No increased footfalls at the door.
His pulse slowed and he peeked again to the courtyard. The path was clear, but he stared at the leap which Johnson had made seem easy.
One foot out and then the other, he dangled from the sill for a moment then jumped for king and country.
His legs bowed.
A pain shot through him.
Since smallpox had left his limbs scarred and a little rubbery, he’d hoped they’d absorb the impact better.
Not so much.
He wriggled and hopped. Nearing his thirtieth year, he should still be nimble. Again, not so much.
He hobbled away and hoped no one noticed the window he’d left open.
Rounding the corner, he rammed into a raised gun.
CHAPTER3
FELTON—A TICKET TO THEBALL
Outside of the Demeraran government building, a soldier waved his flintlock under Felton’s nose. “Halt,wie gaat daar naartoe?”
That was Dutch—angry, impertinent-sounding Dutch. White jacket and matching breeches with scarlet banding slung over his chest—the uniform the young man wore was very different from the one Felton donned when he was engaged in armed combat.
The soldier shoved him. The sharp smell of a cleaned barrel was lodged against Felton’s nose.
“Wie gaat daar naartoe?”
Raising one hand slowly, Felton faked a stumble as if he were in his cups. Easy, with the pain radiating from his legs. “Oh. Sorry, old boy, I don’t speak Dutch well.”
“A Brit?” The soldier didn’t lower the rifle. “I said, Halt, wie gaat daar naartoe? Halt, who goes there?”
With both arms lifted high, Felton pushed back from the gun. “Lord Gantry, the Viscount of Gantry. I’m a bit turned around.”
“What are you doing behind this building?”
“He’s looking for me.” A sweet husky voice, a beautiful island voice, made both men turn to the vision coming closer.
Braided dark chestnut hair done up into a crown. Warm gold skin with topaz-chocolaty eyes, the young woman approached the soldier. Her blue and red floral tunic stretched with each step. “Yes, Officer, me.”
Shaking his head, almost whistling, the soldier slammed the gun to his side. “Miss Cecilia. You know Mr. Thomas wouldn’t want his daughter out meeting strangers.”
“Georgy, I won’t tell if you won’t. You know I’m given to walking.” The young woman’s accent was light, but her silhouette was blessed with heavy curves. Very beautiful in the warm evening.
She came to Felton. “He’s no stranger. He’s my friend . . .”
“Lord Gantry.”
“Yes, my Lord Gantry.” Her slight Dutchy-island accent was intoxicating as were the green bits he now saw in her eyes. They surpassed topaz, more like polished agate stones.
“Why do these absentee Brits keep coming over here and scooping up the prettiest colored women?”
“Just lucky, I guess.” Felton looped his arm with hers, leaning into her. “Miss Cecilia, I need a bit of help. I’ve lost my way looking for a girl like you. Would you do me the honor of escorting me to the ball?”
The lift of her brow made his palms more sweaty. He shouldn’t have touched her, but he didn’t seem to have another option, not with the gun being raised again.
