The Waylaid Heart (10 page)

Quietly she left the room and moved swiftly toward another of the rooms. Suddenly her nose began to tickle. Frantically she withdrew the clean handkerchief from her sleeve and held it tightly to her nose, praying it would stop the threatening sneeze. Swiftly she ran back to the entrance door and slipped out into the gallery, relief flooding her that she'd made it back safely to the public part of the house. She sighed and lifted her head up, her hand and handkerchief falling to rest on her chest. She gasped and blinked. Standing not twenty feet away with his back to her, staring out tall mullioned windows was Sir James Branstoke!

He was supposed to be out riding! What was he doing here?

Aachoo!

Sir James Branstoke thought himself alone. He came upstairs to think, to pace the long gallery, and to stare out the windows that gave onto the courtyard between the wings in expectation of seeing Mrs. Waddley. He knew she did not attend the riding party. A subtle question to her maid produced the information that she was not in her chamber. A cursory inspection of the public rooms also failed to produce the woman.

He was curious as to her whereabouts and activities, for he didn't believe she was at Oastley Hall merely for frivolity. He noticed her eyes tracked the movements of Randolph and his friends. That crowd did not strike him as the types to catch Mrs. Waddley's romantic fancy. Nor was her expression one of avid expectation, as most women were wont to wear when they desire to be noticed by a man. Quite the opposite. Watching her, he received the impression that she would prefer blending with the furnishings and it was obvious that she resented the duke's and duchess's efforts to bring her into society's fold.

He wondered where Mrs. Waddley could be. For all her laments and protests, he doubted she was sitting idly somewhere. That was the reason he was in the gallery. Earlier in the day he discovered the gallery was an ideal vantage point for watching the comings and goings around the hall, Already he'd noted a small party returning from the expedition betimes; and following them, one figure who, with his tan greatcoat collar turned up and his curly-brimmed beaver hat pulled down low, Branstoke judged reluctant for his return to be public knowledge. Sir James Branstoke had been studying the unknown man, puzzling his identity, when he heard the sneeze behind him. He assumed it was one of the servants. He turned at the sound, amused for it was more like a mouse's squeak than the muffled, dainty little sneeze it was.

"Mrs. Waddley!" Surprise at discovering his quarry so near at hand quickly gave way to concern and suspicion.

In a few strides he was by her side, urging her into one of the Chippendale chairs lining the linen-fold paneling of the gallery.

"I did not hear you approach. A thousand apologies, Madame. If I'd heard you, I would not have been so rude as to keep my back to you."

"No, please, it is nothing," protested Cecilia. Her hands fluttered, echoing her words. "Really. It is equally rude to sneak up on someone. Such was never my intention, I assure you, Sir Branstoke. But I was certain—I—I mean I thought you would be with the riding party."

"That had been my ambition, however, on further reflection I realized I had no taste for spending a chilly morning jockeying for a position near the object of every male member's gallantry. I and my horse would stand in constant danger of being nipped, kicked, or left with dust swirling up our noses. A most disheartening proposition," he explained, sitting down in a chair near her.

Cecilia relaxed and laughed. "Is that a suitor's expectations around Miss Cresswell?"

"Oh, decidedly, Mrs. Waddley. It is all part of the game. However, since I am not—how shall I state this?—not an ardent suitor, the entire proposition struck me as entirely flat. A sad waste of energy."

"Or perhaps shrewd politics," she offered archly.

He raised a brow, and then a smile transformed his features. "You are referring, are you not, to the possibility that I may claim Miss Cresswell's attention later in the day as recompense for my lack now?"

Cecilia pursed her lips to repress a smile though her royal blue eyes twinkled with humor. "It strikes me that is a viable option."

"One does not win battles by charging willy-nilly into the fray."

He was delighted at her bantering humor. Perhaps at last she was becoming comfortable around him. Or was she striving to prevent unwanted questions, such as why she was in the room that led, he knew, only to gentlemen's quarters? That door had been shut when he entered the gallery. It was now cracked open.

"I understand bets are being placed in White's as to Miss Cresswell's success," Cecilia said.

He leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other, his hands clasped about his knee. "It never ceases to amaze me how history repeats itself and lessons are never learned. Those who have learned shall reap the rewards; the others shall visit the gull gropers. I, however, have learned it is not politic to place bets where a woman is concerned."

"Oh! And how am I to take this? Do you mean to suggest women are fickle?"

"No—though that may be an aspect for some—it is that they take it amiss," he said, shaking his head. "They consider it an affront to their virtue. An apropos summation, I will admit." He looked at her, his gaze steady. "In a group, a man's viler instincts thrive."

"Ah—that I have had occasion to witness."

Branstoke's brow rose. "You surprise me, Mrs. Waddley, unless you are referring to Nutley's behavior at the opera. That was alcohol speaking, not the result of the herding tendency of men."

"No, I know the difference. I am not, sir, a woman that men recognize as existing. I blend into the furnishings. Therefore, sometimes comments are made in my hearing which should not be," she admitted roguishly.

Sir Branstoke laughed. "Mrs. Waddley, you amaze me. I find that inconceivable." Privately he considered that more her design than the actuality.

"Fudge, Sir James. You know as well as I that a woman with a propensity for illness is not well received. I am the butt of jokes. I know it. I assure you, I do not repine. I cannot change what is, I can only strive to do the best with my limited capacity."

He smiled slightly, noting the casual use of his name, but refrained from commenting. "Mrs. Waddley, I am not such a gudgeon as to swallow that. I know your health is not an issue with you. I would that you would allow me that simple knowledge, too."

Her expression stilled until a haunted look invaded her blue eyes, darkening them to purple. "I'm afraid I do not understand your meaning." She uneasily patted a stray lock of hair back into place, her eyes shifting under his regard. "I'm sorry if I disturbed your ruminations. Please excuse me. I have just recalled I have yet to plant my slips." Cecilia rose from the chair.

Sir Branstoke raised an eyebrow and watched her retreat down the gallery, scurrying like a frightened rabbit. He grinned

Sunlight was high in the windows, poised before its descent into long shadows as a lone figure walked the gallery. He spied a scrap of white beside a chair near the door to the blue with-drawing room. Curious, he picked it up. His long fingers traced the monogram embroidered in one corner. A dark frown momentarily twisted his countenance into a mere semblance of its social norm. He looked at the closed door to the withdrawing room, a contemplative expression on his face. Pocketing the little square of linen and lace, he opened the door and went quietly inside.

"Jessamine! Jessamine! Oh, there you are. What are you doing kneeling on the floor? Get up before you soil that dress!"

"Cecilia, come help me. I've lost my littlest pair of scissors somewhere around here, I think. Leastways, I was seated in that chair the last time I used them."

"When was that?" Cecilia asked, obediently falling to her knees to look under chairs and tables.

"This morning after breakfast. I was doing a silhouette of Miss Cresswell in her riding regalia. I swear that woman would have me do one of her for every outfit she owns! She acts like I'm her personal silhouettist."

"If you feel that way, why don't you just say no?" Cecilia said over her shoulder as she crawled awkwardly in her long skirts. Disgusted, she rolled back on her heels, gathering her skirts in her hands.

"I would if there wasn't someone always around to say what a lovely picture she would make and won't I please cut it. La, it's enough to make me wish Princess Elizabeth had never introduced me to silhouette cutting."

Cecilia laughed. "Don't try to gammon me, Jessamine. You have a natural talent for the art along with a memory that allows you to finish a picture even if your subjects move. You're in great demand at functions just for your little clippings. Your talent will see you invited to all manner of social events even when you're old and gray."

"What a dismal thought," Jessamine said, casting her niece a sour glance.

"But true. Ah—I think I see them, over there under that couch."

"How could they get way over there? I wasn't over there."

"Perhaps someone kicked them by accident." Cecilia bent down to retrieve them. "I don't know why your husband hasn't figured out that you could be a great asset to him on his diplo-matic missions," she went on as she handed them to her aunt.

"Thank you. I will admit I've often thought so myself, and truthfully, it has crossed Joseph's mind, but we wish to wait until Franklin is of age. Meriton has no living family on his side, and I certainly would not care to leave my son to father's less than-tender mercies while I'm out of the country."

"True. But what about leaving him to my tender mercies? I realize it was not fitting while Mr. Waddley was alive to have anything to do with me owing to his class, but now it would be all right, wouldn't it?"

"Oh, Cecilia, how could we have all treated you so cruelly?" Anguish throbbed in Lady Meriton's voice.

Cecilia laughed and patted her aunt's hand. "Nonsense, Jessamine. It is the natural order of things in society. I do not repine or bear grudges, except toward those responsible for Mr. Waddley's death."

"Have you discovered anything useful, dear?"

"No, and I'll admit the more I talk to Randolph's friends the more I feel that either they're all culpable and capable, or none are! I will say, however, none of them are quite as coarse as my own brother. I had not realized how vulgar he'd become. It quite embarrasses me to call him brother. Him I can understand being involved in slimy doings."

"What are you going to do now?"

"I don't know. My best recourse will be to continue the acquaintance of Randolph and his friends, though I believe after what happened this morning my hopes of continually being talked around as if I don't exist have been quite dashed."

"Why, what happened?"

"Randolph made some vulgar comments about me in my hearing for which he was snubbed quite brutally by Lady Bramcroft. His friends did not bear him sympathy, either. Odds are, however, that now he will be very cognizant of my presence."

"Oh dear. But he shall recover, for Lady Bramcroft, though a tartar, is not a scion of the ton. She and Lord Bramcroft live fairly retired. Moreover, I'm surprised they came to Oastley Hall."

A knock on the parlor door interrupted them. "Excuse me, ma'am," the footman said, addressing Cecilia.

"Yes Stephen?"

"The duchess is asking for you. She's in the Chinese room, ma'am."

"Thank you, Stephen; I'll go to her at once." The footman bowed and left. "And you, Jessamine, why don't you lay down before dinner? You look quite done in. You know you'll need your energies this evening in order to be able to do Miss Cresswell's latest ensemble," she teased.

"Bah, don't remind me," grumbled Jessamine good-naturedly. "But I'll own that is a good idea. I'll do that before mother gets the notion she needs my services as well."