"I am concerned lest you suffer another of your—ah, sudden spells," he added blandly.
Cecilia peered at him in the uncertain, flickering carriage light. His expression appeared politely neutral, telling her nothing to answer the myriad questions that swirled in her brain. His attentions were inexplicable. Worse were her reactions to the man. He sent her nerves jumping and tingling in a manner greater than any illness she feigned. How could this be? He was, as her aunt implied, an innocuous gentleman. Refined, unfailingly polite, totally unflappable. Her hesitation was ridiculous. And it was always better to travel with company, even in the city.
She bit her lower lip a moment, then murmured her permission. One side of Branstoke's mouth lifted into a wry smile as he inclined his head. He stepped lightly into the carriage after her and seated himself opposite.
In the close confines of the carriage, her awareness of the man increased exponentially. An insidious thought curled into her consciousness. Could he be involved in Mr. Waddley's death? Was that the reason he cultivated her acquaintance? By her reactions to him, was some small portion of her mind warning he was an enemy? Truthfully, he was entirely too even-tempered. As she suggested to Jessamine, it took one artificer to recognize another. What did he want from her? She swallowed nervously.
"Is something the matter, Mrs. Waddley? Do you feel all right?" His face was in black shadows, his voice a deep rumble that echoed the metallic ring of iron-bound wheels over street cobbles. A diamond, nestled in the ruffles of his shirt, winked in the yellow light of passing street lamps.
She laughed, a high, weak sound. "It is merely my abominable nerves. I am heartily aware that I am in your debt. I keep recalling Mr. Nutley's inebriated countenance." She shivered. "I dare swear the backlash of memories is worse than the actuality. I shall recover presently. Do not worry; I'll not embarrass you with one of my fits."
"I am not in the least worried on that score, Mrs. Waddley." His almost disembodied voice stretched her nerves taut. If only she could see his face!
The rustle of wool and satin warned her of his movement, heightening senses, and tensing muscles. He leaned forward out of the shadows and reached across the gulf between them to lay a gloved hand on hers. A shuddering breath released her tight chest. She glanced down to where his large hand covered hers then up at his face. Dimly she was aware of the carriage halting. A footman threw open the door, spilling light into dark carriage corners.
"I feel," Sir James began slowly, almost hesitantly, "you have dragons plaguing you. Know, Mrs. Waddley, it is not necessary to stand alone," he finished softly. He quickly descended the carriage steps and turned to help her down.
Stunned by his words and manner, Cecilia automatically laid her hand in his and allowed him to draw her from the carriage. She looked at him in the glowing lamplight, really seeing him for the first time.
His hair, the color of a rich West Indies coffee, was cropped short and curled around the edges of a high, intelligent brow. His eyes were wide-set, heavily hooded, and thickly lashed. Somnambulant eyes, as Jessamine suggested, yet possessing tiny fan lines at the outside corners attesting to heartily felt emotions—though Cecilia dared not put a name to them. His nose was straight, his chin firm and forceful, narrowly missing pointed status. He was not much above average height, though that still made him tall in comparison to herself. The top of her head scarcely brushed his chin. Of all, however, it was his eyes that caught her attention. They were tortoise in color, a rich variegated gold and brown.
He raised an amused eyebrow at her infinitesimal pause, and she realized something else. Those beautiful, seemingly sleepy eyes held a rapier-sharp understanding that whispered,En garde.
Chapter 4
Pen scratching and the droning tick-tock of the mantel clock were the only sounds in the library. Even the outside traffic seemed to have abated for there were no sounds of carriages, horses, or street vendors to disturb the silence. Pale, straw-yellow spring sunlight streamed in matched Doric Venetian windows throwing a bright shaft of light across Sir James Branstoke's desk and the cream bond paper beneath his hand.
His lips compressed into a thin line, a thoughtful, considering expression slightly lifting one dark eyebrow as he wrote. He paused, absently groping for his coffee cup. He finished the cold dregs in a swallow as he reread his letter. Satisfied, he set down the cup and signed his name with a flourish, then he leaned back in his chair and grabbed the bell pull.
When his butler entered, Branstoke gave instructions for Romley, his groom, to be sent up along with another pot of coffee. While he waited, he propped his feet up on the desk, crossed his arms, lowered his chin into his cravat, and thought about Mrs. Cecilia Haukstrom Waddley.
Her face haunted him. Or was it just those large waif-like royal blue eyes rimmed with purple and framed with pale, downy lashes that stayed in his mind? Her eyes and her reed-slender body made her appear more fragile than the finest porcelain. Was it only her striking looks that drew his attention?
No, for London every year was littered with beautiful, delicate women. There was something else he saw reflected in those eyes that drew him to her like a lodestone. For all her outward appearance of fragility—both natural and affected—he sensed a shining inner core of strength. It was a strength that he'd wager she'd hardly begun to tap because, as yet, she wasn't conscious of its existence.
He threw back his head and laughed. It was ludicrous. She was a forged Damascus steel blade sheathed in naiveté. How rich.
And how desperately needing protection. He didn't know what dragons she was chasing or evading, but he intended to find out. And he vowed he would save her from courting disaster.
A soft knock on the library door brought him out of his reverie. He swung his feet to the floor as the door opened to usher in Charwood bearing a silver urn of fresh coffee. George Romley followed the butler.
Romley stood deferentially with cap in hand while Charwood served Sir James. But Romley had been with Branstoke since his Peninsular days, and while he observed the conventions around others, when the butler left the room, a lopsided grin pulled at his thick cheeks. He gave his cap a spinning toss into a nearby chair.
"You sent for me, sir? What's the lay?"
Branstoke's lips quirked into a brief, crooked smile. "For a man who claims to work an honest day for an honest day's pay, your language is progressively deteriorating into thieves' cant. I shudder to imagine what taverns you favor with your commerce."
The groom rubbed the side of his nose with a crooked finger. "I figure a man's got to watch to his 'orizens, sir."
"Just as well, for my purposes."
"Sir?"
Branstoke's thin smile cracked to reveal straight, white teeth. "Sit down, George, and have a cup of coffee. You do drink something other than libationary spirits, I presume?"
"Course I do, and I'd be right honored, guv'nor." He sat down on the edge of a chair before the desk, hands on his knees as he waited for Sir James to pour him a cup. He almost wished that Friday-faced butler, Charwood, could see him sittin' here with his nibs. Sir James weren't never one to stand on points. Treated a man fair, he did.
"I do seem to remember, George," Branstoke drawled as he handed him his cup, "with what remarkable agility you foraged in Portugal and Spain."
