Why did he have to look at her like that? That sleepy, bored expression he habitually wore concealing a keen discernment in those brown-gold eyes. Why did he have to turn that discernment in her direction and look at her more intently than anyone ever did, including her own family? For years she'd been safe within herself, no one bothering to delve into her thoughts or feelings other than on a superficial level. She was able to keep herself inviolate and private from others and therefore safe and in control of her life. Sir James Branstoke had an uncanny ability to blast open those hidden doors and pull her out into the light. She didn't like that. It knocked her out of control. Worse, it forced her to acknowledge a burgeoning attraction for this enigmatic peer. Ruthlessly she forced those feelings aside.
She decided that attraction probably grew from some insidious weakness or desire within herself to turn her problems over to another to solve. She would not allow herself to fall back into such weakness. She could and would manage her own life. She would discover Mr. Waddley's murderer and display before society the seamy underbelly of its glittering, superficial existence. Then she would hire as a companion a woman who did not desire to spend her life as a charity case at her relatives' beck and call, sell her holdings in London, and retire to the country.
Her decisive thoughts did much to ease her jangling nerves. Carefully she tucked away the last of the besetting emotions. A small smile curled up the corners of her mouth. It was undoubtedly comical that she feigned irritation of the nerves, yet when actually afflicted, she worked hard to dispel the complaint. She did not understand why anyone would submit to wild emotions. It left one so out of control and vulnerable. So inelegant, too.
She counted herself fortunate to have escaped the emotional, nerve-wracking feelings until her present age. The maturity of age allowed her to dispassionately examine the sensations and place them in their proper perspective. She did wonder, why was she now experiencing these emotions? Why was she spared until her five and twentieth year? And there was not only her reaction to Branstoke to consider; there was also her unnatural burst of anger with her grandfather.
All in all, she supposed she should admit to a degree of gratitude that finally she experienced emotional upheavals. It gave her an understanding of the concept of crimes of passion.
She wondered to what extent Mr. Waddley's death was due to his murderer being in the grips of some uncontrolled emotion. She hoped his death stemmed from a spontaneous, emotional rage versus a planned, cold-blooded murder. Somehow, it wouldn't seem so hideous then.
She looked up to search out Branstoke to see if he still watched her. He didn’t. He was back, comfortably ensconced amongst Miss Cresswell's coterie. Loud laughter from the vicinity of the door drew her attention in that direction. It was Randolph, late as always, entering with the Honorable Mr. Rippy and Lord Havelock.
She rose gracefully, switched her skirts into place, then moved to the doorway to greet her brother and his friends.
"Randolph, I fear I'd despaired of your ever coming down before dinner," she said, gliding up to his side and laying a hand on his arm.
"Dash it all, Cecilia, a man needs time to set himself to rights. Especially after traveling on horseback to get here. Don't know why I let Rippy here talk me into bearing him company instead of traveling by coach."
"But Randy, old fellow, said yourself this was great riding country," protested Mr. Rippy.
"So it is, but ain't good ridingto,"Randolph stubbornly complained.
"I fear the close confines of a carriage over that abominable road would have been worse," drawled Lord Havelock, closing his eyes. Boredom with a topic that had been discussed before was evident in his tone. Slowly he opened his eyes and looked down his nose at Cecilia. "Randolph, as you love me, please introduce me to this fair creature who stands before us.
"Oh, right! Right at that. Yes, ah—Cecilia, this is Charles Dernly, Marquis Havelock. Havelock, this is my sister, Cecilia—Mrs. Waddley, you know."
The marquis bowed punctiliously over her hand, granting it a chaste salute. "I would not have dreamed my friend Randolph could have sprung from among angels," he said smoothly, keeping hold of her hand a moment longer than was seemly.
Deliberately, Cecilia withdrew her hand, though her expression remained friendly. Lord Havelock's unctuous behavior did not deceive her. The degree of his bow and the feather-light perfunctory nature of his kiss on her hand told another tale. The marquis possessed an elevated opinion of himself. He contrived to make certain others knew his lofty elevation and respected it. Though he might rub elbows with the riffraff of life at a prize fight or in a tavern, he was certain to control the degree of interaction and throughout maintain his separateness. Cecilia was willing to wager even his mistresses were allowed only a limited degree of intimacy.
"Please, I beg of you, Lord Havelock, spare my blushes," Cecilia said coyly.
"Egad, is that spider-shanks butler come to announce dinner already?" whined Randolph. "I've not had a moment's rest."
Cecilia laughed softly. "Well, come have a hearty dinner and become so redolent you fall asleep."
Randolph's friends laughed along with her, but he pouted and glared at his sister.
"There is sometimes a lack of delicacy in you, Cecilia, that I find deplorable. Notonat all."
"Yes, well, consider I missed that somewhere in my education process," she said lightly.
Lord Havelock and Mr. Rippy smirked at the implied slur on Randolph, but as Cecilia expected, her comment sailed over her brother's head, her deeper meaning lost to him.
"Mrs. Waddley, may I have the honor of escorting you to dinner?" Lord Havelock asked, full of appreciation for her unexpected wit.
"Certainly, sir." Cecilia gracefully laid her arm on his and allowed him to lead her out into the hall and up the stairs to the Great Chamber, where dinner awaited them. She remonstrated herself for falling out of her simpering character. But not too severely. She had to own a certain pride at getting a part of her own back. After all, she was proud of the machinations that achieved her purpose of claiming Lord Havelock's attention. A smug little smile tilted up the corners of her bow-shaped lips.
From across the room, Branstoke saw that smile, and his lips turned down to a corresponding degree.
Chapter 6
The dew blanketing the pale green blades of spring grass glinted and shone like heirloom silver in the scraggly morning sun. The air was cold, yet still, and in the dips and valleys fog clung to the land.
Cecilia Waddley softly closed the heavy oak door and paused on the broad stone steps of the servants' entrance to stare out at the silent landscape. She breathed in deeply, savoring the smell of damp earth and vegetation. She pulled the large, serviceable blue wool shawl she wore over her head and shoulders, one hand clasping it under her chin while in her other, she carried a bonnet-shaped willow basket. Stepping off the stone steps, she made her way toward the old herb garden laid out at the end of the east wing and banded by tall, precision-cut yews. Dew sprayed up as she walked through the thick grass, soaking the sturdy brown leather boots and the hem of her plain gown. At the entrance to the garden was a black iron gate. As she lifted the latch and pulled it open, it protested, creaking and groaning loudly in the still morning air. Cecilia bit her lip at the horrid, strident sound and glanced up at the row of windows for the state apartments that looked out over the tiny garden. They were small bedchambers, designed over two hundred years ago for royalty's retinue, should any visit. As far as Cecilia knew, none had. Now they were the rooms assigned to the single gentleman guests of the house party.
She screened her eyes against the pale morning sun. Not a curtain moved, nor a hand or face appeared at any window. Apparently they were all sleeping late. From one of the footmen, she learned that most of the gentlemen stayed up until night lost its inky darkness playing cards and billiards and deeply drinking Oastley ale or the special stock found in the wine cellars. A stock that Cecilia knew never entered the country by legal routes.
