Angel nodded, then sniffed and blotted the tears away with the handkerchief Lady Meriton had given her. "I'd best be going now. I shall be a trifle late as it is. Luckily our stage manager is a congenial old soul. He'll cover for me."
Cecilia rose as her guest stood to leave and escorted her to the parlor door. "Don't worry," she murmured. "It will all work out."
Angel Swafford smiled tightly and blinked back more tears before turning abruptly and hurrying out the door.
It was after midnight before Cecilia was roused from the light slumber she'd fallen into while sitting up waiting for Angel Swafford to arrive. The noise came from the front of the house. Angel had said she'd enter from the back, and so she had told the servants. Curious, Cecilia went out into the hall to hear what was going on.
Cecilia smiled. It was Branstoke, but he wasn't getting by Loudon as successfully at this hour of the morning.
"It's all right, Loudon, let him come up," she called down the stairs.
She watched the steady, solid grace with which Branstoke mounted the stairs. Trying to see him dispassionately was increasingly difficult the closer he came. Outwardly the mantle of languid posture and dry wit was evident, but she saw beyond the image society accepted. Butterflies erupted in a storm of fluttering wings inside her stomach. Her breath caught in her chest. Inwardly this man was a seething caldron threatening to boil over. There was more energy and life in him than in ten society dandies.
He paused three steps down. He looked up at her, his finely chiseled lips turning up in the wry smile that was uniquely his. Cecilia pressed a hand to her stomach as if to still the wild flutterings.
"I didn't think you'd be to your bed yet," he said softly.
The wordbeddrew forth a kaleidoscope of images in Cecilia's mind. She blushed and stammered. "No, I—I couldn't think of sleeping. Please come up. I have news." She whirled away from him, hurrying into the parlor before him and taking a position in front of a chair.
Branstoke followed behind. His glance took in the tumble of blankets on the sofa and her position in front of a chair set at right angles to its neighbor. He smiled. Cecilia was aware of him as a man just as he was headily aware of her womanhood. He was touched at her determination to keep propriety appeased. With the fires that smoldered between them, it would prove all but impossible if it weren't for the danger that threatened. To ease her mind, he obligingly went toward the other chair. Visibly her muscles relaxed, and she waved him to be seated as she sank limply onto her chair.
"Karney is dead," he said without preamble. "Stabbed," he continued, answering her startled look and questioning glance. "The Bow Street runner got to him before he died. He muttered something about someone going to kill them all."
"Kill who all?"
"We don't know. Most likely, all the London connections that could identify the leader. Hewitt reports there's been increased lighter activity in and out of the Waddley docks, yet the only ship there is riding high in the water."
"I suppose human cargo is not as heavy as crates of cotton goods."
"No, but it does seem unusual not to take legitimate cargo as well."
"That's true. Mr. Waddley would have had the ship filled with all manner of goods."
He nodded. "It makes good business sense. I did learn something that may ease your mind, however. This spice trade has not gone entirely unnoticed by the authorities. Due to the international nature of this business, the Home Office has been involved. They have an infiltrator in the group. He has been several years gaining their confidence, but evidently, he recently has seen some measure of success."
"Who is it, do you know?"
"No. It is safer for us and him if we don't."
She nodded. "Yes, I can see that.”
"You said you have some news?" Branstoke reminded her.
"Angel came to see me this evening. Angel Swafford."
"Haukstrom's mistress?"
She nodded. "She came to tell me that Randolph foresaw his death. She told me—she told me—" she gulped, struggling over the sudden lump that formed in her throat, her eyes blurring with tears. "Oh, James, I've been so wrong about Randolph for so many years!" she burst out, tears now streaming down her cheeks.
Instantly Branstoke was at her side. He picked her up out of the chair as if she were a featherweight and sat in her place, settling her on his lap. Her head nestled on his shoulder, she cried herself out with a release of tears, finally able to mourn her brother's death. When the torrent passed, she told him, between little hiccups and shudders, all that Angel Swafford had told her.
He stroked her back in comfort, though he frowned in concern. "It's been more than two hours since the end of the play. She should have been here by now."
Cecilia raised her head to look at him. "Do you think she has been prevented from coming?"
"I don't know. I think I'd best go to her house and see."
"I'm coming with you," Cecilia declared.
