Chapter 1
Snubbed! It hardly seemed possible.
Intrigued, Sir James Branstoke raised his gold-rimmed quizzing glass to observe the slender yet enticingly shaped form of Mrs. Cecilia Haukstrom Waddley. He mentally reviewed his brief encounter with the renowned ninny hammer.
If the woman had been any other than Mrs. Waddley, her actions would have fallen into the category of a snub, to the point of a direct cut. However, Mrs. Waddley's eccentric reputation preceded her. He found himself unwilling to grant her the sophisticated subtlety of manner necessary for the proper delivery and timing of an effective snub. No, something sent her scurrying off, slipping through the crush by the music room door.
Branstoke rubbed the rim of the quizzing glass thoughtfully against his cheek. He'd greeted the infamous widow with comments designed to flatter and draw a blush, thereby avoiding a recital of her most recent afflictions. He swiftly perceived she was not attending him.
Her head tilted, and her dark blue eyes sparkled strangely. Suddenly her eyes widened, and she left, going off in a flurry of gossamer layers of muslin and trailing lavender ribbons, leaving him without a word. He doubted she possessed an awareness of her social gaff. Ruefully, he wondered whether it would have mattered to her. Her attitude was that of a hound flying to a scent and totally out of character for the woman all society considered a beautiful yet charmingly featherbrained creature.
Despite her youthful marriage into trade, society welcomed Mrs. Waddley back into its august ranks upon her widowhood—as much for her now elevated purse as for the elevated positions of her grandfather, the notorious Duke of Houghton, and her uncle, the Marquis of Nye. At five and twenty, she was no longer in the first bloom of youth; yet with hair the color of moonlight and large, twilight-blue eyes, she possessed an ethereal beauty and fragility. Her ethereal appearance gave credence to her complaints of the various and sundry illnesses that afflicted her body.
Absently, Branstoke twirled the quizzing glass by its black riband. He'd endeavored to engage Mrs. Waddley in conversation as a refreshing diversion from his attentions to Miss Philomel Cresswell, the current London beauty and society darling. Though a diamond of the first water in appearance, Miss Cresswell lamentably possessed the hardness of that particular stone. Mrs. Waddley, with her childlike chatter, he deemed a pleasant counterpoint and a subtle message to Miss Cresswell that he was not a man to be manipulated, as she was wont to try. However, from his brief observation, he doubted Mrs. Waddley was as simple as everyone thought.
He glanced at the circle of gentlemen surrounding the laughing Miss Cresswell. He was in no hurry to rejoin their ranks. It would be more entertaining to discover the true nature of Mrs. Waddley, if there was anything to discover. Somehow, his intuition told him there was.
A slight smile pulled upon his lips. Branstoke stuck the end of the quizzing glass into his waistcoat pocket and sauntered off in the direction his new quarry had taken, his curiosity roused.
Cecilia heard a chorus of raucous masculine laughter before she reached the arched entrance to the card room. She groaned softly. Fearing the worst, she peeked around the door frame into the room. Her brother stood in the middle of the room in boisterous conversation with eight to ten other gentlemen. A frown of annoyance twisted her lips. She stepped back, out of sight of the open doorway, as she contemplated this turn of events.
She wondered which—if any—of those gentlemen had been the recipient of the words she'd heard fall from her brother's lips not five minutes earlier. They were the precise words she'd been waiting and hoping to hear since she read them in her late husband's journal nine months ago. They were the words that pitched her willy-nilly into the same society that eight years ago had closed ranks against her.
Cecilia gnawed on the soft inner tissue of her lower lip. Never would she have expected to hear those words coming from her brother. Randolph Haukstrom may be a ne'er-do-well gamester; nonetheless, he was also heir to his grandfather and uncle. And though he would not bear their titles, he'd have their money and property. He already lived comfortably off these expectations—not forgetting the allowance they granted him.
What reason could there be for him to become involved in anything illegal? For thrills and adventure? That was hardly Randolph's style. He was too much the dandy. Worse. He was a veritable coxcomb! Hardly the sort of gentleman to go skulking about on a dirty, dank wharf at night—or any time. Besides, he was her brother. It was ridiculous to imagine him involved in George Waddley's death.
Death. Disgust at her hesitation to name Mr. Waddley's demise for what it was swelled within Cecilia. It was murder. Premeditated, cold-blooded murder. Not that anyone believed her; nonetheless, murder it was and murder she would prove.
But could Randolph be involved? She asked herself again.
Cecilia bit her lower lip harder as she pondered the mystery. She conceded that just because Randolph was her brother, she mustn't dismiss him out of hand. After all, it had been his chicanery that had seen her married to George Waddley in the first place. Not that she regretted her marriage to Mr. Waddley—God bless his soul—for he had been the gentlest and sweetest man she'd ever met. She counted herself luckier than many young women married off to save their families' fortunes.
A decent, hard-working man, George Waddley had not deserved to die.
Another burst of rowdy laughter drew her attention back to the card room, warning her of the tenuousness of her present position. It would be difficult to justify her presence outside this exclusively male haunt. Besides, she rationalized, she wouldn't learn anything more from Randolph this evening, so involved was he with his cronies. If only Lady Amblethorp hadn't delayed her as she left the music room, she could have noted her brother's companion. Well, it made no sense to ponder what might have been. At least she now had a possible lead, a glimmer of light to pierce the dark mystery of Mr. Waddley's death. The question was, how to use it?
Cecilia stepped backward, slowly distancing herself from the card room entrance. Her attention riveted on the doorway as she listened for signs of anyone leaving the room. Satisfied that no one was coming and that she was far enough away from the entrance, she whirled about to make her escape back to the music room.
Her face met the snowy white folds of an intricately tied cravat. Her breath went out in a whoosh, her eyes fixating on the milky white pearl nestled in the folds. Part of her senses registered the broad, masculine chest beneath the cravat. She sagged against that chest, her senses aroused by the sharp smell of soap and clean linen mingled with the musky scent of the man. She jerked sideways as if she'd been burned and stumbled on the toes of his highly polished shoes. Idiotically, a part of her shocked mind wondered if he used champagne in his blacking.
Strong arms came around her waist to steady her.
"Oh! Oh my, I'm truly sorry," she babbled, her senses swirling. Of all the stupid mistakes, she chastised herself as she gathered her wits and tilted her head up. "So clumsy, I'm—Sir James!"
Cecilia choked, blushed, and stumbled backward into his still supportive arms. Belatedly she realized it was this gentleman she had left in the music room without so much as a by-your-leave, the famously urbane Sir James Branstoke.
A bright wave of color swept up her face again. "Oh, I'm—I don't know what to say! Please forgive—"
"Are you all right?" he inquired calmly. Seeing that she had recovered her balance, he politely dropped his hold and stepped away, though his gaze remained fixed on her flustered countenance.
Cecilia's slender fingers unconsciously twisted a knot of ribbons trailing from a nosegay of violets pinned to her bodice. "What? Oh, yes—" she said weakly. Her usually quick mind was not focusing. Frantically she sought an explanation that would appease this man. Sir James Branstoke was an enigma in society. He was the image of a social gadder: handsome, frivolous, and lazy. Yet he also had the whispered reputation of being a canny gentleman.
"I mean, no!" she amended shrilly. She winced, beginning again breathily, falling back into her chosen role: "No, I feel a trifle dizzy and—and my heart is pounding," she continued, her fingers fluttering against her chest. "Oh, you cannot know, sir! I pray you will forgive my clumsiness. I am not well, you know. No, no, not at all. That is why I'm here. I came to find my brother to see if he might escort me home, but he is otherwise engaged."
She broke off and looked back toward the card room, letting a look of confusion cross her features.
"Jessamine. Yes, yes, I must find my Aunt Jessamine," she said vaguely. She turned to walk past Branstoke as if she had already forgotten his existence.
