"Excuse me, Sir James, but I feel another of my dreadful headaches coming on. Somehow, that seems common around you," she said. With disregard for appearances, she whirled around and left him, his laughter trailing behind her.
Cecilia made her way to the corner of the room where the dowagers and matrons sat gossiping. Carefully she pulled Lady Meriton aside. "Do you think we might leave?"
Her aunt breathed a rasping sigh of relief. "I would be most happy to. I fear I have succumbed to that malady you claimed this weather fosters. I feel awful. I have not been able to do a single cutting all evening, for my hands are weak and my head too achy for plain sight."
"Jessamine! Why did you not tell me? Of course, we will go. Let me but inform Sir Harry." She settled her aunt on a chair in the corner then sent a servant in search of him, but Sir Harry was not to be found. Neither was Lord Havelock.
This was an interesting turn of events! Her eyes sparkled at the knowledge, and she set off in her investigation—or would have if she hadn't recalled her aunt. She bit her lower lip in frustration. She had to see to Jessamine's well-being.
She went down to the front hall to ask a footman to obtain a hackney for her and Lady Meriton.
"There is no need of that," said a languid voice coming out of the shadows. It was Branstoke. "I am on the point of leaving myself. My carriage has already been called. It will be here directly."
Cecilia compressed her lips at the thought of being beholden to this gentleman yet again, but concern for her aunt stilled her too-ready tongue and would not let her reject his offer.
"Thank you," she whispered. "I'll tell her we are ready to leave."
She hurried back up the stairs, refusing to consider how circumstance again had him managing her life. Tenderly she guided Lady Meriton down and saw her cloak wrapped warmly about her. She ignored Branstoke as best she might. To her chagrin, he did not seem to notice. Then her childish argument—as she knew it to be—flew from her mind for her aunt was truly feverish.
A worried frown creased her brow. She settled next to Jessamine in the luxurious carriage, keeping close to her to help warm her. A silent Branstoke tucked fur throws about them both. At the Meriton townhouse, he helped them descend. By unspoken agreement, he half-carried, half-led the weakening, feverish woman up the stairs and into the hands of her efficient dresser while Cecilia trailed helplessly behind.
In a shaky voice, Cecilia offered her gratitude. "Truthfully, I am not much good with illness," she said apologetically.
A touch of his usual humor returned to his gold-flecked eyes. "Those who are rarely ill, seldom are."
She flushed but refused to be drawn into another argument with him. "It is a wet, cold night. Would you care for a glass of port or something before you go back out into it?"
"Thank you, but no. As you say, it is a wet, cold night, and I do not care to leave my men and horses standing in it. Goodnight, Mrs. Waddley."
"Goodnight," she murmured, watching him leave, dismayed at his return to using Mrs. Waddley to address her.
Chapter 12
Cecilia plumped the bed pillows behind Lady Meriton, then solicitously urged her aunt to lay back against them. Even after a night's rest, her aunt was no better, perhaps worse. She pulled up the counterpane, tucking it warmly about Jessamine while smoothing out the wrinkles.
"Isn't that more comfortable? Here, let me place this tray on your lap. I've prepared a special medicinal tea with honey from one of Great Aunt Martha's old recipes. It will help you breathe easier and soothe that raw throat," she said coaxingly.
"Thank you," rasped her aunt, carefully balancing the tray. Shaky hands grasped the cup and guided it to her mouth. She cautiously sipped the steaming drink. "Itisgood!" she exclaimed.
She quickly handed it back to Cecilia as a coughing spasm shook her frame. When she finished, her voice was husky but clearer. "You shouldn't be here, my dear. I don't like to see you risking infection."
"Stuff and nonsense," returned Cecilia briskly, handing her back the cup. She watched as her aunt sipped more of the hot liquid. "You know as well as I that for all my counterfeiting, I don't have a sickly constitution."
"And I do? Illness is foreign to my nature, but ill I am." She set the cup down on the tray and absently plucked at her coverings. "It makes me mawkish to be so low. And today, I expect a load of Oastley ale to arrive. It needs to be locked away in the cellar lest it is consumed too readily by the servants. Can you see to it, Cecilia? My chatelaine is on that table," she said, pointing to a burl wood sideboard.
Cecilia crossed the room to pick up the key ring. "What is this key to?" she asked, singling out an especially large brass key.
Lady Meriton sneezed. "That's to Cheney House. Mother insists I have a key. It is her way of subtly reminding Randolph that though he lives there, Cheney House is not yet his."
"A wasted effort." Cecilia crossed back to her aunt's bedside. "Randolph needs to be cracked over the head. Subtlety is useless."
Lady Meriton's laugh ended in another coughing spasm. She collapsed back against the pillows. "I am not good company for you, my dear. It would make me feel better to see you get out in the fresh air. Perhaps you could find me a new novel at Hatchard's or Bell's."
Cecilia laughed and sat down on the edge of the bed. "All right, I promise I shall leave you to the tender mercies of the servants this afternoon, but I shan't change my mind about attending Lady Orrick's gathering this evening."
"Cecilia, please go. I'm sure one of your callers would be only too happy to escort you."
"There you are mistaken, for it is my understanding they have plans for the evening."
