The command was obeyed, but as the fellow was halfway to his feet, he twisted sharply and his elbow flew out, catching the earl a hard blow square in the midriff. He doubled over, causing him to smack his knee flush on the corner of the desk.
Letting out a low grunt of pain, he struggled to regain his balance, but slipped on one of the stray papers and fell forward. His assailant looked to have every intention of making a mad dash for the open window, but didn’t move quite quickly enough. Marcus managed to grab the the thief, and both of them tumbled to the carpet
Though his ribs were aching and his knee was throbbing, the earl had not been knocked so senseless that he failed to realize that the body squirming under him was definitely not that of a man. Not that of a boy either. And if he had had any lingering doubts, they would have been put to rest when the fellow’s hat came off, revealing a mass of curls the color of?—
A string of profanities burst forth from his lips, no less heated for being uttered in a dead whisper.
“Are you always in the habit of swearing in such a vile manner whenever you encounter the least little accident?”
“Only when provoked to it by unnatural females,” he answered through gritted teeth.
Augusta mumbled something unintelligible.
“What?”
“I said, would you kindly get off me so I can breathe!”
“Oh.” For a moment he lingered, feeling the firm roundness of her breasts pressed against his chest, and the soft contours of her thighs molded against his own before he rolled off to one side.
“Hmmph.” She sat up and clamped the hat back on her head. “What the devil areyoudoing here?” she demanded, trying to keep her voice from raising several decibel levels.
Marcus rubbed at his sore knee. “I, er, am investiga—” He stopped short. “Hell’s teeth, what am I doing answering your questions! What I want to know is what?—”
Two sharp whistles sounded.
“What the devil is that?” he demanded.
“It is the sign that we best be leaving. And quickly.”
She scrambled to her feet and stared at the mass of papers scattered over the floor. Already there were the faint sounds of footsteps coming down the long hallway. “Damnation, “ she muttered. “It’s vital he doesn’t know his papers have been searched. but there isn’t time?—”
Marcus was up as well. “Make it look like a real robbery,” he said quickly, yanking out several other drawers and dumping their contents across the floor. He knocked several Staffordshire figures from the sideboard, scattered the items on the desk and stuffed a rather ugly but expensive-looking silver inkwell into his pocket, along with the pistol that he had retrieved from the floor.
Augusta watched him with grudging admiration. “Why, that’s really very clever of you, sir.”
“Don’t just stand there!” he hissed. “Pitch in.”
She prompted pitched two costly Chinese vases to the floor.
The footsteps accelerated into a run at the sound of smashing porcelain.
The earl ran—or rather limped—to the door and turned the key in the lock. “That should hold things for a bit.” Then he hurried toward the window, catching hold of Augusta’s elbow on the way and thrusting her up onto the ledge ahead of him as if she weighed no more than a stray cat.
Two more frantic whistles sounded.
Augusta didn’t waste time with the ivy vines. She jumped, and was racing for the back of the walled garden as fast as her flapping cloak would allow before Marcus’s boots hit the ground behind her. He was soon right on her heels, barreling through the unclipped boxwoods and scraggly rhododendron with a modicum of speed if not grace.
Jamison yanked the iron gate open. “Follow me!” he hissed, and set off at a dead run to their right, back down the narrow alley.
Marcus lost count of how many twists and turns the fellow made, but every painful step made him vow anew to strangle the young lady if he ever got his hands on her. Twice he nearly lost his footing, first on a pile of rotting cabbage, then on something he didn’t care to identify. It was with some relief that he saw that they were finally stopping for a moment at the shadowed corner of a brick mews.
“What the devil—” began Marcus between gasping for air and massaging his aching knee.
“We ain’t got time fer questions,” snapped Jamison. He pointed to a gap between the buildings. “That will take ye to Half Moon Street. From there I imagine ye can find yer own way home.“ He clamped a hand on the collar of Augusta’s cloak and pulled her none too gently in the opposite direction. “We’re going this way.”
Before the earl could voice any objection, they disappeared into the night.
Six
