"Mrs. Waddley, I am not polished with words like my friends, nor given to quoting plays or poetry. I'm just not quick to turn a phrase—nor, it would seem, to take advantage of your time to further my heart's desire." He slid off the sofa onto one knee on the floor. "But, Mrs. Waddley, before another may anticipate me, would you do me the honor of being my wife?"
His voice may have cracked a trifle on the last three words; nonetheless, his expression was sincere. Despite her suspicions of collusion and wagers, Cecilia was touched.
"Thank you, Mr. Rippy, for your kind invitation. I will not prevaricate. It has taken me quite by surprise. I hardly know what to say." She looked down to where his hand covered hers. "Marriage is not an institution I'd thought to enter again. I would like that you would give me time to consider your kind offer."
Mr. Rippy, cringing ever so slightly in expectation of an immediate rebuff, was surprised and gratified. He perked up. "But of course! Wouldn't think to rush you. Not done at all, you know. Just hope I'm not yet cut out."
"No, no, Mr. Rippy. I assure you, you are not. I shall seriously consider your kind offer," she said, pulling her hand free.
He beamed. "Excellent! Well then, perhaps I could escort you to another function?"
She smiled. "I think that to be a splendid idea."
"Good, excellent. I'll look forward to that," he said, his head bobbing in confirmation. "I guess I'd best be going. Thank you for having me. Oh, and give my best to Lady Meriton. Fine lady, your aunt. Very understanding."
"I will," Cecilia said, her lips compressed against a laugh.
"Yes, well, best be going then," he said, rising jerkily from his seat. "You will save me a dance tomorrow evening, won't you?"
"Of course, Mr. Rippy. I shall be honored."
His cheeks pinked with pleasure. "Yes, then until tomorrow, Mrs. Waddley."
"Goodbye, Mr. Rippy," she said smoothly, watching him back out the double doors. It was a wonder he didn't tumble down the stairs.
After he left, Cecilia leaned back against the mound of pillows at the head of the daybed. The day had been profitable. She was engaged to socialize with her three suspects. With time, one of them was bound to utter a mischance word or phrase that would lead her to a solution to the crime of Mr. Waddley's death. She merely needed to continue cultivating their acquaintance. Patience and perseverance. That was what was wanted.
The only circumstance to mar the tranquility of her mind was the continued absence of Mr. Thornbridge. That did not bode well. She picked up her needlework to resume filling the redbrick background, her eyes occasionally traveling to the clock on the mantel.
"Where is he?" stormed Cecilia later that afternoon as she came striding angrily into the little room near the top of the house used by Lady Meriton as a studio.
Her aunt looked up from the picture she was carefully framing. It was the silhouette she had cut of Cecilia at the ball. "Where is who, dear? We seem to have had a parade of male visitors today. By the by, what did Mr. Rippy want that necessitated private discourse?"
Cecilia made a moue of distaste. "What do you think? Marriage, naturally."
"Gracious!"
"I fobbed him off nicely. Though I do not wish to wed him, I do see him as a source of information. I'm not fool enough to throw that away. But it is Mr. Thornbridge I have been expecting today, and he is the only gentleman who's failed to appear!"
"Besides Sir James Branstoke, you mean."
"I am not expecting him. Not after my lamentable behavior yesterday. But I could not help it. He asks for more than I can give."
"What does he ask for? I warn you, if you say your virtue, I shall know you for a liar."
Cecilia laughed, albeit weakly, and threw herself down on the narrow green upholstered bench against the wall. "Worse," she intoned. "He demands trust."
"Trust?"
"Yes. He knows I am plagued in some manner. He wishes me to unburden myself to him andtell all."
"Why don't you?"
"Jessamine, how could I? First, I have only foul suspicions that Mr. Waddley was murdered—and you know how I was ignored when I made that suggestion at the time of his death. My suggestion was deemed hysterics by a grieving widow."
"But you don't know that Branstoke won't believe you . . All right, don't look at me in that blighting fashion. I retract my comment. But you said that was your first reason. Do you have others?"
"Yes," she admitted slowly. "To me, trust is a very personal gift. Its giving carries great weight and forges bindings. I—I do not want those bindings, for they hold both ways. Granting trust would likewise mean accepting trust. I don't want to do that."
