by Holly Newman
"Certainly, Mr. Rippy. I believe that would be quite pleasant." She turned to her aunt. "Have you finished, Jessamine?"
"Yes, dear. I believe I am. Just allow me a moment to look it over carefully one last time."
"Thank you for your kind consideration, Mr. Rippy. I shall look forward to receiving you in London," Cecilia said, summarily dismissing him. He stuttered and stumbled a moment more, then made his leg and retired to the card room.
"You see, I told you being in Branstoke's company would stand you in good stead," said Lady Meriton.
Cecilia made a face, then groaned. "Now it is Lord Havelock coming this way. I fear, Jessamine, I may have unleashed a demon." Or perhaps more aptly, a dragon, she thought, remembering Sir Branstoke's willingness to battle the beasts.
Wearily, she curved her lips in a pleasant smile and contrived to speak cordially to Lord Havelock, and in his turn, Sir Elsdon. All three gentlemen solicited permission to call on her, and to all three she granted permission. Now, perhaps, she could learn something to good purpose. She should have been pleased that events were falling so naturally into place.
Why then did a heaviness fill her chest? It couldn't have anything to do with Branstoke waltzing with Miss Cresswell—could it?
Like a ship in heavy seas, Cecilia's emotions rose and fell with seemingly unending repetition for the remainder of the ball and on into the next day with her return to London. And like that ship on a storm-tossed sea, all she could do was helplessly ride the waves of emotions as they swept through her.
There was one niggling thought that kept her anchored in the worst of the buffeting. It was the image of Randolph yanking a ring off his right hand and shoving it in his pocket. Why was that ring important? She was confident that's what Randolph was referring to when he told whomever was in the room with him that it was an oversight. But of what import could a ring be?
She wondered if it was the unfamiliar signet ring she saw in his room. If it was important, surely he would not have left it out in plain sight! Then again, he hardly would have expected anyone to go sneaking about in his room. And carelessness on Randolph's part was typical of him It was also the reason she'd decided to look in his room.
She wanted to see that signet ring again. She thought she might recognize it if she saw it, though she could not form a clear image in her mind of the device carved on its flat surface.
She needed to see Mr. Thornbridge. If the ring was important, maybe he'd come across some mention of it in his investigation of Randolph's affairs. She sent a message ahead from Oastley advising of her return that day and requesting him to visit in the afternoon. A hurriedly scrawled note greeted her return, one that sent uneasy ripples through her being. She read it again, for the fifth time:
Mrs. Waddley,
I beg you will hold me excused until tomorrow. I think I may have answers, though my thoughts are so heinous, I pray I am wrong. Tonight I go to discover the truth. I daren't say more. My thoughts are unworthy.
David Thornbridge
It too closely echoed the last entry in Mr. Waddley's journal, the one he made the day he died. Her hand closed convulsively about the letter, crumbling it in her hand. She should never have asked Mr. Thornbridge for help. Now an unreasoning fear built within her as thoughts and fancies filled her head. She paced Lady Meriton's front parlor, consumed by a restless energy that would not let her be still. Something was about to happen. She knew it, but could not say what or how she knew. The feeling was like waiting for the actors to enter and the play to start. Anticipation shivered through her.
Lady Meriton was occupied with the cook and the ordering of staples. There was no help in that quarter for conversation and speculation that might ease her mind. Her pale brow furrowed and her eyes narrowed in thought. Outside the bright morning sun was giving way to a slate sky, and a rising wind clicked together branches covered with new, pale green leaves.
When the knocker fell twice, deliberately and heavily against the white, carved oak front door, Cecilia stilled. She stared at the closed double doors to the parlor until they opened slightly to admit Loudon.
"Excuse me, ma'am, but there's a gentleman below who would like to see you on a business matter."
A pale eyebrow rose. "Oh? Do I know him?"
"I would venture to say no, ma'am. Here is his card." He held out the small silver plate carrying a dull ivory card.
She picked it up. Hiram Peters, Solicitor,, it read, with an address off of Fleet Street. She looked up at Loudon. "A business matter, he said?"
"Yes, ma'am."
Cecilia pursed her lips a moment then nodded. "All right. Show him up."
"Shall I inform Lady Meriton?"
Cecilia laughed. "Loudon, I am not a young girl in need of a chaperone. No, do not bother her. I shall see my guest alone."
After he bowed and left, Cecilia smoothed out Mr. Thornbridge’s crumbled note then refolded it and tucked it into her bodice. She positioned herself on her aunt's rose-colored sofa in a semi-recumbent position, tossing a woolen shawl across her feet to complete the image. She sprinkled lavender water on her handkerchief from a vial resting on a nearby table. She lightly held it to her forehead, thankful this time she would not reek of the scent.
She watched the door, her alert eyes shielded by the hand raised to her brow.
Mr. Hiram Peters brushed Loudon aside and walked confidently into the parlor. He was a thin, scraggly-looking man attired in rusty black. His hair was a mop of lank gray still laced with strands of a darker, indeterminate hue. His eyebrows were grizzled and stood out, prominent above deep-set, black eyes. He walked with a self-confident strut with his shoulders so far back it was a wonder he didn't fall backward.
"Mrs. Waddley, so kind of you to see me on short notice. I do apologize, but you will understand when I explain all," he said lugubriously, his eyebrows wriggling.
He extended his hand to take one of hers in his, but she pretended not to see it. Truthfully, she saw it only too well, and the black dirt under his nails did not speak well of the gentleman. His hand fell to his side with a small arrow of uncertainty piercing his confident air. Cecilia saw it and was pleased. She allowed her hand clutching the handkerchief to fall limply to the sofa. With the other she feebly waved him into a straight backed chair.
"Loudon tells me you are here on a business matter, Mr. Peters," she said faintly.
"Yes, Mrs. Waddley, and my errand is such that it will bring you joy."
"Then please, proceed, Mr. Peters. I'll own I am so fatigued and threatened with incipient illness that I stand in great need of joy. You find me a most attentive audience," she said feebly. An image of Branstoke's amused reaction to her mien tickled her mind, but she brushed it aside.
"I am empowered to offer you a very generous contract for the purchase of all the London operations and holdings of Waddley Spice and Tea."
Cecilia's body went rigid. "I see. Who wants to buy the company?" she asked in a carefully neutral tone, though warning bells clanged and clamored in her mind.
"That I am not at liberty to say. And it is not the entire company my client wishes to purchase, only the London portion."
She dabbed her handkerchief to her head, stalling. "I—I hardly know what to say! No, that's not true. I believe I know what Mr. Waddley's reaction would be to your proposition," she said.
"Yes?" Peters said with faint stirrings of unease. This interview was not proceeding with the dispatch he'd anticipated. She was not supposed to be a woman with the wherewithal to ask questions.
Her soft voice grew firmer. "You come to me, a stranger and agent for another, proposing to buy my late husband's company, yet you will not divulge the purchaser's identity. No, I am sorry, Mr. Peters. My late husband would not do business in that manner, and neither will I."
"Now see here, Mrs. Waddley. At least listen to the terms I am empowered to make. They are very generous. Nay! Too generous! But such are my instructions."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Peters,
but there is no reason to prolong this conversation," she said distractedly. She knew she had to get rid of this pompous windbag before she could think clearly. "Mrs. Waddley, you are acting in a highly irrational manner," declared Mr. Peters angrily. His tone was like that reserved for underlings and social inferiors.
Cecilia gasped. "If I am, you are most impertinent to say so. This interview is at an end." She reached toward the bell pull to summon Loudon.
Mr. Peters caught her hand in a cruel grip before she touched the rope. "Mrs. Waddley, my client is used to getting what he desires, and if he desires Waddley Spice and Tea, then he will get it, one way or another. At least this way he is offering you a profit. His subsequent methods may not prove as genteel," he threatened.
Cecilia glared at him and methodically pulled her hand free while her eyes, turned dark as lapis, held his in challenge. Her hand claimed the bell pull and gave it an imperious tug. "Get out!" she whispered. The venom that dripped from her soft tones accented her words like no loud, screaming order could.
A flicker of uncertainty crossed Mr. Peters' face and he backed away awkwardly. When the door opened to admit Loudon, he seemed to draw himself together.
"You'll regret this, Mrs. Waddley."
"Show Mr. Peters the door, Loudon. He will not be returning," she said meaningfully.
Mr. Peters scowled and hesitated, then flung himself toward the open door, a muttered oath on his lips.
A long shuddering breath passed her lips. She swung her legs to the floor and sat on the edge of the sofa, her arms wrapped about her stomach. She rocked slightly, her mind recalling every word of her conversation with Mr. Peters. She was angry, and a little frightened,
Ruthlessly she pushed the latter emotion aside. How dare he threaten her! An anonymous buyer, bah! She must be close to discovering something. Why else the offer to purchase the London operation? It was well known that trade through London had decreased in recent years in favor of other ports closer to the manufacturing centers, such as Bristol and Liverpool. Truthfully, Mr. Waddley made most of his money in London as an insurance investor and speculator. Cecilia really didn't know why he even maintained the London operation, though she suspected an emotional attachment on her husband's part to what had been started by his grandfather and grown substantially under his father. She had no particular attachment to the firm, and did hope to one day sell it—in its entirety. But she wouldn't sell it in a havey cavey manner. Nor would she sell it until she solved the mystery of her husband's death or satisfied herself it was a cause well lost.
She surged to her feet and began pacing the room. The veneer of manners on Mr. Peters was like cheap gilding. What manner of person would hire a vulgar, dirty lout to make his business dealings? She ventured it could be no one interested in pound dealing. Or anyone with a regard for her intellect. And that worm wanted to kiss her hand? Her instincts were right when she ignored the gesture. Ugh! The thought of the greasy man with his supercilious air made her shudder. It also sharpened her anger,
"Excuse me, ma'am," ventured Loudon from the doorway.
"Yes, what is it?" snapped Cecilia, continuing to pace.
Loudon flinched. "Sir James Branstoke is below," he said half-apologetically.
"I am in no mood for further visitors, Loudon. Please inform him so," she said, not pausing in her frenetic pacing.
Regret, will I? she thought. She stopped and stared sightlessly out the window, her hands planted firmly on her slim hips. "In a pig's eye!" she said.
"Lady Meriton's man warned you were not in spirits," drawled Sir Branstoke from the doorway.
Cecilia whirled around. "Who let you up here? I gave Loudon orders that I was not seeing anyone!"
He closed the doors behind him. "Yes, your sails are flying, aren't they? Who got your wind up?"
"That is none of your concern. Get out. I don't want to see anyone, particularly you!" she said, still smarting from his defection last evening back to Miss Cresswell's camp and her embarrassment at the shared kiss.
"Tsk, Tsk," he said mildly, advancing farther into the room.
"I am tired of people flagrantly doubting my intelligence."
"Never I."
"And attempting to manipulate me as if I were some featherbrained silly widgeon."
"I can't imagine anyone so rash."
"Imagine, the audacity of someone hiring a—a toad like Mr. Peters to try to buy Waddley's from me!"
"He should have his cork drawn."
"And then daring to—to threaten me when I refused! It is not to be borne.”
Sir Branstoke paused in withdrawing his snuffbox from his waistcoat pocket. He looked at Cecilia as she stormed up and down the room, studying her high color and the martial light glittering in her blue eyes. What the hell has been going on!
He stuffed the box back into his pocket and strode over to her, grasping her by the shoulders. "Cecilia! What are you talking about? Who threatened you?"
"Peters, of course," she snapped, looking at him as if he were a simpleton. She pulled out of his grasp and continued her peroration. "Claims his anonymous client is being generous." She turned to pace in front of the fireplace.
"Who's client?" he demanded, following her.
"Hiram Peters. Says all his so-called client wants is the London operation."
"Cecilia! You are speaking disjointedly. Slow down, tell me everything from the beginning."
"He went so far as to say if I didn't agree to sell, his mysterious client has other methods of obtaining what he wants. Ha! We shall see about that!" she continued heatedly, ignoring his request.
"Confound it, woman," stormed Branstoke. He reached out, stopping her in mid-stride. A soft growl emanated from his throat as he yanked her toward him, his lips coming down on hers with a blazing intensity. There was fury, exasperation, and passion in his punishing kiss. The feelings it roused in Cecilia descended to her toes curled inside her satin slippers and ricocheted back up to the top of her head which tingled and threatened to float away.
Then the punishing pressure gave way to a sensuous investigation of her mouth and drifted up the side of her face to her temple. The kiss slowly ended with a faint, feather-light promise for the future. Cecilia mewed and sighed. He gently held her against him while he guided her to the sofa. She let him seat her with him beside her, before she came out of her sensuous haze. Her cheeks flushed pink. She bit her lip and looked away.
Long, tapered fingers reached out to cup her chin and turn her back to face him. A wry smile twisted his lips and the warmth of banked fires came from his rich golden brown eyes, but he was too much the gentleman to allow them to flame.
A shy nervousness overcame her. She glanced furtively at him then down to her hands in her lap where she was twisting her handkerchief tight. "I'm sorry, I was a bit overwrought, wasn't I?" she said tightly. "I must say, you do use unconventional methods, don't you?"
"Is that all it was, Cecilia?" he asked, his voice a whispered thread of sound that wound itself around her senses.
She laughed shrilly. "Of course. What else could it be? Your reputation is well known. You hunt but shun the kill."
"Perhaps I've only been waiting for the ultimate prey," he offered whimsically, his eyes echoing his smile.
"Yes, well, that may be the reason you haven't ended your hunt. But really, I—I don't think I could take to being merely an exercise," she said lamely, staring up at him with stricken, but determined, eyes.
He smiled gently at her. "You, my dear, are anything but an exercise."
Cecilia wasn't quite sure she understood his meaning. She fidgeted a moment, then rose to cross to the table at the other end of the sofa. She unstopped the bottle of lavender water and sprinkled more on her handkerchief. She was disconcerted to note a slight trembling in her hand. She touched the damp white muslin and lace to her forehead, cooling her fevered brow. Without looking toward Sir Branstoke, who was observing her carefully for all his sleepy, relaxed demeanor, she wandered slow
ly to the window and looked out onto the street below.
Shadows were lengthening. The bright promise of the spring morning had through the long day been devoured by thickening clouds and a freshening northern wind that reminded man and beast that winter was not far in the past. The barrow boys, milk women, and other denizens of the streets by day were wandering each to his home, be it hovel or house. Passing carriages clattered swiftly through the emptying streets, their lanterns rocking, and their coachmen all mufflered.
Why did it now resemble nothing so much as an alien landscape? Unfamiliar and frightening in aspect? Why was her own behavior more like a Billingsgate fishwife than that of someone suffering from various ills? Her chest rose and fell as she took deep breaths.
"I had not thought to be so shattered after my grandparent's house party. Now I find my thoughts fractured, my nerves sadly shaken." She turned to look back at Sir Branstoke and smiled wanly. "I cannot think your remedy for a person suffering from a nervous disorder to have been successful. If anything, it has left your patient in a sadder fashion."
"I don't believe that, Cecilia. And neither do you," he said softly.
"La! You don't know what a trial my fragile nerves are to me, how they set my heart beating in a frightening manner and make me feel faint all over," she said easily, her patter descending over her like a protective cloak.
"Cut line, Cecilia. That won't fadge," he said sharply.
She looked at him warily. He took a couple steps toward her, then stopped. "You may halt the silly, sickly female ploy. I know it is foreign to your nature. You may continue to maintain that image in front of others, if you like, but in front of me, I will have your true nature. Good day, Mrs. Waddley," he said softly, his face impassive as he made his bow.