"Oh, come, come, Mrs. Waddley. I've seen you several times in Sir James's company. Do not be coy. Tell these gentlemen what makes him amenable to us ladies."
"Well, I think it is his address, and the way he has of listening to one as if whatever you say is of great import."
"Exactly. Very good, Mrs. Waddley," approved Lady Bramcroft, much in the manner of the headmistress of the girls' academy Cecilia once attended.
"Ha! Anyone who could stomach Cecilia's long list of complaints and illnesses would find favor in my addle-pated pretty little sister's eyes. Probably came from being married to that damned merchant," jibed Randolph.
Sir Harry winced, and Lord Havelock studied the plaster and wood ceiling.
Lady Bramcroft drew herself up and glared at him. "And it is even far easier to discern why you find favor with so few!" She set down her coffee cup, picked up her gloves, and sailed out of the room, the very rustle of her heavy skirts loudly proclaiming her disfavor.
Prudently, Cecilia found it incumbent to follow in her wake while behind her Sir Harry was advising her brother, amid fulsome theatrical quotes, that once again his regards to his sister were bad ton. The Earl of Soothcoor emphatically seconded that sentiment. Cecilia didn't hear her brother's response.
Cecilia retired with her work-basket to the salon and settled on one of the white and gilt painted sofas upholstered in red damask. It faced wide double doors left open onto the entrance hall and vestibule. From her vantage point, she could see everyone as they entered or left the mansion. For nearly an hour, her quick needle plunged in and out of the canvas, filling in the redbrick-colored background around the golden keys. She saw nearly the entire house party leave. From comments dropped, she gathered some of the older ladies were gathered in her grandmother's private drawing room and that a few of the elder gentlemen had retired to the library for a morning nap.
When the house had been still for some time, Cecilia packed up her workbasket. She headed first for the stillroom to check on her slips to see that they were still damp and would come to no harm until she could plant them. But her journey to the stillroom served another purpose. It brought her past the large servant's hall. She peeked in. As she hoped, several of the valets were at their leisure. Her brother's man held a deck of cards in his hand and was soliciting players. Like master like man, mused Cecilia. It should keep him well engaged.
She climbed the stairs to the long gallery that gave access to the state apartments. She paced the gallery twice, listening for the sounds of others in the wing and deliberately creating noise to draw out the curious. No one came. Satisfied, she crossed to the door to the small blue withdrawing room that gave access to the room Randolph used. She eased open the door and slipped inside, crossing the blue and white patterned carpet quickly. At Randolph's door, she paused and looked toward the other two rooms that gave off the withdrawing room. They were silent and closed. She opened Randolph's door.
It was not a neat room. Disgust for the habits of Randolph's man curled her lip upward. She shook her head dismally, wondering where to start looking. More so, what should she be looking for? She'd only had some vague idea before of searching Randolph's room, never forming any clear idea of what she should be looking for. She stepped farther into the room. Anything of import would most likely not be among his clothes and toiletries, for they were scattered about the room. It would be put away, in a drawer, a trunk, somewhere. She started to pull open drawers, carefully sifting contents. She checked the wardroom, his portmanteau, under his pillow—nothing. No journal like Mr. Waddley kept, no books, no scraps of paper of any sort. There were gloves, stockings, and cravats in abundance, along with several fobs, snuff boxes, and a signet ring he must have had designed for himself for its emblem was unknown to her. She sighed as she closed the last small drawer in a French Boulle writing desk. There was no help here.
Quietly she left the room and moved swiftly toward another of the rooms. Suddenly her nose began to tickle. Frantically she withdrew the clean handkerchief from her sleeve and held it tightly to her nose, praying it would stop the threatening sneeze. Swiftly she ran back to the entrance door and slipped out into the gallery, relief flooding her that she'd made it back safely to the public part of the house. She sighed and lifted her head, her hand and handkerchief falling to rest on her chest. She gasped and blinked. Standing not twenty feet away with his back to her, staring out tall mullioned windows was Sir James Branstoke!
He was supposed to be out riding! What was he doing here?
Achoo!
Chapter 7
Sir James Branstoke thought himself alone. He came upstairs to think, to pace the long gallery, and to stare out the windows that gave onto the courtyard between the wings in expectation of seeing Mrs. Waddley. He knew she did not attend the riding party. A subtle question to her maid produced the information that she was not in her chamber. A cursory inspection of the public rooms also failed to produce the woman.
He was curious as to her whereabouts and activities, for he didn't believe she was at Oastley Hall merely for frivolity. He noticed her eyes restlessly tracked the movements of Randolph and his friends. That crowd did not strike him as the types to catch Mrs. Waddley's romantic fancy. Nor was her expression one of avid expectation, as most women were wont to wear when they desire to be noticed by a man. Quite the opposite. Watching her, he received the impression that she would prefer blending with the furnishings. It was evident that she heartily resented the duke's and duchess's efforts to bring her into society's fold.
He wondered where Mrs. Waddley could be. For all her laments and protests, he doubted she was sitting idly somewhere. That was the reason he was in the gallery. Earlier in the day, he discovered the gallery was an ideal vantage point for watching the comings and goings around the hall. Already he'd noted a small party returning from the expedition betimes, and following them, one figure who, with his tan greatcoat collar turned up and his curly-brimmed beaver hat pulled down low, Branstoke judged reluctant for his return to be public knowledge. Sir James Branstoke studied the unknown man, puzzling his identity when he heard the sneeze behind him. He assumed it was one of the servants. He turned at the sound, amused, for it was curiously more like a mouse's squeak than the muffled, dainty little sneeze it was.
"Mrs. Waddley!"Surprise at discovering his quarry so near at hand quickly gave way to concern and suspicion.
In a few strides, he was by her side, urging her into one of the Chippendale chairs lining the gallery's linen-fold paneling.
"I did not hear you approach. A thousand apologies, Madame. If I'd heard you, I would not have been so rude as to keep my back to you."
"No, please, it is nothing," protested Cecilia. Her hands fluttered, echoing her words. "Really. It is equally rude to sneak up on someone. Such was never my intention, I assure you, Sir James. But I was certain—I—I mean, I thought you would be with the riding party."
"That had been my ambition; however, on further reflection, I realized I had no taste for spending a chilly morning jockeying for a position near the object of every male member's gallantry. My horse and I would stand in constant danger of being nipped, kicked, or left with dust swirling up our noses. No, no, a most disheartening proposition," he congenially explained, sitting down in a chair near her.
Cecilia relaxed and laughed. "Is that a suitor's expectations around Miss Cresswell?"
"Oh, decidedly, Mrs. Waddley. It is all part of the game. However, since I am not—how shall I state this?—not an ardent suitor, the entire proposition struck me as entirely flat. A sad waste of energy."
"Or perhaps shrewd politics," she offered archly.
He raised a brow, and then a smile transformed his features. "You are referring, are you not, to the possibility that I may claim Miss Cresswell's attention later in the day as recompense for my lack now?"
Cecilia pursed her lips to repress a smile though her royal blue eyes twinkled with humor. "It strikes me that is a viable option."
"One does not win battles by charging willy-nilly into the fray."
He was delighted at her bantering humor. Perhaps at last she was becoming comfortable around him. Or was she striving to prevent unwanted questions, such as why was she in the room that led, he knew, only to gentlemen's quarters? That door had been shut when he entered the gallery. It was now cracked open.
