Cecilia laughed. "That is a succinct, yet I'll own brilliant conclusion. What do you make of Sir James?"
Janine smiled. "I like him. If you stripped away his enjoyment of London's frivolities, he would be a great deal like the Viscount Dernley that I knew."
Cecilia pulled back, shock and puzzlement reflected in her wide blue eyes. "Oh, Janine, surely not. Havelock could never have been that languid."
"No-o, but those are only manners, not the measure of the man."
"You don't think manners are the measure of a man?"
"Certainly not! Manners are like clothing, worn for effect in society. To know a man's true measure, one would have to view him away from society, away from the need to be anything other than himself."
"If we accept your statement, then the corollary of it must be that in society, no one is as they seem."
Janine laughed. "Yes, I suppose that would be true. All of us actors and actresses upon a stage. Didn't Mr. Shakespeare write something to that effect?"
"Very likely," Cecilia said absently, her thoughts running swiftly down another road. "The question then becomes," she mused slowly, "what does one look for to know the true measure of a person?"
"I beg your pardon?"
Cecilia looked up and smiled brightly, self-consciously. "Oh, nothing, merely some conclusions for myself." She hooked her arm with Janine's. "What do you say we return to the house and partake of a little breakfast. There are bound to be others up now. Neither of us shall be forced to converse with those we dislike." An odd feeling rippled down her spine. Instinctively she looked up at the row of windows. The clear panes winked emptily in the morning sun.
She turned back toward Janine, enveloping herself once again in her mantle of signs and symptoms. "Besides, if I stay much longer in this cool air, no doubt my plaguey cough will return. So disagreeable, you know. Just as one is about to speak to someone, lo, what happens? A coughing fit wracks one's body, leaving one too weak to stand, let alone continue in conversation," she prattled while guiding Janine toward the gate.
Janine looked at her askance, her expression quizzical and hurt. Cecilia saw it and knew she was questioning her odd behavior. And remembering their conversation, wondering what was odd and what was real. It smote Cecilia to realize how, in maintaining her persona, she might hurt others in return. Were her machinations any better than the rest of society's just because her motives were sincere? Who was she to doubt anyone else? She should be tarred with the same brush.
No matter, she thought wearily, she would continue as she began. She had no choice.
A figure stood by a window in one of the state apartments, cloaked in shadows as the morning sun streamed past him. He stood, unmoving, watching Miss Amblethorp and Mrs. Waddley in the garden below. Keenly his eyes followed Mrs. Waddley, noting first her sympathy, humor, then serious demeanor. Finally he saw her relax and fade back into the Mrs. Waddley everyone knew. He watched them until they rounded the corner of the mansion and disappeared from sight. A slight smile curled up one side of his lips while his eyes grew thoughtful and considering. The grounds were empty again. He turned and headed nonchalantly toward the door.
Cecilia led Janine through the back entrance so both would be spared questions regarding their early morning ramble with subsequent sodden shoes and skirts. The servants' hall, just off that entrance, was a flurry of activity. Something was being planned. Cecilia shooed Janine on up the stairs and followed in her wake, determined to change quickly in order to discover what was transpiring.
When she descended the stairs to enter the drawing-room off the salon designated for the house party's informal meals, it was to discover a riding expedition planned to the edge of Romney Marsh. No doubt the duke had been persuaded to lead his guests on a tour of some of the more infamous haunts of his highwayman and smuggler days. His exploits were almost forty years old, but to hear him tell it, they occurred only yesterday. Cecilia smiled, shook her head in amusement, and declined an invitation to join the large party. Such an excursion would be far too damaging to her fragile health.
She served herself a small wedge of ham and a dollop of potatoes from the sideboard and sat down to listen to the conversations around her as she ate small, bird-like bites of breakfast.
"Is Miss Cresswell coming, do you know?" asked the Honorable Mr. Rippy, his Adam's apple bobbing as he sipped his ale.
"Do you think she'd miss an opportunity to show herself to advantage? Especially if Sir James were to be in attendance? Don't be a blockhead," drawled Lord Havelock, his lip curling in a faint sneer.
"They've started placing wagers at White's, y'know," said Sir Harry."Oh, how many torments lie in the small circle of a wedding ring!Colley Cibber,The Double Gallant,"he explained to no one in particular.
"He ain't been caught yet, for all he moves so slow. Stab me if I understand what all the gels see in him. Fa! but it's a dull dog!" complained Randolph.
"It's more'n money or looks," assured the Earl of Soothcoor, setting his mug on the table and raising his napkin to his lips. He rose from the table.
"What's more than money or looks?" inquired Lady Bramcroft, sailing into the room wearing an imperious air and an outmoded blue riding dress.
"Sir James's attraction with the ladies," supplied Sir Harry. Several pairs of male eyes glared at him for including a woman in their masculine conversation. He shrugged and smiled congenially. All, it seemed, had forgotten Cecilia's presence.
"Soothcoor is quite correct," said Lady Bramcroft. Laying a pair of blue kid gloves on the table, she took a cup of coffee from an impassive footman. "And you gentleman could do no worse than to study Sir James's methods."
That brought a guffaw of laughter from the gentlemen.
"And what would you have us do? All walk as slow as a snail and fall asleep on our feet?" asked Sir Harry. "Or, do you believe:He is the very pineapple of politeness?"
Lady Bramcroft's thin gray brows rose, and a dismissive sigh flared her pinched nostrils, for she recognized Sheridan's Mrs. Malaprop in Elsdon's quote. "You gentlemen are without your senses if that is your opinion. Sir James is the epitome of the wordgentleman,isn't that correct, Mrs. Waddley?"
Cecilia's head flew up, followed by a tide of red. It was not her intention to be singled out and certainly not to voice her opinions of Branstoke! Her mouth opened and closed, then she cleared her throat. "I—I really don't believe I am in a position to say."
