Lady Meriton clucked her tongue and paused in cutting to push her glasses up on her nose. Cecilia stared out over the throng of guests. She was surprised yet gratified to see Sir James Branstoke dancing with Miss Janine Amblethorp. But she did not examine her gratification too closely, for she didn't know if she was glad he was dancing with Janine or glad he wasn't dancing with Miss Cresswell.
She pursed her lips. What business was it of hers if he danced with Miss Cresswell or not? She pulled her eyes away from where the couple promenaded down the line.
"Cecilia, I wish you would relax your mouth. If I cut your profile in that manner, you'd look like a fish."
Cecilia dutifully did as requested, then wrinkled her nose when she saw one of Randolph's coterie headed determinedly in her direction.
"Cecilia, please. I am attempting a close profile, which is much more demanding than a group portrait. You must refrain from contorting your features."
"I'm sorry, Jessamine. Please, take as long as you like. I'm in no hurry to quit your side."
Lady Meriton looked up from her paper, blinking owlishly. "What—?"
"Um—um, excuse me, Mrs. Waddley, ma'am?" The Honorable Reginald Rippy eased down next to her on the Egyptian-style fainting couch complete with crocodile feet.
"Not so close, please, Mr. Rippy. My aunt is engaged in cutting my silhouette."
"Oh! Right—sorry," he said, edging to a far corner.
"Now, how may I serve you, Mr. Rippy," Cecilia asked blandly.
"Serve me? Oh, dear me, no, ma'am," he assured her, mopping his brow with a large white handkerchief. "It is just—well, you see, as we'll all be returning to London tomorrow, I was wondering—that is, I hoped, that you would allow me—" he paused, mopping his brow again and running a finger under his tight stock. "What I mean, ma'am, is I hope you'll allow me to call on you in London," he finished rapidly.
"Certainly, Mr. Rippy. I believe that would be quite pleasant." She turned to her aunt. "Have you finished, Jessamine?"
"Yes, dear. I believe I am. Just allow me a moment to look it over carefully one last time. . . ."
"Thank you for your kind consideration, Mr. Rippy. I shall look forward to receiving you in London," Cecilia said, summarily dismissing him. He stuttered and stumbled a moment more, then made his leg and retired to the card room.
"You see, I told you being in Branstoke's company would stand you in good stead," said Lady Meriton.
Cecilia made a face, then groaned. "Now it is Lord Havelock coming this way. I fear, Jessamine, I may have unleashed a demon."Or perhaps more aptly, a dragon,she thought, remembering Branstoke's willingness to battle the beasts.
Wearily she curved her lips in a pleasant smile and contrived to speak cordially to Lord Havelock, and in his turn, Sir Harry. All three gentlemen solicited permission to call on her, and to all three, she granted permission. Now, perhaps, she could learn something to good purpose. She should have been pleased that events were falling so naturally into place.
Why then did a heaviness fill her chest? It couldn't have anything to do with Branstoke waltzing with Miss Cresswell—could it?
Chapter 9
Like a ship in heavy seas, Cecilia's emotions rose and fell with seemingly unending repetition for the remainder of the ball and on into the next day with her return to London. And like that ship on a storm-tossed sea, all she could do was helplessly ride the waves of emotions as they swept through her.
There was one niggling thought that kept her anchored in the worst of the buffeting. It was the image of Randolph yanking a ring off his right hand and shoving it in his pocket. Why was that ring important? She was confident that's what Randolph was referring to when he told whoever was in the room with him that it was an oversight. But of what import could a ring be?
She wondered if it was the unfamiliar signet ring she saw in his room. If it were important, surely he would not have left it out in plain sight! Then again, he hardly would have expected anyone to go sneaking about in his room. And carelessness on Randolph's part was typical of him. It was also the reason she'd decided to look in his room.
She wanted to see that signet ring again. She thought she might recognize it if she saw it, though she could not form a clear image in her mind of the device carved on its flat surface.
She needed to see Mr. Thornbridge. If the ring were important, maybe he'd come across some mention of it in his investigation of Randolph's affairs. She sent a message ahead from Oastley advising of her return that day and requesting him to visit in the afternoon. A hurriedly scrawled note greeted her return, one that sent uneasy ripples through her being. She reread it, for the fifth time:
Mrs. Waddley,
I beg you will hold me excused until tomorrow. I think I may have answers, though my thoughts are so heinous, I pray I am wrong. Tonight I go to discover the truth. I daren't say more. My thoughts are unworthy.
David Thornbridge
It too closely echoed the last entry in Mr. Waddley's journal, the one he made the day he died. Her hand closed convulsively about the letter, crumbling it in her hand. She should never have asked Mr. Thornbridge for help. Now an unreasoning fear built within her as thoughts and fancies mushroomed in her head. She paced Lady Meriton's front parlor, consumed by a restless energy that would not let her be still. Something was about to happen. She knew it but could not say what or how she knew. The feeling was like waiting for the actors to enter and the play to start. Anticipation shivered through her.
Lady Meriton was occupied with the cook and the ordering of staples. There was no help in that quarter for conversation and speculation that might ease her mind. Her pale brow furrowed and her eyes narrowed in thought. Outside, the bright morning sun gave way to a slate sky, and a rising wind clicked together branches covered with fresh, pale green leaves.
