The Waylaid Heart

by Holly Newman

"Randolph did? He killed Mr. Waddley?"

  "Yes. Because Randy was convinced he was getting prepared to have you disappear."

  "What?"

  Angel nodded. "It's true, that's what Randy believed. Only, I don't know if Mr. Waddley really was or not. There's another gentleman involved . . ." she trailed off, uncertain how to proceed. Fear haunted the pale gray eyes that turned toward Cecilia.

  She nodded. "I know about him."

  Relief swept Angel's piquant face. She sighed. "Then I needn't say much about him. Frankly, I don't think I could. He has always frightened me. His eyes can be so empty at times. I could feel him looking at me sometimes. Contemplating my value. Lucky for me, Randy offered his protection else I'd have been shipped out long ago."

  "I understand."

  Angel blinked, pushing unshared images aside with a shudder, and continued: "It seems Mr. Waddley was getting too independent-minded. He was making noises like he didn't need the overseas connections any longer. The story of Mr. Waddley sending you away may solely have been fuel to rile Randy to get him to do his dirty work. Randy may not have been much of a brother as brothers go, but he held great stock in family."

  "Forgive me, Angel, if I have trouble adjusting to your vision of my brother. I have for so long viewed him as interested in money above all else."

  "I know." Threatening tears spilled over her bottom lashes and traced dark courses down her pale cheeks. "I asked him why he didn't tell you the truth—about Mr. Waddley and him. Randy said you were sincerely attached to Mr. Waddley and would not hear anything bad of your husband."

  Cecilia shook her head sadly. "No, I was never attached to him. I felt some measure of gratitude for being saved from a life as a charity case, and I did enjoy the intellectual freedom he fostered by encouraging me to read voraciously; but truthfully, I was confined. Like a doll locked in a glass case. I carried around with me a sizable piece of guilt that I didn't care for him more, and that I was stifled. It reeked so of ingratitude, you see. My meager attempts to discover his murderer have acted like a medicinal restorative on me. They've given me a focus for myself around which I may coalesce. That was the reason I've wanted so to discover his murderer. It was a way to absolve myself."

  She looked down at her hands in her lap restlessly folding and unfolding a handkerchief. “We really didn't know each other, did we?" Cecilia whispered mournfully, choking back a veil of tears.

  Angel shook her head, her eyes darting up to, then away from, Cecilia's face. Her chin quivered with the effort to fight back a new surge of tears. "I must be going now," she said, her slightly gravelly voice liquid with tears.

  "Go? Where will you go? You must stay here with me. Your life may also be in danger. I can't allow that on my conscience. Haukstrom is a big enough burden as it is."

  "No, I must go. He is already suspicious of me. He knows Randy tended to get pious at home. And, if I do not show up at the theater tonight, he will be suspicious."

  "Does he rule your life as well?"

  "He is not a man I would cross willingly. If he knew I was here, or what we talked about, your life wouldn't be worth a penny."

  "Or your own either, I'd wager."

  She shrugged. "I can take care of myself. I always have."

  "No, I won't have it. I think you should know that Sir Branstoke has set Bow Street on the case. We are determined to end this heinous trafficking. I want you to stay here until this matter is sorted out."

  A flicker of hope leapt up Angel Swafford's face only to be dashed down again. "A part of me would like to, I'm not denying that. But it would be too dangerous for us all if I did. If I do not show up at the theater tonight, he would ferret out my location through one of his many cullies. I have to go to the theater and give a performance—a lackluster one at best, but a performance. Afterward, I can truly claim to be overcome with Randy's death. I will go straight home from the theater."

  Cecilia smiled. "Pleading a headache and an irritation of the nerves."

  "Well, yes, I think that would be best, but how did you know?"

  "It is a ploy I'm conversant with," she said drily. "Instead of going home, why don't you come here? No one would think to look for you until tomorrow."

  She nodded slightly. "It might work, though I will have to be seen entering my house first. I shall change, pack a few essentials in a shawl, then wait an hour or so before coming. It would be best if I came in the back way."

  "I shall see to it that you are admitted, no matter the hour."

  Angel looked up at her with trusting eyes. "I don't know how to thank you." Her low voice sounded unnaturally gruff.

  "It is my gift to my brother, late though it may be."

  Angel nodded, then sniffed and blotted the tears away with the handkerchief Lady Meriton had given her. "I'd best be going now. I shall be a trifle late as it is. Luckily our stage manager is a congenial old soul. He'll cover for me."

  Cecilia rose as her guest stood to leave and escorted her to the parlor door. "Don't worry," she murmured. "It will all work out."

  Angel Swafford smiled tightly and blinked back more tears before turning abruptly and hurrying out the door.

  It was after midnight before Cecilia was roused from the light slumber she'd fallen into while sitting up waiting for Angel Swafford to arrive. The noise came from the front of the house. Angel had said she'd enter from the back, and so she had told the servants. Curious, Cecilia went out into the hall to hear what was going on.

  Cecilia smiled. It was Branstoke, but he wasn't getting by Loudon as successfully at this hour of the morning.

  "It's all right, Loudon, let him come up," she called down the stairs.

  She watched the steady, solid grace with which Branstoke mounted the stairs. Trying to see him dispassionately was increasingly difficult the closer he came. Outwardly the mantle of languid posture and dry wit was evident; but she saw beyond the image society accepted. Butterflies erupted in a storm of fluttering wings inside her stomach. Her breath caught in her chest. Inwardly this man was a seething caldron threatening to boil over. There was more energy and life in him than in ten society dandies.

  He paused three steps down. He looked up at her, his finely chiseled lips turning up in the wry smile that was uniquely his. Cecilia pressed a hand to her stomach as if to still the wild fluttering.

  "I didn't think you'd be to your bed yet," he said softly.

  The word bed drew forth a kaleidoscope of images in Cecilia's mind. She blushed and stammered. "No, I—I couldn't think of sleeping. Please come up. I have news." She whirled away from him, hurrying into the parlor before him and taking a position in front of a chair.

  Branstoke followed behind. His quick glance took in the tumble of blankets on the sofa and her position in front of a chair set at right angles to its neighbor. He smiled. Cecilia was aware of him as a man just as he was headily aware of her womanhood. He was touched at her determination to keep propriety appeased. With the fires that smoldered between them, it would prove all but impossible if it weren't for the danger that threatened. To ease her mind, he obligingly went toward the other chair. Visibly her muscles relaxed and she waved him to be seated as she sank limply onto her chair.

  "Kearney is dead," he said without preamble. "Stabbed," he continued, answering her startled look and questioning glance. "The Bow Street runner got to him before he died. He muttered something about someone going to kill them all."

  "Kill who all?"

  "We don't know. Most likely all the London connections that could identify the leader. Hewitt reports there's been increased lighter activity in and out of the Waddley docks, yet the only ship there is riding high in the water."

  "I suppose human cargo is not as heavy as crates of cotton goods."

  "No, but it does seem unusual not to take legitimate cargo as well."

  "That's true. Mr. Waddley would have had the ship filled with all manner of goods."

  He nodded. "It makes good business sense. I did learn somethin
g that may ease your mind, however. This spice trade has not gone entirely unnoticed by the authorities. Due to the international nature of this business, the Home Office has been involved. They have an infiltrator in the group. He has been several years gaining their confidence, but evidently he recently has seen some measure of success."

  "Who is it, do you know?"

  "No. It is safer for us, and for him, if we don't."

  "Yes, I see—"

  "You said you have some news?"

  "Angel came to see me this evening. Angel Swafford."

  "Haukstrom's mistress?"

  She nodded. "She came to tell me that Randolph foresaw his own death. She told me—she told me—" she gulped, struggling over the lump that formed in her throat, her eyes blurring with tears. "Oh, James, I've been so wrong about Randolph for so many years!" she burst out, tears now streaming down her cheeks.

  Instantly Branstoke was at her side. He picked her up out of the chair as if she were a featherweight and sat himself in her place, settling her on his lap. Her head nestled on his shoulder, she cried herself out with a release of tears, finally able to mourn her brother's death. When the torrent passed, she told him, between little hiccups and shudders, all that Angel Swafford had told her.

  He stroked her back in comfort, though he frowned in concern. "It's been more than two hours since the end of the play. She should have been here by now."

  Cecilia raised her head to look at him. "Do you think she has been prevented from coming?"

  "I don't know. I think I'd best go to her house and see."

  "I'm coming with you."

  "No, you're not."

  "James, I should have insisted she stay here. If anything has happened to her, it will be my fault. Knowing that, I can't stay here and do nothing. I have done nothing all day but sit here and worry and wait. If you don't take me with you, I shall follow you," she said determinedly.

  Looking at her forward-thrust jaw and the purple glow in her eyes, he believed she would. He leaned his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes for a moment, hugging her tightly. "All right," he relented.

  Cecilia did not give him a chance to think twice. She kissed his cheek then slipped out of his grasp, hurrying to the door. "I'll get my cloak and bonnet and meet you at the door."

  Branstoke rose more slowly, already regretting that he had not argued more forcefully.

  Branstoke's carriage set them down before a small but very stylish house. "This is an uncommonly good address," he murmured, leading her to the door.

  "She is uncommon among the demi-monde. Listening to her speech, I believe her to be gently born."

  The house was dark and the front door ajar. Branstoke pushed it open. It creaked only slightly. Inside, Cecilia was about to call out to Angel when Branstoke laid a warning hand over her mouth. He shook his head. She nodded her understanding. They crept farther into the hall, peering into an empty parlor. They started for the stairs when they heard a thump from above. Branstoke motioned her to stay below while he went up to investigate.

  Alone in the dark hall, with only the open front door to let in thin moonlight, Cecilia waited anxiously, her ears struggling to catch every stray sound. She shifted from one foot to another, her hands wrapped around the newel post. She strained her eyes to see into the gloom above stairs. Branstoke had slid silently out of sight.

  Suddenly there was a crash, a scuffle of feet, and a groan. Cecilia ran up the stairs, colliding with a figure coming down, carrying something large over his shoulder. She stumbled back against the railing, grabbing for support lest she tumble down the stairs. The figure pushed past her and continued down the stairs and headed for the door. He paused to look up and down the street. When he turned his head she briefly saw his silhouette, though his face was hidden. She didn't stop to identify him, but raced up the stairs in search of Branstoke. In the dark shadows she saw him struggling to get to his feet, a hand cradling his head. She ran to his side, helping him up.

  "James! Are you all right?"

  He staggered to his feet, swearing under his breath. "I didn't even see who it was. Did you?"

  She shook her head. "Only a silhouette. It was too dark to recognize who it was. But he was carrying something over his shoulder. I'm sure it was Angel, James," she said, an aborted sob wracking her body.

  "Hush, crying won't help her. We'll have to trust to Bow Street and the infiltrator. I've got to get you home now. I should never have allowed you to come," he said wearily, disgustedly.

  "You couldn't have stopped me," she said with a wan smile as they made their way down the stairs.

  "Yes, I could have. If I'd been thinking clearly, I would have had you locked in your room. Unfortunately, when I'm around you my thinking becomes a bit fuzzy," he admitted, looking up and down the street for his carriage. He left her side to hail his man.

  Left alone for a moment, Cecilia hugged herself, his last words ringing delightfully in her ears. Whatever transpired from this sordid mess, there was one bright spot to help dispel the gloom, her growing relationship with Sir Branstoke. Perhaps she had a chance for happiness after all, she thought, as she allowed him to help her into his carriage. Unmindful of proprieties, she snuggled close to him for the ride back to Meriton House.

  Cecilia woke, groggy. She squinted against the light and turned over, pulling the covers over her head. Then a face drifted dreamily into her mind. A face framed with red ringlets and oversized black feathers. A face that held fear in its eyes.

  "Angel!" she cried, throwing the covers aside and sitting up.

  "Did you say something, ma'am?" asked Sarah, rising from a chair by the fireplace where she'd been mending a chemise.

  She looked about, disoriented, as the picture of Angel Swafford faded from her mind. She threw her feet over the edge of the bed and reached for her wrapper. "What time is it?" she asked, stuffing her arms into the sleeves and knotting the sash about her.

  "Going on eleven o'clock, I'd say, ma'am."

  "Eleven? I've missed services. Why didn't you wake me?"

  "Lady Meriton said to let you sleep as long as you would. Now that you're awake, I'm to inform her."

  "Could you have some breakfast sent up as well? I'm famished."

  "Right away, ma'am," Sarah said, ducking out of the room.

  Cecilia was seated at her dressing table brushing her hair when Lady Meriton entered. She looked at her aunt through the mirror. "How could you allow me to sleep so long? I should have been at services."

  Lady Meriton sat down in a chair within view of the mirror. "You were physically and emotionally exhausted. You needed your sleep. I put it about that you were prostrate over your brother's death. No one showed the least surprise at that."

  Cecilia smiled into the mirror. "My reputation precedes me, eh?"

  "Verily. Oh, and father arrived, as did the baron. I sent them both over to Cheney House where they are more than likely squaring off over the body like two dogs over a bone. I also directed all callers to them. I think I should love to be a mouse viewing the happenings over there today," she mused.

  Cecilia laughed and turned to face her aunt directly. "Those two together? You are too bad, Jessamine."

  "I know, but I so tire of their posturing. Besides, I felt it should reasonably keep society entertained and out of your realm."

  Cecilia nodded. "That's true."

  "So tell me what happened last night. All I know is what Loudon told me, that you went out with Sir Branstoke after midnight and it was more than an hour before you returned again. What were you about, Cecilia? I shudder to consider the ramifications should that get about the ton. Between the two of us, Loudon and I have assured ourselves of our servants' loyalty. The story shall not get spread abroad from here."

  "Admittedly, I'd not considered that. My concern was for Angel Swafford. She never got here last night."

  "I know."

  "We went to her home to see if she was detained. We were, perhaps, just minutes too lat
e." She told her what happened and also about Branstoke's discovery that the government had a spy in the group. "All I can hope is that, whoever he is, he can save Angel."

  "I'm sorry, my dear. I know you feel this deeply."

  "Oh, Jessamine, how could I have been wrong about so many things? I feel responsible, for if I hadn't made wrong assumptions and deductions, none of this may have happened. I'm so stupid."

  "Nonsense. You had no breadth of knowledge against which to judge the situation or people. Do not hold yourself accountable. Given the information you had, your deductions were quite reasonable."

  "I wish I could believe that."

  "Don't wish it, believe it. Ah, here's Sarah with your breakfast. Why don't you relax and eat a nice meal? I shall see you downstairs when you are dressed."

  Cecilia nodded and rose to cross to a table near the fireplace where Sarah was laying out breakfast.

  When she came downstairs less than an hour later, she found Lady Meriton entertaining Miss Amblethorp.

  "Janine! Hello, I'm glad to see you," she said, crossing the room to where her friend sat on the sofa. She sank down next to her, taking her hands.

  Janine Amblethorp smiled shyly. "I told mama I was going to visit Lucy Farnham. Mother dislikes Mrs. Farnham, so she let me out with just my maid."

  Cecilia laughed delightedly. She glanced over at her aunt. "Didn't I tell you, Jessamine, that there was a streak of independence and stubbornness hidden in Miss Amblethorp?"

  Lady Meriton chuckled. "Yes, you did."

  Janine blushed. "I don't know how it is, but of late I have not been willing to continue this charade of husband hunting. I grow tired of mama thrusting me toward any single gentleman with the least pretensions to civility. I have not taken, as they say. All the dances and soirees I could attend will not change that."

  "You are too hard on yourself, Janine. But I think you are right to follow your own inclinations," said Lady Meriton. "Smarter than some people I know who push themselves to be what they are not in order to achieve goals that are not for them." She looked pointedly at Cecilia.

  Cecilia scowled in fun at her aunt; then sobered and nodded. "I know, Jessamine. Who knows if I had it to do over again what I would do? In my search for answers I've managed to open Pandora's box while at the same time waylaying my own heart. I'm uncertain as to the resolution of either. The question that stalks my every waking moment and haunts my dreams is: Did I cause Randolph's death or Angel's disappearance by my inquisitiveness?"