Cecilia nodded reluctantly.
Branstoke rose to leave. "I'll go to Cheney House before anyone there gets the notion to clean the library. From there, I'll try to track down members of the committee and contact Bow Street again. I'll take these with me," he said, dropping the ring and note in his pocket. "Do not look to see me again until tomorrow. Rest assured," he said to Lady Meriton, "I'll leave your house well guarded." He turned to leave.
"James!" called Cecilia, coming after him.
He paused at the door. "Take care of yourself," she said softly.
He smiled lazily, his eyes shining through the veil of his lashes as he raised a hand to gently cup her cheek and tip his head in assent. Then he was gone.
Cecilia and Jessamine stared at each other, each alone with their thoughts on the implications of the threat to Cecilia. Lady Meriton sighed. "I wish Meriton was here."
"I'd best write a note for father and set someone on his trail," Cecilia said tiredly, picking up the lap desk and sitting down with it. "Though what good it will do, I don't know. His reaction will most likely be to get drunk for a week. At least it's something to keep my mind occupied."
Lady Meriton nodded. "I'll arrange for a light dinner to be served us here. I doubt either of us will have much of an appetite," she said, rising and walking slowly toward the door. Somehow she felt terribly aged.
The gloom of twilight cast long gray shadows when Loudon removed a scarcely touched dinner from the small parlor. The two ladies engaged in desultory needlework to pass the time little noticed the growing darkness until Loudon silently made the rounds of the room, lighting branches of candles. Surprised at the sudden light, they looked up, blinking like owls in the light, before sending a thankful nod the butler's way. The endless ticking of the clock punctuated by the occasional sigh and rustle of fabric were the only sounds to be heard in the small room. Even the outside world quieted, leaving the ladies with loud voices in their heads for company, voices that shouted unanswerable questions and impossible "what ifs."
Cecilia kept glancing up at the clock, judging if enough time had passed to allow the duke or the old baron to be found and return to the city. She knew she saw little hope of seeing them before morning. Still, she watched the clock and its seemingly infinitesimal forward march of time. Surely garden snails moved faster.
She chafed at her inactivity. She felt she should be up and doing something, going somewhere, but she didn't know what. Perhaps she should have gone to view the body. Wasn't that a proper thing to do? Then, while at Cheney House, she could also interview the servants, see if anyone heard anything unusual last night. No, it would be a redundant exercise. Someone—Branstoke or a member of the constabulary—would have asked those questions. She would have liked to search for clues, perhaps find some more notes that would lead them closer to their quarry. Lamentably, she'd promised to stay at Meriton House.
She wondered where Lord Havelock was and what he was doing. As arrogant as the man was, she found it difficult to believe he could be a kidnapper and slave trader. Then again, she found it difficult to believe anyone could so vilely traffic in human flesh! Except, perhaps, for her husband. Though she'd rejected the idea at first, the longer she thought on it, the more convinced she became there was truth to David Thornbridge's suppositions.
Taking his guilt as given, and working backward, then when one analyzed his past comments and actions, there was a certain logic and flow in them. How could she have been so blind?
He did keep her like a harem concubine, cut off from the world, yet pampered with worldly things. She was encouraged to read and learn, develop her wit, and be another Madame Stael or Pompadour. His actions could be seen as training, preparing her for sale to another. Yet with each passing year, he kept her by his side. Surely as she grew older, her worth decreased. The taste among gentlemen was for the nubile flesh of youth—of children. The jaded hedonism of the age thirsted for untouched, unripe fruit to defile. It provided feelings of power and glory to have such supplicants at their feet. Her value would be declining, wouldn't it?
She thought back to her strange marriage day. She considered Mr. Waddley's reaction when he discovered his bride, his surprise and anger. How naive she'd been to think his anger was for her sake. His anger was at a prospected loss of revenue. He could not ship her off, for Randolph saw to it that the notice of their marriage made the columns of the Morning Gazette.
Randolph neatly outmaneuvered Mr. Waddley. How was he able to do so? He never struck Cecilia as a man with two thoughts to rub together unless they were dealing with money. Perhaps he felt he stood more to gain with her married to Waddley. Maybe he did see Mr. Waddley as a purse without a bottom. Better that than a one-time payment for purchasing her body and soul. But Mr. Waddley exacted his vengeance. Randolph continued to work with him even after he became heir to the Cheney fortune.
"Franklin is now grandfather's heir," she mused aloud, her needle plunging rhythmically in and out of the canvas.
"Meriton will not be pleased," her aunt said. "I can't say as I am either. It makes him prime vulture bait."
"Have more faith in your son, Jessamine. He's always been a steady youth."
"Yes, but people often change with their fortunes."
Like Lord Havelock?Cecilia silently wondered. "Perhaps you can convince uncle and grandfather not to grant him an allowance. I wager they'd be amenable to that suggestion. That way, he won't have an immediate change of fortune. Chances are uncle and grandfather will live to see ripe old ages before Franklin comes into his inheritance. By then, he ought to be settled enough to handle it," Cecilia offered drily.
Lady Meriton sighed, her needlework lying idle in her lap. "I suppose you're right. Still, I wish he didn't stand to inherit."
"No more than I do," murmured Cecilia, turning her head away to hide a sheen of tears.
"Oh, Cecilia, I'm so sorry. That was a foolish thing for me to say."
Cecilia gave a half-hearted, watery chuckle. "What will be the duke's reaction when he discovers his grandson has managed to blot the family escutcheon worse than he ever did?"
"Outraged, and perhaps a little envious—though not for the subject of his crime. Father has always seen himself as a knight errant rescuing damsels from distress, not putting themindistress. He would be livid if he knew the full nature of Randolph's crimes. Must we tell him?"
"I don't know. I would imagine it will depend on what transpires within the next few days. I also wonder what it will do to my father. Life has been whipping him roundly for his early profligacy. Now he is constantly in pain and is afflicted with a maudlin temperament. His existence revolves around finding relief from the unremitting pain."
"If I know Baron Haukstrom, he will curse your brother roundly. He will accuse him of dying just to make his life more miserable."
Cecilia nodded, bringing her handkerchief to her face to blot the threatening tears. "I don't know why I should be so emotional. It is not as if we were particularly close."
"Death does that. It removes all the accumulated filth and garbage that colors our thoughts and controls our emotions. Despite all that he's done or hasn't done, Randolph is your brother; he is another human being, and as such, his death affects you. In some way, it affects all of us who knew him. Don't be ashamed or angry at your tears."
