That was it.
She grabbed his arm, pulled the blasted man to a stop, and met him square in the eye. “That is what he must believe tonight and tomorrow night when we attend his masquerade.”
Eyes silver with frustration stared down at her. He wanted to refute her words. “That’s our chance,” he relented.
She nodded, relieved. “Aye.”
“It must work.” A hint of desperation sounded in his voice.
“It will.”
“It’s the quickest means of rescuing Rafe.”
“It’s the quickest, but not the only,” she said.
“Aye,” he said, dark determination in the utterance.
A shiver ran through her. This man would have what was his by means fair or foul.
“We will secure your son.” She was as determined as he.
“I’m thinking the boy will be a handful.”
“Good assumption. He would have spirit to have survived as long as he has.”
“I might need your assistance.” Jamie hesitated. “Even after I have him.”
Hortense glanced away. She had to. “You’ll manage without me, no doubt,” she said, even as guilt surged through her. To achieve that end—of Jamie having his son—she would thieve from him. Even now, she was in the process of that betrayal. How did such a woman fit into a future with him?
Once a eel, always a eel.
The answer was easy. She didn’t.
They resumed their walk, the tension between them dissipating by bits. Jamie glanced around their surroundings, which were quieter and darker than the rest of Vauxhall. “I don’t know this area of the gardens.”
“No?” she asked. “Well, you may know the history of Vauxhall, but I can navigate its ins and outs. That’s the advantage of having played the serving wench here on a few occasions.”
“Of course.”
“You and I, husband, have entered one of the scandalous Dark Paths.”
“Will our reputations survive intact?”
His question was lighthearted, but a sinuous note slid within. One that sent a frisson of awareness purling down her spine.
Sudden white streaked across the sky and, two seconds later, a shocking boom of thunder ripped the heavens open. Rain first came down in sporadic, fat drops, then released in a torrent. An impromptu storm had landed on top of them.
“Just around the next bend in the path,” she shouted over another crack of thunder, squinting through raindrop-laden lashes, “is Wipple’s Folly.”
“What’s a Wipple’s Folly?” he shouted back, his hand shielding his eyes.
“Shelter.”
He grabbed her hand, his fingers weaving through hers, and held fast, pulling her into a run. Wind whipped the rain in all directions as it penetrated cloak, dress, and chemise, soaking her to the skin. But she felt it not, for warmth radiated through her entire body from the place where his hand held hers tight.
Ahead, through the darkness and downpour loomed a brick structure, octagonal in shape with a domed roof. It had a shabby look to it, as if left unattended for a great number of years, vines trailing up walls, mortar crumbling between bricks. But one never knew with a folly. Its state of disrepair could all be for effect.
Below the shallow portico, Jamie released her hand, took the five steps in two swift bounds, before pushing the door open and poking his head inside. “Only us,” he called over his shoulder.
