"I understand bets are being placed in White's as to Miss Cresswell's success," Cecilia was saying.
He smiled at her, leaning back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other, his hands clasped about his knee. "It never ceases to amaze me how history repeats itself and lessons are never learned. Those who have learned shall reap the rewards, and the others shall visit the gull gropers. However, I have learned it is not politic to place bets where a woman is concerned."
"Oh! And how am I to take this? Do you mean to suggest women are fickle?"
"No—though that may be an aspect for some—it is that they take it amiss," he said, shaking his head. "They consider it an affront to their virtue. A very apropos summation, I will admit." He looked at her pointedly, his sleepy-eyed gaze steady. "In a group, a man's viler instincts thrive."
"Ah—that I have had occasion to witness."
Branstoke's brow rose. "You surprise me, Mrs. Waddley— unless you are referring to Nutley's behavior at the opera. That was alcohol speaking, not the result of the herding tendency of men."
"No, I know the difference. I am not, sir, a woman that men recognize as existing. I blend into the furnishings. Therefore, sometimes comments are made in my hearing which should not be," she admitted roguishly.
Branstoke laughed. "Mrs. Waddley, you amaze me. I find that inconceivable." Privately he considered that more her design than the actuality.
"Fudge, Sir James. You know as well as I that a woman with a propensity for illness is not well received. I am the butt of jokes. I know it. I assure you, I do not repine. I cannot change what is. I can only strive to do the best with my limited capacity."
He smiled slightly, noting the casual use of his name, but refrained from commenting. "Mrs. Waddley, I am not such a gudgeon as to swallow that. I know your health is not an issue with you. I would like that you would allow me that simple knowledge, too."
Her expression stilled until a haunted look invaded her blue eyes, darkening them to purple. "I'm afraid I do not understand your meaning." She uneasily patted a stray lock of hair back into place, her eyes shifting under his regard. "I'm sorry if I disturbed your ruminations. Please excuse me. I have just recalled I have yet to plant my slips." Cecilia rose from the chair, her handkerchief falling to the floor unnoticed.
Branstoke raised an eyebrow and watched her retreat down the gallery, scurrying like a frightened rabbit; he smiled.
Sunlight was high in the windows, poised before its descent into long shadows as a lone figure walked the gallery. He spied a scrap of white beside a chair near the door to the blue withdrawing room. Curious, he picked it up. His long fingers traced the monogram embroidered in one corner. A dark frown momentarily twisted his countenance into a mere semblance of its social norm. He looked at the closed door to the withdrawing room, a contemplative expression on his face. Pocketing the little square of linen and lace, he opened the door and went quietly inside.
"Jessamine! Jessamine! Oh, there you are. What are you doing kneeling on the floor? Get up before you soil that dress!"
"Cecilia, come help me. I've lost my littlest pair of scissors somewhere around here, I think. Leastways, I was seated in that chair the last time I used them."
"When was that?" Cecilia asked, obediently falling to her knees to look under chairs and tables.
"This morning after breakfast. I was doing a silhouette of Miss Cresswell in her riding regalia. I swear that woman would have me do one of her for every outfit she owns! She acts like I'm her personal silhouettist."
"If you feel that way, why don't you just say no?" Cecilia said over her shoulder as she crawled awkwardly in her long skirts. Disgusted, she rolled back on her heels, gathering her skirts in her hands.
"I would if there wasn't someone always around to say what a lovely picture she would make, and won't I please cut it. La, it's enough to make me wish Princess Elizabeth had never introduced me to silhouette cutting."
Cecilia laughed. "Don't try to gammon me, Jessamine. You have a natural talent for the art along with a memory that allows you to finish a picture even if your subjects move. You're in great demand at functions just for your little clippings. Your talent will see you invited to all manner of social events even when you're old and gray."
"What a dismal thought," Jessamine said, casting her niece a sour glance.
"But true. Ah—I think I see them, over there under that couch."
"How could they get way over there? I wasn't over there."
"Perhaps someone kicked them by accident." Cecilia bent down to retrieve them. "I don't know 'why your husband hasn't figured out that you could be a great asset to him on his diplomatic missions," she went on as she handed them to her aunt.
"Thank you. I will admit I've often thought so myself, and truthfully, it has crossed Joseph's mind, but we wish to wait until Franklin is of age. Meriton has no living family on his side, and I certainly would not care to leave my son to father's less than-tender mercies while I'm out of the country."
"True. But what about to my tender mercies? I realize it was not fitting while Mr. Waddley was alive to have anything to do with me owing to his class, but now it would be all right, wouldn't it?"
"Oh, Cecilia, how could we have all treated you so cruelly?" Anguish throbbed in Lady Meriton's voice.
Cecilia laughed and patted her aunt's hand. "Nonsense, Jessamine. It is the natural order of things in society. I do not repine or bear grudges—except toward those responsible for Mr. Waddley's death."
"Have you discovered anything useful, dear?"
"No, and I'll admit the more I talk to Randolph's friends, the more I feel that either they're all culpable and capable, or none are! I will say, however, none of them are quite as coarse as my brother. I had not realized how vulgar he'd become. It quite embarrasses me to call him brother.HimI can understand being involved in any sort of dirty doings."
