"No, you're not."
"James, I should have insisted she stay here. If anything has happened to her, it will be my fault. Knowing that I can't stay here and do nothing. I have done nothing all day but sit here and worry and wait. If you don't take me with you, I shall follow you," she said determinedly.
Looking at her forward-thrust jaw and the purple glow in her eyes, he believed she would. He leaned his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes for a moment, hugging her tightly.
"All right," he relented.
Cecilia did not give him a chance to think twice. She kissed his cheek then slipped out of his grasp, hurrying to the door. "I'll get my cloak and bonnet and meet you at the door."
Branstoke rose more slowly, already regretting that he had not argued more forcefully.
* * *
Branstoke's carriageset them down before a small but very stylish house. "This is an uncommonly good address," he murmured, leading her to the door.
"She is uncommon among the demi-monde. Listening to her speech, I believe her to be gently born."
The house was dark, and the front door ajar. Branstoke pushed it open. It creaked only slightly. Inside, Cecilia was about to call out to Angel when Branstoke laid a warning hand over her mouth. He shook his head. She nodded her understanding. They crept farther into the hall, peering into an empty parlor. They started for the stairs when they heard a thump from above. Branstoke motioned her to stay below while he went up to investigate.
Alone in the dark hall, with only the open front door to let in thin moonlight, Cecilia waited anxiously, her ears struggling to catch every stray sound. She shifted from one foot to another, her hands wrapped around the newel post. She strained her eyes to see into the gloom above stairs. Branstoke had slid silently out of sight.
Suddenly there was a crash, a scuffle of feet, and a groan. Cecilia ran up the stairs, colliding with a figure coming down, carrying something large over his shoulder. She stumbled back against the railing, grabbing for support lest she tumble down the stairs. The figure pushed past her and continued down the stairs, headed for the door. He paused to look up and down the street. When he turned his head, she briefly saw his silhouette, though his face was hidden. She didn't stop to identify him but raced up the stairs in search of Branstoke. In the dark shadows, she saw him struggling to get to his feet, a hand cradling his head. She ran to his side, helping him up.
"James! Are you all right?"
He staggered to his feet, swearing under his breath. "I didn't even see who it was. Did you?"
She shook her head. "Only a silhouette. It was too dark to recognize who it was. But he was carrying something over his shoulder. I'm sure it was Angel, James," she said, an aborted sob wracking her body.
"Hush, crying won't help her. We'll have to trust Bow Street and the infiltrator. I've got to get you home now. I should never have allowed you to come," he said disgustedly.
"You couldn't have stopped me," she said with a wan smile as they made their way down the stairs.
"Yes, I could have. If I'd been thinking clearly, I would have had you locked in your room. Unfortunately, when I'm around you, my thinking becomes a bit fuzzy," he admitted, looking up and down the street for his carriage. He left her side to hail his man.
Left alone for a moment, Cecilia hugged herself, his last words ringing delightfully in her ears. Whatever transpired from this sordid mess, there was one bright spot to help dispel the gloom—her growing relationship with Branstoke. Perhaps she had a chance for happiness after all, she thought, as she allowed him to help her into his carriage. Unmindful of proprieties, she snuggled close to him for the ride back to Meriton House.
Chapter 17
Cecilia woke, groggy. She squinted against the light and turned over, pulling the covers over her head. Then a face drifted dreamily into her mind. A face framed with red ringlets and oversized black feathers. A face that held fear in its eyes.
"Angel!" she cried, throwing the covers aside and sitting up.
"Did you say something, ma'am?" asked Sarah, rising from a chair by the fireplace where she'd been mending a chemise.
She looked about, disoriented, as the picture of Angel Swafford faded from her mind. She threw her feet over the edge of the bed and reached for her wrapper. "What time is it?" she asked, stuffing her arms into the sleeves and knotting the sash about her.
"Going on eleven o'clock, I'd say, ma'am."
"Eleven? I've missed services. Why didn't you wake me?"
"Lady Meriton said to let you sleep as long as you would. Now that you're awake, I'm to inform her."
"Could you have some breakfast sent up as well? I'm famished."
"Right away, ma'am," Sarah said, ducking out of the room. Cecilia was seated at her dressing table brushing her hair when Lady Meriton entered. She looked at her aunt through the mirror. "How could you allow me to sleep so long? I should have been at services."
Lady Meriton sat down in a chair within view of the mirror. "You were physically and emotionally exhausted. You needed your sleep. I put it about that you were prostrate over your brother's death. No one showed the least surprise at that."
