Lady Meriton smiled understandingly and wrapped her arm about her niece's shoulder in comfort. "It's Sir James, isn't it?" she asked gently.
"What?" Cecilia's head flew up. She looked at her aunt, horror and hope mirrored in her deep blue eyes.
Lady Meriton laughed and leaned back on the sofa. "And I'll wager my best diamond studs that it's mutual. Though I'll own it is not what I'd have envisioned for you, I dare swear it will admirably serve."
"Jessamine, now you are even more nonsensical than I!"
"Gammon," said Lady Meriton, serenely. Then she sobered and sat straight on the sofa, taking Cecilia's hands in both of hers. "It is not disloyalty to Mr. Waddley for you to seek the chance for a better life. You were happy before because you did not know what you were missing. Except for shopping excursions or opera expeditions, you might as well say you were living as secluded as a nun. Now you are free of that stuffy convent; free to see more, feel more, and experience more. Cecilia, you are free to fall in love. Don't be afraid of that, whether it be Branstoke or someone else. Don't live in the past. It's not necessary nor wise, and you, my dear, have a store of innate wisdom. Follow it."
Cecilia's eyes blurred as she listened to her aunt. She gave a watery chuckle. "All right, I hear you, and I will try to take your words to heart. But how did you get to be so wise?" she teased, pulling a handkerchief out of her sleeve and dabbing her eyes with it.
"Age, my dear, merely age."
"Oh, pooh! However, I must tell you that while I will admit to developing a warm regard for Sir James, I will not agree that his emotions are likewise engaged. He is a hunter interested only in the thrill of the chase. He is not in it for the kill—let alone its outcome."
Lady Meriton cocked her head to the side. "Umm-m, we shall see," she said, smiling slightly. "Come upstairs with me and throw some cool water on your face, change your clothes and fix your hair and you'll feel much better. Then we'll have a quiet dinner and a comfortable gossip about all that happened at Oastley," she said, rising to her feet and pulling Cecilia up with her.
Cecilia came willingly, even laughingly. "All right, all right, I believe I have received your message. No moping allowed."
"Perfect. Come along," she said, tucking her arm in Cecilia's. She drew her close to her side. "Did you hear what the under-housemaid found in Lord Bourquin's chamber . . ."
Chapter 10
Not so much as the creak of a stair nor the nay of a horse betrayed the intruder. He silently lifted the wooden latch to the groom's chamber and slithered inside, keeping well into the shadows until he knew the layout of the small room. Stealthily he crossed a moonlit swath to stand beside the snoring sleeper. He prodded the man with the cudgel held in his hand. His victim murmured and turned in his sleep. Disgusted, he prodded him harder. The man woke with a start, thrashing and emitting a quickly muffled yelp.
"Snabble it!" hissed the intruder, his hand pressed hard against the man's mouth.
The man blinked, his eyes wide and white. He nodded as best he could against the unrelenting pressure of the hand on his mouth, his eyes watching the raised, threatening cudgel.
"Yer soft, Romley. Yer shouldn't be taken by surprise like that. Gots t'sleep with one eye cocked if yer wants t'see yer old age," advised his visitor, removing his hand and lowering the raised club. He settled on the edge of the bed.
"What do you want, Hewitt?" growled Romley, embarrassment feeding belligerence.
"Why, t'see his nibs, o'course. The house is all shut tight, or else I'd a taken myself on in," he explained congenially, his grin looking like a death's head grimace in the waning moonlight. "As it is, I need yer fiz to get me past his people."
"At this hour?"
Hewitt grabbed Romley by the collar and hauled him up. He was a small, wiry man with a sinewy strength belied by his stature. Romley was surprised at how easily he was lifted. His respect went up a notch, and he bit back a particularly vulgar epithet.
"Now see here, laddie, I wouldn't be here if it worn't for this little job his nibs give me. Showing my fiz in these parts ain't too healthy. Get me in t'see him,now.And I don't care if he's beddin' a baker's dozen. I gots to see him."
"All right, all right. Jest let me get me clothes on," said Romley, fumbling with the bedcovers. He hurriedly dressed, his eyes darting to his visitor. Ugly enough in the light of day, in moonlight and shadows, Dabney Hewitt was a. ghoulish figure. He seemed perfectly at ease now, but Romley knew only something vital would have brought him here. That was one of the conditions he strongly stressed when Rowley met him at the Pye-Eyed Cock.
He led him back down the narrow stairs and through the stables and the small back garden of the neat townhouse to a window on the ground floor. He rapped lightly on the glass. In a few moments, a mob-capped figure with a wool shawl draped over her night rail appeared at the window. Hewitt made a thin, appreciative whistle. Romley turned to snarl at him, causing Hewitt to grin cheekily.
The window opened slightly, squealing stridently in protest. "Georgie, what are you doin' here at this hour?" whispered the young woman, her eyes round as saucers.
"Come unlock the door, Sophy, we got to see his nibs!"
"But he's asleep!"
"I know that, but it's important."
"I could lose me position," she said doubtfully.
"If this here bloke's information is as important as I think, we'll both more'n likely git rewards. Come on, be a dearie and do as I ask," he wheedled.
"Al—all right," she whispered, "come to the back door but be quiet. Cook's a light sleeper, y'know."
