"You will obtain Mr. Hewitt's agreement, and between you work out a method of operation to supply me with the information I desire. I have faith, George, in your inventiveness to pursue this project properly. I am uninterested in the particulars."
George Romley was silent a moment; then, he heaved a big sigh. "All right. It'll be as you say, guv'nor." He shook his head dolefully. "I jest hope you know what yur doin', sir."
An enigmatic smile curled the corners of Branstoke's lips. "So do I, George, so do I."
* * *
Cecilia listlessly turnedthe page of the novel she'd been trying to read for the past half-hour. It was a light, pastoral romance with some finely drawn characters; unfortunately, her mind refused to stay focused on the gentle humor and happenings in the story. Her thoughts drifted unerringly to the mystery she'd set herself to solve.
She wasn't certain she ever placed much faith in solving the crime of her husband's murder or of bringing its perpetrators to book. Her half-formed plans had been more of an impetus to break through the lethargy she'd fallen into after George's death. Their marriage had been safe and comfortable, something her life had not been as a child.
Her childhood held vivid memories of plates and pictures slowly disappearing and servants leaving for lack of pay. The sale of her beloved pony was an excruciating memory. Truthfully, she'd outgrown Penny, but the callousness of her father and brother when they dispensed with her little copper-colored pony had been a raw wound for years. She long felt their attitude toward the pony was equivalent to their attitude toward her—only they could not get rid of her as easily nor as profitably. Until her grandfather, the Duke of Houghton, autocratically fetched her from the slowly decaying manor that was her home, she existed simply. Carefully she darned her clothes and uncomplaining ate what she and Mr. and Mrs. Crontick—the only servants to remain—could scrounge. However, she was always thankful that her mother never lived to see their lives reduced to such circumstances.
Dispassionately, she wondered why she didn't hate her father and brother. She certainly had every right to. Maybe it was because she'd never known them to be any different. And truthfully, the male relatives on her mother's side of the family were not above reproach either. Her grandfather's history was every bit as checkered as her father's, only he was luckier—and perhaps more skillful at cards—than Baron Haukstrom. She couldn't blame her father for virtually abandoning her, for she'd been a drain on his pocketbook. Nor could she later blame him for selling her to Mr. Waddley.
She sighed and closed the book. She really shouldn't think of herself as being sold. That was unfair to Mr. Waddley. It also displayed a lack of delicacy on her part that was unladylike and beneath her. Marrying Mr. Waddley had been a blessing. Her lot in life had been bleak—her relationship to a duke notwithstanding. She would most likely have become an unpaid companion to some relation—and made continually aware of her charity status.
But when Mr. Waddley was murdered, she felt cut adrift. And though she no longer felt the pangs of financial hardship, all the lonely memories of childhood rushed back to haunt her.
She blinked back the unshed tears that memory called forward. What she had to come to terms with following her husband's death was the fact she was no longer a child. She no longer must suffer at the whims of another. She was older, wiser, and financially independent. She smiled weakly. She was more than independent. She was wealthy. And wealth meant power. That was something she had learned from her grandfather, and that was something she would use now.
She set the novel on the table by the sofa and turned her mind from maudlin memories to the memories of the past evening. How could she become better acquainted with Randolph's cronies? It was apparent to her that she'd been naive in her assumption that her mere presence at Randolph's side would enable her to better her acquaintance with his crowd. The bloods viewed a hypochondriac female with a jaundiced eye. She made a grave tactical error when she'd subscribed to this role. The question was, how to recover without raising suspicion? It would have to be with slowly increasing good health, if at all. Unfortunately, she feared she didn't have the patience for the proper degree of slow improvement necessary to ease the suspicious natures of people like Sir James Branstoke.
Now that was odd. Why did his name come to mind? Why did she instinctively feel there was a threat of discovery from that quarter? He should be the last person anyone would consider as having a suspicious nature. That is if one went by appearances alone, and Cecilia didn't.
Cecelia remembered only too clearly the strange, almost frightening feeling in the dark carriage. She'd been too aware of his presence, his closeness. Then there was that last, odd comment he made before he bid her a casual goodnight. What did he guess? No, what did heknowof dragons? There were depths to that man that few could plummet. Just thinking of him sent fluttering through her stomach, like a host of butterflies taking flight.
She bit her lip as again the odd fluttering assailed her. She rose from the sofa to pace the room as if to outrun the butterflies. What was it about the man? Was it possible that she could be following the wrong lead in pursuing her brother and his associates? Could Sir James Branstoke be the key she searched for and dreamed of finding? What did she know about him? What did anyone know about him? He was as enigmatic in personality as was his lazy, devastating smile.
"Jessamine, how long have you known Sir James?" Cecilia Waddley casually asked as she paced back and forth across her aunt's small, private parlor.
"What's that, dear?" Lady Meriton shuffled through a sheaf of papers lying on a petite ebony and gilt writing desk, a thoughtful, distracted frown pulling down the corners of her pale lips.
Cecilia paused in her restless pacing. She stared, unfocused, as she wrestled with herself. She swung around to face her aunt. "I was just wondering how long you've known Sir James?" she said slowly, with thin lightness.
Lady Meriton pushed her glasses up her nose as she looked at her niece. "I don't know. Three or four years, I suppose—no, it's three years since he sold out—"
"Sold out? He was in the military?"
"Oh, dear me, yes. In the Peninsular campaign, like Sheridan. He's been on the town since he returned. I vaguely recall meeting; however, I cannot place when. Is it important?"
"Yes—I mean,no!"Cecilia compressed her lips. "I'm just curious. He seems to know everyone and to be invited everywhere."
"That's true enough. He is a perfect guest and just the ticket for rounding out numbers for dinner. Particularly at those occasions where the company is dreadfully mixed, and one despairs of success. He possesses excellent address, wit, and a decent if not sizable fortune. Though he is often dry and given to sarcasm, he is never arrogant. That is a trait I find too deplorably common these days in the legions of men-about-town."
"A pattern card of virtue!"
Lady Meriton laughed, laying down her quill. "Hardly. He is far too languid for perfection. If it were not for his wit, the man would be a dry stick. No doubt that will be his old age fate. But why all this sudden interest in Sir James?"
She shrugged. "Curiosity," she said lightly.
Restlessly, Cecilia crossed to the small sofa and sat down. She fumbled in her work-basket on the floor, drawing out a needlepoint seat cover with a developing brick and gold Etruscan key design. She was not a dab hand at artistic needlework, needlepoint being her singular accomplishment. For her, it was a soothing accomplishment, something for when her mind ran steadily and relentlessly on like one of those new steam engines. The seat cover was one of four destined for the chairs around the drawing room's card table.
"I saw him last night at the opera," Cecilia said, her needle plunging rapidly back and forth through the canvas, keeping pace with her thoughts.
"Who?" her aunt asked absently as she dipped her quill in ink.
"Jessamine! Sir James, of course, who else have we been discussing?"
