Randolph shouted laughter, drawing eyes from every corner of the establishment. "That's rich! What a naive little doll you are. That's what he referred to you as, y'know, his little doll."
"Randolph, what are you saying?" Cecilia demanded, dropping the simpering manner as if it were a hot coal.
"I'm sick of hearing you sing praises to Saint George Waddley. He was a nosy, prosy, hypocrite with—"
"Haukstrom!" snapped Lord Havelock, striding toward them. "We'd best be going. Elsdon's expecting us."
Cecilia watched, astounded, as Randolph virtually deflated before her eyes. She turned questioningly toward Lord Havelock.
He bowed, his lips set in a grim line. "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Waddley, I didn't mean to intrude, but we will be late. Elsdon is a tyrant about his productions and does not tolerate tardiness. You will excuse us?" he said rhetorically, taking Randolph by the elbow.
"I'm sorry, Cecilia. Best just forget what I said. My anger gets the best of me sometimes," Randolph said.
"Yes, yes, of course," she said helplessly. At the moment, she could cheerfully throttle Lord Havelock. What did he not want Randolph to say? His interruption was blatantly well-timed, especially as she saw him out of the corner of her eye surreptitiously listening to their conversation. Lord Havelock had something to hide.
Quickly she picked out a new book for Lady Meriton, paid for her purchase, and she and Sarah headed back for Meriton House.
"Any callers while I was gone, Loudon?" Cecilia asked as she handed her muff, gloves, and hat to a waiting footman.
"Yes, ma'am, Two. Sir James Branstoke—here is his card and the Honorable Mr. Rippy. He left this little nosegay of violets for you, ma'am," he said, handing her the delicate purple flowers. "Both gentlemen declined to leave a message and left quickly when appraised of Lady Meriton's continued ill health."
"Thank you, Loudon. I should like a tray with Lady Meriton this evening. I shall be staying in. As it will be a quiet night, I'm sure we can grant a few holidays among the servants."
"Yes, ma'am, and thank you, ma'am."
She laughed as she turned to mount the stairs. "Don't thank me, thank Lady Meriton. She has taught me well!"
"May I say, ma'am, there's not all that would agree with Lady Meriton."
"I know, but isn't there an old proverb which states the proof is in the pudding?"
"Just so, ma'am," Loudon said, but she was already up the stairs.
Cecilia peeked in on Jessamine, delighted to see she was sleeping, then tiptoed out and went on to her room. She had plans to make and things to do that would be best if fewer servants were abroad to observe her actions. Quickly she changed and went out into the hall. As it was late in the day and most cleaning done, there were no housemaids above stairs. She crept down the hall to Franklin Meriton's empty room. Looking first up and down the hall, she went inside, wondering if she was to make a habit of secretly entering men's rooms.
Though away at school, Cecilia wagered her cousin hadn't taken all his clothes with him. She crossed to the wardrobe, pulling it open. It was nearly empty; however, her hunch proved correct. Aside from two outrageously colored waistcoats and a bright green jacket, there was a dark blue jacket and knee breeches along with a dove-colored waistcoat. Though she knew Franklin to be slight for his sixteen years, she wagered this suit was left behind as being too small. Eagerly she took it out and held it up to herself. It looked like it would fit well enough. Searching the drawers below, she came up with a shirt and several cravats. A search about the room failed to turn up a pair of shoes or boots—though she had her doubts of those fitting anyway. She was also disappointed not to discover a suitable hat, only a schoolboy's cap. It would have to do. Bundling her treasures together, she hurried back to her room.
* * *
It was not yetpast eleven when the slim figure of a youth emerged from the Meriton townhouse, closing the door softly behind. It would not have been remarked upon if it weren't for the youth's furtive behavior. Closer examination revealed a woman's black kid boots on the youth's small feet. Then there was also the consideration that only the ladies or their guests used the front door and that youth hadn't been seen going in.
The watcher from the shadows spit into the street then scratched his head, knocking his hat sideways. "Holy Mother and all the saints," he swore, "his nibs, he be a knowin' one al'right." Keeping to the shadows, he followed after her in a curiously rolling, bandy-legged fashion. He hoped she wasn't going far, and he wondered how he was going to get to tell his nibs about this hidey-ho.
Old Tim Ryan followed his quarry as closely as he dared through dark streets. Despite his concerns for his charge (for thus he readily took responsibility), he had to smile to himself when the slender youth avoided the Charlies, lights, inebriated gentlemen, and once a lady of uncertain charms. His grizzled brows rose when she turned onto the street where Branstoke lived; then, his forehead furrowed deeply as the way led him past and around the corner. Finally, his charge stopped before a large house on the next corner. The house was circled carefully. Tim knew she took note was taken of lights in the windows. The house was dark except for the light from two windows on the ground floor near a side entrance. Satisfied servants weren't about, his charge walked boldly up to the front door, stuck a key in the lock, and entered.
Tim didn't know what to do. He scratched his chin and spat before he made up his mind. Branstoke's home was only a little over a block away. He turned and ran, rocking from side to side, running faster than he had in many a year.
The stable door banged open against the wall. "Romley! Romley! Wake up, man!"
A bang and a clatter greeted the call, followed by repeated thumps before a door opened above. A disheveled George Romley appeared at the top of the stairs, jumping on one booted foot while stuffing a barefoot in the other boot as he came. "What? Ryan! What are yer doing here? Yer aren't due ta be relieved yet."
"I'm doing what I's supposed to. Keepin' an eye on the mort. She piked, dressed like a grubby schoolboy."
"What?" George clattered down the stairs, bringing his braces up over his shoulders as he came.
"Aye. I followed her to a house in the next block. She had a key and nipped inside, nice as yer please—but very secretive, like she don't want to be seen. Go tell his nibs. I got to get back," Tim said, rocking toward the door.
"Wait! Yer ain't told me which house!"
