"The Dooks, that big one on the corner," he said before he disappeared back into the dark.
Romley grabbed a coat and hat from the peg and set out at a run for St. James, for he knew his employer—believing Mrs. Waddley to be spending the evening at home—was indulging in a quiet evening at his club.
* * *
The softly voicedwords that erupted from Sir James Branstoke on being appraised of Mrs. Waddley's activities drew a reluctant smile from his groom. For all his society manners, he could still swear like a trooper. He'd also still be the man Romley would like to have on his side of a fight. Hearing him, Romley didn't think he'd care to be in Mrs. Waddley's shoes when Branstoke caught up with her. Didn't the fool woman know he was trying to protect her? As he kept pace with Branstoke, he couldn't help but remember all that blood on Hewitt's coat. Whatever was going on, it was serious business.
Tim came out of the shadows as the two men neared.
"Hasn't she come out yet, Tim?"
"Unless she did when I riled Romley, I don't think so, guv'ner. I seed a light flickerin' in a winder, right there," he said, pointing to a corner first-floor window.
"Carriage comin'," warned Romley.
"I suggest, gentlemen, that we remove ourselves from sight," said Branstoke, though it was apparent his thoughts were not on the approaching carriage. The trio melted into the shadowed entryway of a house across the street.
The carriage drew up before Cheney House, disgorging three gentlemen: Haukstrom, the Honorable Mr. Rippy, and another man Branstoke didn't recognize. It was evident that young Haukstrom was drunk and his two companions were nearly equally well lit. They talked loudly, singing catches of drinking songs, and hung onto each other for support. They slowly maneuvered up the short flight of steps to the door where Haukstrom then stood, weaving for several moments, before pulling a large brass key from his pocket. He was too drunk to fit it to the lock, so he kicked the door. He nearly fell forward on his face when it smoothly swung open.
Cecilia heard the raucous singing as she rummaged through the drawer of the small desk in the withdrawing room off Randolph's bedchamber. Hurriedly she stuffed handfuls of the miscellaneous papers it held into her pockets. Passing through the room into Randolph's bedchamber, she crossed to the tall window fronting the street. She looked out to see her worst fears: Randolph and his friends struggling up the steps.
Surely it was just midnight. What was he doing home this early? She was certain he'd be occupied until all hours of the morning, if not with the play, then with drinking and gambling afterward. It appeared the drinking took its toll early.
It was unfair! She'd hardly begun searching upstairs. She spent far too long uselessly examining the library. She should have known the library was not a room Randolph would frequent, even for his business purposes. Now she'd have to find a way to escape Cheney House without detection. It would probably be best to hide in one of the many uninhabited bedchambers and wait until the household resettled for the night.
She ran back to the withdrawing room, heading for the door when she heard voices on the stairs. Randolph's drunken revels had awakened a servant who was urging Randolph's friends to abandon him into his care. He'd see his master put to bed immediately.
Cecilia chewed on her lower lip. She didn't dare come out of the room now for fear they'd see her crossing the upstairs landing to another bedchamber. She had two choices. She could hide somewhere within Randolph's room until hopefully, he fell asleep, or she could go out a window.
She opted for the window.
She ran quietly back to Randolph's room. It was a sizeable corner room with two windows facing the street and one on the side of the house. She went this time to the side window and slid it cautiously open. It opened with thankfully little sound. She stuck her head out and looked down. It was too far to jump. She'd need some form of rope. She ducked her head back into the room and frantically searched for something usable. Tearing the sheets off the bed would be too cumbersome. She fingered the thick drapes, so, too, would pulling these down. Cravats! She could tie cravats together! But would there be time? She started to turn toward his bureau when her hand slid down the drape, encountering the satin rope swaging the drapery panel aside. Perfect! She unhooked it from the roundel at the edge of the window, pleased to see the looped rope ends were long, dangling to the floor. Still, one would not be long enough. She yanked its companion loose and hurriedly knotted them together. The roundel was firmly embedded in the wall, so she looped one end tight around it.
Voices were getting louder. Her hands began to shake. With the window open and the rope dangling, they would know someone had been in the room. She had to make it look like a robbery.
Quickly she grabbed up the black leather dressing case with the embossed coat of Cheney arms on the lid from the vanity table and ran back to the window. She stuffed the long, flat case into the waistband of her breeches, then lowered the rope out the window. She scraped her knuckles on the rough stone window ledge, and the slick rope burned her delicate hands. Ignoring the pain, she lowered herself as quickly as she could. Suddenly she felt the two satin ropes slipping free of the knot that bound them. She was falling!
Chapter 13
Oomph!
She landed against a man's broad chest, the dressing case pressing painfully against her ribs. Her breath whistled harshly out, collapsing her lungs. His hands clamped tightly about her lithe form as her momentum tumbled them onto the ground in a tangle of arms and legs.
She gasped and struggled wildly to get up. To her surprise, her rescuer pushed her off his chest and surged to his feet. In the waning moonlight, his face was a harsh landscape of shadows; nonetheless, she recognized him as she would have recognized one of Jessamine's silhouettes. Her mouth gaped open in dumb surprise.
Branstoke!
Here, as he always seemed to be so fortuitously at hand. What tie, what silken binding as strong as steel tethered them that he should forever be her rescuer and that she should take it amiss if he did not appear, the avenging lord, at her side?
The one hand he maintained about her upper arm compelled her to rise as well. She pulled back, more from habit than with cause, and the dark blue cap she wore fell to the ground. Her hair tumbled down in a cloud of moonlight.
He muttered an oath, fluidly bent down to scoop up the hat without breaking stride, and pulled her toward the street. He hustled her onward without a sound. His visage, revealed fleetingly in dim moon and lamplight, was sternly impassive yet bore a rigidity of the jaw that set Cecilia's butterflies in tumult.
They were at the corner when they heard the first shouts out the open window. Cecilia looked back, certain of seeing pursuers only steps away.
"They've spotted George and Tim. They'll lead them a merry chase, I'll warrant," Branstoke whispered, his breath warm and soft as down against her ear. A shiver ran through her. He placed his arm about her waist, hurrying her forward. "Come, my house is a step away. We'll go there until the first hue and cry has passed."
Mutely, she nodded, feeling strangely secure and trusting. The feelings rippled through her in wonder, to be measured against all her senses and come echoing back, replete.
