Corey McFadden (24 page)

He glanced up at the Quinns’ rear facade. As he had expected, vines grew up the bricks. There was gutter piping as well, but it did not look sturdy enough to hold his weight. The bricks, themselves, however, were old enough to have pulled loose in some places. He moved nearer and examined them more closely. Yes, a foothold here, a handhold there. It was just possible to pull one’s way up, with the Devil’s own luck. The library and dining room were on the first floor, a good ten feet from street level, but the windows were near flush with the wall, and latched tight, by the looks of them. The next floor up would be the family bedrooms. Each window there had a small iron half-enclosure like a balcony, decorative only, enough to give him a place to balance, but not enough to block entrance. These town households feared fire above all things, and would bar only the lowest windows. The
topmost floor would house the servants and storage. Unlikely anyone would be up there at this time of the afternoon, but since linens and other useful things were kept there, it was not wise to count on that floor being empty. A servant would set up an unholy ruckus seeing his head pop through a window, while any of the family residents would be, if initially shocked, at least cognizant of his identity. That would present its own set of problems, of course, but anything was better than having a maidservant screaming hysterically and bringing folks running from every direction. The servant’s windows were unadorned in any event— and likely fastened tight.

His best bet would be one of the family bedrooms, then. How many would there be? These houses were good-sized, but they were townhouses, not large country estates. The architects tended to make the most of whatever windowed space they had. There would be, at best, only four bedrooms on this floor, two forward and two to the rear. The boys either shared a room, or Harry slept on the servants’ level. Caroline and Elspeth did not share a room, of that he could be absolutely certain. How would the various bedrooms be situated? Front bedrooms were noisier than those in the rear, as a rule, but rear windows suffered from stable and kitchen odors, and the rear rooms were therefore generally the less desirable. Front rooms, on the other hand, offered occupants a window onto the world, or, at least, as much of the world as strolled or rolled by. So, if his best guess was correct—a big if—Bettina and Caroline occupied the two front bedrooms and Elspeth and the boys, the rear.

If, of course, he were wrong, there’d be hell itself to pay. Caroline screaming her outrage at him, or Bettina, or any number of serving girls. Not a soothing thought, all that shrieking.

What would Elspeth do? What would any gently reared young lady, who thought herself recently jilted and humiliated throughout all Bath society, do, if the gentleman—or cad—in question appeared, suddenly, in her bedroom window, two stories up?

Scream the place down.

Well, perhaps she wasn’t there. Perhaps she was downstairs—in the library maybe, among her blessed books. Perhaps they were out—in Milsom Street, shopping for Caroline’s trousseau, but then he seriously doubted Elspeth would go along for that outing. Of course, they could be out calling—or in the Queen’s Bath. He’d have a long wait for her if they were out for the afternoon.

He’d wait forever, if need be. He could gain his entrance, bide his time in her room, perhaps, and approach her—gently—when she appeared. If he found her room. If no one else found him first. If she would stay to listen. Lots of ‘ifs’.

He took another careful look at the bricks, noting the specific holds. Some were little more than wishful thinking. Others, he suspected, would require the assistance of the ivy to get him to the next one. Once climbing, it would be difficult, if not impossible, for him to look down, so he’d have to rely on his memory as to their placement. Were this a boxing match at Gentleman Jackson’s, he would consider these long odds, indeed.

On the second floor, the choice of windows was obvious, as one was slightly ajar, the better to catch a freshening breeze now and then. All right, then...no time like the present. He seized a piece of vine and gave it a sharp tug. It held. Placing his foot in a crevice about two feet off the ground, he heaved himself aloft. His foot found the next foothold easily, and then the next. Bless the tenacity of nature, the vine held strong. Halfway there, his foot found its perch, only to have the brick crumble to dust beneath his weight. Only the sturdiness of the vine kept him from a nasty fall. He clung with the strength of his arms, praying the vine would not tear away from the brick. Slowly, so as not to put too much stress on the vine, he moved his feet here and there. Ah, finally, just as he thought his arms would give way entirely, one foot found a small protuberance. He tested it against his weight. It would do. Now, where was the next foothold? He risked a glance to one side and the other. Nothing much that he could see from this angle, but there had been several in this area. He brought his right leg up, pressing against the brick, and found an indentation large enough to hold his weight. A few more steps and he’d have it.

Just then the sound he most dreaded came, a clattering of the cobblestones indicating a carriage approaching. How long before it reached a point where he’d be noticeable? Not too long, by the sounds of it. He was not, by nature, a flamboyant man. Perhaps that would stand him in good stead. As the sound of the carriage grew alarmingly close, he pressed himself as flat as he could to the vine-covered bricks. Dressed as he was in buff-colored breeches and a dark frock coat, he might very well pass for the usual brick-and-vine native to the mews, if no one looked too closely. If there were passengers in the carriage, they’d have to crane their necks a good bit up to see him, although it was most likely the occupants had been disgorged at the front of the house. The real danger came from the coachman, who sat high on his seat. But even there, Julian clung a good several feet above the driver’s eye level. Now if only the man would keep his eyes on his team and not look up

The carriage rumbled past, Julian hardly daring to breathe. No sounds of a shout or recognition reached him. The carriage kept on its lumbering way, not slowing until it had passed three or four more houses. Julian had to move now, before the various stable boys came tumbling forth into the mews to get everything settled away. He found the next foothold and pulled up. Perhaps two more and he’d gain the ironwork that wrapped around the open bedroom window. Naturally, because he had only a few feet to go, the next foothold seemed not to exist. Try as he might, he could not find a knob or crevice to hold his weight. Now he did hear shouts coming from the end of the mews where the carriage had ground to a halt. He heaved himself up, taking all his weight on his arms and hauled himself hand over hand on the vine. If it pulled loose now he was a dead man. At last the toe of his boot found the iron railing and he allowed his weight to rest again on his foot. With a deep breath, he climbed over the railing. It was rusty, and not built to take any weight. He held quiet for just a moment, still clutching at the vine, lest the ironwork give way entirely. So far, so good.

The window was open but only a bit, not enough for him to crawl through without pushing it open further. Draperies blocked his view into the room but he leaned toward the heavy curtain to listen. As he expected, all was silent from within. That did not mean, of course, that there was no one inside. Holding his weight now against the windowsill, he examined the draperies for a seam that would indicate an opening. Nothing. They appeared to be an unbroken swath of heavy, dusty stuff that most fortunately reached all the way to the floor. He tested the window, aware that as he pushed it up, his weight pushed down on the rusty ironwork that held him, now without the vine for safety. The window did not budge, but the ironwork creaked most ominously and shifted just enough to knock his heart around in his chest a bit. Leaning forward, he wedged his head and neck into the window, and with most of his weight on his hands, he pressed the back of his neck against the bottom of the window, pushing up. The window began to climb, inch by inch, until, finally, there was enough room for him to slide himself forward and through. He hesitated a moment, aware that although the window had slid without much noise, enough rustling must be coming from his efforts that if there were anyone in the room, he’d be discovered.

But all was stillness within. He pushed himself forward on his hands, just as the ironwork gave a last rusty gasp and pulled loose from the bricks. As his feet dropped precariously, he caught his weight on his elbows, which shot pain up his arms. Feet dangling, he heaved himself forward, catching his leg on the windowsill, then lowering it to the safety of the floor below.

Now he was in the room, hiding like a naughty boy behind the draperies, aware that every muscle in his body was annoyed with him. It was a safe bet that had the room been tenanted, his presence would have been noted and bruited about the house by now, so he fumbled for the drapery edge and pulled it to the side....

He was in a large linen closet. What he had taken for fancy drapery was just an old bedspread, obviously tacked up to keep the light from fading the linens, while the open window kept the small room from getting musty. Grateful that his luck had landed him in a safe place, he was nevertheless aware that now more problems lay ahead. The door to the closet was slightly ajar, probably to pull the breeze from other windows open in the house. Dim light spilled into the closet from what must be a central hallway. The bedrooms would be arrayed up and down the hall, two in front, two in back. He leaned forward to look around the door. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim light after the bright sun outside, but it did appear that the hallway was deserted.

As he had expected, there appeared to be four bedrooms. At least, there were four closed doors, two forward and two rear on either side of the wide hall. The hall itself was covered with a thick, dark carpet, the better to muffle his steps. With a deep breath he moved quickly to the door closest to him on the left. A quiet twist of the handle proved it to be unlocked. Slowly he pushed the door open. The room was in darkness—obviously Bettina Quinn did not wish to pay damages to the landlord for faded carpets and draperies—but he had a sense it was empty. The bed was made up neatly. He looked about for some sign of who the usual occupant might be and spotted it in the corner—a large, gaily decorated wooden rocking horse. A boy’s room then, no doubt. He closed the door swiftly and cast a glance down the hall. All was still quiet, but he was mindful that the carpet that so fortunately muffled his own steps could muffle those of anyone else as well. He made for the door on the right of the linen closet.

The handle turned. He pushed the door open slowly, and stepped into the room, quietly shutting the door behind him.

The draperies had been pulled back, so this room was not as dark as the one across the hall. He stood for a brief moment, quickly eyeing the surroundings. The bed, neatly made, was unoccupied. So, too, was the large wing chair that sat near the fireplace. Needlework lay on the little table next to the chair, but any lady in the house would be expected to do some needlework when otherwise unoccupied—even Caroline, he supposed. He peered into the corners, and saw no sign of movement. There was a large privacy screen standing in front of one corner, but not a sound came from behind its ornate panels. He let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, and surveyed the furnishings, looking for that telltale clue that would give away the occupant’s identity. There was a dress laid out on the bed, either recently doffed or waiting to be donned. It was plain, a dark green silk. Hadn’t he seen Elspeth in such a gown? He could hardly remember. It seemed, now that he thought of it, that he always focused on her beautiful face, her luminous eyes. She could have been wearing sacking for all he would have noticed.

Caroline wouldn’t be caught dead out in such a plain gown, but who knew what ladies wore in the privacy of the home, upstairs? There were dark slippers by the bed, but these, too, were nondescript afternoon walking shoes. Every lady he knew had one pair, if not several. He had crept forward into the room, the better to eye the dress, and now he sat on the edge of the bed. His muscles had let him know again that his exertions with regard to scaling brick walls were not appreciated. It was odd, being uninvited in the bedroom of a lady of the
ton
. Actually, it was quite unprecedented. While he could not pretend to be utterly ignorant with regard to the female boudoir, all those he had frequented in the past had been ladies of a certain sort, certainly not Quality. This transgression, alone, would be enough to see him married forthwith, if not banned from society altogether.

His eye fell on the nightstand by the bed. On it was a candle, half burned down. And a book, with a marker in it, about halfway through. And—a pair of spectacles. His breath caught. He picked them up carefully. Though he could not say for certain that neither Bettina nor Caroline Quinn wore spectacles to read in the privacy of her boudoir, he was fairly certain he had seen these before—perched on the lovely nose of his beloved. Not too long ago they had resided some days, forgotten, in his pocket. He held them up to his eyes. Blind as a bat, his beloved was, and so, too, the owner of these. He set them back down where they had been.

He wondered how long he’d have to wait for her return. His hastily conceived plan of accosting her in her room was not terribly well thought out, he realized. She could be anywhere—at the Baths, at the Pump Room, shopping, paying calls. Still, her spectacles were here, and he was aware she rarely stirred forth without them.

Elspeth could come up to the room at any minute— or, hours from now if he was unlucky. It wouldn’t do for him to be planted firmly on her bed as she entered. Might give her the wrong impression as to his intentions, and he did not need her jumping to any more unfavorable conclusions. A servant might enter as well, and that would truly be a disaster for Elspeth’s reputation. Few servants the length and breadth of England could be expected to hold such a tidbit from their colleagues.