The Waylaid Heart (9 page)

"Does anyone know where he went?" Cecilia asked.

"He claims he was in the Mediterranean, enjoying the climate while assiduously avoiding Napoleon. Sophia would have it he went off in search of some insignificant relative who disappeared. She was quite put out, I think because Dorothea Rustian was considered quite a beauty. She tried to convince herself, and anyone else who would listen, that the little red-headed hussy seduced him away from her."

"Did she?"

"Sophia never had him to begin with. Her catty words were a mere sop to her pride. Anyway, no one knows what happened to Miss Rustian. Havelock swore he did not run away with her. And by the time he returned Sophia was married to Wentworth Aldrich."

"And no doubt just as loudly decried where formally, she praised," Cecilia hazarded, smiling.

"Precisely. And there were other, juicier scandals for the gossips to enjoy. I'll admit I've never been reconciled to how he is now. He was in the breakfast parlor when I descended this morning. My headlong flight from the house to the isolation of these gardens was to avoid speaking to him. I know if I am forced to make private conversation with him I will be reminded of how he used to be and undoubtedly embarrass myself by tears. And then what a hubble-bubble should I be in! I would be questioned and plagued unendingly. But what can I do? It would be catastrophic for anyone to discover the extent of my dreams. It would lead, I assure you, to enduring merciless teasing and jibes from my family. Especially from Sophia."

Cecilia laughed. "Am I to understand there is no love lost between you and Sophia?"

"Not in any overt manner. We have always been two different people. Truthfully, my attitudes are constantly at odds with my family's, for all the good it does me. Mama never listens to me. She'd rather listen to herself carp; that way she can be assured she is doing her duty and so tell anyone else who will listen."

"You seem to have a ready understanding of people."

Janine cocked her head. "If I do, I suppose it's because I'd rather be an observer than a participant."

"Tell me, what do you make of my brother Randolph and his friends?"

She wrinkled her nose. "I doubt you'd want to know."

"No, seriously, I do," she assured her, leaning forward and resting her hands on her knees.

Janine looked around absently for a moment as she gathered her thoughts. "The only one who seems real to me is Lord Havelock."

"Havelock! Oh, you mean because you've known him for so long."

"Partly. Also I've spent considerable energy studying the changes in him. At any rate, I see him, quite clearly, as totally wrapped up in himself, and sadly, entirely consistent in that manner. The Viscount Dernley I knew is dead. Mr. Haukstrom—" she paused, looking guiltily at Cecilia.

"Go on, please. Nothing you could say about my brother will upset me in any way."

Janine nodded and plowed on. "Mr. Haukstrom is all flash and no substance, the Honorable Mr. Rippy likes to play the fool, and Sir Elsdon is just too happy and carefree for my tastes. And truthfully, I am not familiar with half the plays he is forever quoting—let alone do I understand them!"

Cecilia laughed. "That is a succinct, yet I'll own brilliant conclusion. What do you make of Sir Branstoke?"

Janine smiled. "I like him. If you stripped away his enjoyment of London's frivolities, he would be a great deal like the Viscount Dernley that I knew."

Cecilia pulled back, shock and puzzlement reflected in her wide blue eyes. "Oh, Janine, surely not. Havelock could never have been that languid."

"No-o, but those are only manners, not the measure of the man."

"You don't think manners are the measure of a man?"

"Certainly not! Manners are like clothing, worn for effect in society. To know a man's true measure, one would have to view him away from society, away from the need to be anything other than himself."

"If we accept your statement, then the corollary of it must be that in society, no one is as they seem."

Janine laughed. "Yes, I suppose that would be true. All of us actors and actresses upon a stage. Didn't Mr. Shakespeare write something to that effect?"

"Very likely," Cecilia said absently, her thoughts running swiftly down another road. "The question then becomes," she mused slowly, "what does one look for to know the true measure of a person?"

"I beg your pardon?"

Cecilia looked up and smiled brightly, self-consciously. "Oh, nothing, merely some conclusions for myself." She hooked her arm with Janine's. "What do you say we return to the house and partake of a little breakfast. There are bound to be others up now. Neither of us shall be forced to converse with those we dislike." An odd feeling rippled down her spine. Instinctively she looked up at the row of windows. The clear panes winked emptily in the morning sun.

She turned back toward Janine, enveloping herself once again in her mantle of signs and symptoms. "Besides, if I stay much longer in this cool air, no doubt my plaguey cough will return. So disagreeable, you know. Just as one is about to speak to someone, lo, what happens? A coughing fit wracks one's body leaving one too weak to stand, let alone continue in conversation," she prattled while guiding Janine toward the gate.

Janine looked at her askance, her expression quizzical and hurt. Cecilia saw it and knew she was questioning her odd behavior. And remembering their conversation, wondering what was odd and what was real. It smote Cecilia to realize how, in maintaining her persona, she might hurt others in return. Were her machinations any better than the rest of society's just because she believed her motives were sincere? Who was she to doubt anyone else? She should be tarred with the same brush.

No matter, she thought wearily, she would continue as she began. She had no choice.

A figure stood by a window in one of the state apartments, cloaked in shadows as the morning sun streamed past him. He stood, unmoving, watching Miss Amblethorp and Mrs. Waddley in the garden below. Keenly his eyes followed Mrs. Waddley, noting first her sympathy, humor, then serious demeanor. Finally he saw her relax and fade back into the Mrs. Waddley everyone knew. He watched them until they rounded the corner of the mansion and disappeared from sight. The grounds were empty again. He turned and headed nonchalantly toward the door.

Cecilia led Janine through the back entrance so both would be spared questions regarding their early morning ramble with subsequent sodden shoes and skirts. The servants hall, just off that entrance, was a flurry of activity. Something was being planned. Cecilia shooed Janine on up the stairs and followed in her wake, determined to change quickly in order to discover what was transpiring.

When she descended the stairs to enter the drawing room off the salon that was designated for the house party's informal meals, it was to discover a riding expedition planned to the edge of Romney Marsh. No doubt the duke had been cajoled to lead his guests on a tour of some of the more infamous haunts of his highwayman and smuggler days. His exploits were almost forty years old, but to hear him tell it, they occurred only yesterday. Cecilia shook her head in amusement and declined an invitation to join the large party. Such an excursion would be far too damaging to her fragile health.

She served herself a small wedge of ham and a dollop of potatoes from the sideboard and sat down to listen to the conversations around her as she ate small, bird-like bites of breakfast.

"Is Miss Cresswell coming, do you know?" asked the Honorable Mr. Rippy, his Adam's apple bobbing as he sipped his ale.

"Do you think she'd miss an opportunity to show herself to advantage? Especially if Sir Branstoke were to be in attendance? Don't be a blockhead," drawled Lord Havelock, his lip curling in a faint sneer.

"They've started placing wagers at White's, y'know," said Sir Harry. "
Oh, how many torments lie in the small circle of a wedding ring
! Colley Cibber,
The Double Gallant,
" he explained to no one in particular.

"He ain't been caught yet, for all he moves so slow. Stab me if I understand what all the gels see in him. Fa! but it's a dull dog!" complained Randolph.

"It's more'n money or looks," assured the Earl of Soothcoor, setting his mug on the table and raising his napkin to his lips. He rose from the table.

"What's more than money or looks?" inquired Lady Bramcroft, sailing into the room wearing an imperious air and an outmoded blue riding dress.

"Sir Branstoke's attraction with the ladies," supplied Sir Harry. Several pairs of male eyes glared at him for including a woman in their masculine conversation. He shrugged and smiled congenially. All, it seemed, had forgotten Cecilia's presence.

"Soothcoor is quite correct," said Lady Bramcroft. Laying a pair of blue kid gloves on the table, she took a cup of coffee from an impassive footman. "And you gentleman could do no worse than to study Sir Branstoke's methods."

That brought a guffaw of laughter from the gentlemen.

"And what would you have us do? All walk as slow as a snail and fall asleep on our feet?" asked Sir Harry. "Or, do you believe:
He is the very pineapple of politeness?
"

Lady Bramcroft's thin gray brows rose and a dismissive sigh flared her pinched nostrils for she recognized Sheridan's Mrs. Malaprop in Elsdon's quote. "You gentlemen are without your senses if that is your opinion. Sir Branstoke is the epitome of the word
gentleman
, isn't that correct Mrs. Waddley?"

Cecilia's head flew up followed by a tide of red. It was not her intention to be singled out and certainly not to voice her opinions of Sir Branstoke! Her mouth opened and closed, then she cleared her throat. "I—I really don't believe I am in a position to say."

"Oh, come, come, Mrs. Waddley. I've seen you several times in Sir Branstoke's company. Do not be coy. Tell these gentlemen what makes him amenable to us ladies."

"Well, I think it is his address, and the way he has of listening to one as if whatever you say is of great import."

"Exactly. Very good, Mrs. Waddley," approved Lady Bramcroft, much in the manner of the headmistress of the girls' academy Cecilia once attended.

"Ha! Anyone who could stomach Cecilia's long list of complaints and illnesses would find favor in my addle-pated pretty little sister's eyes. Probably came from being married to that damned merchant," jibed Randolph.

Sir Harry winced and Lord Havelock studied the plaster and wood ceiling.

Lady Bramcroft drew herself up and glared at him. "And it is even far easier to discern why you find favor with so few!" She set down her coffee cup, picked up her gloves, and sailed out of the room, the very rustle of her heavy skirts loudly proclaiming her disfavor.

Prudently, Cecilia found it incumbent to follow in her wake while behind her Sir Harry was advising her brother, amid fulsome theatrical quotes, that once again his actions with regards to his sister were bad ton. The Earl of Soothcoor emphatically seconded that sentiment. Cecilia didn't hear her brother's response.

Cecilia retired with her work basket to the salon and settled on one of the white and gilt painted sofas upholstered in red damask. It faced wide double doors left open onto the entrance hall and vestibule. From her vantage point she could see everyone as they entered or left the mansion. For nearly an hour her quick needle plunged in and, out of the canvas, filling in the redbrick colored background around the golden keys. She saw nearly the entire house party leave. From comments dropped, she gathered some of the older ladies were gathered in her grandmother's private drawing room and that a few of the elder gentlemen had retired to the library for a morning nap.

When the house had been still for some time, Cecilia packed up her workbasket. She headed first for the stillroom to check on her slips to see that they were still damp and would come to no harm until she could plant them. But her journey to the stillroom served another purpose. It brought her past the large servant's hall. She peeked in. As she hoped, several of the valets were at their leisure. Her brother's man held a deck of cards in his hand and was soliciting players. Like master like man, mused Cecilia. It should keep him well engaged.

She climbed the stairs to the long gallery that gave access to the state apartments. She paced the gallery twice, listening for the sounds of others in the wing and deliberately creating noise to draw out the curious. No one came. Satisfied, she crossed to the door to the small blue withdrawing room that gave access to the room Randolph used. She eased open the door and slipped inside, crossing the blue and white patterned carpet quickly. At Randolph's door she paused and looked toward the other two rooms that gave off the withdrawing room. They were silent and closed. She opened Randolph's door.

It was not a neat room. Disgust for the habits of Randolph's man curled her lip upward. She shook her head dismally, wondering where to start looking. More so, what should she be looking for? She'd only had some vague idea before of searching Randolph's room, never forming any clear idea of what she should be looking for. She stepped farther into the room. Anything of import would most likely not be among his clothes and toiletries, for they were scattered about the room. It would be put away, in a drawer, a trunk, somewhere. She started to pull open drawers, carefully sifting contents. She checked the wardroom, his portmanteau, under his pillow—nothing. No journal like Mr. Waddley kept, no books, no scraps of paper of any sort. There were gloves, stockings, and cravats in abundance along with several fobs, snuff boxes, and a signet ring he must have had designed for himself for its emblem was unknown to her. She sighed as she closed the last small drawer in a French Boulle writing desk. There was no help here.