With a last heave, Alexandra pushed the window out of the casing. It stuck for a moment in the tangle of vines outside, then thudded the few inches down to the flower bed.
She took a few seconds to admire her talent for larceny, then chipped away at the splinters remaining across the bottom of the opening. Her hands and arms were tired, but she’d already had to stop twice when Thompkinson entered her dungeon to check on her. He could reappear at any moment, and he was bound to notice that the window was missing.
When the wood was as smooth as she could make it with her flower pin, she climbed down from the chair and returned to her trunk. Unfortunately she’d never be able to get the blasted thing out the small opening. However, her main goal was to reach Vixen’s home and then assess her situation from there.
Dropping the pin back inside, she pulled out her oldest shift and hurried over to drape it across the open casement. Shakespeare sat up on the bed and wagged at her, and for a moment she debated whether to take him along. She couldn’t very well let him loose in the garden while she pulled herself through the window, because he was a notorious explorer and would instantly get lost. And she certainly couldn’t pull him up after her without strangling him.
“Shakespeare, stay,” she said as loudly as she dared.
Although the terrier continued to watch her curiously, he settled back down on her pillow. Lucien liked him, as did Wimbole, and one of them would look after him until she could rescue him.
With a last glance toward the door, she climbed up on the chair again. Grabbing on to the shift-covered casement with her fingers, she carefully stood on the chair’s arms and pulled herself higher.
Thanking her father’s side of the family for her height, Alexandra readjusted her grip and craned her head through the opening. She had to tilt her head sideways to accommodate her badly fraying bun, but at the moment her hair was the least of her worries.
She shifted her feet and stepped up onto the rounded back of the chair. It wobbled and skidded a little, then steadied again. Taking a deep breath and holding it, she pushed off with her feet and pulled upward with all her strength.
The chair went out from under her. With a gasp, she kicked upward and heaved herself into the opening. Her left elbow stuck in the corner of the casement. Flailing her legs sideways, she gave herself enough room to reach out into the garden. Now, though, she’d lost all forward momentum and hung there, half in and half out of the window, and completely out of breath.
“Damnation,” she rasped, stretching for one of the firmly rooted vines. She wriggled and kicked, trying to scoot forward, but nothing happened. The shift beneath her slid just enough to prevent her from gaining any purchase on the windowsill.
Then a pair of black-clothed legs entered her line of vision. She froze, hoping the vines would keep her hidden. Blast it, she should have waited until evening, but the idea of running through any part of London alone in the dark made her nervous.
The legs stopped. “Ah, Miss Gallant?”
“Wimbole?” she gasped, the windowsill across her stomach beginning to cut off her air.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Wimbole, thank goodness. Pull me out of here, will you? Hurry, before someone sees.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to get back inside the cellar, Miss Gallant.”
She craned her head to look up at him, but couldn’t view anything higher than his torso. “You mean you know about this, too?”
He squatted down. “I’m afraid so.”
“A butler of your impeccable reputation? Surely you couldn’t be party to keeping a woman captive against her will.”
“Ordinarily, no. Of course not.”
“But—”
“Please get back inside, Miss Gallant.”
Even if she hadn’t been stuck, she had no intention of retreating. “I will not! Now, assist me at once.”
He shook his head. “If I let you escape, Lord Kilcairn will be quite unhappy.”
“What about me? I’m the one hanging in the window!”
“Hush if you please, Miss Gallant. Mrs. Delacroix might hear you, and then we would all be in a frightful tangle.”
That settled it. Absolutely everyone in the household had lost his mind. “You’re in a frightful tangle now, Wimbole.”
He frowned. “Perhaps I should explain myself.”
“Oh, please do. I have nothing better to do.” Her legs were beginning to grow numb, and she wriggled them again.
