Page 67 of The Devilish Pleasures of a Duke

Grayson frowned. “It always starts at a wedding.”

Heath paused. “On second thought, I would feel better if one of you walked around the house to investigate the noise we just heard. I’m willing to stake my name that it was not a door slamming.”

Harriet stood in vigil in the garden beneath Lady Lyons’s bedchamber as she had countless times for her brothers during the course of one of their Mayfair robberies. This was an easier lay, though, even if less exciting. She couldn’t see a bleeding thing from her hiding place and while she wouldn’t go to gaol if she got caught, she wouldn’t win a purse of sparklers, either.

Nothing had happened.

Not a glimpse of his nibs playing at rantum scantum with Lady L, an event that, by Harriet’s estimation, should be under way at this moment.

She sank down on the summerhouse steps. She’d been half hoping to hear her ladyship screaming off her garret, her with her grand manners and all.

“Her silence tells the true story, don’t it?” Harriet whispered to the skinny gray cat who’d wandered up to sniff at her shoes. “You and I have our share of secrets, eh, Puss?”

Harriet had seen enough of life in Seven Dials to gather that men and women took an inordinate pleasure in joining giblets. But while Harriet might be a liar and a thief, she cherished her own virtue. Not that it mattered much to a girl destined for Newgate. Still, Harriet—

The cat turned its head. Harriet blinked, hearing footsteps from the direction of the kitchen. Someone muttering in annoyance about the bench she’d dragged across the door in the event a busybody decided to snoop about the garden. Lord Wolf hadn’t paid her for that particular act of precaution.

She’d collect it from him later, with interest, if he had a good night.

The door rattled harder. A disembodied voice from an upstairs window called down to her.

“Psst. Harriet.” That Butterfield pipsqueak’s reedy voice wafted down. “Miss Boscastle is looking for you.”

She shot to her feet. “Hell’s bloody bells.”

There was nothing to do for it. She had to hide Romeo’s ladder from yon idiot banging at the door, not to mention hiding her own sorrowful self from Charlotte Boscastle’s patrol.

It wasn’t the first time she’d hefted a ladder over her scrawny little back in the name of impropriety; it probably wouldn’t be the last. Still, at this rate she could go into retirement on what his lordship owed her for doing her duty.

Chapter Fifteen

Sir Gabriel Boscastle swore to himself and vaulted over the bench he’d dislodged from the doorway. God knew it was a crude tactic to delay one from entering the garden. Still, it was effective. He hadn’t wanted to break down the door. And if he’d known the lay of the house a little better, he would have found another point of exit. Well, he was the one who’d wanted to be included in all the London Boscastle family intrigues. It was time to prove he could connive with the best of his cousins. His own family had given him more heartbreak than happiness. Who’d have thought, as bad as he’d been, that he would be embraced by the London fold?

The garden looked innocent and undisturbed in the moonlight. For all he knew two of the servants had been stealing a few moments alone and he’d ruined their plans. He almost felt guilty.

He strolled about a few moments, spotted a gray cat sitting on the wall. Nothing to arouse suspicion until—

He narrowed his eyes, came to a standstill. A pale-haired figure had just emerged from the house, her movements denoting some furtive purpose. What the devil—

“Charlotte?” Disbelieving, he stepped toward her, laughing at the tiny shriek she emitted. “What are you doing out in the cold?”

She took a startled breath. “I should ask you the same thing.”

“I came out to smoke a cigar,” he replied, then patted his vest pocket as if to verify the fib.

“Well, I was looking for…for Harriet.” She sniffed the air. “Odd. I don’t smell any smoke.”

He glanced around. “I don’t see Harriet, either—”

But he did, all of a sudden, spy the ladder that lay precariously balanced against the side of the summerhouse. And almost at the same moment as did Charlotte, judging by her audible intake of breath.

Neither of them said a word. Gabriel had no idea what Charlotte made of the discovery. Or exactly what a ladder against the wall meant, although he had a good idea that this was something Heath would want to know. It was not Gabriel’s job to judge, only to report back to the Boscastle brothers as soon as possible.

He could not imagine Wolf eloping with Emma. Or anyone being brave enough to elope with her for that matter. He did think it was rather a shame she was such a prude. With that apricot gold hair and creamy alabaster complexion, she was a beautiful woman and would make some poor man absolutely besotted and miserable one day, he was sure.

Was that man Wolf?

“Well, I suppose we should go back inside before we’re missed,” he said casually.