Lessons From a Scarlet Lady (43 page)
Finding the right partner is essential, and keeping him a joyous task.
Best regards,
Lady Rothburg, written in her retirement after
her marriage, this 19th day of April, 1802
Lady Rothburg, written in her retirement after
her marriage, this 19th day of April, 1802
Read on for a preview of Emma Wildes’s
next enthralling historical romanceMy Lord ScandalFirst in the Jaded Gentlemen Series
Coming from Signet Eclipse in September 2010
T
he ally below was filthy and smelled rank, and if he fell off the ledge, Lord Alexander St. James was fairly certain he would land on a good-sized rat. Since squashing scurrying rodents was not on his list of favorite pastimes, he tightened his grip and gauged the distance to the next roof. It looked to be roughly about the distance between London and Edinburgh, but in reality was probably only a few feet.
he ally below was filthy and smelled rank, and if he fell off the ledge, Lord Alexander St. James was fairly certain he would land on a good-sized rat. Since squashing scurrying rodents was not on his list of favorite pastimes, he tightened his grip and gauged the distance to the next roof. It looked to be roughly about the distance between London and Edinburgh, but in reality was probably only a few feet.
“What the devil is the matter with you?” a voice hissed out of the darkness. “Hop on over. After all, this was your idea.”
“I do not
hop
,” he shot back, unwilling to confess that heights bothered him. They had, ever since that fateful night when he’d leapt between the towering wall of the citadel at Badajoz with the Forlorn Hope. He still remembered the pounding rain, the ladders swarming with men, and that great black drop below. . . .
hop
,” he shot back, unwilling to confess that heights bothered him. They had, ever since that fateful night when he’d leapt between the towering wall of the citadel at Badajoz with the Forlorn Hope. He still remembered the pounding rain, the ladders swarming with men, and that great black drop below. . . .
“I know perfectly well this was my idea,” he muttered.
“Then I’m sure, unless you have an inclination for a personal tour of Newgate Prison—which, by the by, I do not—you’ll agree we need to proceed because it gets closer to dawn by the minute.”
Newgate Prison. Since Alex didn’t like confined spaces either, that notion held very little appeal. The story his grandmother had told him just a few days ago made him wish his imagination was a little less vivid. Incarceration in a squalid cell was the last thing he wanted, but for the ones you love, he thought philosophically as he eyed the gap—and he had to admit he adored his grandmother—risks had to be taken.
That thought proved enough inspiration for him to leap the distance, landing with a dull thud and thankfully keeping his balance on the sooty shingles. His companion beckoned with a wave of his hand and, in a crouched position, began to make a slow pilgrimage toward the next house.
The moon was a wafer obscured by clouds, which was good for stealth, but not quite so wonderful for visibility. Two more alleys and harrowing jumps and they were there, easing down onto a balcony that looked over a small walled garden.
Michael Hepburn, Marquess of Longhaven, dropped down first, light on his feet, balanced like a dancer, which made Alex wonder not for the first time just what his friend did for the War Office. He landed next to him, and said, “What did your operative tell you about the layout of the town house?”
Michael peered through the glass of the French doors into the darkened room. “I could be at our club at this very moment, enjoying a stiff brandy.”
“Stop grumbling,” Alex muttered. “You live for this kind of intrigue. Lucky for us, the lock is simple. I’ll have this open in no time.”
True to his word, a moment later one of the doors creaked open, the sound loud to Alex’s ears. He led the way, slipping into the darkened bedroom, taking in the shrouded forms of a large canopied bed and armoire with a quick glance. Something white was laid out on the bed, and on closer inspection he saw it was a nightdress edged with delicate lace, and that the coverlet was already turned back. The virginal gown made him feel very much an interloper—which, bloody hell, he was. But all in a good cause, he told himself firmly.
Michael spoke succinctly. “This is Lord Hathaway’s daughter’s bedroom. We’ll need to search his study and his suite across the hall. Since His Lordship’s rooms face the street, and his study is downstairs, this is a much more discreet method of entry. It is likely enough they’ll be gone for several more hours, giving us time to search for your precious item. At this hour, the servants should all be abed.”
“I’ll take the study. It’s more likely to be there.”
“Alex, you do realize you are going to have to finally tell me just what we are looking for if I am going to ransack His Lordship’s bedroom on your behalf.”
“I hope you plan on being more subtle than that.”
“He’ll never know I was there,” Michael said with convincing conviction. “But what the devil am I looking for?”
“A key. Ornate, made of silver so it’ll be tarnished to black, I suspect. About so long.” Alex spread his hand open, indicating the tip of his smallest finger to his thumb. “It’ll be in a small case, also silver.”
“A key to
what
dare I ask, since I am risking my neck to find it?”
what
dare I ask, since I am risking my neck to find it?”
Alex paused, reluctant to reveal more. But Michael had a point, and moreover, could keep a secret better than anyone of Alex’s acquaintance. “A tomb,” he admitted, quietly.
Michael’s hazel eyes gleamed with interest even in the dim light, but he responded with unerring logic. “A locked tomb? Very few people wish to break into graves, but I concede it happens. Why is this crypt so attractive?”
“It’s . . . complicated.”
“Things with you usually are.”
“I’m not at liberty to explain to anyone my reasons for being here, even you. Therefore, my request for your assistance. In the past you have proven to not only think fast on your feet if need be and stay cool under fire, you also have the unique ability to keep your mouth firmly shut, which is a very valuable trait in a friend. In short, I trust you.”
Michael gave a noncommittal grunt. “All right, fine.”
“If it makes you feel better, I’m not going to steal anything,” Alex informed him in a whisper, as he cracked the bedroom door open and peered down the hall. “What I want doesn’t belong to Lord Hathaway if he has it. Where’s his study?”
“Second hallway past the bottom of the stairs. Third door on the right.”
The house smelled vaguely of beeswax and smoke from the fires that kept the place warm in the late-spring weather. Alex crept—there was no other word for it—down the hall, sending a silent prayer upward to enlist heavenly aid for their little adventure to be both successful and undetected. Though he wasn’t sure, with his somewhat dissolute past—or Michael’s, for that matter—if he was at all in a position to ask for benevolence.
Luckily, the hallway was deserted, but also damned dark. Michael clearly knew the exact location of Hathaway’s personal set of rooms, for he went unerringly to one door to the left and cracked it open to disappear inside.
Alex stood at a vantage point where he could see the top of the staircase rising up from the main floor, feeling an amused disbelief he was a deliberate intruder in someone else’s house, and had enlisted Michael’s aid to help him with the infiltration. Friendship however was friendship. He’d known Michael since Eton, and when it came down to it, no one was more reliable or loyal. He’d go with him to hell and back, and quite frankly, they
had
accompanied each other to hell in Spain.
had
accompanied each other to hell in Spain.
They’d survived the fires of Hades, but had not come back to England unscathed.
Time passed in silence, and Alex relaxed a little as he made his way down the stairs into the darkened hallway, only barking his shin once on a piece of furniture that seemed to materialize out of nowhere. He stifled a very colorful curse and moved on, making a mental note not to take up burglary as a profession.
The study was redolent of old tobacco and the ghost of a thousand glasses of brandy. Alex moved slowly, pulling the borrowed set of picklocks again from his pocket, rummaging though the drawers he could open first, and then setting to work on the two locked ones.
Nothing. No silver case. No blasted key.
Damn
.
.
The first sound of trouble was a low, sharp excited bark. Then he heard a female voice speaking in modulated tones—audible in the silent house—and alarm flooded through him. The voice sounded close, but that might be a trick of the acoustics of the town house. At least it hadn’t sounded like a
big
dog, he told himself, feeling in a drawer for a false back, before replacing the contents and quietly sliding it shut.
big
dog, he told himself, feeling in a drawer for a false back, before replacing the contents and quietly sliding it shut.
A servant? Perhaps, but it was unlikely, for it was truly the dead of night, well past midnight with dawn a few good hours away. As early as most of the staff rose, he doubted one of them would be up and about unless summoned by their employer.
The voice spoke again, a low murmur, and the lack of a reply probably meant she was talking to the dog. He eased to the hallway to peer out and saw that at the foot of the stairs a woman was bent over, scratching the ears of what appeared to be a small bundle of active fur, just a puppy, hence the lack of alarm over their presence in the house.
She was blond, slender, clad in a fashionable gown of a light color. . . .
Several more hours, his arse. One of Lord Hathaway’s family had returned early.
It was a stroke of luck when she set down her lamp and lifted the squirming bundle of fur in her arms, and instead of heading upstairs, carried her delighted burden through a door on the opposite side of the main hall, probably back toward the kitchen.
Alex stole across the room, and went quickly up the stairs to where Michael had disappeared, trying to be as light-footed as possible. He opened the door a crack and whispered, “Someone just came home. A young woman, though I couldn’t see her clearly.”
“Damnation.” Michael could move quietly as a cat and he was there instantly. “I’m only half done. We might need to leave and come back a second time.”
Alex pictured launching himself again across more questionable, stinking yawning crevasses of London’s rooftop landscape. “I’d rather we finished it now.”
“If Lady Amelia has returned alone, it should be fine,” Michael murmured. “She’s unlikely to come into her father’s bedroom and I just need a few more minutes. I’d ask you to help me but you don’t know where I’ve already searched, and the two of us whispering to each other and moving about is more of a risk. Go out the way we came in. Wait for her to go to bed, and keep an eye on her. If she looks to leave her room because she might have heard something, you’re going to have to come up with a distraction. Otherwise, I’ll take my chances going out this way and meet you on the roof.”
With that, he was gone again and the door closed softly.
Alex uttered a stifled curse. He’d fought battles, crawled through ditches, endured soaking rains and freezing nights, marched for miles on end with his battalion, but he wasn’t a damned spy. But a moment of indecision could be disastrous with Miss Patton no doubt heading for her bedroom. And what if she also woke her maid?
As a soldier, he’d learned to make swift judgments and in this case, he trusted Michael knew what the hell he was doing and quickly slipped back into the lady’s bedroom and headed for the balcony. They’d chosen that entry into the house for the discreet venue of the quiet, private garden, and the assurance no one on the street would see them and possibly recognize them in this fashionable neighborhood.
No more had Alex managed to close the French doors behind him than the door to the bedroom opened. He froze, hoping the shadows hid his presence, worried movement might attract the attention of the young woman who had entered the room. If she raised an alarm, Michael could be in a bad spot, even if Alex got away. Luckily, she carried the small lamp, which she set on the polished table by the bed, so he assumed his presence on the balcony would be harder to detect.
It was at that moment he realized how very beautiful she was.
Lord Hathaway’s daughter. Had he met her? No, he hadn’t, but when he thought about it, he’d heard her name mentioned quite often lately. Now he knew why.
Hair a shimmering gold caught the light as she reached up and loosened the pins, dropping them one by one by the lamp and letting the cascade of curls tumble down her back. In profile her face was defined and feminine, with a dainty nose, delicate chin, and though he couldn’t see the color of her eyes, they were framed by lashes long enough he could see the slight shadows across her elegant cheekbones as she bent over to lift her skirts, kicked off her slippers, and began to unfasten her garters. He caught the pale gleam of slender calves and smooth thighs, and the graceful curve of her bottom.
There was something innately sensual about watching a woman undress, though usually when it was done in his presence it was as a prelude to one of his favorite pastimes. Slim fingers worked the fastenings of her gown and in a whisper of silk it slid off her pale shoulders. She stepped free of the pooled fabric wearing only a thin lacy chemise, all gold and ivory in the flickering illumination.
As a gentleman, he reminded himself, he should politely look away.
The ball had been more nightmare than entertainment, and Lady Amelia Patton had ducked out as soon as possible, using her usual—and not deceptive—excuse. She picked up her silk gown, shook it out, and draped it over a carved chair by the fireplace. When her carriage had dropped her home, she’d declined to wake her maid, instead enjoying a few rare moments of privacy before bed. No one would think it amiss, as she had done the same before.
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