One time. One time only. She would never again do anything so reckless.
Chapter Twenty
The carriage ride to the Duke of Saffron Walden’s home was mercifully a short one, but while Victoria considered her life’s choices, her sister and the viscount were more concerned with the contents of a hipflask and kissing one another. Victoria had bitten one of her fingernails close to the quick by the time the coach slowed and came to a halt.
“Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea,” she suggested, hoping that her companions would agree and take her home. But to her horror, the viscount simply leant across the carriage and swung the door open. “Go on, hop out. Do your worst,” he encouraged.
Coco simply grinned.
Victoria peered into the darkened laneway. The high brick walls on either side created a gloomy tunnel between the houses. No light shone from the coach. Heart thumping hard in her chest, she climbed down. “I will be just a moment, let me catch my breath first.”
The viscount rose from his seat with a huff and joined her on the roadway. “The Duke of S and W lives in that house,” he said, pointing to a nearby gate. “If he has insulted you, the leastyou can do is to go into his garden and crush a few of his pretty flowers under foot.”
Vandalism hadn’t been in her plans, just some silent hurling of abuse. Or at worst, whispered in his general direction.
Viscount Askett grabbed her by the arm and towed her toward the gate. In the still of the night, Victoria dared not give voice to her protestations. Even the crunch of their footsteps on the stone laneway seemed to echo through the air. The best she could manage was a hard glare, which he pointedly ignored.
Her heart was in her mouth as his hand landed on the snib of the gate, and he pushed at it. “What fool doesn’t maintain his garden gate? This is London, the man is begging to be robbed.” The way he spoke had Victoria wondering if the viscount knew more about stealing than a nobleman rightly should.
The gate swung silently open. The lock might be broken, but the rest of the structure appeared intact.
She stood in the gateway and glanced furtively at the house. No light shone in any of the upper windows. Either the duke was in bed fast asleep, or he was still out on the town.
No doubt he’s busy making some other poor woman’s evening an abject misery.
Victoria gathered her courage. The man was a bully, and she owed it to herself to at least offer an insult or two in the grounds of his private residence.
One step. Two steps. She’d crossed the threshold. Three steps. She was inside the garden. Her heart was pounding as she struggled to recall the first of the razor sharp things she’d intended saying to the towering wall of the townhouse. Victoria’s wit had fled.
The gate slammed behind her. She whirled round, just in time to see the viscount give her a friendly wave goodbye as he raced back to the carriage. He gave a cheery, “Get on with it, we will back for you later!”
Victoria’s hopes that Viscount Askett was only in jest disappeared into the night along with the coach. Her only means of escape was gone.
She’d been abandoned deep inside enemy territory, with no way home.
Robert wasn’t in bed asleep. Nor was he out on the town ruining anyone’s night. No, he was downstairs in the kitchen baking scones. The sound of the gate being slammed shut stirred him from his thoughts of hot salted butter.
“Damn. I knew I should have got that bloody gate fixed,” he muttered.
But minor household repairs would have to wait. If some fool was in his garden, they were going to discover that the price of trespassing on private property,hisprivate property, was a steep one.
Rising quietly from his seat at the wooden table, he made his way over to the fireplace. He took a pistol down from the small shelf which sat on one side of the mantlepiece. After checking that it was loaded, he cocked the weapon then headed for the back door.
It was a good eight yards from the rear of the house to the laneway. The spacious garden was filled with all manner of herbs and vegetables. Other houses in the street had lovely green lawns edged with pretty flowers and rose bushes. To his way of thinking it was a waste of good land. The Duke of Spice’s London garden helped keep his belly full.
The brass key turned silently in the lock. He bent and gently lifted the lower night bolt, then reaching up, pulled down the topone. The door was solid, but Robert knew it took strong locks to keep robbers at bay.
He waited for a long moment, listening. Only silence reached his ears.Fuck.Whoever was creeping about the rear of his home was light of foot. Perhaps it had been the wind, and the gate had simply swung open. He could only hope that was the case. But he dared not risk it.
His fingers gripped the edge of the door as he slowly opened it. For a moment he lingered on the threshold, waiting for his eyes to become accustomed to the dark.
The first quarter moon bathed the night in a pale glow. The trees lining the edge of the garden threw dark shadows. But even in the darkness, he could still make out the form of a silhouette. Someone was standing just inside the garden gate.
Robert was about to step out and challenge them, when that someone moved forward, toward one of his large pots which contained garden herbs. The figure then stopped and bent. The snap of a leaf being plucked reached his ears. Whoever this brigand was, they were taking a terrible risk in wasting time sampling his herbs.
What sort of fool does that?
What sort of fool am I?
