The Waylaid Heart Read Free Page B

came to think that the respect she held for him was a form of love. George Waddley treated her like she was someone special, a queen in his realm. More important, he told her he considered her his greatest friend. To Cecilia that was the highest accolade he could bestow.
    Her head tilted to rest against the frosted glass. She remembered how they would talk for hours. Oh, how they would talk! He introduced her to the wonders of trade and the mysteries of finance. He gave her an understanding of politics and an appreciation for newspapers. Her bright mind and ready wit pleased him, he said. He told her he hadn't understood what he was doing until she came into his life.
    Now he was dead. A victim, society decreed, of the teeming London underworld that owed its life to thievery. He simply walked in the wrong place at the wrong time. How trite. And oh, Cecilia knew, how wrong.
    Cecilia clenched her fist round a handful of damask material. Mr. Waddley was murdered. Murdered, she was certain, because he discovered illegal activities occurring at his warehouses and wharf. Before that last night, Cecilia's husband confided he had uncovered something, something that distressed him. He wouldn't say precisely what, though she had inferred some form of illegal activity. He told her he wasn't certain of his facts, and until he was there was no profit in conjecture. His face rigid with anger and indignation, he said he hoped he was wrong about his suspicions.
    Mr. Waddley had been restless the entire day. More than once Cecilia caught him staring at her with an intense frown pulling his shaggy brown eyebrows together. What had been behind that frown? Why couldn't Mr. Waddley be more forthcoming with her? They talked of everything else. Why his strange reticence in this matter? Did he have an inkling of her brother's involvement in the occurrences at Waddley Spice and Tea? Was he trying to save her pain at the knowledge of some nefarious dealings on her brother's part? If that were so, she wished he hadn't. The thought of Randolph's possible involvement in illegal activities was repugnant, but not unexpected. He was a wastrel and often vulgar, bloodlines notwithstanding. In truth, any love she bore her brother came solely from duty.
    Still, as of late Randolph had been displaying a rare attentiveness. He'd offered to act as her escort on numerous occasions. That very evening he was to take her to an Italian Opera. When he'd began extending his services as escort, Cecilia believed his motives stemmed from a belated guilt at the marriage he'd arranged for her, a guilt he decided he had the luxury to indulge in since he'd became his uncle's and grandfather's heir.
    Now she wondered if he harbored a different form of guilt. Try as she would to banish that thought, it insidiously wound its way through her mind, tying her beleaguered brain in knots until all she was aware of was the echo of his voice within her mind. Like a chant in time to the endless beat of a metronome, her memory replayed those hated words: Talkers are no good doers.
    The strange thing about the phrase was that heard spoken it had a familiar sound to it, like it was something she'd heard before. Her pale brow furrowed as she tried to recall where she might have heard the phrase. Unfortunately, she could not place the elusive memory. She sighed.
    "Cecilia? Are you all right?"
    Cecilia turned toward the concerned voice of her aunt, her hand falling from the drapery to her side. "Yes, I'm all right." She smiled and a light laugh escaped her lips. "Much better, actually, than society would have me."
    Expressions of doubt and concern captured her aunt's face, and that of their guest, Mr. Thornbridge, a young clerk from Waddley Spice and Tea Company who sat near her aunt. Lady Meriton pursed her lips, refraining from further comment on the subject. She elected instead to wave her niece to a seat by her side. "Come. Have a pastry with us. Cook has outdone herself."
    "No, thank you.