Abruptly he turned on his heel and left the room, locking the door behind him.
Catherine stayed still, listening until she heard his tread descend the stairs, and all was quiet again. She struggled to stand, grabbing the bedpost for support. Her head spun, but she marshaled her energies toward her goal, the window. If she could get to the window and open it, perhaps the cold air would help revive her. Slowly she made her way to her goal, stumbling and hanging on to furniture for support. When finally she reached the window, she rested her forehead against the cool glass, a hand reaching up to fumble with the latch.
It was stuck.
A cry of frustration lodged in her throat. She tilted her head back, her other hand joining the first to increase the pressure. She panted as she pressed on the latch. She could not give up! When it screeched open, she whimpered in relief. Shakily, she pushed the window open, allowing a cold night breeze to blow across her face.
She didn’t know how long she stood there before she realized two things: her head was clearing, and there was a narrow ledge of ornamental brickwork jutting out and extending horizontally from the bottom of her window to the next bedroom window. That window, directly over the front door, sported a wrought-iron ornamental balcony. Further investigation revealed asimilar ledge at the top of the window, also connecting to the other window.
She pulled her head in and sat down in a chair to think for a moment. Dare she try it? She’d rather die than submit to that slimy toad! What other recourse did she have? None, but she couldn’t do it wearing a ball gown.
She got up and began to prowl the room, happy to discover that though her limbs still shook, they obeyed her and she could move, albeit slowly, without stumbling. In a wardrobe in the corner, she found men’s clothing. Stefton’s? She ran her hand down the fine material. Yes, it had to be. That knowledge gave her a strange confidence.
She tore her dress off, ripping the beautiful material in her haste, then stepped out of the gown and tossed it aside. With trembling fingers she found a man’s shirt and put it on, rolling up the sleeves. Next, she donned a pair of knee-breeches that on her fell clear to her ankles. The waist was much too big. She held the trousers up with one hand as she anxiously searched the room for something to tie them in place. Perhaps she could rip a sheet, no, a cravat! She pawed through drawers until she found a stack of starched white neckcloths. Quickly she tied one around her waist and crossed the room to the open window. She pulled a chair forward so she could climb up and stand on the window ledge. She studied the narrow ledges, then looked down at the silk slippers on her feet. They would have to go. Swiftly she took them off and stuck them in her improvised belt. Taking a deep breath, she slid her foot out on the bottom ledge, grabbed the top ledge and edged herself out of the window and onto the wall. Suddenly all she was aware of was a roaring sound in her ears and the painful quivering muscles that were not recovered from the dose of laudanum. She flattened herself as tightly against the wall as she could and continued inching sideways, praying,cursing, and holding the Marquis of Stefton’s image in her mind as a prize.
“Good God!” murmured the Marquis of Stefton as he, Soothcoor, and Chilberlain reined in before the house at Crowden Park. Silently the three men watched the figure clinging precariously to the side of the house, all afraid to make a sound lest they break her concentration.
Stefton found himself standing in the stirrups, his toes curled within his boots, and his fingers curled tightly about the reins as he willed her to cross safely. When her feet found the balcony, his breath came out harshly whistling between his teeth. Quickly he dismounted.
“The lass has spunk,” whispered Soothcoor admiringly as he and Chilberlain followed suit.
“But you’ll not have her,” snarled Stefton savagely.
“I’m glad to see you’ve come to your senses,” the Earl returned blandly.
“Egad, what is she doing!” exclaimed Chilberlain.
Stefton and Soothcoor looked back up in time to see her break a pane of glass with the heel of her shoe and reach in to open the latch. The window opened readily to her touch, and she was swiftly inside.
“Hurry, in case someone heard the glass break! Richard, go around to the side. There’s a terrace with glass double doors leading into the parlor. From there, there is a connecting door into the library, where I’ll wager Kirkson is. Alan and I will go through the front.” Stefton was running toward the house almost before he was finished speaking, his pistol drawn. Behind him came a grim-faced Earl of Soothcoor.
Obviously, Kirkson thought himself safe and well hidden, for the door was not locked. The Marquis smiled.
“What’s this?” demanded a wiry, rat-faced man coming out of the butler’s pantry carrying wine bottles in either hand.
The Marquis was upon him before he could say another word, his arm tight around his neck.
Jordan’s eyes bulged. He tried to swing one of the wine bottles he held, but Stefton saw it coming and ducked his head. The bottle glanced off his shoulder. Stefton winced, but he did not let go.
“None of that,” Soothcoor whispered, wresting the bottles out of Jordan’s hands. His struggles increased until Soothcoor rammed his pistol barrel against his skull.
“We can do this one of two ways,” the Marquis murmured in Jordan’s ear. “My friend here may bring the butt of his pistol down on your head rather painfully, or you may surrender peacefully. It’s up to you.”
Jordan’s struggles ceased.
“Oh, ’tis a canny one,” said Soothcoor approvingly as he grabbed the man’s jaw and stuffed a handkerchief in his mouth. The Marquis shifted his grip, and Soothcoor untied Jordan’s neckcloth, using it to tie his hands behind his back. The Marquis, removing his neckcloth, tied his legs together. Then they shoved him back into the butler’s pantry.
At the library door they paused for a moment, Stefton waving the Earl to the side out of sight. He opened the door quickly, his pistol at the ready.
“Ah, Stefton, I underestimated you. No matter,” drawled Kirkson, his pistol trained on the Marquis, “you’ll be dead soon.”
The Marquis shrugged. “I would say we are evenly matched,” he said, his pistol pointed directly at Kirkson. From the corner of his eye, he saw Chilberlain glide silently into the room from the connecting parlor door. The Captain made no sound as he crossed the thick Oriental carpet.
Kirkson’s eye’s narrowed. “You wouldn’t come alone. I know you, Stefton. Where are your faithful puppy followers?”
“Do you think he means me?” Soothcoor asked, coming into view around the door frame, his pistol also trained on Kirkson.
“Give it up, Kirkson. You’ve overplayed your hand, as you have at all your encounters with Miss Shreveton. Accept her as your nemesis,” Stefton suggested.
