"To add credence to your various illnesses?"
"More to reinforce those illnesses," she said drily.
"All of which are imaginary."
She had the grace to blush. "Except for some of the headaches," she qualified ruefully. "Of late, those have been more real than I care." She came around the table and sat dispiritedly on the sofa.
"What was Mr. Thornbridge doing for you that nearly caused his death?"
She winced. "Was it that obvious?"
"To me, it was, once I discovered his true occupation."
She looked away from him, thinking, and chewed her lower lip. "I wonder if anyone else has connected him with me? As of yet, I doubt it. If they had, I do not believe someone of Mr. Peters' ilk would have been sent to do business with me," she murmured.
"Cecilia, what maggot have you in that devious little brain of yours?" Branstoke demanded. He did not like her considering expression nor the slight smile that went with it. He crossed to her side and sat down next to her.
She turned her head to look at him. "I beg your pardon?" she asked loftily.
"Cut line, Cecilia. That pose will not work on me any better than your ill-health pose has. I did not cut my eyeteeth yesterday. What are you and Thornbridge involved with?"
"That is none of your concern. And who gave you leave to address me by my Christian name?"
"I did. I refuse to continue calling you Mrs. Waddley; it reminds me of a duck."
"How dare you!" she exclaimed, her eyes flaring.
Branstoke leaned back on the sofa and casually crossed his legs. "Oh, I dare a great deal where you are concerned. Lucky for Mr. Thornbridge that I do."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"Otherwise, Mr. Thornbridge would be dead, and you would be carrying a load of guilt that I doubt you'd ever recover from."
Cecilia blanched at the reminder of how close Mr. Thornbridge came to dying. "Tell me about it, please. The accident, I mean."
"It wasn't an accident."
"I didn't think so. Did—did someone attack him?"
"More than one someone. Thornbridge would be dead if my man didn't step forward to lend a hand. Hewitt informs me young Thornbridge displayed himself to advantage; unfortunately, the numbers were not in his favor. Mr. Hewitt—believing rightly that I would wish him to—obligingly stepped forward to help. They routed the ruffians, but not before Thornbridge was stabbed. It caught him in his side. According to Dr. Heighton, it missed any vital organs by virtue of a rib."
Cecilia paled, her eyes wide. She stood up suddenly and began to pace before the sofa. "It was lucky your man—Hewitt, you said?—was near."
Branstoke rose as she did, a wry smile on his lips. "Luck, my dear, had nothing to do with it."
She stopped. "What do you mean?"
"I mean exactly what I said. Mr. Hewitt was not coincidentally in the area. Prowling the wharves near Waddley Spice and Tea is not his idea of a pleasant way to spend an evening."
"It did happen near the wharf?"
"Yes."
"Most likely in the same area Mr. Waddley was murdered," she mused.
Branstoke stilled.What was she involved with?He ran through his mind for what he knew of Mr. Waddley's death. Not much, for it was not a subject that unduly interested him. He did seem to remember someone commenting on his death in conjunction with the high crime along the river. He passed it off as an unfortunate run-in with that criminal element. But if Mr. Thornbridge was attacked in the same area and, according to Hewitt, by men lying in wait just for him, then might that also been true for Mr. Waddley?
He stepped forward, grabbed her by the shoulders, thereby forcing her to look at him. "Cecilia, what was Thornbridge doing down by the wharves at night?"
