“Thank you, Lord Percy, but no.” Althea wanted to get their interview over with promptly and leave. She perched on the edge of the chair. “In your letter you mentioned that you might know something of Sir Horace which would help me understand why he should want to buy my cottage.” She smiled. “I don’t wish to be unreasonable, but I dislike being railroaded into a sale. The reason he gave me makes little sense. I’m sure a man such as yourself would see that.” She smiled and fingered the pearls at her throat. “Some men can be obtuse. I’m sure it’s in the belief that we females have less understanding of financial matters. But I see you are more respectful. I am confident that you will be entirely honest with me.”
His eyes gleamed. “I am your servant, my lady. I wish to help in any way I can. But first, you must forgive me, for my guests have begun to arrive. I must greet them, bad manners not to, eh? I shall then give your problem my full attention.” He moved to the drinks table and poured wine from a crystal carafe into a glass. “Please enjoy this offering from my cellar. It’s a fine vintage. I’ll be but a moment.”
Aware that it was bad manners to refuse, or to attempt to delay him, Althea accepted his offering. “So kind of you to see me when you have guests tonight.”
“Not at all. I’m happy to help a friend or the pretty wife of a friend,” he said. “And poor Brookwood would appreciate it, I’m sure.”
The door closed behind him. Her shoulders tightened at his reference to her appearance. Her flirtatious manner could only carry her so far without getting her into worst trouble. Flustered, she sipped the wine, vaguely aware of its excellence. Why had she thought this visit acceptable? She should have been more patient, arranged a daytime meeting. But that would have had to wait until he returned to London. And who knew when that would be? And what Sir Horace might do in the interim?
Althea breathed deeply; she was hardly in the depths of St. Giles. Manchester Square was an exceptional address, its square of gardens surrounded by prosperous houses.
Loud conversation erupted in the corridor outside where Lord Percy’s guests chortled and sniggered at some joke as men did when not in the company of ladies. She took another sip of wine. The more she considered it, the more this appeared to be a fool’s errand.
The grandfather clock loudly proclaimed the hour, making her flinch. Lord Percy had been gone for over half an hour. What had detained him? At the high-pitched giggle and sounds of footsteps running on the stairs, Althea banged her glass down, spilling drops over the table, and ran to the door. She opened it a crack and peered through. At the head of the stairs, a woman in a shockingly low-cut gown of crimson satin, lavishly trimmed with gold fringe, clung to Lord Percy’s arm. He was engaged in a heated disagreement with Sir Horace Crowthorne. Sir Horace jerked his head toward the drawing room. “I’ll deal with her, Woodruff.”
Althea carefully closed the door, then spun around. She would not be caught alone with that man. There were no other doors, only the French windows. She threw them open and stepped out onto a narrow balcony enclosed by an iron railing. It overlooked the rear garden but no steps led down. She seized the icy balustrade in both hands.
She peered into the dark as she pictured herself lying with a broken limb on the ground. Even that was preferable to being at Sir Horace’s mercy. Lord Percy should not have invited her to such an affair. She did not trust either of them.
Snowflakes drifted around her, cold on her skin. She began to shiver, and if she didn’t keep moving, she would freeze to death. There was only one avenue open to her. The solid branches of an oak were within reach. It wouldn’t be so difficult to climb down. Was she mad to consider it? She dropped her reticule down into the dark. Then she removed her gloves, tucking them into a pocket, while silently bemoaning the absence of her warm cloak. The tulip sleeves of her gown left her arms bare. With an attempt to ignore the goose bumps, she hitched up her canary yellow silk skirts and petticoats, slipped one foot over the railing, and then gritted her teeth as the cold metal bit into her bare thighs above her stockings. She reached out, endeavoring not to look down and was able to grasp the branch. When confident of her balance, she swung her other leg over the rail, finding another branch below on which to stand. It was less sturdy and bent alarmingly under her weight. With a muffled curse which would have made a sailor blush, she recklessly launched herself onto another more solid branch below it, as her dress caught on a sharp twig with a ripping sound.
The ground was bathed in deep shadows. Too far away to jump. It was difficult to keep her balance as her evening shoes slipped on the damp, frosty bark. “I can do this!” she muttered. She had climbed much taller trees growing up in the country but not in shoes like these. She kicked off her slippers, despairing of her silk stockings. They fell with two soft thuds to the ground.
While she hugged the trunk and searched for a new foothold, a low-pitched, melodic voice addressed her from out of the darkness.
“Lady Brookwood. May I be of assistance?”
Shocked, Althea almost fell. She knew that voice. The branch beside her creaked and bowed, and the whole tree shook unnervingly. A breath tickled her ear while a hand snaked around her waist. She was swung into midair and lowered to the ground.
As she gained her feet, Lord Montsimon dropped down beside her.
Her face burning with embarrassment, Althea swiveled to face him, glad of the shadows. “What on earth are you doing here?” Annoyed by the tiny flip of her heart, her whisper sounded waspish. She busied herself searching around for her reticule and shoes.
“I was about to ask you the same thing,” he said coolly, as he removed her reticule and slippers from the pockets of his great coat. “But we can hardly discuss it here.” He watched as she pushed her damp, chilled feet into her slippers. “I saw no carriage awaiting you in the square. I expect I shall have to see you home.”
She lifted her chin. How ungallant! She was in no mood to deal with the mercurial Lord Montsimon. She reached in her pocket and took out her gloves, pulling them on with a nonchalant shrug. “I plan to hail a hackney.”
“You seem inadequately dressed for such a purpose. May I offer you my coat?”
“No, thank you.” He always seemed to be giving up his coat for her. She was freezing and would have loved to wear it, but she refused to give him the satisfaction.
“As it happens, I have a hackney on hand.” His gloved fingers took a firm hold of her arm.
Althea had to admit she was glad of his support; her footsteps were unsure in the dark. He led her through the garden and out the back gate onto a narrow laneway. “Where are we—”
“Please be quiet.”
“I wasn’t about to yell, my lord. I’m not so reckless.”
“Really? I doubt you would be able to defend that claim.”
She sucked in a breath. “Well, neither could you!”
Althea tripped and discovered a torn double frill at the hem of her gown. Its cord now trailed behind her like a harvester gathering up gravel. “Could you please slow down,” she hissed. “My evening footwear is not designed for negotiating rough ground.”
He stopped. Wordlessly, he hefted her up into his arms, holding her close against his chest.
“Oh!” She wriggled. “This is ridiculous. Put me down.”
