She was perfectly right, of course. Her wisdom was confirmed a few minutes later when Naomi returned to the music room and glimpsed the faint disappointment in the eyes of several ladies who yearned for but had never achieved the status of a Toast. And so she stayed, and her gaiety was so unfaltering that only a few guessed that beneath her merry light-heartedness dwelt an impatience and vexation that increased with every moment.
It was almost a quarter past one o’clock before she slipped away to search for Katrina and beg that she be driven back to Falcon House. There was no sign of her friend on the ground floor. Tired and cross and with a persistent headache, she was determined to escape more sympathy, so made her way to the first-floor saloons by way of the servants’ stairs. Turning into the main hall she hurried past two rooms where heated political discussions waged, but Katrina was not among the ladies present. The door to the next ante room was wide open. Inside, several gentlemen sat at cards. There was a burst of laughter and mocking voices accused someone of “surrendering too easily.” As she passed, chairs were being pushed back. Dismayed by the sound of a high-pitched and all too familiar giggle, she thought, ‘Reggie Smythe! Oh, no!’ She could scarce endure the dandy’s malicious tongue at the best of times and knew all too well how he would delight in slanting his vicious barbs at her. One swift glance confirmed that it was indeed Smythe, together with his bosom bow, Sir Gilbert Fowles. Shuddering, Naomi whipped past and sought about for a refuge.
A merry group stood chatting a little distance along the hall. Nearer at hand was a recessed alcove with French doors, now closed, which gave onto the balcony at the rear of the house. She darted into the alcove. The balcony doors were stiff and resisted her efforts, but she succeeded in pushing them open, whirled into the cool darkness, and quickly shut them again, then leaned her cheek against the doors, listening. She heard men’s voices and the despised giggle, but no outcry. With a sigh of relief, she turned, started to take a step and recoiled in horror. There wasno balcony! Or at best, only a suggestion of one. She was perched on what was no more than a decorative window ledge about fifteen inches deep! But of course! She had come up the servants’ stairs rather than the main staircase, and was not at the rear but on the west side of the mansion! How could she have been so idiotically confused? It was little short of a miracle she’d not fallen to her death when she ran outside! She felt quite faint with fright and shrank back against the doors, suddenly reminded of the only fear Gideon had ever shown her—his intense fear of heights.
Trembling, she told herself sternly that there was no need to be such a weakling. Her situation was easily resolved. All she had to do was open the door (very carefully), and go back inside. She reached for the handle and gave a sob of terror. There was a handle, but it was decorative only and did not turn. The doors could not be opened from the outside!
Panicking now, trying not to give way to tears, she beat against the glass. She could hear the buzz of talk and a woman’s shrill laughter. Were they all deaf? Why did they not come to help her? Probably, because they were making so much noise that her own rattling at the doors was drowned. Well then, she would break the window. If she could contrive to get her slipper off. She clung with one hand to the door handle. She dared not bend down, nor even look down, and she discovered that to raise her foot constituted quite a challenge. When she groped for her shoe, her wide skirts not only impeded her, but she almost lost her balance. With a gasp, she pressed back against the house, her knees beginning to feel like blancmange. She must try again. Perhaps, if she could ease the high-heeled Spanish slipper down to her toe, it would be more easily grasped. She wriggled her left toe against the back of her right shoe. It took a few minutes, but at last the slipper was off her heel. Holding her breath she pushed her skirts aside. She had to hold her foot out as well as up, for her panniers forbade her reaching it otherwise. Balancing carefully, she made a wild snatch for the shoe, and it flew off and sailed from sight. “Oh, you nasty thing,” she wailed. But there was, thank heaven, another shoe. Reaching for it once more, she paused.
With hideous clarity she could picture the scene that would result when she broke the window and was (hopefully) rescued. What a delicious tidbit she would provide the guests, and how they would delight in spreading it about a city that throve on gossip. “Did you hear about poor Naomi Lutonville? Gideon Rossiter made her look a proper fool at the Dowling Soiree, whereby she is gone demented, and was found wandering along the window ledges!” Or, worse—“Poor Lady Lutonville was so distraught at the prospect of suffering Rossiter’s escort that she attempted suicide and was rescued at the last minute!” The next thought was worst of all. Lud! They might even say she had tried to kill herself for unrequited love!
All thought of breaking the window was abandoned. At least for the moment. Her eyes had become accustomed to the darkness now, and she looked about for some other means of escape. To the left was the corner of the building. On the right, however, and just below her ledge, the roof of the conservatory extended from the house, and beyond that was another ledge like this one, with French doors that stood slightly open. She could even see tobacco smoke drifting from the room. If she could but cross the conservatory roof and reach that ledge, she could bide her time until the occupants left, then slip back inside and no one would be the wiser.
With the renewal of hope her nerves seemed less shredded, and keeping her back tight against the wall she began to edge along cautiously. Her great skirts impeded her progress, and she was soon obliged to relinquish her grip on the door handle. Her only hold now was supplied by the grooves between bricks but—thank heavens!—the conservatory roof was only a deep step down. She peered at it anxiously. For the most part the roof was glass, but there was a wide band of masonry abutting the house that looked sturdy enough.
Gritting her teeth, she inched as close to the edge as possible, then dug the fingertips of her right hand around the edge of a brick, and, crushing her panniers ruthlessly, managed to turn so that she faced the gap. She gathered her nerves, hoist her skirts, and stepped down. She was so relieved when her toes touched the roof, that she almost fell, and pressed close against the wall of the house for support.
Once again, the width of her skirts left her no alternative but to keep her back to the wall, and she inched along until she came at last to the far ledge. She could hear male voices, in what sounded to be a heated discussion. Braver now, she raised her panniers and stepped up. She had done it! She looked back across the gap to the balcony from which she had escaped, and felt a thrill of pride. It really had been quite a feat, but her finery had paid a price. Her gown was covered with dust, cobwebs, and a few leaves. She gave a little moan. Much chance she had of escaping attention now! Unless she could get inside and tidy herself after these silly men finished their squabble and took themselves off.
She crept to where she could see around the half-closed draperies. A potted palm restricted her view but she could glimpse the back of a red velvet coat. A dark blue sleeve came into view; and a graceful hand encompassed by ruffles of Mechlin lace. The long fingers held something, but she could not see what it was. If they were playing cards, she thought miserably, they might be here half the night!
The hand moved and set a small object on the table. It was not a card. To her astonishment she saw a chess piece, very similar to the one she had lost during the hold-up, only fashioned from green jade and set with emeralds. Staring at it, she thought, ‘Papa is still here, then?’
How quiet they were; their argument intense, but almost whispered. One voice rose then, harsh with anger. “… perfectly sure! Do you think I’d not have tried? Everyone is different.”
The other man swore, then said something softly, ending, “… a menace to us. On both counts! He must be silenced. When the others learn—”
“They will not learn until a meeting is called. And we cannot call a meeting until six is recovered.”
“Six may not be recovered. How then? We will have no choice but to make a substitution.”
“Chancy, at best. Perhaps impossible. And who to trust with such a secret?”
“And all our lives! But we dare not delay too long.”
The first voice said dryly, “In here, especially. Make up your mind. One more try, and then—my plan?”
A brief hesitation, then a reluctant, “Oh, very well.”
The gentleman in the red coat stood. Opposite him, the hand took up the green chess piece.
‘Thank heaven!’ thought Naomi.
Seconds later, the draperies billowed outward and she could hear music and distant voices from the hall. She peeped inside. The ante room was empty.
***
“That there friend o’yourn,” repeated Tummet, settling the breakfast tray across his employer’s lap and thrusting a napkin into his unready hand.
Yawning, Rossiter protested, “What—th’ devil you doing? Y’know I don’t like taking m’breakfast in bed.”
“You want lunch instead?” asked Tummet with a villainous leer, and swung the window curtains wide to admit a glaring flood of daylight.
Rossiter groaned and threw up one hand to shield his eyes. “What o’clock is it?”
“Eleven and five minutes. Jug bit, you is. Proper. Well? You wanta see the swell, or not?”
Rossiter peered with revulsion at the egg sprawled on a slice of toast, and retreating to the coffee cup, asked, “Do you refer with your customary savoir faire to Lord Glendenning?”
