Page 2 of The Scandalous Spinster

One did not easily forget humiliation, even if it was wielded on purpose by her very self. She had needed the camouflage. She had secrets worth keeping, worth any manner of embarrassment. Misdirection.

It was very effective.

Also, the Dowager Duchess of Whitby’s grammar was atrocious.

She slipped out into the hall just in time to see Miss Sybil Taunton, the most reckless of the Spinsters, sprint off. She was grinning, her gown dripping with green glass beads. She did not greet Clara, barely glanced at her, but she handed her a letter as she dashed past. Clara immediately dropped it into her reticule. The evening’s mission was a success, despite evidence to the contrary.

Such as the two footmen giving chase.

Clara was fairly certain one of them was armed. It would give an ordinary person pause. It only made Sybil laugh. “Goodnight, boys,” she called out, leaping onto the banister as though she was riding sidesaddle and sliding all the way down to the ground, and then promptly out a side door into the darkness of the gardens.

The footman thundered after her, swearing. The oil lamps rattled on the tables. The one with the dagger outline under his coat glowered at Clara. “Did she talk to you?”

Clara pressed herself to the wall, like any self-respecting wallflower. “I beg your pardon?” she said primly.

“Never mind her,” the other footman snapped, halfway down the stairs.

No one ever did.

But when they returned moments later with a shout of “Oi, check that pale little thing just in case,” Clara felt very much noticed.

With the letter burning like a beacon in her reticule, she had two options: fight them if they tried to search her or run.

She chose to run.

*

Sybil made it look easy. Clara did not. And she did not feel at ease, currently clinging to the second-story wall by her fingertips, the toes of her slippers wedged into a trellis.

At least it wasn’t raining.

The sky gave a considering grumble. She glared at the heavy yellow London clouds. “Don’t you dare.”

Rain or not, she could do this. It was her first foray into the field, however accidental. She would not go home unsuccessful.

Running had seemed like a good idea, when she assumed she had a place to run to. Hiding was her next best option. There was another footman stationed deeper into the house, but she had slipped right past him, being invisible. The lady who had snuck into the upstairs parlor with the host’s son was not. She was stunning—glossy hair, gleaming smile, glittering diamonds.

Luckily, she and the son were locked on to each other when they barged in unannounced.

And so out the window Clara went.

This sort of work was not generally under her purview. But she very much wanted it to be. She did her part, but she wanted her part to be this. Exciting. Daring.

Although possibly with both her feet firmly planted on the ground.

She probably wouldn’t break any bones if she fell. But she might alert someone, which was so much worse. The problem was, Clara was a tiny bit stuck. She was grateful for the stones jutting out unevenly and for the trellis, but she had not had time to get a proper look at her escape. Was it strong enough to hold her completely? Should she go right or left? The side gardens were full of shadows, with no helpful torchlight to guide her. Even the moon was tucked away behind those threatening clouds.

And her fingers were starting to go numb. It was rather a cold February night to be dangling.

Bollocks.

She couldn’t go back up—no telling where the host’s son’s tongue was now. Down it was.

Somehow.

Eventually.

“What the devil are you doing?”