“And you thought it a sensible idea to crawl in after her?”
Through the misty glass at either side, he thought he saw a wild gesticulation of her arms. “The last time you caught sight of her, you said you’d have your valet shave her bald!”
Ah. Well. That was because the last time the blasted cat had intruded, she’d found entry to the house somewhere and had been caught sleeping on the clothing his valet had laid out for some evening event or other. She’d left a great deal of fluffy grey fur all across the front of his favorite coat in the process, and it had taken over an hour for his valet to brush it clean.
Henry pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose and drew in a swift breath that failed to soothe his burgeoning irritation. “How many times do I have to tell you to keep your damned cat—and yourself—out of my bloody garden?”
“Well, if you hadn’t planted catmint in your garden, I might find it an easier task!” Another frenetic wiggle. “Tansy, sweetheart, please.” Her voice pitched upward to a saccharine, pleading tone. “I won’t let the mean earl shave you, I promise.”
Themean earl. All because he didn’t want Miss Seymour’s wretched cat on his property! “I haven’t planted catmint, and would you get out of my damned window!”
“You certainly have. It’s the purple flowers.” Her toes pointed again, boots futilely seeking purchase upon the stone beneath her. There was a long pause; a thick, heavy silence that drew out interminably. And then, at last: “Oh, no.”
No. Nooh, no. “Don’t you dare tell me—”
“I seem to be stuck.”
“Youseemto be stuck.” His dry, acerbic tone could have scored glass.
She rubbed one ankle against the other, a motion which only served to lift the hem of her dress higher still and threatened to loose the ribbon of one of her garters besides. “Lord Lockhart, might I prevail upon you—”
“No!”
A muffled sound of irritation. “Well, then, you’ll have to fetch a footman. I can’t get out on my own.”
God. A footman! He couldn’t risk summoning a member of the staff. Servants talked, and this—this was too choice a bit of gossip to expect to keep quiet. Henry had been the subject of enough gossip throughout his life; the very last thing he needed was to hear his name whispered in connection with Miss Seymour’s.
He was going to have to pull her free himself after all.
With a sigh of exasperation, Henry dropped to his knees, his fingers flexing at his sides. Where to begin? Her legs were practically bare, but for those thin silk stockings. The ankles, then—at least those were properly covered by the leather of her half-boots. He wrapped his hands about her ankles and gave a firm tug.
Miss Seymour came sliding out of the window at last, though by the sound of delicate fabric scraping against the stone, not entirely unscathed. A wealth of blond hair spilled about her, clearly wrenched free of its pins at some point during her latest misadventure. With a sigh of relief, she pushed herself over, scraping her hair out of her face as she sat up.
She ought to have been grateful. Instead she flashed him a cross expression as her hand flashed out and seized a stalk of something from the flowerbed nearest the window. A faint minty aroma assailed his nose as she tossed it at his chest. “There,” she said primly. “Purple flowers means catmint. It’s known to repel pests.”
Clearly it had not worked onher.
A yowl drifted up from the stillroom window.
“Tansy!” she gasped, and turned round once more, no doubt intending to plunge straight back into the stillroom window.
“Don’t youdare,” Henry snapped. Bracing one hand upon the wall, he peered through the stillroom window. From below,perched upon a high shelf, a massive grey beast of a cat stared back up at him with poisonous green eyes that were rather eerily similar to her mistress’. A guttural growl coiled in the cat’s throat, and she laid back her ears and hissed.
Bloody bad-tempered feline.
“She’s too far away to reach,” Miss Seymour said fretfully. “I tried. Might I—”
“No, you arenotgoing into my house unaccompanied to fetch your damned cat.” That she’d even askedwas a testament to how little she cared for generally-accepted standards of behavior. “You shouldn’t even be in my garden, as well you know! And I had better not—bloody hell.” Henry slammed himself back against the wall as the cat hunched down and coiled itself to spring. He’d barely made it clear of the window when a solid stone’s worth of feline came springing through it, landing almost elegantly in Miss Seymour’s lap.
“Tansy! Oh, my sweet girl.” Miss Seymour staggered to her feet, holding the massive cat aloft in her arms. She cradled the beast to her ample bosom and buried her face in the fluffy grey fur.
The irascible creature began to produce some sort of dreadful racket from deep within its chest, and its sour green eyes focused upon him. “What the devil is that godawful sound? Is it going to be ill?”
Miss Seymour lifted her head, fixing him with a quizzical stare. “She’s purring,” she said.
Good God. “You cannot mean to suggest that that horrible creature makes that sound on purpose.”
“Only when she’s happy. And she’s not a horrible creature; she’s my precious little—”
