The Waylaid Heart

by Holly Newman

  "I never knew any of this! I mean, we all are familiar with Sir Elsdon's penchant for spouting lines from plays, but I didn't realize he was so enamored with the stage."

  "Dear me, yes, it has been suggested that he could out-Kean Mr. Kean. That is sheer nonsense of course. No one can match the great Mr. Edmund Kean! Nonetheless, that gives you an idea of the degree of seriousness with which he approaches acting."

  "Yes, indeed. Well, you've talked long enough. It's not good for your throat to do so much talking. Why don't you try to rest now, and when you wake I'll have a new novel for you."

  Lady Meriton reached out to squeeze Cecilia's hand. "You are such a comfort to me while Meriton is out of the country. I'm so glad I have you with me."

  "I'm glad to be here, too," she assured her.

  She stood up and removed the cup from her aunt's hand, setting it on the tray then she pulled the blankets up farther on Jessamine's shoulder. "Now to sleep."

  Lady Meriton nodded and turned on her side, her eyes already heavy.

  Cecilia picked up the tray and carried it out of the room. Seeing Lady Meriton's dresser approaching her, she absently handed the tray to the woman. She restlessly tossed the chatelaine into the air two or three times, her mind analyzing possibilities and plots. She hurried down the stairs to the library to hopefully find a collection of Shakespeare's works that included King Richard III.

  The chilling rain of the previous night had blown through London leaving the air fresh and clean though unseasonably colder. Cecilia, dressed in a warm, lavender wool gown topped by a russet spencer and thrust her hands deeply into her fur muff when she set out for Hatchard’s. In deference to her aunt, she was accompanied by Sarah, now officially raised to the status of lady's maid, and the two traveled via the Meriton carriage. Cecilia would have preferred walking briskly; but she knew that would not be in keeping with her public persona. She was beginning to chafe at the creation she made, and its attendant limitations. Nonetheless, she had high hopes her quest was nearing its end and she could quietly retire from society and be the person she wanted to be. Not that she was too sure who that person was. She only knew it wasn't the flighty, silly widgeon of London repute. She was also beginning to think it wasn't the retiring country widow. What, or who, was left in the gulf between troubled her.

  She looked out the window as the carriage clattered round a corner. Until recently, that was how she viewed life, through a carriage window. Protected from the elements and from her fellowman. She sighed. She'd been an onlooker at life for five and twenty years. That was not how she wished to spend the next five and twenty years. Her dreams of bringing Mr. Waddley's murderer to book served as a catalyst. Now she was uncertain as to the final result.

  This business with the play troubled her. It hinted at an evil madness. While it was true that the real King Richard III had been partially vindicated by history of the crimes claimed by Sir Thomas More and through him, Mr. Shakespeare, the fact that the play was used to perpetuate, and perhaps rationalize, crime, worried her. There was a sordidness to it. A joke gone awry, as Jessamine said Sir Elsdon's production had gone.

  Did Sir Elsdon see himself as Richard? Did he possess that Machiavellian nature shown to such successful advantage in the play? Or was he yet another pawn?

  She withdrew a kid-gloved hand from her muff and rubbed her throbbing temples. She'd not been prevaricating when she told Sir Branstoke that headaches plagued her. They were headaches of worry and uncertainty.

  She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply, and letting her breath out slowly. She didn't open her eyes again until she felt the carriage stop and the footman jump down to open the door.

  "Please, allow me." It was the measured deep tones of Lord Havelock. His tall frame stood at the door, a graceful white hand held out to her.

  "Lord Havelock!"

  "Mrs. Waddley," he returned with a bow.

  "I mean, what a surprise meeting you here today! Such a coincidence and in my time of need," she said quickly as she placed her gloved hand in his as she stepped down from the carriage.

  He raised a dark eyebrow, his lips lifting slightly in unvoiced question. "Ah, then I take it you have not come to Hatchard’s to see the most recent scurrilous cartoons created at our dear regent's expense?"

  She laughed, "No, not at all, but I confess a curiosity to see the latest."

  "A sad business, but come and see," he said, leading her toward the press of people about the window.

  Skillfully he threaded her through the crowd until she was in front of the window where several cartoons were displayed. They were lampoons against Prinny and showed Princess Caro-line as the innocent victim.

  "I swear, they are more comical against her for what she is not!" she blurted out, then hastily bit her lip. "Though I'm not certain I really understand them," she amended, looking up wide-eyed at Lord Havelock.

  A puzzled expression flew across that gentleman's features.

  "Do you think we might go in now?” she asked quickly. “It is so dreadfully cold out here. So easy to take a chill. Lady Meriton has one, you know, a chill that is. She is feeling low, so I've promised to find her a new novel to read. Can you recommend one, my lord?" she prattled, looking up at him guilelessly, damning her thoughtless comment. Curiosity about her was not what she wanted to raise.

  He shrugged slightly. "Of course, Madame. I believe there are one or two new novels on the shelves, most likely written anonymously by A Lady or A Gentleman."

  "I do so love novels! Everyone in them is full of good health and wit. It fatigues me just to contemplate how anyone could devise such stories, let alone take the time to write them out! I cannot understand why they would wish anonymity," she said.

  "I understand that sometimes their characters are drawn from life and often not sympathetically, Their real-life models take offense," he explained as he steered her around a bin of maps.

  "Oh. Is that why Sir Elsdon's version of King Richard III was not popular? Did he do that?"

  He looked down at her, frowning. "What do you know of that?"

  She shrugged. "Nothing really. Only that he rewrote some of it and that his changes were not looked upon with favor. Aunt Jessamine told me about it when we were discussing Sir Elsdon's upcoming production." She clapped her hands together, lacing the fingers tight. "She said Randolph played one of the murderers of the princes. I should have loved to see that. I can't imagine Randolph as a murderer, can you? Oh, that's a silly question. Of course you can. You were in the play too, she said, as Buckingham."

  "A traitor's traitor," said Randolph, coming up behind them.

  Cecilia turned around quickly and reached out to touch her brother’s arm. "Oh, I'm so glad to see you, Randolph. I’ve wanted to apologize for being so snappish at Oastley."

  Lord Havelock bowed, leaving them to the private discourse. She smiled her appreciation.

  "Eh?" Randolph looked at her in surprise. "What? Oh, that's quite all right, little sister. But you know, you could stand to listen to your brother now and again, especially as father is still off looking for cures for dropsy." He led her to an isolated bin of prints. Sarah followed behind them.

  "Yes, I know, Randolph," she said humbly, her eyes downcast and her tongue set firmly between her teeth.

  "You here without that dragon aunt of ours?"

  Her eyes flashed upward then away as she recalled her supposed newfound humility. "She has been very nice to me. I don't like you talking of her so," she said, her gaze sliding to meet his. "Besides, she's sick, quite done up, poor thing. I know exactly how it is, too. I promised her I'd find her the latest novel to read."

  "Someone sick besides you! Pon'rep if that ain't something! I was asked the other day—and dash it if I can recall by who—I was asked if you were sickly as a child.” He rocked back on his heels. “Had to think on that. Don't recall you ever so plagued."

  Asked! She'd give a monkey to know by whom. "Not so much, no," she admitted carefully. "My health broke
when Mr. Waddley died, you see. Both my spirit and my body crumbled. Dear, dear Mr. Waddley, such a gentle, God-fearing man," she murmured as she thumbed idly through a bin of prints.

  Randolph gave a shout of laughter, drawing eyes from every corner of the establishment. "That's rich! What a naive little doll you are. That's what he referred to you as, y'know, his little doll."

  "Randolph, what are you saying?" Cecilia demanded, dropping the simpering manner as if it were a hot coal.

  "I'm sick of hearing you sing praises to Saint George Waddley. He was a nosy, prosy, hypocrite with—"

  "Haukstrom!" snapped Lord Havelock, striding toward them. "We'd best be going. Elsdon's expecting us."

  Cecilia watched, astounded, as Randolph virtually deflated before her eyes. She turned questioningly toward Lord Havelock.

  He bowed, his lips set in a grim line. "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Waddley, I didn't mean to intrude, but we will be late. Elsdon is a tyrant about his productions and does not tolerate tardiness. You will excuse us?" he said rhetorically, taking Randolph by the elbow.

  "I'm sorry, Cecilia. Best just forget what I said,” he brother said softly, strangely and altogether too quickly subdues. “My anger gets the best of me sometimes."

  "Yes, yes of course," she said helplessly. At the moment, she could cheerfully have throttled Lord Havelock. What did he not want Randolph to say? His interruption was blatantly well-timed, especially as she saw him out of the corner of her eye surreptitiously listening to their conversation. Lord Havelock definitely had something to hide.

  Sarah came up beside her. “Are you all right, ma’am?” she asked.

  “What? Oh, yes, it is just my brother has the ability to rattle me.”

  Quickly she picked out a new book for Lady Meriton, paid for her purchase, and headed back for Meriton House, her mind busy.

  "Any callers while I was gone, Loudon?" Cecilia asked as she handed her muff, gloves, and hat to Sarah to take upstairs.

  "Yes, ma'am, Two. Sir James Branstoke—here is his card” he said, indicating the lone card on the silver salver on the table. “And the Honorable Mr. Rippy. He left this little nosegay of violets for you, ma'am," he said, handing her the delicate purple flowers. "Both gentlemen declined to leave a message and left quickly when appraised of Lady Meriton's continued ill health."

  "Thank you, Loudon. I should like a tray with Lady Meriton this evening. I shall be staying in. As it will be a quiet night, I'm sure we can grant a few holidays among the servants."

  "Yes, ma'am, and thank you, ma'am."

  She laughed as she turned to mount the stairs. "Don't thank me, thank Lady Meriton. She has taught me well!"

  "May I say, ma'am, there's not all that would agree with Lady Meriton."

  "I know, but isn't there an old proverb which states the proof is in the pudding?"

  "Just so, ma'am," Loudon said, but she was already up the stairs.

  Cecilia peeked in on Jessamine, delighted to see she was sleeping peacefully, then tiptoed out and went on to her room. She had plans to make and things to do that would be best if there were fewer servants abroad to observe her actions. Quickly she changed and went out into the hall. As it was late in the day and most cleaning done, there were no housemaids above stairs. She crept down the hall to Franklin Meriton's empty room. Looking first up and down the hall, she went inside, wondering if she was to make a habit of surreptitiously entering men's rooms. Though away at school, Cecilia wagered her cousin hadn't taken all his clothes with him She crossed to the wardrobe, pulling it open. It was nearly empty; however, her hunch proved correct. Aside from two outrageously colored waistcoats and a bright green jacket, there was a dark blue jacket and knee breeches along with a dove-colored waistcoat. Though she knew Franklin to be slight for his sixteen years, she wagered this suit was left behind as being too small. Eagerly she took it out and held it up to herself. It looked like it would fit well enough. Searching the drawers below, she came up with a shirt and several cravats. A search about the room failed to turn up a pair of shoes or boots, though she had her doubts of those fitting anyway. She was also disappointed not to discover a suitable hat, only a schoolboy's cap. It would have to do. Bundling her treasures together, she scurried back to her room.

  It was not yet past eleven when the slim figure of a youth emerged from the Meriton townhouse, closing the door softly behind. It would not have been remarked upon if it weren't for the youth's furtive behavior. Closer examination revealed a woman's black kid boots on the youth's small feet. Then there was also the consideration that only the ladies or their guests used the front door, and that youth hadn't been seen going in.

  The watcher from the shadows spit into the street then scratched his head, knocking his hat sideways. "Holy Mother and all the saints," he swore, "his nibs, he be a knowin' one al'right." Keeping to the shadows, he loped off after her in a curiously rolling, bandy-legged fashion. He hoped she weren't going far, and he wondered how he was going to get to tell his nibs about this hidey-ho.

  Old Tim Ryan followed his quarry as closely as he dared through dark streets. Despite his concerns for his charge (for thus he readily took responsibility), he had to smile to himself when the slender youth avoided the Charlies, lights, inebriated gentlemen, and once a lady of uncertain charms. His grizzled brows rose when she turned onto the street where Branstoke lived, then his forehead furrowed deeply as the way led him past and around the corner. Finally his charge stopped before a large house on the next corner. The house was circled carefully. Tim knew note was taken of lights in the windows. The house was dark except for light from two windows on the ground floor near a side entrance. Satisfied servants weren't about, his charge walked boldly up to the front door, stuck a key in the lock, and entered.

  Tim didn't know what to do. He scratched his chin and spat before he made up his mind. Branstoke's home was only a little over a block away. He turned and ran, rocking from side to side, running faster than he had in many a year.

  The stable door banged open against the wall. "Romley! Romley! Wake up, man!"

  A bang and a clatter greeted the call, followed by repeated thumps before a door opened above. A disheveled George Romley appeared at the top of the stairs, jumping on one booted foot while stuffing a bare foot in the other boot as he came. "What? Ryan! What are yer doing here? Yer aren't due ta be relieved yet."

  "I'm doing what I's supposed to. Keepin' an eye on the mort. She piked, dressed like a grubby schoolboy."

  "What?" George clattered down the stairs, bringing his braces up over his shoulders as he came.

  "Aye. I followed her to a house in the next block. She had a key and nipped inside, nice as yer please, but very secretive, like she don't want to be seen. Go tell his nibs. I got to get back," Tim said, rocking toward the door.

  "Wait! Yer aint told me which house!"

  "The Dooks, that big one on the corner," he said before he disappeared back into the dark.

  Romley grabbed a coat and hat from the peg and set out at a run for St. James, for he knew his employer, believing Mrs. Waddley to be spending the evening at home, was indulging in a quiet evening at his club.

  The softly voiced words that erupted from Sir James Branstoke on being appraised of Mrs. Waddley's activities drew a reluctant smile from his groom. For all his society manners, he could still swear like a trooper. He'd also still be the man Romley would like to have on his side of a fight. Hearing him, Romley didn't think he'd care to be in Mrs. Waddley's shoes when Sir Branstoke caught up with her. Didn't the fool woman know he was trying to protect her? As he kept pace with Branstoke, he couldn't help but remember all that blood on Hewitt's coat. Whatever was going on, it was serious business.

  Tim came out of the shadows as the two men neared.

  "Hasn't she come out yet, Tim?"

  "Unless she did when I riled Romley, I don't think so, guv'ner. I seed a light flickerin' in a winder, right there," he said, pointing to a corner first floor window.

  "Carr
iage coming," warned Romley.

  "I suggest, gentlemen, that we remove ourselves from sight," said Branstoke, though it was obvious his thoughts were not on the approaching carriage. The trio melted into the shadowed entryway of a house across the street.

  The carriage drew up before Cheney House, disgorging three gentlemen: Haukstrom, the Honorable Mr. Rippy, and another man Branstoke didn't recognize. It was obvious that young Haukstrom was drunk and his two companions were equally well lit. They talked loudly, singing catches of drinking songs, and hung onto each other for support. They slowly maneuvered up the short flight of steps to the door were Haukstrom then stood, weaving for several moments, before pulling a large brass key from his pocket. He was too drunk to fit it to the lock, so he kicked the door. He nearly fell forward on his face when it smoothly swung open.

  Cecilia heard the raucous singing as she rummaged through the drawer of the small desk in the withdrawing room off Randolph's bedchamber. Hurriedly she stuffed handfuls of the miscellaneous papers it held into her pockets. Passing through the room into Randolph's bedchamber, she crossed to the tall window fronting the street. She looked out to see her worst fears. Randolph and his friends struggling up the steps.

  Surely it was just midnight. She was certain he'd be occupied until all hours of the morning, if not with the play, then with drinking and gambling afterward. It appeared the drinking took its toll early.

  She'd hardly begun searching upstairs. She spent far too long uselessly examining the library. She should have known the library was not a room Randolph would frequent, even for his business purposes. Now she'd have to find a way to escape Cheney House without detection. It would probably be best to hide in one of the many uninhabited bedchambers and wait until the household resettled for the night.

  She ran back to the withdrawing room, heading for the door when she heard voices on the stairs. Randolph's drunken revels had awakened a servant who was urging Randolph's friends to abandon him into his care. He'd see him put to bed immediately.