The Waylaid Heart

by Holly Newman

  "Manners are not what they once were, Loudon," said Lady Meriton, her lips twisted against laughter.

  "No, my lady, indeed they are not."

  'Well, we can't allow our manners to lack merely because another's have. Show him up. This time we shall dispense with the cakes. I could not touch another morsel."

  Loudon bowed, as satisfied an expression on his face as his hang-dog countenance would allow.

  "Poor Loudon, he is unused to climbing stairs this often," mused Lady Meriton.

  "He could allow one of the footmen."

  Lady Meriton laughed. "I don't think he would. I believe to him it would be another breach of etiquette. He fears all society to be on the brink of destruction. It is the Fall of Rome again. Nonetheless, he will see to it that he does his small part to forestall the inevitable."

  Cecilia laughed and picked up her needlepoint canvas. She'd been attempting to finish the chair cover that day; however, the endless stream of visitors had rendered a quick completion doubtful.

  She made a lovely picture, seated on the rose sofa bathed in bright light. Sunlight sparkled in her pale hair and her almost translucent skin was luminous. There was an ethereal quality about her. Mr. Rippy, following behind Loudon, was stunned.

  "That I could write verse like that fellow Byron, I would pen one to you," he said gravely, pausing just inside the door. He was resplendent in yellow pantaloons, shaded lavender waistcoat and bottle-green coat.

  "What a very pretty thing to say, Mr. Rippy," said Cecilia.

  Mr. Rippy blushed, scuffed his feet on the carpet and murmured his thanks. "Always wanted to say something like that," he confided ingeniously. "Never saw the opportunity until I saw you sitting there in the sunlight."

  She laughed and Lady Meriton, striving to appear busy with her embroidery, pursed her lips against a smile.

  "Whatever the reason, please come in. You are the first to get me to laugh today and I do so enjoy laughter. It makes one forget, if only for a time, all of one's problems, big and small."

  Mr. Rippy brightened at her words and came over in his curiously rolling gait to sit by her on the sofa. "Yes, well, to do that is important, right?"

  "I think so."

  "Good, good. Mrs. Waddley, may I escort you to the Waymond's ball tomorrow night?"

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Rippy, but Sir Elsdon has been before you and claimed that privilege."

  Mr. Rippy laughed. "Trust Harry not to be behind hand, as it were! Devilish sort, he is. Merry as a grig. I won't be outdone, however. Would you consider accompanying me in a turnabout Hyde Park?"

  She looked apologetic though laughter threatened. "Lord Havelock has claimed that honor."

  "Dash it! How's a fellow to stand in good stead if his friends keep cuttin' him out?" He frowned and fidgeted a moment. "Mrs. Waddley, may I speak privately with you?"

  Cecilia's eyebrows rose in surprise, her lips curved upward in humor. "I believe Lady Meriton may be persuaded to give us a moment."

  "What? Oh, you desire private conversation? Just as well. I must get on with my framing and matting," Lady Meriton said, hurriedly rolling her embroidery into a ball and shoving it into her workbasket. "I may trust you alone with Cecilia? Oh yes, silly me. It's not like she's new on the town, is it? I'll just retire to my studio," she said, pushing her glasses up on her nose and rising from the chair. "Now don't tarry overlong," she warned good-naturedly before scurrying out the door.

  Mr. Rippy grabbed Cecilia's hand in a vise grip. Startled, she attempted to pull it free, only to give it up after observing the earnest expression on his young face.

  "Mrs. Waddley, I am not polished with words like my friends, nor given to quoting plays or poetry. I'm just not quick to turn a phrase, nor, it would seem, to take advantage of your time to further my heart's desire." He slid off the sofa onto one knee on the floor. "But, Mrs. Waddley, before another may anticipate me, would you do me the honor of being my wife?"

  His voice may have cracked a trifle on the last three words, nonetheless, his expression was sincere. Despite her suspicions of collusion and wagers, she was touched.

  "Thank you, Mr. Rippy, for your kind invitation. I will not prevaricate. It has taken me quite by surprise. I hardly know what to say." She looked down to where his hand covered hers. "Marriage is not an institution I'd thought to enter again. I would that you would give me time to consider your kind offer."

  Mr. Rippy, cringing ever so slightly in expectation of an immediate rebuff, was surprised and gratified. He perked up. "But of course! Wouldn't think to rush you. Not done at all, you know. Just hope I'm not yet cut out."

  "No, no, Mr. Rippy. I assure you, you are not. I shall seriously consider your kind offer," she said, pulling her hand free.

  He beamed. "Excellent! Well then, perhaps I could escort you to another function?"

  She smiled. "I think that to be a splendid idea."

  "Good, excellent. I'll look forward to that," he said, his head bobbing in confirmation. "I guess I'd best be going. Thank you for having me. Oh, and give my best to Lady Meriton. Fine lady, your aunt. Very understanding."

  "I will," Cecilia said, her lips compressed against a laugh.

  "Yes, well, best be going then," he said, rising jerkily from his seat. "You will save me a dance tomorrow evening, won't you?"

  "Of course, Mr. Rippy. I shall be honored."

  His cheeks pinked with pleasure. "Yes, then until tomorrow, Mrs. Waddley."

  "Good-bye Mr. Rippy," she said smoothly, watching him back out the double doors. It was a wonder he didn't tumble down the stairs.

  After he left, Cecilia leaned back against the mound of pillows at the head of the daybed. The day had been profitable. She was engaged to socialize with her three suspects. With time, one of them was bound to utter a mischance word or phrase that would lead her to a solution to the crime of Mr. Waddley's death. She merely needed to continue cultivating their acquaintance. Patience and perseverance. That was what was wanted.

  The only circumstance to mar the tranquility of her mind was the continued absence of Mr. Thornbridge. That did not bode well. She picked up her needlework to resume filling the redbrick background, her eyes traveling occasionally to the clock on the mantel.

  "Where is he?" stormed Cecilia later that afternoon as she came striding angrily into the little room near the top of the house used by Lady Meriton as a studio.

  Her aunt looked up from the picture she was carefully framing. It was the silhouette she had cut of Cecilia at the ball. "Where is who, dear? We seem to have had a parade of male visitors today. By the by, what did Mr. Rippy want that necessitated private discourse?"

  Cecilia made a moue of distaste. "What do you think? Marriage, naturally."

  "Gracious!"

  "I fobbed him off nicely. Though I do not wish to wed him, I do see him as a source of information I'm not fool enough to throw that away. But it is Mr. Thornbridge I have been expecting today, and he is the only gentleman who's failed to appear!"

  "Besides Sir James Branstoke, you mean."

  "I am not expecting him. Not after my lamentable behavior yesterday. But I could not help it. He asks for more than I am able to give."

  "What does he ask for? I warn you, if you say your virtue, I shall know you for a liar."

  Cecilia laughed, albeit weakly, and threw herself down on the narrow green upholstered bench against the wall. "Worse," she intoned. "He demands trust."

  "Trust?"

  "Yes. He knows I am plagued in some manner. He wishes me to unburden myself to him and tell all."

  "Why don't you?"

  "Jessamine, how could I? First, I have only foul suspicions that Mr. Waddley was murdered, and you know how I was ignored when I made that suggestion at the time of his death. My suggestion was deemed hysterics by a grieving widow."

  "But you don't know that Branstoke won't believe you. All right, don't look at me in that blighting fashion. I retract my comment. But you said that was your first reason. Do you
have others?"

  "Yes," she admitted slowly. "To me, trust is a very personal gift. Its giving carries great weight and forges bindings. I—I do not want those bindings for they hold both ways. Granting trust would likewise mean accepting trust. I don't want to do that."

  "Interesting," Lady Meriton murmured. She was silent a moment, then a mischievous little smile lit her pale blue eyes. "Do you know what you are describing?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "My dear, you are describing love, in its ultimate expression."

  "Oh." Cecilia fidgeted on the bench. "Then I would say love is something I do not want.”

  "Nonsense, Cecilia. The problem you have, my dear, is that you see the exchange as imprisoning rather than liberating, which I assure you it can be."

  "I don't see how."

  Lady Meriton laughed. "Don't worry. You shall eventually, and I dare say Sir Branstoke will show you, too."

  "Nonsense," Cecilia retorted. "And I do wish you would stop linking me with Sir Branstoke at every breath. I am merely a curiosity to him for he senses some mystery. He is a much more awake gentleman than you, or anyone else, seems to give him credit for being."

  "So you've said."

  "Excuse me, my lady," said a young footman from the open doorway.

  "Yes, Harry, what is it?"

  "A letter just come for Mrs. Waddley," he said, handing it to her.

  Cecilia grabbed for it, anxiously breaking the seal.

  "Thank you, Harry," Lady Meriton said for her remiss niece. She dismissed the footman with a wave of her hand. He closed the door after himself

  "Dear Lord," murmured Cecilia.

  "What is it? Bad news?"

  "Yes. Though I gather it could easily have been much worse."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  Cecilia roused herself. "It's from a Dr. Heighton. He is writing at the urgent behest of his new patient, Mr. David Thornbridge. Mr. Thornbridge was attacked last night and stabbed."

  "No!"

  Cecilia reddened and bit her lip, her brow furrowing as she fought the wave of guilt and panic that assailed her. "He is weak and has lost a great deal of blood, but he will live. He writes that Mr. Thornbridge would not rest comfortably until he appraised me of his situation.”

  Tears blurred her vision. “He says as soon as Mr. Thornbridge is well enough, he will allow him to travel to the country and recuperate there."

  Cecilia lowered the letter, tears now freely spilling from her eyes. She swiped at them with a crumpled handkerchief. "Oh, Jessamine, it is all my fault! When he wrote yesterday I feared something horrible was about to happen. I should never have asked him to help me. I granted him a form of trust, and look at the horrible burden it placed on him. It nearly got him killed!" Her body trembled and guilt etched gray furrows in her blanched complexion.

  "Cecilia! Stop it. Stop it at once! Mr. Thornbridge is not a stupid man. He knew the risks he was taking. I doubt you could have forestalled him if you tried."

  "I don't know. Oh, I don't know," wailed Cecilia faintly, rocking back and forth on the bench.

  "Cecilia, self-flagellation will not help Mr. Thornbridge now. What's done is done. Perhaps you now realize the gravity of the situation and will desist in your endeavors to learn the truth. It is not worth another life, Mr. Thornbridge's or yours, which might be next if you persist in this manner."

  Cecilia looked up at her aunt, the tracks of her tears drying on her cheeks. She shook her head. "But Jessamine, don't you understand? I can't stop now! It would be unfair to Mr. Waddley and Mr. Thornbridge. As things are, I hope I know better than to involve others in my quest, and I certainly shall not say anything to Sir Branstoke! Lud, it would be scandalous at this point. He thinks Mr. Thornbridge to be my physician. To try to explain otherwise would necessitate unraveling all the skeins, and I am not willing to do that yet!"

  A soft knock on the door drew their attention. It was Loudon. "Excuse me, my lady, but Sir James Branstoke is below. He asks to speak with Mrs. Waddley."

  Cecilia decisively shook her head. "I do not wish to see him Tell him I am plagued with a dreadful headache, which is nigh to being true at this juncture."

  "Begging your pardon, ma'am. Sir Branstoke felt certain you would say something to that effect. He asked that I tell you he has just come from a Dr. Heighton's and has seen Mr. Thornbridge."

  "What? How? Are you sure he said Mister Thornbridge?"

  "Yes, ma'am, he did, and very distinct he was about it, too."

  "Oh, dear, it appears to me you may not have any recourse but to confide in him," Lady Meriton said.

  Cecilia chewed on her lower lip a moment. "Blast the man! There, see? How can I trust him? I tell him to stay out of my concerns and he ignores my words. Where is the trust in me?"

  "Cecilia, you are hardly being fair. You don't know how he came about to see Mr. Thornbridge and know him not to be a medical man."

  "All right, all right. I stand corrected. I shall not leap willy-nilly to conclusions. I suppose I'd best see him, to at least learn what he does know. Loudon, show him into the rose parlor. I'll be down directly." She turned toward her aunt, her handkerchief rubbing her cheeks. "How do I look? Is my complexion blotchy?"

  "No, merely dewy. But straighten your fichu. There, you'll do; however, I do wish you'd smile. You look like some sacrificial victim."

  Cecilia grimaced as she stood and shook out her skirt. "At the moment I feel that description to be very apt," she said wryly. Taking a deep breath, she walked toward the door. Behind her, Lady Meriton shook her head and smiled.

  Cecilia closed the parlor door softly. She leaned back against its carved oak panels, her hands behind her back still clutching the door latch as if she were half-afraid to stay, to commit herself to talking with Branstoke.

  "You wanted to see me?" she asked levelly, pleased at the light note she'd infused into her tone.

  Branstoke stood in the middle of the room, regarding her dispassionately through hooded eyes. He waited.

  Cecilia shifted uneasily, finally she straightened, releasing her death's grasp of the door latch. She took a few steps toward him, careful to keep her distance. She didn't trust being close to Sir Branstoke, but whether that was due to him or herself; she refused to examine.

  "Is Lady Meriton to join us?" he asked, casually removing his snuffbox from his pocket and flicking the latch open with his thumb.

  "No, she is occupied at present," Cecilia said, red surging up to stain her cheeks. She plucked her handkerchief from where she had tucked it at the end of her long sleeve and began wringing it with both hands. "You forget, sir, I am mistress of my own affairs and stand in no need of a chaperone. The idea is quite ludicrous at my age," she said with a tight laugh.

  One dark eyebrow rose and it appeared his attention shifted to her full red lips. Noting the direction of his fixed gaze, Cecilia's discomfort increased for suddenly she remembered two occasions with him where a chaperone would have been wise.

  She clasped her hands before her, tension evident in the tendons of her hand. "You mentioned Thornbridge to Loudon," she said formally. "How is it you know of his accident? I have just received a note from Dr. Heighton myself."

  "Yes, Dr. Heighton informed me he sent around a reassuring missive." He took a pinch of snuff, snapped the tiny box shut and returned it to his pocket.

  "Reassuring? Are his injuries graver than he intimated?"

  "No. Though they well could have been. Cecilia, it is past time that we speak without prevarication or omission."

  "I'm afraid I don't know what you mean," she said stiffly, her head flung up in silent challenge.

  Branstoke crossed his arms over his chest, his head canted as he considered her, "I have observed a very interesting phenomena during the short time we have been acquainted," he drawled. "Did you know your eyes darken and a tiny pulse throbs in your neck when you lie to me? No, I don't suppose you do," he said with a thin smile as he watched color blazing into her cheeks again. "I
assure you it is true. Now, shall we begin again? I am not a flat."

  A tiny reluctant smile creased Cecilia's lips. "Is that in conjunction with not being a Borgia?" she couldn't resist asking.

  Branstoke's eyes glowed in appreciation of her humor. "Yes, along with being a man with a surprisingly limited fount of patience where you are concerned," he warned darkly, stepping closer to her.

  Cecilia moved gracefully to the right to put a table between them.

  He stopped and impassively studied the obstruction. "I see," he murmured. He turned and sauntered toward the fireplace. He stood with his back to her, staring up at the portrait of Lady Meriton with her son Franklin as a young child. "But I believe we were discussing Mister Thornbridge, the youngest manager at Waddley Spice and Tea," he said urbanely, turning to look at her over his shoulder.

  Cecilia placed her fingertips on the table in front of her. "I admit, Sir Branstoke, you have the advantage of me. How am I to take that?"

  "Honestly, I beg of you."

  She sighed and compressed her lips. "All right, I admit I lied about his position as my physician."

  "Why?"

  She shrugged slightly. "It just seemed easier. And truthfully, society expects me to receive numerous visits from a physician."

  "To add credence to your various illnesses?"

  "More to reinforce those illnesses," she said drily.

  "All of which are imaginary."

  She had the grace to blush. "Except for some of the headaches," she qualified ruefully. "Of late those have been more real than I care." She came around the table and sat dispiritedly on the sofa.

  "What was Mr. Thornbridge doing for you that nearly caused his death?"

  She winced. "Was it that obvious?"

  "To me it was, once I discovered his true occupation."

  She looked away from him, thinking, and chewed her lower lip. "I wonder if anyone else has connected him with me? As of yet, I doubt it. If they had, I do not believe someone of Mr. Peters' ilk would have been sent to do business with me," she murmured.

  "Cecilia, what maggot have you in that devious little brain of yours?" Branstoke demanded. He did not like her considering expression nor the slight smile that went with it. He crossed to her side and sat down next to her.