by Holly Newman
Cecilia chewed on her lower lip. She didn't dare come out of the room now for fear they'd see her crossing the upstairs landing to another bedchamber. She had two choices. She could hide somewhere within Randolph's room until he fell asleep, or she could go out a window.
She opted for the window.
She ran quietly back to Randolph's room. It was a large corner room with two windows facing the street and one on the side of the house. She went this time to the side window and slid it cautiously open. It opened with little sound. She stuck her head out and looked down. It was too far to jump, she'd need some form of rope. She ducked her head back into the room and searched for something usable. Tearing the sheets off the bed would be cumbersome. She fingered the thick drapes; so, too, would pulling these down. Cravats! She could tie cravats together! But would there be time? She started to turn toward his bureau when her hand slid down the drape encountering the satin rope swaging the drapery panel aside. Perfect! She unhooked it from the roundel at the edge of the window, pleased to see the looped rope ends were long, dangling to the floor. Still, one would not be long enough. She yanked its companion loose and knotted them together. The roundel was firmly embedded in the wall so she looped one end tight around it.
Voices were getting louder. Her hands began to shake. With the window open and the rope dangling, they would know someone had been in the room. She had to make it look like robbery.
Quickly she grabbed up the black leather dressing case with the embossed coat of Cheney arms on the lid from the vanity table and ran back to the window. She stuffed the long, flat case into the waistband of her breeches, then lowered the rope out the window. She scraped her knuckles on the rough stone window ledge and the slick rope burned her delicate hands. Ignoring the pain, she lowered herself as quickly as she could. She felt the two satin ropes slipping free of the knot that bound them.
She was falling!
Oomph!
She landed abruptly against a man's broad chest, the dressing case pressing painfully against her ribs. Her breath whistled harshly out collapsing her lungs. His hands clamped about her as her momentum tumbled them onto the ground in a tangle of arms and legs.
She gasped and struggled wildly to get up. To her surprise, her rescuer pushed her off his chest and surged to his feet. In the waning moonlight, his face was a harsh landscape of shadows; nonetheless, she recognized him as she would have recognized one of Jessamine's silhouettes. Branstoke! Here, as he always seemed to be so fortuitously at hand. What tie, what silken binding as strong as steel tethered them that he should forever be her rescuer and she should take it as expected and frown if he did not appear, the avenging lord, at her side?
The one hand he maintained about her upper arm compelled her to rise as well. She pulled back, more from habit than with cause, and the dark blue cap she wore fell to the ground. Her hair tumbled down in a cloud of moonlight. He muttered an oath, fluidly bent down to scoop up the hat without breaking stride, and pulled her toward the street. He hustled her onward without a sound. His face, revealed fleetingly in dim moon and lamplight, was impassive yet bore a rigidity of the jaw that set Cecilia's butterflies in tumult.
They were at the corner when they heard the first shouts out the open window. Cecilia looked back, certain of seeing pursuers only steps away.
"They've spotted George and Tim. They'll lead them a merry chase," Branstoke whispered, his breath warm and soft as down against her ear. A shiver ran through her. He placed his arm about her waist, hurrying her forward. "Come, my house is a step away. We'll go there until the first hue and cry has passed."
Mutely, she nodded, feeling strangely secure and trusting. The feelings rippled through her in wonder, to be measured against all her senses and come echoing back, replete.
To avoid standing on the street while he unlocked the door, he took her around to the back, letting them in by the servant's entrance. Keeping her firmly anchored to his side, like two wraiths they glided through the darkened house to his library. He led her to a chair by the fireplace then stoked the embers back to flames to take the chill out of the room and out of themselves. Though he doubted the warmth of a fire could warm the chill he felt in his heart when he saw her throw a leg over the window ledge and knew her intentions.
When the flames leaped, casting light and warmth, he crossed to the windows to close the heavy drapes, to deny the outside knowledge that anyone was yet up and about. To deny the possibility that anyone should see a fragile silhouette in his window. He would protect her honor as well as her life even though his body beat a tempo claiming her honor as his own. His fingers curled into fists as he crossed back to the fire. He lit a punk and carried the flame to branches of candles on the mantel, taking his time, not looking at her as he sternly disciplined his body to follow his mind's set, if it could not follow its desire.
He knew she watched him. Wide-eyed. An innocent in spirit if not actuality. A nymph in a world of mortals. Her eyes would be their darkest blue shading into purple set in a face of smoothest alabaster. Her hair, loosed of the pins that normally confined it in its tight coronet and ringlets, would cloud about her delicate heart-shaped face. He remembered how it glistened like white gold in the moonlight and smelled of jasmine in its depths when he whispered in her ear.
How could she have been so foolish as to break into her brother's home? What was she looking for? Had she no idea of the risks she was taking? Did she love Waddley so much that she could not let him rest until she discovered what or who killed him? And what did Haukstrom have to do with the mess?
Damn it! Why couldn't she trust him?
He thrust a poker deep in the fire, stirring it higher. Rage burned like the flames before his eyes, running through his body following a fuse to his mind, burning, obliterating desire in its wake. He vowed he would teach her to stop her silly games before a life was lost or another grievously injured. The next life to be forfeit might be her own. Didn't she care? And what about Lady Meriton? She could be bringing her into danger as well.
A muscle jumped spasmodically in his jaw. Slowly he rose from his crouched position in front of the fire. Stubborn, willful, arrogant chit! He would not let her play ducks and drakes with her life, and she would learn that here and now!
He turned toward her, his face twisted in grim determination. "Cecilia," he snapped, goaded past endurance.
"Yes?" She looked up at him, the newfound trust she had to offer shining in her eyes.
The sight unmanned him. He sagged back against the side of the intricately carved marble mantelpiece, his breathing harsh. "Cecilia," he began again, bemused. He shook his head. "Why?" he finally asked, his eyes steadfastly looking at her as if he would read the answer in her soul.
"Why did I break into Randolph's house?"
"No. I mean yes, that too. But why do you offer me your trust now?"
She did not pretend to misunderstand him She rose fluidly and took a step toward him. He lifted a hand as if to ward away her presence. She paused, smiling at it a moment, then walked straight into his arms, throwing her own about his neck. He held his head stiff a moment, regarding her warily through a veil of lashes. Her smile broadened in womanly wisdom as she pulled his head toward hers until their lips met.
At the touch of her lips, the invisible chains that seemed to hold him cobbled and fettered, fell away, and with a groan that came from the depth of his soul, he gathered her willingly to him, his lips searching out the contours of her face, memorizing each curve and valley, the shape of her ear, the sweep of her temple, the line of her pale brow, the hollows of her eyes, the curve of her chin, and the soft fullness of her lips. He traced the swan-like line of her neck to her delicate collarbone hidden behind an ill-swathed and tied cravat. He trembling fingers yanked the offending article away and parted the top of her shirt so his lips and tongue could trace the dips and hollows of soft fragrant skin there. She groaned against him, murmuring his name on little breaths of air as she sagged against him. His head cam
e up to capture her lips again as he picked her up, cradling her against him like a child, and carried her to a sofa. He laid her down on the smooth satin, kneeling in supplication next to her.
She smiled and looked dreamily into his eyes, one hand coming up to spear his silky, coffee-colored hair with trembling fingers. "Why are you always there for me?" she murmured.
He caught her other hand, nibbling the soft pads of her fingertips. "I don't know," he said with stark, wondering honesty.
"From the night of Lady Amblethorp's musicale, something has drawn me to you like you were my lodestar meant to guide me out of this world-weary abyss of habit and decadence. You've destroyed my ennui, altered my status quo, and cut up my peace. You've made me care for someone other than myself. Nay, more than care. Though how that may be, I cannot say for you have bedeviled, beleaguered, annoyed, inconvenienced, tried my patience, irked, and goaded me beyond measure, you little baggage. And well you know it! My mind is full of you, only you, until I'm not good company for any of my cronies. I find myself wondering what madcap lark you're up to when I should be exchanging amusing society anecdotes! I am a changed man—and only you can say for good or ill."
She sighed, drawing his head closer to hers that she might drink from his lips as she did at Oastley. "I thought I knew who I was and what I wanted, Now I can no longer answer that question or even imagine answers," she said whimsically while her hands lovingly traced the contours of his face. "I feel as if I've been let out of a cage, but don't know what to do with my freedom. There is a churning restlessness within me that haunts me. It only seems to quiet when you're around. Please, James—" she murmured.
His mouth claimed hers while his hands caressed her body through the rough wool of the ill-fitting suit she wore.
Nimble fingers slipped the buttons of the waistcoat free and roamed heatedly over the cotton fabric of her shirt and the full mounds of her breasts. At his touch she arched against him, mewing sounds emanating from her throat. His lips slid from hers to trail feather light caresses down her neck to her collarbone. Her breathing grew ragged and she murmured his name as a hand slid under her shirt to touch her hot skin with sensitive, cool fingertips.
"I don't know whether I wanted to beat you or kiss you senselessly," he muttered.
"I'm glad we were lucky enough to have your man near at hand, though I chafe to think I was seen. I was so careful," she said, her hands eagerly untying his cravat and pulling the ends to draw him closer:
"Would you bind me to you, witch?" he growled, nuzzling her neck while his hand found and closed over the mound of her breast.
She inhaled sharply. "Yes! But tell me while I am still able to think, what gave me away?"
He laughed and climbed on the sofa covering her slender body with his. "With you, my darling, I never leave anything to luck."
She stilled, her eyes slowly focusing on his face. "You've had me watched, haven't you?" she asked, her voice curiously empty.
He looked at her, a quizzical light in his eyes. "What is it? Of course, I had you followed. For your own safety. You wouldn't trust me with your dragons; I couldn't trust you not to do something foolish."
"Foolish!" She struggled to sit up, but he held her pinned to the sofa.
"What is this heat, my adorable minx?" The light of laughter was in his eyes.
His humor fueled her anger. "How dare you! Get off of me, you bull-brained oaf! Let me up! Let me up, I say!" She bucked and beat at him with her hands, a sheen of tears glistening in her eyes.
It was the last that caused him to release her. He sat up next to her. "Are you seriously implying that my watching out for your safety does not meet with your approval?"
"Yes!" she hissed, and scooted back on the sofa until she could swing her feet from in back of him to the floor. She blushed when she glanced down at the disarray to her clothes. She stood up, turning her back to him and with shaky fingers set herself to rights. "I have been managed and maneuvered all my life," she said over her shoulder. "I hate it! Do you hear me, I hate it!"
"I hear you, Cecilia, and I would not dream of managing or maneuvering you. Watching out for your safety is not controlling your life. It's protecting it so you can do what you like, be who you like," he said softly.
“But don’t you see,” she said, tears flowing down her checks, “I don’t know who I am or how I want to be. I’ve never had the chance!”
“Hush, love, hush,” he said, coming forward to comfort her.
She stepped away. “Don’t touch me. Don’t come any closer. I don’t trust you.”
“Is it me you don’t trust, or yourself?”
She turned away. “It makes no odds,” she said softly, then turned back to look at him and he saw her vulnerability.
“But it does, my dear,” he said, smiling at her. Abruptly he nodded, then bowed in her direction. “All right. We shall play this your way, for now.”
“What do you mean by that?” she asked, suspicious.
“I shall not press you to admit your feelings for me—“
“Of which I have none!” she hotly declared.
“—if you will tell me what you were looking for tonight and last week at Oastley.”
“I can’t”
“All right,” he said, coming purposely toward her.
“No, wait! Stop. I’ll tell you as best I can, though I don’t know everything. I suspect you actually know more than I. Can’t we sit down?” she asked, edging toward a chair away from the sofa and its memories.
He nodded, then went to the cupboard where brandy and glasses were kept and poured her a small glass. He took it toward her. “Here, drink this, I believe you could use it.”
“Thank you,” she whispered. She took a swallow, grimacing at the strong flavor.
Branstoke laughed. “I see you are unused to brandy. Sip it. It will warm and calm you.”
She looked hesitatingly at the remainder of the contents in her glass, but did as he suggested. It did seem to warm her, and calm—or was that numb—her jangling nerves. She relaxed against the chair, letting her head fall back. Branstoke watched her, satisfied, and went to stoke the fire again.
“As you may know, Mr. Waddley was killed one night near the docks at Waddley Spice and Tea. The official verdict was death by person or persons unknown with robbery as their motive. It was decided that he was an unfortunate man who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I don’t believe that. I believe.… No, I know,” she amended firmly, “Mr. Waddley was murdered deliberately. He was murdered because he discovered some occurrences at the docks that did not meet with his approval. Illegal occurrences.”
Branstoke stood up, resting an elbow on the mantle, and crossed one foot casually over the other. "How do you know this?"
"From his attitude the day he died, the things he said, and from some of the references in his journal."
"What was it about his attitude?"
"He was unusually restless, grave even. He was muttering that his suspicions had best not be true, or there'd be hell to pay. And he kept staring at me with a fierce look in his eyes. It was frightening. Then, after dinner, he went upstairs to change and came back in a suit all in black. He said he was going out and not to wait on his return."
"Had he ever done anything like that before?"
"He had, on occasion, gone out late and not returned until the early morning hours, but never did he specifically change into all black clothing. Even his shirt and stock were black."
"Did he ever tell you where he went late at night, or where he was going that night?"
"No, Mr. Waddley was not communicative in that way. And before you suggest he went to seek other female company," she said with a blush rising in her cheeks, "I considered that myself However, that wouldn't explain why, when he returned, his clothes were always dirty and bore that distinctive pungent smell."
He raised an eyebrow in mute inquiry.
"Fish, tar, and rotting timber," she said with a smile.
; He nodded in wry understanding then uncrossed his foot and strode to the drink cabinet to pour a glass for himself. "What about this journal you mentioned?" he said over his shoulder. "It is that, I gather, which set you to investigating your own brother?"
"Yes. Though I still find it difficult to believe him capable of murder, I do believe he is involved. The journal mentions business meetings with someone he calls 'H'."
"Haukstrom."
"So I believe. Mr. Waddley also wrote down what he believed to be a code phrase of some kind. Talkers are no good doers." He looked at her quizzically. "Isn't that from a play?"
She nodded. "King Richard III. I confess I didn't tumble to it until today, when I learned Randolph played the part of one of the murderers who speaks that line in a production Sir Elsdon did a few years ago."
He crossed his arms over his chest as he considered her story. "On the basis of circumstantial evidence, it would appear your brother is involved. But I agree with you. I do not believe Haukstrom has the stomach for murder."
"What I can't understand is how Mr. Thornbridge went from investigating my brother to searching out information on disappearing prostitutes."
"I believe I do. There has also been a Select Committee of the House of Commons set up this year to investigate incidents of this nature, though I believe they center their interest on the growing number of flash houses. They do not—or will not—broaden their area of inquiry to instances of white slavery."
"White slavery?"
"Yes, the capture and exportation of young English women to appease foreign appetites."
"Oh," Cecilia said in a small voice.
"I understand their favored quarries are blonds and redheads. Most of them come from the lower classes. Some kidnapped, some purchased from their parents. For a particular wealthy client, they may procure children or kidnap the daughters of the middle and upper classes. A girl from a titled family is worth a king's ransom."
Cecilia blanched, her eyes wide. She took a large sip of brandy, coughing as it burned its way down her throat. Branstoke strode over to her chair and leaned over her, a hand clasping either chair arm, holding her in place. On his face was a mask of dark emotion.
