by Holly Newman
She bit her lower lip a moment then murmured her permission. One side of Branstoke's mouth lifted into a wry smile as he inclined his head. He stepped lightly into the carriage after her and seated himself opposite.
In the close confines of the carriage, her awareness of the man increased exponentially. An insidious thought curled into her consciousness. Could he be involved in Mr. Waddley's death? Was that the reason he cultivated her acquaintance? By her reactions to him, was some small portion of her mind warning he was an enemy? Truthfully, he was entirely too even-tempered. As she suggested to Jessamine, it took one artificer to recognize another. What did he want from her? She swallowed nervously.
"Is something the matter, Mrs. Waddley? Do you feel all right?" His face was in black shadows, his voice a deep rumble that echoed the metallic ring of iron-bound wheels over street cobbles. A diamond, nestled in the ruffles of his shirt, winked in the yellow light of passing street lamps.
She laughed, a high, weak sound. "It is merely my abominable nerves. I am heartily cognizant that I am in your debt. I keep recalling Mr. Nutley's inebriated countenance." She shivered. "I dare swear the backlash of memories is worse than the actuality. I shall recover presently. Do not worry, I'll not embarrass you with one of my fits."
"I am not in the least worried on that score, Mrs. Waddley." His almost disembodied voice stretched her nerves taut. If only she could see his face!
The rustle of wool and satin warned her of his movement, heightening-senses and tensing muscles. He leaned forward out of the shadows and reached across the gulf between them to lay a gloved hand on hers. A shuddering breath released her tight chest. She glanced down to where his large hand covered hers then up at his face. Dimly she was aware of the carriage halting. A footman threw open the door, spilling light into dark carriage corners.
"I feel," Sir Branstoke began slowly, almost hesitantly, "you have dragons plaguing you. Know, Mrs. Waddley, it is not necessary to stand alone," he finished softly. He quickly descended the carriage steps and turned to help her down.
Stunned by his words and manner, Cecilia automatically laid her hand in his and allowed him to draw her from the carriage. She looked at him in the glowing lamplight, really seeing him for the first time.
His hair, the color of a rich West Indies coffee, was cropped short and curled around the edges of a high, intelligent brow. His eyes were wide set, heavily hooded and thickly lashed. Somnambulant eyes, as Jessamine suggested, yet possessing tiny fan lines at the outside corners attesting to heartily felt emotions—though Cecilia dared not put a name to them. His nose was straight, his chin firm and forceful, narrowly missing pointed status. He was not much above average height, though that still made him tall in comparison to herself. The top of her head scarcely brushed his chin. Of all, however, it was his eyes that caught her attention. They were tortoise in color, a rich variegated gold and brown.
He raised an amused eyebrow at her infinitesimal pause, and she realized something else. Those beautiful, seemingly sleepy eyes, held a rapier sharp understanding that whispered, En garde.
Pen scratching and the droning tick tock of the mantel clock were the only sounds in the library. Even the outside traffic seemed to have abated for there were no sounds of carriages, horses, or street vendors to disturb the silence. Pale, straw-yellow spring sunlight streamed in matched Doric Venetian windows throwing a bright shaft of light across Sir James Branstoke's desk and the cream bond paper beneath his hand.
His lips compressed into a thin line; a thoughtful, considering expression lifting one dark eyebrow as he wrote. He paused, absently groping for his coffee cup. He finished the cold dregs in a swallow as he reread his letter. Satisfied, he set down the cup and signed his name with a flourish, then he leaned back in his chair and grabbed the bell pull.
When his butler entered Branstoke gave instructions for Romley, his groom, to be sent up along with another pot of coffee. While he waited he propped his booted feet up on the desk, crossed his arms, lowered his chin into his neat daytime cravat, and thought about Mrs. Cecilia Haukstrom Waddley.
Her face haunted him. Or was it just those large waif-like royal blue eyes rimmed with purple and framed with pale, downy lashes that stayed in his mind? Her eyes and her reed-slender body made her appear more fragile than the finest porcelain. Was it only her striking looks that drew his attention? No, for London every year was littered with marriage-minded beautiful women. There was something else he saw reflected in those eyes that drew him to her like a lodestone. For all her outward appearance of fragility, both real and affected, he sensed a shining inner core of strength. It was a strength that he'd wager she'd hardly begun to tap, because as yet, he doubted she was cognizant of its existence.
He suddenly threw back his head and laughed. It was ludicrous. She was a forged Damascus steel blade sheathed in naiveté. How rich.
And desperately needing protection. He didn't know what dragons she was chasing or evading; but he intended to find out. And he vowed he would save her from disaster, for he’d wager it was toward disaster she was heading.
A soft knock on the library door brought him out of his reverie. He swung his feet to the floor as the door opened to usher in Charwood bearing a silver urn of fresh coffee. The butler was followed by George Romley.
Romley stood deferentially with cap in hand while Charwood served Sir Branstoke. But Romley had been with Branstoke since his Peninsular days, and while he observed the conventions around others, when the butler left the room, a lopsided grin pulled at his thick cheeks. He gave his cap a spinning toss into a nearby chair.
"You sent for me, sir? What's the lay?"
Sir Branstoke's lips quirked into a brief, crooked smile. "For a man who claims to work an honest day for an honest day's pay, your language is progressively deteriorating into thieves' cant. I positively shudder to imagine what taverns you favor with your commerce."
The groom rubbed the side of his nose with a crooked finger. "I figure a man's got to watch to his 'orizens, sir."
"Just as well, for my purposes."
"Sir?"
Branstoke's thin smile cracked to reveal straight, white teeth. "Sit down, George, and have a cup of coffee. You do drink something other than libationary spirits, I presume?"
"Course I do, and I'd be right honored, guv'nor." He sat down on the edge of a chair before the desk, hands on his knees as he waited for Sir Branstoke to pour him a cup. He almost wished that Friday-faced butler, Charwood, could see him sittin' here with his nibs. Sir Branstoke weren't never one to stand on points. Treated a man fair, he did.
"I do seem to remember, George," Branstoke drawled as he handed him his cup, "with what remarkable agility you foraged in Portugal and Spain."
George grinned. "That were a trooper's art, sir. One I'll own a mite o' proficiency in."
"Yes, and I have always been of the mind that should I have failed to take you with me when I sold out in ' 14, you'd have ended as gallows bait. Now I find myself wondering if perhaps all my efforts were in vain. I should hate to discover at this late date that I made an error in judgment."
Indignant outrage skewered Romley's visage. "As if I would ever, sir!" He paused and shrugged philosophically. "Leastways while I were in your employ. You was always up to every rig and row. There weren't no fobbin' you off with any gammon."
"I am happy to see we understand each other so well," Branstoke said evenly, though his hooded eyes gleamed with hidden amusement.
"Well, course, sir. Now tell me, guv'nor," Romley said, leaning forward across the desk, "how come I'm gettin' the nacky notion that you've a lay for me akin to them Penins'lar days?"
"I suppose, George, that's because I do," Branstoke said slowly, appreciating his man's shrewdness. He'd chosen wisely.
"I knew it!" Romley crowed, slapping a hand on his knee.
"Your enthusiasm overwhelms me," he said drily. He picked up the letter he had written, absently tapping it against the blotter. "I suggest you liste
n intently. I want you to deliver this letter to Mr. Hewitt, Mr. Dabney Hewitt."
"Hewitt! I remember him! Bad sort, guv'nor, very bad sort. What do you be wanting with the likes of him?"
A slight smile pulled at Branstoke's thin lips. "He was, as you say, a bad sort and would likely have been cashiered from the military if our need for men had not been so great. We were, perforce, left with the likes of men of his ilk."
"Should ha' marked him for cannon fodder," Romley grumbled.
"War never slays a bad man in its course, but the good always!" murmured Branstoke.
"Beggin' your pardon, sir?"
Branstoke smiled. "Sophocles. Never mind, George. Suffice it to say, life is never that easy, and I, for one, never held it that cheap. You see, I once had the questionable good fortune to save Mr. Hewitt's miserable life from extinction."
"Good fortune, bah!"
Branstoke stopped tapping the letter and stared blankly at it, as if seeing something else entirely. "The interesting thing about Hewitt is that he has his own sense of morality. It's a very rigid morality, in its own way. As I saved his life, he believes that he owes me a favor. It seems he believes he must do something important for me that will wipe the slate clean between us. He is determined in this."
George grunted. "So he said then; but guv'nor, there's promises and then there's promises. I don't hold faith with the likes of him keepin' promises."
Branstoke laid the letter down and leaned back in his chair. "So I would have thought myself. We are wrong. Truthfully, I'd forgotten all about the incident until I chanced to run into him again six months or so ago. It is not important how that occurred. Let it stand that I came away with my purse and body intact. This, however, was not sufficient for Mr. Hewitt. He lamented being beholden to a flash cove such as myself, that is his description, not mine. He desires the slate wiped clean."
"So he can stick his chive in you another time, more like."
"George, I find your abundant faith in human nature endearing. I can deal with Hewitt in the future. The nub of the matter is that I do have a favor to ask of him that is ripe for a man of his, ah, talents."
George Romley looked suspiciously at his employer. "You ain't founderin' in high seas are you, and need to bring your ship about?"
"I assure you, my purse is intact. I need you to deliver this letter to Mr. Hewitt. He informed me when last we met that he could be reached through a tavern in the City rejoicing in the name of The Pye-Eyed Cock"
"Coo—guv'nor, that's a wicked address."
"I'm sure it is, but not, I believe, beyond your touch, George."
Romley fidgeted in his chair. "Now what would I be doing in a hell-hole like that, I ask you?"
Branstoke raised an eyebrow in unspoken comment.
Romley fidgeted some more, rubbing his nose vigorously with his finger. "More'n likely the bloke cain't read."
"I assure you, Mr. Hewitt's education is wider than you think."
"Why me, sir?" Romley finally blurted out.
"Why, George?" Branstoke shrugged. "Consider it my feeble way to broaden your horizons."
Romley snorted. "All right, sir, I'll take your letter. What am I to do after I delivers it?"
"You will obtain Mr. Hewitt's agreement, and between you work out a method of operation to supply me with the information I desire. I have faith, George, in your inventiveness to pursue this project properly. I am uninterested in the particulars."
George Romley was silent a moment, then he heaved a big sigh. "All right. It'll be as you say, guv'nor." He shook his head dolefully. "I jest hope you know what your doin', sir."
An enigmatic smile curled the corners of Sir Branstoke's lips. "So do I, George, so do I."
Cecilia listlessly turned the page of the novel she'd been trying to read for the past half-hour. It was a light, pastoral romance with some finely drawn characters; unfortunately her mind refused to stay focused on the gentle humor and happenings in the story. Her thoughts drifted unerringly to the mystery she'd set herself to solve.
She wasn't certain she actually ever placed much faith in solving the crime of her husband's murder, or of bringing its perpetrators to book. Her half-formed plans had been more in the way of an impetus to break the lethargy she'd fallen into after Mr. Waddley’s death. Their marriage had been safe and comfortable, something her life had not been as a child.
Her childhood held vivid memories of plate and pictures slowly disappearing, and servants leaving for lack of pay. The sale of her beloved pony was a particularly painful memory. Truthfully, she'd outgrown Penny, but the callousness of her father and brother when they dispensed with her little copper-colored pony had been a raw wound for years. She long felt their attitude toward the pony was equivalent to their attitude toward her, only they could not get rid of her as easily nor as profitably. Until her grandfather, the Duke of Houghton, autocratically fetched her from the slowly decaying manor that was her home, she existed simply. Carefully she darned her clothes and uncomplaining ate what she and Mr. and Mrs. Crontick, the only servants to remain, could scrounge. She was always thankful, however, that her mother never lived to see their lives reduced to such circumstances.
Dispassionately, she wondered why she didn't hate her father and brother. She certainly had every right to. Maybe it was because she'd never known them to be any different. And truthfully, the male relatives on her mother's side of the family were not above reproach either. Her grandfather's history was every bit as checkered as her father's, only he was luckier, and perhaps more skillful at cards, than Baron Haukstrom. She couldn't blame her father for virtually abandoning her, for she'd been a drain on his pocketbook. Nor could she later blame him for selling her to Mr. Waddley.
She sighed, and closed the book. She really shouldn't think of herself as being sold. That was unfair to Mr. Waddley. It also displayed a lack of delicacy on her part that was unladylike. Marrying Mr. Waddley had been a blessing. Her lot in life had been bleak, her relationship to a duke notwithstanding. Most likely, she would have become an unpaid companion to some relation and made continually aware of her charity status.
But when Mr. Waddley was murdered, she felt cut adrift. And though she no longer felt the pangs of financial hardship, all the lonely memories of childhood rushed back to haunt her.
She blinked back the unshed tears that memory called forward. What she'd had to come to terms with after her husband's death was the fact she was no longer a child who must suffer the whims of another. She was older, wiser, and financially independent. She smiled faintly. She was more than independent, she was wealthy. And wealth meant power. That was something she had learned from her grandfather and that was something she was using now.
She set the novel on the table by the sofa and deliberately turned her mind from maudlin memories to the memories of the past evening. How could she become better acquainted with Randolph's cronies? It was obvious to her that she'd been naive in her assumption that her mere presence at Randolph's side would enable her to better her acquaintance with his crowd. A hypochondriac female was viewed by the bloods with a jaundiced eye. She made a grave tactical error when she'd subscribed to this role. The question was, how to recover without raising suspicion? It would have to be with increasingly good health, if at all. Unfortunately she feared she didn't have the patience for the proper degree of slow improvement necessary to allay the suspicious natures of people like Sir James Branstoke.
Now that was odd. Why did she instinctively feel there was threat of discovery from that quarter? He should be the last person anyone would consider as having a suspicious nature. That is, if one went by appearances alone, and Cecilia didn't. She remembered only too clearly the strange, almost frightening feeling in the dark carriage. She'd been too aware of his presence. Then there was that last strange comment he made before he bid her a casual goodnight. What did he guess? No, what did he know of dragons? There were depths to that man that few could plummet. Just thinking of him sent flitting feeling
s through her stomach, like a host of butterflies suddenly taking flight.
She bit her lip as again the odd fluttering assailed her. She rose from the sofa to pace the room, as if trying to outrun the butterflies. What was it about the man? Was it possible that she could be following the wrong lead in pursuing her brother and his associates? Could Sir James Branstoke be the key she searched for and dreamed to find? What did she know about him? What did anyone know about him? He was as enigmatic in personality as was his lazy, devastating smile.
"Jessamine, how long have you known Sir Branstoke?" Cecilia Waddley casually asked as she paced back and forth across her aunt's small, private parlor.
"What's that, dear?" Lady Meriton shuffled through a sheaf of papers lying on a small ebony and gilt writing desk, a thoughtful, distracted frown pulling down the corners of her pale lips.
Cecilia paused in her restless pacing. She stared, unfocused, as she wrestled with herself. She swung around to face her aunt. "I was just wondering how long you've known Sir Branstoke?" she said slowly, with thin lightness.
Lady Meriton pushed her glasses up her nose as she looked at her niece. "I don't really know. Three or four years, I suppose—no, it's three years since he sold out—"
"Sold out? He was in the military?"
"Oh, dear me, yes. In the Peninsular campaign, like Sheridan. He's been on the town since he returned. I vaguely recall meeting him earlier; however, I cannot place when. Is it important?"
"Yes—I mean, no!" Cecilia compressed her lips. "I'm just curious. He seems to know everyone and to be invited everywhere."