"He was unusually restless, grave even. He was muttering that his suspicions had best not be true, or there'd be hell to pay. And he kept staring at me with a fierce look in his eyes. It was frightening. After dinner, he went upstairs to change and came back in a suit all in black. He said he was going out and not to wait on his return."
"Had he ever done anything like that before?"
"He had, on occasion, gone out late and not returned until the early morning hours, but never did he specifically change into all black clothing. Even his shirt and stock were black."
"Did he ever tell you where he went late at night or where he was going that night?"
"No, Mr. Waddley was not communicative in that way. And before you suggest he went to seek other female company," she said with a blush rising in her cheeks, "I considered that myself. However, that wouldn't explain why, when he returned, his clothes were always dirty and bore that distinctive pungent smell."
He raised an eyebrow in mute inquiry.
"Fish, tar, and rotting timber," she said with a smile.
He nodded in wry understanding, then uncrossed his foot and strode to the drink cabinet to pour a glass for himself. "What about this journal you mentioned?" he said over his shoulder. "It is that, I gather, which set you to investigating your brother?"
"Yes. Though I still find it difficult to believe him capable of murder, I believe he is involved. The journal mentions business meetings with someone he calls 'H'."
"Haukstrom."
"So I believe. Mr. Waddley also wrote down what he believed to be a code phrase of some kind.Talkers are no good doers."
He looked at her quizzically. "Isn't that from a play?"
She nodded."King Richard III.I confess I didn't tumble to it until today when I learned Randolph played the part of one of the murderers who speaks that line in a production Sir Harry did a few years ago."
He crossed his arms over his chest as he considered her story. "Based on circumstantial evidence, it would appear your brother is involved. But I agree with you. I do not believe Haukstrom has the stomach for murder."
"What I can't understand is how Mr. Thornbridge went from investigating my brother to searching out information on disappearing prostitutes."
"I believe I do. There has also been a Select Committee of the House of Commons set up this year to investigate incidents of this nature, though I believe they center their interest on the growing number of flash houses. They do not—or will not—broaden their area of inquiry to instances of white slavery."
"White slavery?"
"Yes, the capture and exportation of young English women to appease foreign appetites."
"Oh," Cecilia said in a small voice.
"I understand their favored quarries are blonds and redheads. Most of them come from the lower classes. Some kidnapped, some purchased from their parents. For a particular wealthy client, they may procure children or kidnap the daughters of the middle and upper classes. A girl from a titled family is worth a king's ransom."
Cecilia blanched, her eyes wide. She took a large sip of brandy, coughing as it burned its way down her throat.
Branstoke strode over to her chair and leaned over her, a hand clasping either chair arm, holding her in place without touching her. On his face was a mask of dark emotion.
"This is the nature of the dragon you so blithely chase! It is larger, fiercer, and uglier than you can imagine. Verily, it comes from the deepest, blackest caverns of hell!" He reached up to finger a lock of her pale blond hair. "And you are his favorite meal," he finished softly.
She shivered and pulled her head back until her hair fell from his fingers. "And Randolph is involved with it?"
He didn't say anything but looked at her steadily.
She took a deep breath and nodded, then closed her eyes as pain shot through her. When she opened them, her eyes were glistening. "Please," she whispered, "take me home now."
Chapter 14
It was just before dawn, that coldest and darkest hour before the rising sun, when Branstoke escorted a subdued and melancholy Cecilia back to the Meriton townhouse. They didn't speak; too many words had already been spoken. There wasn't anything more to say that wouldn't lead to further distress and possible self-recrimination.
Though Cecilia and Jessamine joked about the skeletons in the family closet, never would they have imagined the depth of depravity to which Randolph had sunk. Cecilia felt unclean as if by her relationship to Randolph, she was somehow involved and responsible. She didn't know how to tell Jessamine—or if she even should. It was with a heavy heart she looked up at Branstoke to silently extend her thanks.
He looked at her face, so frail and pinched in appearance, and nodded in understanding, his expression grim. He watched her safely enter the house before he turned to leave.
