Chapter 8
Eight
The gentleman stopped his pacing just long enough to pour a large glass of brandy. He fiddled with the knot of his cravat, as if to loosen its folds, before he resumed walking back and forth in front of the fire.
“Sit down, Arthur. You are acting like a cat on a hot griddle,” advised Hammerton, who was seated in a large, overstuffed armchair, his booted feet propped nonchalantly on the hassock in front of him. “You’re becoming skittish over nothing.”
“Bloody hell, I wish we could have done with it, that’s all,” muttered Standish. “Things are getting riskier—someone might have seen me near Chilton’s horse. It was bad enough taking risks in the country. At least their damnable, moldering farm was secluded.”
He took another gulp of brandy. “And I don’t know why you had to drag Branford, of all people, into this.”
Hammerton regarded his cousin through half-closed eyes. “Don’t worry. It would have made things easier had the earl risen to our bait and ruined the girl, as then the family would have been forced to return to Sussex. But believe me, it’s not a problem. I have things under control.
“But I’ve noticed that Branford has been dancing with the chit lately—and even conversing with her!”
“Oh, come now.” Hammerton smiled. “Do you think the Icy Earl is developing a tendre for a plain bluestocking with no family save for her brother and an absent-minded aunt?” He gave a harsh laugh. “A bluestocking who is poor as a churchmouse in the bargain.”
Standish expelled a harried sigh. “Very well, I suppose I’m being absurd to imagine any connection between them. Still, I don’t like having Branford involved in any way.”
“Does the earl frighten you?”
Standish dropped his gaze to the floor.
“You see, Arthur, that is why you should leave the thinking to me. Branford will not pose a problem.”
“Then let us get it done—and as quickly as possible.”
Hammerton shot him a look of contempt. “It will be done, but in such a manner that no suspicion will ever fall at our door. You do not fancy the noose, do you? I for one, do not.”
Standish swallowed hard, then drained the rest of his glass in one gulp. “Maybe we don’t have to get rid of him at all,” he said nervously. “I mean, he has no idea! His father never had a chance to—”
“No, he has no inkling, nor do any of them,” cut in Hammerton. “But I’ve always told you that young Chilton would have to be eliminated some day. Now that he’s come to Town, the chances, however slim, increase that he might somehow stumble onto the truth.”
“Hell and damnation,” swore Standish as he grabbed up the bottle from the sideboard and refilled his glass..
“Come now, Arthur—think on it. Are you really willing to forgo all that you’ve enjoyed these past years?
” The voice was soft but there was no mistaking the note of warning.
“How long do you think you would be welcome at your clubs, your gaming hells, the beds of your various mistresses—and all the other pleasures you indulge in—without the steady stream of money that I provide from the Hammerton fortune?
A pause. “Remember where it comes from and think carefully, cousin.” counseled Hammerton. “It’s a little late to be developing a conscience—or feet of clay.”
“I’ve done all that you’ve asked of me,” shot back Standish. “I’m the one who’s taken the risks, so don’t bloody worry about me. I’m not backing off.”
“Excellent.” Hammerton gazed into the fire and swirled his own drink. His cousin would have to be watched, he thought. But then, the fellow had always been a loose screw. He would have to be dealt with at some point in time.
But not until he had served his purpose.
“As for Branford,” continued Hammerton, “the damnable fellow may have unwittingly helped us in a different way than I had planned—but one that may be even more useful. I understand he helped the pup get into Manton’s.
It is the perfect place for me to strike up an acquaintance with him and become a friendly confidant.
It will give me a chance to pick just the right opportunity … ”
His eyes narrowed, the coldness in them sending a chill through his companion. “I promise you, Arthur, the next accident will be the last.”
“Well, well!” Cecilia Ashton looked up from the book she was reading and quickly set it aside. “It’s about time you put in an appearance.” She patted the empty spot on the sofa beside her. “Come, sit down.”
Branford dutifully crossed the elegant drawing room. “When you issue a summons, I dare not ignore it.” He settled himself on the plump down cushions and casually stretched one arm atop the decorative mahogany back.
“Fustian,” retorted Cecilia. “You know as well as I that you do whatever you damn well please.”
He gave a low chuckle. “Tell me,” he said, bending to murmur softly in her ear. “Is your husband at home?”
“Ye heavens, is that how you begin flirting with the ladies?” she asked. “It seems a rather unimaginative way to start a seduction.”
“No,” he admitted. “I do try to be slightly more creative than that.”
They both chuckled—the comfortable laugh of longtime friends. Cecilia then rang for the maid to bring the tea tray.
“I haven’t seen you in an age,” she said, her expression turning serious. “How are you—truly?”
The glint of humor in Branford’s eyes gave way to a stony stare, “I take it that Henry has been voicing his concerns to you, but I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t ring a peal over my head, too.”
Her gaze clouded with concern, “Fine. I shall leave it to Henry to chide you over the excessive amount of amount of brandy you’ve been consuming, as well as all your other reckless activities.”
However, Ceclia refused to drop the subject. “What I care about is that you begin finding some sort of happiness for yourself, Sebastian.” She drew in her breath. “And I can’t believe that your current devil-may-care activities will lead you anywhere but down the road to perdition.”
Not trusting himself to speak—he didn’t wish to hurt her feelings—Branford fixed her with a quelling scowl.
Ignoring the wordless warning, Cecila plunged onward. “You have always loved Riverton. Make it your home, and devote your talents and energy to creating something good and lasting rather than fritting away your life in mindless carousing here in Town.”
“Make it my home?” His eyes narrowed, and he flashed a sardonic smile.
“What are you suggesting? That I leg-shackle myself to one of the flighty young ladies on the Marriage Mart who are so anxious to snag a title and fortune that they will willingly marry a notorious rake?” Branford asked with a touch of bitterness.
“I am well aware of what it expected of me. Are you, too, going to tell me that it is time to set up my nursery?”
“Ye heavens, no—not at all! Some young lady fresh from the schoolroom would not be at all right for you, but ...” She sighed. “Is there no one you care for?”
He stiffened, and after withdrawing his arm from the back of sofa, he fisted his hands in his lap. “Let us drop this subject now, if you please.”
Cecilia pressed her lips together, and regarded him with a searching stare before nodding. “Very well.”
The tea tray arrived and she poured them both a cup.
“I didn’t realize you had developed such an interest in botany,” she remarked casually as she offered him a plate of assorted cakes.
He declined.
“I understand you drove Miss Chilton to Kew Gardens,” continued Cecilia with an innocent air, taking two of the pastries herself. “Henry took me last week. The new specimens are marvelous, are they not?”
“Quite,” said Branford, torn between annoyance and amusement at how his friend refused to give up her probing into his personal life.
“I imagine Miss Chilton found them fascinating as well. I understand she is an artist with an interest in….”
The conversation turned to the newly-arrived specimen plants on display.
Despite his initial reluctance, the earl found himself discussing the various things he and Alex had seen and describing the young lady’s reactions to them …
He was even forced to admit that he had enjoyed the outing more than he had expected.
Cecilia polished off her cakes, and then guided the conversation back to the topic she really wanted to discuss. “You know, I find Miss Chilton extremely interesting.”
Before Branford could react, she quickly continued.
”It’s rare that one can actually have an intelligent conversation during all those tedious afternoon visits and teas we ladies must attend—you men wouldn’t know about such things, though Henry does say that some of the gentlemen at your clubs can be dead bores. ”
That drew a grudging smile from Branford.
“Be that as it may, it has been pleasant to have an exchange with someone who has an opinion on something rather than prose on about the weather, or the refreshments at the last ball, or whether a certain lady looks well in red.”
“She does have a very firm opinion on a number of things,” agreed Branford.
“Well, I look forward to getting to know her better.”
The earl raised a brow. “By the by, you are being about as subtle as a sledgehammer.”
“I have no idea what you mean.” Picking up a silver bell on the table, she rang for the butler. “Now that we have had our little chat, I know Henry is looking forward to joining us for tea.”
Branford took a sip from his cup. Heaven forfend that he had ever been forced to face off against Cecilia Ashton on the battlefield. He had the distinct feeling that he had just been outflanked, despite his defensive maneuvers.
Two shots rang out.
The grizzled shooting gallery attendant scratched at the stubble on his jaw and gave a low whistle. “That be as nice a piece of shooting as I’ve seen in a while, guv.”
Branford allowed himself a slight smile. A low murmur ran through a small group of onlookers, some of whom were bold enough to nod in appreciation at the sight of the two wildly moving targets shattered within seconds of each other.