Meriton, Sir Branstoke," he said bowing in their directions; "Good day."

"A rather young man for a physician, isn't he?" Branstoke drawled after the white double door closed behind Mr. Thornbridge. He turned to look at Mrs. Waddley, one dark eyebrow raised in lazy inquiry.

"He is gifted beyond his years," Cecilia said serenely, her dark blue eyes guilelessly opening wide.

"To be sure, my niece is quite fortunate in his attentions," Lady Meriton added brightly. "Please, Sir Branstoke, won't you be seated?" She waved her hand toward the chair recently vacated by Mr. Thornbridge. "Would you mind terribly if I cut your silhouette while we visit, Sir Branstoke?"

"Not at all, Lady Meriton. I would deem it an honor. You are a noted silhouettist."

Lady Meriton blushed prettily at his grave response. Cecilia stared, amused.

"Can we offer you something by way of refreshment? Some Oastley estate-brewed ale, perhaps?" Lady Meriton asked as she drew a sheet of black paper from her lap desk. She glared at it a moment then replaced it, drawing out a dark red sheet instead.

"Thank you, Lady Meriton. I should like that. The Duke of Houghton's ale is legendary."

"Mr. Waddley often said the duke should market his ale; but of course, grandfather would have nothing to do with trade," Cecilia said as her aunt rang for the butler and requested ale for Sir Branstoke.

"Yet he countenanced your marriage into trade."

Sir Branstoke's demeanor irritated Cecilia, though she couldn't precisely define the reason. "Come now, sir, if you think to disturb me by that remark, you are well out," she said more sharply than she'd intended. She looked down at the handkerchief she held while consciously relaxing and ridding her face of any irritation. She was acting out of character and this would never do.

"Disturb?" he inquired blandly.

She laughed brightly, hoping he didn't detect any brittleness in the sound. "La, sir! It is commonly known my marriage was arranged by my father and brother as a means to recover the family fortunes."

"Ah yes, now I do seem to recall a time when your brother was sadly purse-pinched," Sir Branstoke said vaguely, leaning back in his chair.

He did appear the languid gentleman of her aunt's description. Why did that bother her? And why did she feel he was baiting her? She was mentally composing a properly featherbrained response to him when a soft knock on the door announced Loudon with the ale.

"I have taken the liberty of bringing you a fresh pot of tea as well my lady," Loudon said as he set the tray down on a table. He picked up a pitcher and poured frothing ale into a tankard for Sir Branstoke. He handed it to him then turned to Lady Meriton. "Do you require anything else, my lady?"

"I do not believe so." She glanced up from her scissors and paper to look at her niece. "Cecilia?" she asked.

A pained expression crossed Cecilia's face. "The mere thought of food nauseates me dreadfully."

Her aunt nodded vaguely, her attention returning to the paper she held in her hand. Loudon, used to his mistress's unorthodox dismissals, bowed and left the room.

Sir Branstoke pulled a white linen handkerchief from a vest pocket and leaned toward Cecilia. He wiped her chin. "There was probably too much sugar in the last pastry you ate," he drawled, displaying to her the remnants of sugar on his handkerchief.

She pulled sharply back, coloring deeply as embarrassment and discomfort chased across her face. His nearness reminded her of when she collided with him last night: his solidity, his scent, the prickling of her senses. She was aware of him. She'd never felt that heady sense of awareness before. It frightened and excited her.

Quickly, she had herself in hand. She tittered. "I dare say you're correct. Jessamine—" She turned toward her aunt, uncomfortable under Sir Branstoke's regard. "I believe I should stick with water and soda crackers after one of my turns. The sugar is most likely aggravating my condition. No wonder my heart sometimes pounds so!"

"If I may say so, Mrs. Waddley, perhaps the abundant use of lavender water could be a contributor as well," suggested Sir Branstoke, the ghost of a smile tightening his thin lips.