Page 93 of A Dangerous Engagement

“Mr.McDowell, I hope you know of a good hiding place,” Mr.Birtwistle said, breathing harder than Philip was. “I’m afraid we’ll never make it to the parsonage before they catch up to us.”

He was right. Philip couldn’t keep up this pace for long while carrying another person, even if that person was as small and still as Miss Mayson.

“I have an idea. Follow me.” Philip headed in the direction of the “shell grotto.” The underground cave was easier to find since the conspirators had moved their cache of guns elsewhere. The entrance had been dug out, and their many footprints had made a very clear path to it.

The shouts behind them had grown louder and more numerous. It was dark, but Lady Blackstone and her henchmen might guess that they had gone to hide in the grotto. But he had no choice. He couldn’t think of anywhere else for them to hide. He prayed the traitors would assume he had taken the ladies to the parsonage or that they had somehow gotten away on horseback. He could only hope they didn’t find his hired coach and horses, which were waiting for them in Mr.Birtwistle’s carriage house.

The muscles in his arms burned as he reached the entrance of the grotto, across which someone had placed a large, flat piece of wood.

Philip stood Miss Mayson on her feet. “Mr.Birtwistle, can you and Miss Appleby make sure Miss Mayson doesn’t fall?”

They held her up, letting her lean on them, while Philip took hold of the board and shoved it away from the gaping hole that was the entrance to the cave. The small, round hole over the middle of the grotto that would let in the moonlight was covered by a branch, but he could not risk uncovering that.

Mr.Birtwistle seemed to be having trouble keeping Miss Mayson upright.

“Go on,” Philip told him and Miss Appleby. “I shall take Miss Mayson.” He picked her up again and followed them down the earthen steps, careful not to stumble with his burden. Once inside, he put her in Mr.Birtwistle and Miss Appleby’s care and hurried back up the steps. He placed the board over the entrance and hurried down the steps into the pitch blackness of the underground grotto.

Felicity could feel herself being carried again, but when she opened her eyes, she couldn’t see anything.

“Where am I?” she asked. “It’s so dark.”

The laudanum was still making her thoughts fuzzy, and though she knew, in a hovering sort of way, that she was in danger, she felt ... buoyant and rather happy.

“We’re in the shell grotto,” Mr.McDowell’s voice said, his chest rumbling against her ear. “We’re moving to the inner chamber. I’m afraid there may not be any more light there than there is here.”

She could hear his sleeve brushing against the walls as he moved. His breath was a bit labored. He must be exhausted from carrying her. She was exhausted, and she had not even been walking.

She heard herself let out a long sigh. “You are so strong.” It was as if she was hearing herself while floating above her body—a very strange feeling but not entirely unpleasant.

“I have done quite a bit of fencing,” he said. “And I boxed, but I was not very good at that.”

“Mr.McDowell, I can believe that you would be good at everything you ever tried.”

He laughed, a short, labored sound. “Flattery, Miss Mayson.”

Was she speaking in an improper way? She rather believed she was, but she could not seem to stop herself. Besides, talking was keeping her from falling asleep again.

“You shouldn’t have come back for me, Mr.McDowell,” she heard herself say in a slow, drawling voice, still floating. “You are in great danger, and I do not want any harm to come to you. But I must say, I am grateful. For I believe my aunt and I would have been killed, or I would have been, at least.” She laughed—it just bubbled up and out.

“Felicity,” Aunt Agnes said from nearby. “You are talking nonsense. Poor Mr.McDowell.”

“Am I vexing you, Mr.McDowell?”

“Not at all. For one thing, it is good for Miss Mayson to keep talking, because it is better to keep awake a person who has taken too much laudanum. And besides that, it is rare in our society to hear what anyone truly thinks.”

“Mr.McDowell thinks women should speak their minds.” Felicity heard herself laugh again. She seemed to have little control, so it was good Mr.McDowell didn’t mind. “Perhaps we will scandalize Mr.Birtwistle. Are you here, Mr.Birtwistle?”

“I am indeed. I am very sorry, Miss Mayson, that you have been treated so ill by your own aunt, Lady Blackstone.”

“She is not a blood relation, Mr.Birtwistle.”

“Oh, I see.”

Mr.McDowell seemed to be depositing her on the floor. She had been so warm in his arms, and now she felt a distinct chill.

“This floor is cold. Is it marble?”

“I believe it is chalk stone and possibly dirt. I’m terribly sorry.”