The Waylaid Heart

by Holly Newman

  "You seem to have a ready understanding of people."

  Janine cocked her head. "If I do, I suppose it's because I'd rather be an observer than a participant."

  "Tell me, what do you make of my brother Randolph and his friends?"

  She wrinkled her nose. "I doubt you'd want to know."

  "No, seriously, I do," she assured her, leaning forward and resting her hands on her knees.

  Janine looked around absently for a moment as she gathered her thoughts. "The only one who seems real to me is Lord Havelock."

  "Havelock! Oh, you mean because you've known him for so long."

  "Partly. Also I've spent considerable energy studying the changes in him. At any rate, I see him, quite clearly, as totally wrapped up in himself, and sadly, entirely consistent in that manner. The Viscount Dernley I knew is dead. Mr. Haukstrom—" she paused, looking guiltily at Cecilia.

  "Go on, please. Nothing you could say about my brother will upset me in any way."

  Janine nodded and plowed on. "Mr. Haukstrom is all flash and no substance, the Honorable Mr. Rippy likes to play the fool, and Sir Elsdon is just too happy and carefree for my tastes. And truthfully, I am not familiar with half the plays he is forever quoting—let alone do I understand them!"

  Cecilia laughed. "That is a succinct, yet I'll own brilliant conclusion. What do you make of Sir Branstoke?"

  Janine smiled. "I like him. If you stripped away his enjoyment of London's frivolities, he would be a great deal like the Viscount Dernley that I knew."

  Cecilia pulled back, shock and puzzlement reflected in her wide blue eyes. "Oh, Janine, surely not. Havelock could never have been that languid."

  "No-o, but those are only manners, not the measure of the man."

  "You don't think manners are the measure of a man?"

  "Certainly not! Manners are like clothing, worn for effect in society. To know a man's true measure, one would have to view him away from society, away from the need to be anything other than himself."

  "If we accept your statement, then the corollary of it must be that in society, no one is as they seem."

  Janine laughed. "Yes, I suppose that would be true. All of us actors and actresses upon a stage. Didn't Mr. Shakespeare write something to that effect?"

  "Very likely," Cecilia said absently, her thoughts running swiftly down another road. "The question then becomes," she mused slowly, "what does one look for to know the true measure of a person?"

  "I beg your pardon?"

  Cecilia looked up and smiled brightly, self-consciously. "Oh, nothing, merely some conclusions for myself." She hooked her arm with Janine's. "What do you say we return to the house and partake of a little breakfast. There are bound to be others up now. Neither of us shall be forced to converse with those we dislike." An odd feeling rippled down her spine. Instinctively she looked up at the row of windows. The clear panes winked emptily in the morning sun.

  She turned back toward Janine, enveloping herself once again in her mantle of signs and symptoms. "Besides, if I stay much longer in this cool air, no doubt my plaguey cough will return. So disagreeable, you know. Just as one is about to speak to someone, lo, what happens? A coughing fit wracks one's body leaving one too weak to stand, let alone continue in conversation," she prattled while guiding Janine toward the gate.

  Janine looked at her askance, her expression quizzical and hurt. Cecilia saw it and knew she was questioning her odd behavior. And remembering their conversation, wondering what was odd and what was real. It smote Cecilia to realize how, in maintaining her persona, she might hurt others in return. Were her machinations any better than the rest of society's just because she believed her motives were sincere? Who was she to doubt anyone else? She should be tarred with the same brush.

  No matter, she thought wearily, she would continue as she began. She had no choice.

  A figure stood by a window in one of the state apartments, cloaked in shadows as the morning sun streamed past him. He stood, unmoving, watching Miss Amblethorp and Mrs. Waddley in the garden below. Keenly his eyes followed Mrs. Waddley, noting first her sympathy, humor, then serious demeanor. Finally he saw her relax and fade back into the Mrs. Waddley everyone knew. He watched them until they rounded the corner of the mansion and disappeared from sight. The grounds were empty again. He turned and headed nonchalantly toward the door.

  Cecilia led Janine through the back entrance so both would be spared questions regarding their early morning ramble with subsequent sodden shoes and skirts. The servants hall, just off that entrance, was a flurry of activity. Something was being planned. Cecilia shooed Janine on up the stairs and followed in her wake, determined to change quickly in order to discover what was transpiring.

  When she descended the stairs to enter the drawing room off the salon that was designated for the house party's informal meals, it was to discover a riding expedition planned to the edge of Romney Marsh. No doubt the duke had been cajoled to lead his guests on a tour of some of the more infamous haunts of his highwayman and smuggler days. His exploits were almost forty years old, but to hear him tell it, they occurred only yesterday. Cecilia shook her head in amusement and declined an invitation to join the large party. Such an excursion would be far too damaging to her fragile health.

  She served herself a small wedge of ham and a dollop of potatoes from the sideboard and sat down to listen to the conversations around her as she ate small, bird-like bites of breakfast.

  "Is Miss Cresswell coming, do you know?" asked the Honorable Mr. Rippy, his Adam's apple bobbing as he sipped his ale.

  "Do you think she'd miss an opportunity to show herself to advantage? Especially if Sir Branstoke were to be in attendance? Don't be a blockhead," drawled Lord Havelock, his lip curling in a faint sneer.

  "They've started placing wagers at White's, y'know," said Sir Harry. "Oh, how many torments lie in the small circle of a wedding ring! Colley Cibber, The Double Gallant," he explained to no one in particular.

  "He ain't been caught yet, for all he moves so slow. Stab me if I understand what all the gels see in him. Fa! but it's a dull dog!" complained Randolph.

  "It's more'n money or looks," assured the Earl of Soothcoor, setting his mug on the table and raising his napkin to his lips. He rose from the table.

  "What's more than money or looks?" inquired Lady Bramcroft, sailing into the room wearing an imperious air and an outmoded blue riding dress.

  "Sir Branstoke's attraction with the ladies," supplied Sir Harry. Several pairs of male eyes glared at him for including a woman in their masculine conversation. He shrugged and smiled congenially. All, it seemed, had forgotten Cecilia's presence.

  "Soothcoor is quite correct," said Lady Bramcroft. Laying a pair of blue kid gloves on the table, she took a cup of coffee from an impassive footman. "And you gentleman could do no worse than to study Sir Branstoke's methods."

  That brought a guffaw of laughter from the gentlemen.

  "And what would you have us do? All walk as slow as a snail and fall asleep on our feet?" asked Sir Harry. "Or, do you believe: He is the very pineapple of politeness?"

  Lady Bramcroft's thin gray brows rose and a dismissive sigh flared her pinched nostrils for she recognized Sheridan's Mrs. Malaprop in Elsdon's quote. "You gentlemen are without your senses if that is your opinion. Sir Branstoke is the epitome of the word gentleman, isn't that correct Mrs. Waddley?"

  Cecilia's head flew up followed by a tide of red. It was not her intention to be singled out and certainly not to voice her opinions of Sir Branstoke! Her mouth opened and closed, then she cleared her throat. "I—I really don't believe I am in a position to say."

  "Oh, come, come, Mrs. Waddley. I've seen you several times in Sir Branstoke's company. Do not be coy. Tell these gentlemen what makes him amenable to us ladies."

  "Well, I think it is his address, and the way he has of listening to one as if whatever you say is of great import."

  "Exactly. Very good, Mrs. Waddley," approved Lady Bramcroft, mu
ch in the manner of the headmistress of the girls' academy Cecilia once attended.

  "Ha! Anyone who could stomach Cecilia's long list of complaints and illnesses would find favor in my addle-pated pretty little sister's eyes. Probably came from being married to that damned merchant," jibed Randolph.

  Sir Harry winced and Lord Havelock studied the plaster and wood ceiling.

  Lady Bramcroft drew herself up and glared at him. "And it is even far easier to discern why you find favor with so few!" She set down her coffee cup, picked up her gloves, and sailed out of the room, the very rustle of her heavy skirts loudly proclaiming her disfavor.

  Prudently, Cecilia found it incumbent to follow in her wake while behind her Sir Harry was advising her brother, amid fulsome theatrical quotes, that once again his actions with regards to his sister were bad ton. The Earl of Soothcoor emphatically seconded that sentiment. Cecilia didn't hear her brother's response.

  Cecilia retired with her work basket to the salon and settled on one of the white and gilt painted sofas upholstered in red damask. It faced wide double doors left open onto the entrance hall and vestibule. From her vantage point she could see everyone as they entered or left the mansion. For nearly an hour her quick needle plunged in and, out of the canvas, filling in the redbrick colored background around the golden keys. She saw nearly the entire house party leave. From comments dropped, she gathered some of the older ladies were gathered in her grandmother's private drawing room and that a few of the elder gentlemen had retired to the library for a morning nap.

  When the house had been still for some time, Cecilia packed up her workbasket. She headed first for the stillroom to check on her slips to see that they were still damp and would come to no harm until she could plant them. But her journey to the stillroom served another purpose. It brought her past the large servant's hall. She peeked in. As she hoped, several of the valets were at their leisure. Her brother's man held a deck of cards in his hand and was soliciting players. Like master like man, mused Cecilia. It should keep him well engaged.

  She climbed the stairs to the long gallery that gave access to the state apartments. She paced the gallery twice, listening for the sounds of others in the wing and deliberately creating noise to draw out the curious. No one came. Satisfied, she crossed to the door to the small blue withdrawing room that gave access to the room Randolph used. She eased open the door and slipped inside, crossing the blue and white patterned carpet quickly. At Randolph's door she paused and looked toward the other two rooms that gave off the withdrawing room. They were silent and closed. She opened Randolph's door.

  It was not a neat room. Disgust for the habits of Randolph's man curled her lip upward. She shook her head dismally, wondering where to start looking. More so, what should she be looking for? She'd only had some vague idea before of searching Randolph's room, never forming any clear idea of what she should be looking for. She stepped farther into the room. Anything of import would most likely not be among his clothes and toiletries, for they were scattered about the room. It would be put away, in a drawer, a trunk, somewhere. She started to pull open drawers, carefully sifting contents. She checked the wardroom, his portmanteau, under his pillow—nothing. No journal like Mr. Waddley kept, no books, no scraps of paper of any sort. There were gloves, stockings, and cravats in abundance along with several fobs, snuff boxes, and a signet ring he must have had designed for himself for its emblem was unknown to her. She sighed as she closed the last small drawer in a French Boulle writing desk. There was no help here.

  Quietly she left the room and moved swiftly toward another of the rooms. Suddenly her nose began to tickle. Frantically she withdrew the clean handkerchief from her sleeve and held it tightly to her nose, praying it would stop the threatening sneeze. Swiftly she ran back to the entrance door and slipped out into the gallery, relief flooding her that she'd made it back safely to the public part of the house. She sighed and lifted her head up, her hand and handkerchief falling to rest on her chest. She gasped and blinked. Standing not twenty feet away with his back to her, staring out tall mullioned windows was Sir James Branstoke!

  He was supposed to be out riding! What was he doing here?

  Aachoo!

  Sir James Branstoke thought himself alone. He came upstairs to think, to pace the long gallery, and to stare out the windows that gave onto the courtyard between the wings in expectation of seeing Mrs. Waddley. He knew she did not attend the riding party. A subtle question to her maid produced the information that she was not in her chamber. A cursory inspection of the public rooms also failed to produce the woman.

  He was curious as to her whereabouts and activities, for he didn't believe she was at Oastley Hall merely for frivolity. He noticed her eyes tracked the movements of Randolph and his friends. That crowd did not strike him as the types to catch Mrs. Waddley's romantic fancy. Nor was her expression one of avid expectation, as most women were wont to wear when they desire to be noticed by a man. Quite the opposite. Watching her, he received the impression that she would prefer blending with the furnishings and it was obvious that she resented the duke's and duchess's efforts to bring her into society's fold.

  He wondered where Mrs. Waddley could be. For all her laments and protests, he doubted she was sitting idly somewhere. That was the reason he was in the gallery. Earlier in the day he discovered the gallery was an ideal vantage point for watching the comings and goings around the hall, Already he'd noted a small party returning from the expedition betimes; and following them, one figure who, with his tan greatcoat collar turned up and his curly-brimmed beaver hat pulled down low, Branstoke judged reluctant for his return to be public knowledge. Sir James Branstoke had been studying the unknown man, puzzling his identity, when he heard the sneeze behind him. He assumed it was one of the servants. He turned at the sound, amused for it was more like a mouse's squeak than the muffled, dainty little sneeze it was.

  "Mrs. Waddley!" Surprise at discovering his quarry so near at hand quickly gave way to concern and suspicion.

  In a few strides he was by her side, urging her into one of the Chippendale chairs lining the linen-fold paneling of the gallery.

  "I did not hear you approach. A thousand apologies, Madame. If I'd heard you, I would not have been so rude as to keep my back to you."

  "No, please, it is nothing," protested Cecilia. Her hands fluttered, echoing her words. "Really. It is equally rude to sneak up on someone. Such was never my intention, I assure you, Sir Branstoke. But I was certain—I—I mean I thought you would be with the riding party."

  "That had been my ambition, however, on further reflection I realized I had no taste for spending a chilly morning jockeying for a position near the object of every male member's gallantry. I and my horse would stand in constant danger of being nipped, kicked, or left with dust swirling up our noses. A most disheartening proposition," he explained, sitting down in a chair near her.

  Cecilia relaxed and laughed. "Is that a suitor's expectations around Miss Cresswell?"

  "Oh, decidedly, Mrs. Waddley. It is all part of the game. However, since I am not—how shall I state this?—not an ardent suitor, the entire proposition struck me as entirely flat. A sad waste of energy."

  "Or perhaps shrewd politics," she offered archly.

  He raised a brow, and then a smile transformed his features. "You are referring, are you not, to the possibility that I may claim Miss Cresswell's attention later in the day as recompense for my lack now?"

  Cecilia pursed her lips to repress a smile though her royal blue eyes twinkled with humor. "It strikes me that is a viable option."

  "One does not win battles by charging willy-nilly into the fray."

  He was delighted at her bantering humor. Perhaps at last she was becoming comfortable around him. Or was she striving to prevent unwanted questions, such as why she was in the room that led, he knew, only to gentlemen's quarters? That door had been shut when he entered the gallery. It was now cracked open.

  "I understand bets are b
eing placed in White's as to Miss Cresswell's success," Cecilia said.

  He leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other, his hands clasped about his knee. "It never ceases to amaze me how history repeats itself and lessons are never learned. Those who have learned shall reap the rewards; the others shall visit the gull gropers. I, however, have learned it is not politic to place bets where a woman is concerned."

  "Oh! And how am I to take this? Do you mean to suggest women are fickle?"

  "No—though that may be an aspect for some—it is that they take it amiss," he said, shaking his head. "They consider it an affront to their virtue. An apropos summation, I will admit." He looked at her, his gaze steady. "In a group, a man's viler instincts thrive."

  "Ah—that I have had occasion to witness."

  Branstoke's brow rose. "You surprise me, Mrs. Waddley, unless you are referring to Nutley's behavior at the opera. That was alcohol speaking, not the result of the herding tendency of men."

  "No, I know the difference. I am not, sir, a woman that men recognize as existing. I blend into the furnishings. Therefore, sometimes comments are made in my hearing which should not be," she admitted roguishly.

  Sir Branstoke laughed. "Mrs. Waddley, you amaze me. I find that inconceivable." Privately he considered that more her design than the actuality.

  "Fudge, Sir James. You know as well as I that a woman with a propensity for illness is not well received. I am the butt of jokes. I know it. I assure you, I do not repine. I cannot change what is, I can only strive to do the best with my limited capacity."

  He smiled slightly, noting the casual use of his name, but refrained from commenting. "Mrs. Waddley, I am not such a gudgeon as to swallow that. I know your health is not an issue with you. I would that you would allow me that simple knowledge, too."

  Her expression stilled until a haunted look invaded her blue eyes, darkening them to purple. "I'm afraid I do not understand your meaning." She uneasily patted a stray lock of hair back into place, her eyes shifting under his regard. "I'm sorry if I disturbed your ruminations. Please excuse me. I have just recalled I have yet to plant my slips." Cecilia rose from the chair.