Cecilia lowered her handkerchief and smiled at her aunt.
"And how did you come by all this wisdom?" she asked with forced lightness.
"Age."
"Bah!"
From the open parlor door came a discrete cough. "Excuse me, my lady, but there is a young person below desirous of seeing Mrs. Waddley."
Lady Meriton frowned at Loudon. "A young person? Can you be a bit more precise, Loudon?"
The butler emitted a long-suffering sigh, his hang-dog eyes rolling mournfully. "A young person who goes by the unlikely sobriquet ofAngelMiss Angel Swafford, my lady."
"Angel Swafford, here?" asked Cecilia, glancing at Jessamine to see if she was aware of Miss Swafford. She shook her head mutely.
"Yes, ma'am. Shall I send her about her business?"
"No! Send her up, please, Loudon."
Loudon looked at her severely before bowing and exiting the room, his back more rigid than Cecilia had ever seen it.
"Poor Loudon, I feel I have been a sad trial for him since I've lived with you."
"Fustian. Loudon would not be happy unless he could look down his nose at something. Who is this Miss Swafford he has taken a dislike to? Do you know her?"
"It is my understanding that she is—or was—Randolph's mistress. He even has a house for her. I am curious as to why she should be here."
"Probably to touch you for money. Randolph may have provided a house but most likely kept her short of funds."
"Oh, stop it, Jessamine. Cynicism ill becomes you."
"Miss Swafford, ma'am," announced Loudon in repressing, stentorian tones. Lady Meriton scowled at him and vowed it was high time she trimmed his sails. He sailed too near the wind for her liking. But her frown relented when she saw their new guest. She exchanged quick, surprised glances with Cecilia, and then her niece was rising and extending a hand to the unique vision before them.
Chapter 16
Angel Swafford minced into the parlor on ridiculously high-heeled black kid boots. The nature of her footwear, along with the black clocks on the stockings worn with them being immediately apparent owing to the inordinately high hem of her black bombazine gown. The dress was a marvel of stiff black ruchings and furbelows that stood away from the body of the gown like independent sculptures. A black lace veil attached to the wide brim of her bonnet obscured her face from view. A large black net bow vied with similarly colored ostrich feathers to give increased height to the diminutive figure in mourning attire.
"Mrs. Waddley?" inquired a low, husky voice.
Cecilia rose to greet her guest. "I am Mrs. Waddley. This is my aunt, Lady Meriton. I understand you were a particular friend of my late brother?" she said formally, rigidly.
The little veiled woman seemed to collapse inwardly at her haughty tone. Instantly Cecilia knew she'd hurt and intimidated her. Embarrassed at her rudeness, she hurried to make amends.
"Please, Miss Swafford, won't you sit down?" she asked in a friendlier manner, waving her to the sofa where she'd been sitting.
The woman bobbed her head in acquiescence, sending long black ostrich plumes swaying. Seated, she reached up to roll the lacy veil upward, laying it across the broad brim of the hat. This task accomplished, she looked up at Cecilia, her pale gray eyes the color of morning fog wide open. They matched the gray hollows circling her eyes. Bright patches of color in an otherwise pinched white face attested to the abundant use of the rouge pot. Ringlets, curled to frame a delicate heart-shaped face, were richly dyed with henna. The red ringlets and red patches of rouge were the only colors on her. She should have appeared garish, but somehow the entire ensemble seemed to suit her. Primly, she interlaced her fingers and laid them firmly in her lap.
"Mrs. Waddley, I realize it is highly irregular for me to pay a call upon you like this. Please, I beg of you, bear with me," asked the deep, rolling voice that somehow reminded Cecilia of water flowing over pebbles in a stream. It was also a voice that hinted at some culture. Cecilia was intrigued.
"Certainly, Miss Swafford. In what way may I help you?"
A blush crept up the woman's neck. "I am not here for money if that is what you think." She glanced over at Lady Meriton. "Do you think we might talk alone?"
Cecilia raised a brow. "Lady Meriton is discreet. You may trust her."
The woman licked her pale lips. "I don't mean any disrespect. I know it is not proper. But please, ma'am . . ." She trailed off, looking hopelessly from Cecilia to Lady Meriton.
Lady Meriton folded her needlework and put it away. "I shall be in my studio," she said, rising gracefully.
