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Mariah turned her head, giving him better access to her neck, where his kisses sent tingles through her. He obliged, nipping lightly at her skin until she shivered. “We can’t be married in London. It would take too long to have the banns read.”

He mumbled something agreeable, still kissing her neck.

“But a license would also be too difficult to procure, not to mention expensive.”

Harry laughed, nuzzling her ear. “I’m not completely destitute, darling.”

She smiled. “Good. Although I have saved my pin money and borrowed Joan’s besides, so I’m not penniless, either. But I thought the best way would be for us to go to your parents.”

Harry went still. He didn’t say anything.

“Unless you think they wouldn’t approve,” she added hesitantly.

He kissed her once more, then rolled onto his back. “They’ll approve mightily of you.”

“Then why do you hesitate?”

Harry sighed, gathering her closer in his arms and resting his cheek against her hair. “They might not approve of my actions.” There was an understatement, Harry thought. He could just imagine what his parents would say if they knew how he had pursued Mariah, with no real hope of an honorable conclusion to the business. He didn’t want to think what they would say if they knew he’d just made love to her, in her family’s home, knowing full well her father would never approve of the match. Of all the questionable things he had done in his life, he suddenly felt the weight of this sin more than any other. So much for saying he didn’t want to condemn Mariah to his poor life; now she had little choice.

“To Birmingham we go, then,” he said to banish the thought. “What if your father follows us?”

She wiggled her shoulders, her fingers skating in swirls and loops across his chest. “What does it matter?”

Harry closed his eyes. Christ.

“It didn’t matter before, either,” Mariah added in the same unconcerned tone.

Perhaps not, but before there had been no permanent harm. Before she still could have walked away from her entanglement with him and no one would have been the wiser.

Abruptly, he sat up. “Do you have your things packed?” Looking startled, she nodded. “We’d best be off, then,” he said quietly, his spy’s instincts returning. “The sooner we’re out of London, the better.”

“All right.” She followed him off the bed, and in silence they retrieved discarded clothing and dressed. Mariah was not used to dressing herself; Harry had to fasten the corset, then the dress. She flashed him a brilliant smile as she wound her glossy dark hair into a knot at her nape, and Harry helplessly smiled back. This is utter madness, he thought, contrary to every logical, sensible course of action, and yet his blood hummed and his heart leaped every time she looked at him that way. She pulled a small valise from under her bed as he replaced his weapons and pulled on his coat.

“Ready?”

She nodded once at his whisper, catching up a long dark cloak from the chaise. Harry watched with a measuring look. Mariah couldn’t climb down the ivy, not in her long skirts and without a single experience to aid her. They would have to go out through the house, no matter how little he liked the idea. “Which way is the servants’ stair?”

“To the left, at the end of the corridor.”

Harry leaned down to press a soft, silent kiss on her mouth. Putting one finger to his lips to indicate quiet, he took the valise and quietly opened the door.

And looked right into the barrel of a pistol.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Harry opened the door only to stop dead. Mariah went still, thinking he must have heard a footman passing, but instead of closing the door, he raised his hands, holding her valise to one side.

She grew impatient. She couldn’t see anything, having put out all the lamps he’d lit. “What is it?” she whispered, clutching his coat and trying to peek over his shoulder.

To her horror, she saw her father in front of Harry, holding a pistol pointed right at the two of them. “I thought I heard a rat,” Papa said in a deadly furious voice. “I see I was right.”

She gasped. “Papa, no!” She tried to push past Harry, but he wouldn’t move; indeed, it seemed he deliberately blocked her way and held her back. “Let me by!”

“No,” Papa said sharply. “Stay in your room, Mariah. Close and bar the door. I will speak with you directly.” He motioned at Harry with the gun. “You. Walk this way, with your hands where they are.”

Without a word of protest Harry turned and slowly started down the hall in the direction he had indicated, valise still in his hand. As soon as he moved, Mariah burst out of her room and threw herself on her father’s arm. “Papa, put the gun away! Let me explain.”

He shook her off, glaring at Harry, who had an eerie calmness about him. Out of nowhere Mariah recalled how he had overpowered Lord Dexter with his bare hands, and remembered as well the weapons hidden on his person. She had a strong suspicion Harry was obeying because he wanted to, not because he felt powerless not to. She tried again with her father. “Papa, please⁠—”