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It was wonderful: exciting, dangerous and…the smile slowly vanished from her lips. Frightening. She did not know what she was doing, she did not know how to control this power and she had no idea how to behave with Alex if he ever came back. Would he come back? Or would he avoid her out of a gentlemanly concern not to alarm her innocence or put her in a compromising position of any sort?
Back home at two in the morning, Sara Carlton was relieved to see that Hebe appeared perfectly composed, if tired. If she was not cast down by Alex Beresford’s mysterious desertion, then Sara could not find it in herself to be too worried. She thought of mentioning it, then decided against it. ‘Good night, dearest, sleep well.’
Hebe let Maria help her out of her clothes and into a wrapper but she sent the yawning maid away to her bed after that. She was tired, but far too tense to sleep. The night was hot and Hebe wandered restlessly about the room, gazing out of first one window, then another. Her room was on the corner of the house with windows on to the square, but at the side, many years ago, another house had stood. Over time it had fallen into decay and had been demolished, leaving only its ornate façade with empty windows opening on to what had become a somewhat neglected side extension of Mrs Carlton’s garden.
Hebe’s second window with its wide balcony overlooked this nightingale-haunted tangle of shrubs and climbers; now she drew the draperies across the front window, but threw open the side one where she could stand and look out without being seen.
She leaned against the door frame for a long while, twisting the ringlets that lay on her shoulder round and round her finger and trying hard not to think of anything at all. The nightingales were almost silent now, but every now and again a few throaty, bubbling notes came from the deep foliage, heartbreakingly lovely in the moonlight.
With a sigh, Hebe drifted back to her dressing table and reached to pull out the pins that held her hair up in its tight knot. There was a sharp noise at the window and something rattled on the polished boards. Barefoot, Hebe padded across and picked it up. A piece of gravel. There was another impact as another missile hit the glass.
Someone was in the garden below, throwing stones at her window. It was the only explanation, although it was surely something that only happened in novels. Drawing her wrapper tightly around her, Hebe tiptoed out on to the balcony and peered cautiously over. Alex Beresford was standing there, his head tipped to look up, his arm back ready to throw again. As he saw her he lowered his hand.
“‘Lo, what light from yonder window shines,’” he quoted.
‘Shh!’ Hebe leaned out and looked to the side, but none of the windows were open, and Sara’s, thankfully, faced the back garden. ‘What on earth are you doing?’ she hissed.
‘Come to see you.’ Alex started to unbutton his coat. ‘Is that climber well attached?’ He made no great effort to lower his voice and Hebe had a sudden suspicion he had been drinking.
‘I have no idea!’ He threw his coat over a bush and took hold of the thick stem, giving it an experimental shake. ‘Go away!’ The moonlight was patchy in the garden and odd splashes of stronger light came from the square through the empty windows on the old wall. Alex was hidden now in the darkness at the foot of the wall. Hebe leaned out and touched the tangle of bougainvillea and wisteria stems that were interlaced along the wrought iron of the balcony. Under her hand she felt a tremor. He had begun to climb.
She hung over the edge, trying to see where he was. Goodness knows how strong the climber was, or how tenacious its grasp on the old walls. And if he had been drinking, he was even more likely to fall. There was a sudden explosion of noise, of spitting and yowling, and a violent curse from Alex. A large grey tomcat shot up the climber, on to the balcony, swore at Hebe and vanished up on to the roof.
‘Alex!’ Her heart was thudding with fright and reaction, but even leaning right out she could see no sprawled shape on the ground beneath.
His head emerged from the darkness, level with the bottom of the balcony. There was a bleeding scratch down his cheek and several twigs in his hair. ‘Bloody…sorry, dratted cat.’ He gave a convulsive heave, got a leg on to a particularly thick horizontal branch and stood up facing her, his hands gripping the top edge of the wrought iron. Hebe found herself looking at the strong muscles defined under the thin linen shirt and forced her eyes away.
He smiled at her and suddenly Hebe could smell the brandy. ‘You’re drunk,’ she accused.
‘I know.’ Alex swayed gently where he stood. There was an ominous creaking. ‘Give me a hand.’
‘No, I will not! What on earth are you doing here?’
‘Came to see you.’
‘Well, now you have seen me. Go back down at once.’ He swayed again, rather more wildly and Hebe reached out instinctively. He grasped her hands, swung a leg over the rail and was on the balcony next to her. Hebe freed her hands and regarded him through narrowed eyes. ‘Just how drunk are you, Alex? Or did you sway like that to make me let you on to the balcony?’
‘Not drunk, just well to go.’ He leaned against the door jamb, as she had a while before, and watched her.
‘Oh, look at you,’ she exclaimed, half-angry, half-laughing. ‘Your face is bleeding with cat scratches, your hair looks like a bird’s nest, you have torn your shirt and your cravat’s under one ear.’
Alex reached up and tugged the cravat loose, using it to dab at his cheek. He grinned ruefully at her and Hebe’s insides seemed to contract. ‘I know: half-cut, scruffy as Hades and almost routed by a cat. Hardly the image of the perfect young lover.’
‘Is that what you imagine you are?’ she retorted tartly, fighting the urge to run her hands through his disordered hair and make him sit down while she bathed his cheek.
‘No.’ He suddenly sounded sober. With a jerk he stood upright and turned abruptly to step into her room. ‘It’s all right,’ he added as she began to protest. ‘I’ll be gone in a moment. No, what I am is a damned fool who has come to apologise.’
‘Could you not do that in the morning?’ Hebe asked, entering the room beside him.
‘That would be the sensible thing, would it not?’ He sounded bitter. ‘It is what I would have done if I had not started drinking in order to forget for a couple of hours.’
‘Forget? Forget this evening?’
Alex shook his head sharply. ‘No…something else. Never mind that.’ He took a step away from her and paused by her dressing table, running his hands through the bowl of shells. ‘You kept them, then?’
‘Yes, of course. I looked forward to them arriving, and I felt less anxious about you when each one came.’
He turned and looked at her, his eyes bright in the candlelight. ‘You worried about me? Why, Hebe?’
