She sighed and turned away. His fingers cupped her chin and turned her back toward him. "Cecilia?"
"I'm sorry, James. I can't. This is something I have to see through for myself. I think it long ago became more an exercise to find myself thana sacred quest. I can't run away. I won't go back into a glass case where nothing can touch me. No matter what happens, I have to see this through."
A stubborn expression locked his jaw, and he looked at her in silence for a long moment. "Damn," he swore softly, raking his hair with his hand, messing immaculate waves.
Cecilia smiled at the gesture, for it was one he used only when particularly exasperated. "At least grant me the right to watch out for you."
She laughed. "You've been doing that without my permission before now and probably would continue to do so no matter my answer."
A wry smile curved his lips. "But I would like your permission."
"I know when to compromise. I agree," she said.
He pulled her into his arms, her head resting on his chest. A knock on the door interrupted them. Branstoke groaned while Cecilia giggled and slid away from him while granting admittance.
It was Loudon at the door. "Excuse me, Mrs. Waddley, but there is an elderly gentleman here to see you. A Reverend Thornbridge, he says."
"Reverend Thornbridge! Mr. Thornbridge's father?"
"So he says, ma'am."
"Show him up, show him up immediately! Oh James, do you think something's happened to Mr. Thornbridge? It's all my fault!"
"Hush. Wait and see what the man has to say."
"Yes, of course. Reverend Thornbridge?" she said, rising to greet him. Only a slight quiver to her voice betrayed her nervousness.
The man who entered looked as if he'd aged years in a night. His skin held a gray pallor, and his blue eyes looked washed and empty. He moved slowly forward to greet Cecilia. "My dear, dear child," he murmured, shaking his head. He tried to smile, but it was more wistful than warm.
Cecilia grew increasingly frightened. "Mr. Thornbridge is he—is he—"
"David is alive and recovering as well as can be expected," he said, taking her hand in his and patting it gently. "He's told me a great deal about you. You've been a courageous lady." He glanced over at the man standing by the sofa. "May we talk in private?" he asked, looking apologetically at the man.
"I'm sorry," she said, drawing him toward Branstoke, "I'm terribly remiss. Reverend Thornbridge, this is Sir James Branstoke. He is the one responsible for saving your son's life. He's conversant with Mr. Thornbridge's investigation. You may feel free to talk in front of him."
Reverend Thornbridge's face relaxed into a thankful smile. He grasped Branstoke's hand. "If what she says is true, God bless you, my son."
"Please, Reverend Thornbridge, won't you sit down and tell us what has brought you here?" Cecilia said, gently guiding the older man to sit on the sofa. She sank down next to him, Branstoke sat in the chair.
Reverend Thornbridge took Cecilia's hand between his and patted it absently. "My dear, I have said you've been brave. Now I ask if you have it within you to be braver still."
Cecilia exchanged alarmed, covert glances with Branstoke but calmly told the older man she would be brave. He patted her hand again and sighed deeply, not knowing how to begin.
"Perhaps we should tell you we believe Mr. Thornbridge's investigation led him to uncover a possible white slavery ring," Branstoke offered, giving the older man the lead-in he needed.
Reverend Thornbridge looked from one to the other, then addressed Branstoke, though his weathered and wrinkled hands kept Cecilia's tightly captured. "According to David, it is not a possibility. It is an actuality. From information he obtained—it pains me to tell you this, my dear, but I must—from information he obtained, Mr. Waddley was not killed because he discovered this sordid affair. It was more in the nature of a falling out among thieves."
Cecilia blanched. "No!"
Branstoke nodded. "I was afraid that might be the case."
"How could you?" Cecilia cried. "Mr. Waddley was good to me. He—"
"Cecilia! He may have married you, but you were kept like a purchased possession. Like the upper-class spicein which he traded," Branstoke reminded her.
Cecilia shook her head, horror in her eyes. "No, no," she murmured, anguished. She hated her existence with Mr. Waddley, yet if what Reverand Thornbridge said were true—
Reverend Thornbridge put an arm around her shoulder. "It was a partnership," he told her softly, sadly, "between Mr. Waddley and some member of society with foreign connections. My son doesn't know who. The women and young girls they sold were primarily flash house residents and their like. Though, on occasion, there were whispers of others of higher position."
