by Holly Newman
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 he
ad 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.
He slowed as he came even with her, his features twisting into a semblance of a polite smile. He nodded curtly.
Pleased to see he was not completely lost to all niceties of manner, she was nonetheless quick to attribute his startling lack of legendary phlegm to her niece. It was odd, and rather delightfully comical, how Cecilia and Branstoke were suddenly prone to unusual and uncommon behavior. She wondered if either knew how serious was the malady—or if either had yet to properly name it.
As he would pass her, she put out a slender hand to detain him. "Will you not stay for refreshments?"
"No, thank you, Lady Meriton. I fear if I did they would end on my head," he said, glancing toward the closed parlor door.
"You mustn't mind Cecilia when she's in a temper. She gets that way when she feels, well, out of control, I suppose one would say. She prefers to have the management of all things."
"So I am to gather," he drawled.
"I think she feels safer that way," she went on ruminatively, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. "So much of her life has been mismanaged by others, you know. When anyone does anything the least bit managing, she flies into a pelter. It is a reflexive action, I suspect."
Branstoke looked at her keenly, dark emotion settling out of his features. "I believe I begin to understand," he said slowly, a slight smile forming on his lips in quite his old manner. "Thank you, Lady Meriton."
She smiled. "You're welcome. And please come again, Sir Branstoke. You are a much more entertaining caller than the others who paraded through this morning and who, it appears, we shall be seeing more of."
He laughed shortly. "Haukstrom's cronies?"
"Dear me, yes. And all anxious to put it to the touch, it would seem. Mr. Rippy fired the first salvo this morning."
"And her response?"
"Can you not guess? No, of course. But she continues to encourage him to call. Truly, it is a comedy of manners to see those gentleman vie for her attention. Of course, they are only after her money; but watching provides sport. My only fear is that in a welter of guilt she will accept one of them. Particularly now, with this Thornbridge matter." She shivered slightly, then pinned Branstoke with a stern eye. "Is Mr. Thornbridge truly to recover?"
"Yes, he will, which is better than perhaps he deserves considering the foolish path he's tread."
"I only pray Cecilia does not stoop to pick up the dropped gauntlet
"You think she would?"
"Unfortunately, yes."
"So do I," he agreed heavily.
They looked at each other steadily, a complete, shared understanding between them. "It is a stubborn, self-willed niece you have," Branstoke said, humor once again rippling his smooth voice. "Do not worry, I shall continue to watch out for her, despite her wishes to the contrary." He squeezed her hand in reassurance, then continued down the stairs with a light step.
Lady Meriton watched him leave, a satisfied smile hovering on her lips. When she heard the front door close after him, she roused and turned toward the parlor, wondering if it would prove as easy to lighten Cecilia's disposition. She opened the door quietly, peeking in to gauge her niece's attitude. Cecilia was standing by the window looking out into the street below.
"Yes, he finally left," she said wryly.
Cecilia turned toward Jessamine, her hand falling away from the drape. "He is, without any doubt, the most exasperating gentleman of my acquaintance."
"And you care for him."
"Jessamine! What a singularly erroneous idea! Don't tell me that is what he told you? The man is arrogant, opinionated, self-willed, conceited, and stubborn. And those are quite possibly his better traits!"
"Oh, dear, I see."
"Do you know what he did? He had someone follow Mr. Thornbridge about."
"Follow Mr. Thornbridge?"
"Yes. And while I owe him some thanks, for that is what prevented Mr. Thornbridge's murder, I still cannot like his motivation. He was curious. Can you fathom this, he assigned someone to follow and report on Thornbridge's movements merely to satisfy his curiosity about me and Mr. Thornbridge? What was he expecting to discover, do you suppose, that I am his secret mistress? I have never been so incensed!" She paused to draw breath, her slender body rigid with rage.
Lady Meriton crossed to a side table and poured her a glass of sherry. "Here, dear, this might help."
Cecilia took the small glass from her aunt and tossed off the contents. Lady Meriton clucked disapprovingly.
She set the glass down and resumed pacing. She shook her head, her pale brow furrowed and her full lips compressed in thought. "Jessamine, Sir Branstoke acts like he is playing an innocuous parlor game for amusement. To compound the ludicrousness of the entire situation, I believe he knows more than I do. You should have heard him try to sidestep certain subjects. Oh! I swear my brain is beleaguered with ideas and suppositions. I would that I could talk with Thornbridge!"
"Perhaps you could visit him at this doctor's residence. What did you say his name was? Hilton?"
"No, Dr. Heighton. And you're right. That is probably what I should do first before I worry myself to finders. Oh, but I don't even know if I could think straight to pen a coherent letter. My head is truly pounding."
"And you are promised to drive out with Lord Havelock to Hyde Park in a little over an hour."
"I completely forgot that engagement. I do not want to go. I can't go. My thoughts are swirling. I should be poor company and would most likely cause him to remain out of my company in the future which would not suit my purposes. No, I shall have to compose a note breaking our engagement."
"Perhaps you can suggest tomorrow afternoon as an alternate."
"Only if it is not too late and we are not out overlong. Remember, I am pledged to accept Sir Elsdon's escort to the Waymond's ball tomorrow evening."
"I remember. You know, of course, you'll have to grant similar privileges to Havelock and Rippy."
"Yes, I know. At least I may truthfully say I have one burden removed in the person of Sir James Branstoke."
Lady Meriton laughed. "Do not be so quick to cast him aside. I have noted a phenomena strangely suited to phlegmatic individuals such as your Branstoke."
"He is not mine!" Cecilia ground out, frustration and uncertainty authoring her manner.
Her aunt shrugged. "No matter whose he is, I wager he is tenacious. We have not seen the last of Sir James Branstoke, and you, my dear girl, are going to be extremely happy about that fact."
Cecilia glared at her.
Lady Meriton smiled indulgently. "You'd best write that note to Lord Havelock if you wish to cancel your m
eeting, otherwise it will be too late and much too embarrassing."
Reluctantly Cecilia agreed and went off for paper and pen.
Late the next afternoon, pale gray woolly clouds were slowly converging when Cecilia accepted Lord Havelock's hand into his phaeton. She was grateful it was not a high perch model for in her continued preoccupied condition she'd likely have misstepped and tumbled back onto the pavement in an ungainly bundle of skirts and petticoats. Tooling about Hyde Park at five o'clock was not what she wished to be doing. Unfortunately, she knew no other recourse, for it would not be politic to break her engagement with the gentleman a second time. Consequently, she assented to accompany him and donned a new, colorful outfit of cornflower blue and yellow for the occasion. She looked lovely, and if her eyes did not sparkle or the roses bloom in her cheeks, it was not to be remarked upon. She was polite, pleasant, yet distant; for her mind remained bent upon considering Mr. Thornbridge and his activities.
She'd waited almost all day for a return note from Dr. Heighton. She waited in vain, for though Dr. Heighton did respond, it was not with the looked-for response. He disallowed her visit! She'd been shocked. He wrote with the greatest formality and deference, but he begged to inform her his address was not suitable for receiving visits by gentlewomen. Anyway, he continued, he was sending Mr. Thornbridge to the country to recuperate at his father's residence. Perhaps she could visit him there.
Visit him there! She didn't even know where his people came from! She supposed she could gain that information through Waddley's, but it would likely cause too many questions.
She felt confoundedly helpless. It was not a state she welcomed. She hated helplessness and all its attendant ramifications. She could not allow herself to float on the river like a punt without a pole. To be left to the mercy of wind, tide, and obstruction, natural or otherwise, was a fate to be abhorred. It was a fate to which too much of her life had already followed to dismal ends.
