A downspout hugged the face of the mansion, but Nathan knew it would never support his weight. Twenty years ago he would have shimmied up the thing and never thought twice about it. The granite blocks that made up the house’s outer walls were smooth as glass and much too large to make climbing from seam to seam possible.
His eyes strayed to the portico. Its flat roof was also a balcony for some of the rooms on the second floor. If he stood on the stone balustrade, perhaps, just perhaps, he could haul himself up there. “Whose rooms are those?” he asked, pointing to the row of windows and French doors that opened on the balcony.
“The ones farthest from us are my mother’s. The next one belongs to the dressing room she shares with my father. And those last two windows and door are part of my father’s room.” She sighed. The window that was open, the only one they couldn’t reach easily from the portico’s roof, was the one that belonged to her.
“What about the dressing room?” Nathan asked. “If I got up there and found the window wasn’t secured, would I be able to get into the hallway?”
“Not without going through either my mother’s or father’s room.”
“But if they’re—”
Knowing the direction of his thoughts, she held up her hand and cut him off. “My mother and father share a dressing room, not a bed…not anymore. It’s not the sort of thing they’d tell me, but the servants talk. I’ve heard things,” she finished inadequately.
“All right,” he said, “we won’t rely on a sudden passionate reunion to make our task any easier. The dressing room’s not an alternative. We’re back to your room.”
“Oh, but—”
“Let me worry about it.” The first thing he did was to go to the nearest flower bed, choose a few smooth stones, and fling them at Lydia’s window.
“What are you doing?” she whispered, trying to stay his arm. “Who do you think will answer if I’m not there?”
“Your maid.”
“Pei Ling’s not there.”
“Then what about her room? Maybe we can rouse her. It’s better than taking an unnecessary risk.”
Lydia shook her head.
“Why not?” When she didn’t answer immediately, Nathan pressed her again.
“Because she sleeps with my father, that’s why.”
“I see,” he said, whistling softly under his breath. What he saw was that Lydia Chadwick knew a great deal more than Madeline and Samuel probably suspected. It was too dark to see her eyes clearly, but he hadn’t imagined the pain in her voice, the necessity of saying something quickly because it hurt to express it any other way. “Very well,” he went on. “The balcony it is.”
He led Lydia back to the portico. “Once I’m inside your room, go to the side door and wait for me.”
She shook her head. “You can’t do it like that. The door’s not merely latched, it’s locked. The keys are kept in the kitchen pantry. You can’t go traipsing all over the house for them. You’ll drip water and leave a trail everywhere you go. I’ll never be able to clean up after you. I’m going in the house the same way you are.”
Lightning seared the sky again and the low roll of thunder covered Nathan’s sarcastic reply. “Wonderful,” he said. “That’s just bloody wonderful.”
Nathan stripped off his jacket and tossed it over the balustrade. He stretched his arms, working them like windmills until he was limber. He was used to hard labor, digging and hauling, walking and riding, but it had been a long time since he’d been called on to do something this strenuous and inherently dangerous. He made several tentative jumps, testing the spring and stamina of his legs. When he thought he was ready, he stood on the flat stone railing.
On his first attempt he missed the balcony’s overhang completely and nearly sent Lydia sprawling on the portico’s flagstones as he fell off the balustrade. Glaring at her and ordering her to stay out of his way, he climbed back up and came within an inch on his next try. The third and fourth attempts were ultimately failures. Nathan caught the lip of the slippery balcony but could not hold on to pull himself up. He moved to the end of the railing where a smooth granite column supported one corner of the portico’s roof. This time when he jumped, he wrapped his legs around the shaft and half shimmied, half pulled himself upward. When he was high enough he threw one leg up on the lip of the balcony and hauled himself up the rest of the way. Seconds later he was over the balcony’s decorative railing.
Crouching down, Nathan hurried toward the house. Once he was safely at an angle where he couldn’t be seen from the windows, he stood up, leaned back against the sheer wall of the house, and caught his breath. After a few minutes he looked over the edge of the balcony and saw Lydia standing out in the rain again, watching him. He could imagine the cobalt blue eyes, bright with expectancy, wide with worry. At least Nathan hoped she was worried. There was a very good chance he was going to break his neck for her.
Nathan estimated the distance from where he stood to Lydia’s window as a little more than four feet. The face of the house was rain-slick, as slippery and as cold as ice. He couldn’t just lean toward the windowsill and hope to catch it; there was no toehold, no place to wedge his fingers. He would have to make an angled leap, get his hands and arms inside the window without getting tangled in the flapping and slapping drapes, and pray he didn’t knock himself out when he slammed into the house. He was not hopeful. As he recalled, the flowerbed below Lydia’s window was filled with rosebushes.
Wiping a combination of rain and perspiration from his forehead, Nathan paced off three feet at a right angle to the house, knowing that would make his angled leap to the window just about five feet, a distance he thought he could make, or prayed he could. When he found the proper angle and distance he climbed back over the railing, stood on the narrow lip of the balcony, and didn’t give what he was going to do another thought.
Nathan jumped.
His hands caught the drapes. The rods held for a heartbeat before tearing away from the anchoring wall. Nathan felt them give. He scrambled, feeling as if he were flailing in vain, trying to crawl up something that was falling down, then he felt the solidness of the sill and thrust one arm inside the window. He hung there, swinging under Lydia’s window from the momentum of his leap. With strength born of determination and a certain amount of anger, Nathan managed to get his other arm through the window. He felt another seam in his sleeve give way.
His feet slipped on the outer wall of the house as he tried to find purchase. Just pushing off the house helped Nathan raise himself a little higher. With nothing but grit and a prayer, Nathan pulled himself up until he could shoulder his way through the open window. He rested briefly when he got his upper torso in, then slid the rest of the way through until he was facedown on the braided area rug, his arms tangled in the fallen draperies.
He had done cleaner and slicker second-story work, but considering the amount of improvisation involved in this one, Nathan was pleased with his night’s work—so far.
