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That was when he lifted his head and asked, “Are you all right?”
Which was evidently a tactical error, because she pushed him off with surprising strength and got her boots on and her body up off the floor and out the window while he was still trying to understand what had happened.
He had no trouble at the moment, however, comprehending that she was getting away. Pushing everything else from his mind, he swung over the windowsill and swiftly descended.
A quick scan of the garden offering no sign of her, he hurriedly retraced the route she’d taken to get in, through the back gate. In her departing haste, she’d left it ajar, sparing him the trouble and precious seconds of fiddling with the latch.
He ran down the passageway leading to the street, which he reached in time to hear her rapidly retreating footsteps.
A glimpse of skirt told him she’d just turned the next corner.
He picked up his pace and followed…and saw his mistake in the half second before the walking stick slammed against his shins.
He heard the crack of splintering bone and felt the pain shaft up his legs and saw the ground come up to meet him, all in the same instant.
Chapter 6
First he swore.
Then he laughed.
Then he swore some more.
Fists clenched, Lydia stood glaring down at the Duke of Ainswood. For one horrifying moment, she thought she’d done him a serious injury. She should have known better. It would want a herd of stampeding bulls to do this great lout any significant damage.
“Don’t expect any sympathy from me,” she said. “You can lie there until Judgment Day, for all I care. You’ve made me break my favorite walking stick, drat you.” Not his legs, as she’d feared.
Groaning, he lifted his head. “That was a damned dirty trick,” he said. “You ambushed me.”
“And it wasn’t a damned dirty trick you played me in the dressing room?” she returned. “When you knew I dared not make any strong protest? And don’t tell me a simple no would have sufficed, because words never suffice with you.”
“Can we argue about this later, Grenville?” Releasing a series of low profanities, he laboriously rolled onto his side and heaved himself up onto one elbow. “You might give a fellow a hand up.”
“No.” Smothering a stab of conscience, she backed away, out of reach. “You interfered with an assignment and could have endangered my life,” she said, as much for her unreasonable conscience’s enlightenment as his. “You also wrecked my chance to perform a service for a friend. This makes the third time you’ve complicated everything by blundering in my way. Not to mention you might have cost me my position. If Sellowby had burst into the dressing room and found me in a compromising position with England’s most notorious debauchee, he would have spread the news all over London—and I should lose the precious small measure of respect I’ve earned after months of unremitting labor.”
She bent and snatched up the remnants of her walking stick. “I know a great many more dirty tricks than this,” she added as she straightened. “Bother me again, Ainswood, and I’ll really hurt you.”
Then, before he could point out the flaws in her sermon, she turned away and strode out of the alley without once looking back.
“Behold, the dragon stalker returneth,” Jaynes announced as Vere limped in the door at three o’clock in the morning.
Trent, who’d hurried out into the hall clutching a billiard cue, stood mute, eyeing Vere up and down with a pained expression.
Vere had told them he was going to the Blue Owl this evening, “dragon hunting.”
Jaynes had lectured and Trent had babbled and Vere had not heeded a syllable.
Now he saw “I told you so” written plainly on their faces. His coat and trousers were torn and filthy, his face scraped and bruised. He’d fallen face first, hard, and though his nose wasn’t broken, it felt as though it was. The same applied to his shins, which throbbed like the very devil.
He managed a grin. “I can’t remember when I’ve had so much fun,” he said. “You missed a great lark. When I tell you—”
“I’ll have a bath drawn,” said Jaynes in martyred tones. “And I suppose I’d better fetch the medicine case.”
Vere watched him march away, then turned to his houseguest. “You’ll never guess what happened, Trent.”
“I reckon not,” his guest said sadly.
Vere started limping toward the staircase. “Come along, then, and I’ll tell you.”
The Argus arrived at Blakesleigh on Friday morning. Not until the following Friday did Elizabeth and Emily get their hands on it.
Fortunately, their aunt and uncle were entertaining a large party of guests, which kept the maids too busy to pop into the girls’ bedroom unexpectedly to chase them back into bed.
They had all night to pore over the magazine’s pages. This time, however, they did not go directly to The Rose of Thebes, but to Miss Lydia Grenville’s account of her collision with their guardian in Vinegar Yard.
At the end, they were curled up on the floor, clutching their bellies, choking out quotes from the tale in between convulsive laughter.
When, finally, they could sit up again, they gazed at each other, mouths quivering.
Elizabeth cleared her throat. “Droll. I should say she was droll.”
Emily arranged her features in a fair imitation of her uncle’s “judicial” one. “Yes, Elizabeth, I believe one might reasonably infer as much.” The judicial mask dissolved and her eyes danced. “I think it’s the best thing she’s ever written.”
“You haven’t read everything she’s written. We never have time. Besides, it’s unfair to compare serious work with comedy.”
“I think he’s inspired her,” said Emily.
“It is quite wicked,” Elizabeth admitted.
“He does bring out the devil in people. Papa said so.”
“He brought out the devil in Robin.” Elizabeth smiled. “Lud, how naughty he was when he came back. And how he made us laugh, poor baby.”
Emily’s eyes filled. “Oh, Lizzy, how I miss him.”
Elizabeth hugged her. “I know.”
“I wish we were at Longlands,” Emily said, wiping her eyes. “I know they’re not there. What’s in the mausoleum isn’t them. But Longlands is home, and it’s where their spirits are, all of them. There aren’t any Mallorys here. Not even a ghost. Aunt Dorothea’s been married so long she’s forgotten how to be a Mallory.”
“I shall contrive to marry a younger son,” Elizabeth said, “because they almost never behave properly. Perhaps, since Cousin Vere isn’t living at Longlands, he’ll let us stay there. I shall try to get a husband in my first Season—and it’s only six months away. Then you’ll come to live with us. And you’ll never wed, so that you can stay at Longlands forever. And look after the children.”
Emily nodded. “I suppose that will have to do. But you must not marry anyone like Uncle John. I know he’s good, but I’d rather you found someone not quite so stuffy.”
“Like Diablo, you mean?”
Lizzy pressed her hands to her chest. Nature had not yet gifted her with what one could properly call a bosom. “Yes, like Diablo.”
“Well, let’s study him, then, so I’ll know exactly what to look for.” Elizabeth took up the Argus and turned to The Rose of Thebes.
On the following Wednesday, Vere and Bertie sat in the Alamode Beef House, fortifying themselves after a grueling few hours of Miranda’s latest adventures in The Rose of Thebes.
“Miranda tricked the snakes to get out of the tomb,” Vere was telling his dining companion. “She’ll trick a guard, or Diablo himself, to get out of the dungeon, you mark my words.”
Bertie speared another forkful of beef. “I dunno,” he said. “I figure they’ll be on a sharp lookout for tricks now, because she already tried one and it didn’t work.”
“You can’t believe that useless court card Orlando is going to get her out of it.”
Chewing, Bertie shook his head.
“Then how?”
“The spoon,” Bertie said. “You forgot about the spoon. What I figure is, she’ll dig a tunnel.”
“With a spoon—out of a dungeon?” Vere took up his tankard and drank.
