The Rogue (2 page)

Abandoning
the safety of her palm for a moment, Jane made her way to Serena and
surreptitiously adjusted the girl's sash and tucked a wayward strand
of strawberry-blonde hair, much like her own, back into its
arrangement.

"You've
a stain on your bodice, dear," she whispered to Serena. "Re-pin
your silk flower over it."

Serena
gulped and nodded, then turned to run for the ladies' retiring room.
Looking across the room, Jane noticed that Augusta, the eldest of the
five, who was still not quite twenty, had found a glass of champagne
somewhere. Lady Maywell was nowhere in sight so Jane moved swiftly.

A
young man stepped into her path. "Lady Jane! May I beg this
dance?"

Jane
blinked at him. What the blazes was the little rotter's name again?
She'd been introduced to every male under fifty since coming to
London three months ago and could scarcely recall a single
individual.

They
all remembered her, more's the pity. Lady Jane Pennington, richly
gowned and unwed and therefore a catch for any enterprising fellow
who thought himself poorer than he should be. The attention had at
first been bewildering, had briefly been flattering, but then had
dissolved into annoying when she realized that there was only one
reason for the adoration.

Her
irritation must have leaked into her expression, for the young man
actually took a step back. "My lady?"

Billingsly
.
The name popped into Jane's head from nowhere in particular. "Mr.
Billingsly—please forgive me." She forced herself to be
polite. After all, it wasn't Mr. Billingsly's fault that he was one
of the most boring fellows it had ever been her pleasure to have her
slippers trod by. "I'm sorry, but I've just found that my aunt
requires my presence."

That
was true enough, if one considered that if Aunt Lottie knew of
Augusta's actions, she would certainly wish Jane to act on her
behalf. "But I see that my cousin Julia is available for this
dance."

Disappointment
chased the fellow's smile away. Rallying, he bowed. "Of course.
The pleasure will be all—"

Oh,
horse apples. Augusta had drained the flute dry. Jane brushed past
Mr. Billingsly with an absent nod. "You will excuse me, I'm
sure."

By
the time Jane had maneuvered her way around the dancers, Augusta, who
as far as Jane knew had never imbibed a drop of wine in her life, was
already blinking dazedly at the shimmering chandelier above her head.

"Look,
Jane," she said when Jane approached her. "It makes little
rainbows on the ceiling!" She hiccupped, then giggled. "Isn't
champagne divine?"

Oh,
glory. Jane pulled her cousin away from her amazement and down the
length of the ballroom. "It is time for you to get some air,
dear. It's far too warm in here."

Augusta
blinked and came willingly enough. "I am a bit dizzy."

"Have
you eaten anything today?"

Augusta
shook her head virtuously. "Oh, no. I wanted to get into this
gown. Don't I look fine?"

Jane
sighed. This was going to get worse before it got better. "You
look lovely, dear heart. Now here we go. Out through these doors…"

A
few moments later, the champagne was in the bushes and Augusta was on
her way to her bedchamber with a maid, suddenly more than willing to
bring her evening to an end. Disaster averted.

Jane
remained outside on the terrace, breathing in the cool evening air.
She herself wasn't willing to reenter the stuffy ballroom either. She
was only willing to go so far to satisfy Mother.

"Follow
your uncle and aunt carefully. You've little experience at these
things."

Of
course, that was then. Now she had three months of experience behind
her and all she could say for it was, this was the most bored she'd
ever been in her life. Her days were filled with girlish giggles and
her evenings were filled with sore toes and false fawning.

She
recorded every bit of it dutifully in her daily letters to Mother,
although she couldn't imagine why Mother would be interested.

Taking
advantage of being completely unobserved for a moment, Jane indulged
in a languorous stretch. Rubbing the back of her neck while rolling
her head from side to side, she wondered if she'd fulfilled her
obligation to attract young men for her cousins' benefit for the
evening. She was tired, and someone ought to look in on Augusta…

A
wayward glimmer caught her eye. She looked up at the house before
her, shading her eyes from the glare through the ballroom windows.
There it was again.

High
in a third-floor window—the second from the left—she saw
another gleam of candlelight. There was something furtive about that
candle. Wasn't that the room her uncle had closed off, declaring the
chimney structurally dangerous?

It
certainly looked solid from here, but then, Lord and Lady Maywell
were still able to maintain the appearance of prosperity. The house
seemed elegant and richly appointed, although Jane knew for a fact
that it was a decaying pile.

So
if that room was dangerous—what was someone doing in there with
that furtive candle?

Jane
backed up a few steps, trying to see into the window. The terrace
ended in a balustrade that ran to curving stone stairs to the left
and right. Jane lifted her skirts with one hand and ran lightly down
the stairs and out onto the lawn, never taking her eyes off that
window.

The
angle was still too severe. What a pity. For a moment, she'd thought
she actually had something interesting to tell Mother.

She
cast a look behind her. At the edge of the lawn, just outside the
circle of light cast by the ballroom windows and terrace lanterns,
stood a grand old elm.

Jane
liked that tree, for it was the only thing in her relations' tightly
maintained garden that reminded her of the old wild groves in
Northumbria.

Once
upon a time, she had been an accomplished climber of trees. She cast
one last thoughtful glance at the window. Was the candle gone?

A
flicker of light from the upper window encouraged her. The
sturdy-looking branches of the elm virtually dared her.

Jane
smiled to herself and crossed the lawn to the tree.

The
ballroom was crowded with predators intent on sensual fulfillment,
virgins intent on a triumphant match, and chaperones determined to
keep them apart—usually an interesting mix, certain to provide
an evening's worth of cynical amusement.

At
the moment, however, Ethan Damont—gambler, rampant bachelor,
and gainfully unemployed counterfeit gentleman—only wanted to
find the back door.

Over
the years, Ethan had learned that it was always best to leave by the
less obvious exit after a lucrative night, in case someone belatedly
decided that a certain professional gambler had been… well…
"cheating" was really the only word for it.

It
wouldn't do to have his sleeves and pockets searched at the moment.
Ethan was very proud of his unbroken record of evident honesty and he
wasn't about to tempt fate now by sailing out the front door in full
sight.

A
crimson glove caught his arm, forcing him to pause. A dark-eyed lady
with a memorable bosom smiled up at him.

"Why,
what a pleasure it is to see you again, Mr. Damont." The last
was said in a bedroom purr. For a moment, Ethan fondly recalled other
names she'd called him in that very tone.

Of
course, the lady's husband hadn't been very happy to hear cries of
"Faster, my stallion!" coming from his wife's bedroom
during that best-not-remembered house party.

But
it was time for him to leave. With a last wistful look at the
aforesaid bosom, Ethan bowed and smiled regretfully. "I must beg
your leave, madam. Urgent business, you know."

He
hadn't taken more than ten strides when another gloved hand caught
him short. This one was clad in emerald silk that perfectly matched
the stones around the neck of a statuesque blonde.

"Darling,
I didn't know you were here!" She inhaled deeply. Miraculous
things happened within the structured bodice of her jet-black gown.

Ah,
the Widow Bloomsbury…

The
nights—and mornings, and afternoons—he had spent in the
widow's bed shone with a fiery glow in Ethan's memory. So very
limber!

Ethan
kissed the back of that gloved hand. "Another time, another
place, pet," he murmured. "I must be off."

He
turned away to see a vaguely familiar lady in sapphire blue moving
toward him with an intent gleam in her eye. Bloody hell, perhaps this
ball didn't contain any virgins after all! He dashed around the
dancers to avoid her.

This
time he kept his head up and his eyes peeled. He managed to detour
around the next several ladies heading in his direction and make the
door to the terrace without having to stop again.

Breathless
and feeling rather like the fox before the hounds, Ethan cast one
last desperate look behind him, then slipped outside into the dark
garden.

Evidently
what Lady Jane Pennington's mother had often told her was true. One
never knew when one would be glad one wore a fresh pair of knickers.
Thank goodness she'd donned a brand-new pair this evening. When one
was hanging upside down from a tree, the condition of one's knickers
and garters became of vital importance.

Jane
stopped trying to fight back the skirts that hung over her face and
arms and hung quietly by her knees from the tree branch, swinging
only slightly in a pensive manner.

The
ground—too far down to simply let go and fall. The
branch—impossible to grasp when her upper body was sheathed in
her own inverted skirts. " 'The new silhouette is very narrow,
miss'," Jane quoted the absent dressmaker viciously to herself.
" 'Small steps are all the rage, miss. Elegance first, miss'."

Right
then, time for another try. Carefully bunching the fabric in her
hands as she went, she worked the hems of her petticoat and gown up
to her elbows, then higher, this time successfully freeing her face
and shoulders. Taking a deep breath of cool night air, she shot a
leery glance at the ground just a bit too far below her.

The
worst of it was that it was all for nothing. The glimmer in the
window was long gone now and she hadn't seen anything worthwhile.

Taking
a deep breath, she swung her body back and forth, reaching upward at
the top of each arc to grasp for her limb with both hands. Her
fingers slipped on the crumbling bark the first and second times. She
swung upward once more.

The
branch let out a threatening cracking sound at her burst of activity.
Jane froze. Her moment of inattention allowed the layers of muslin to
cover her once more.

The
thick limb had seemed sturdy enough when she'd clambered up onto it.
If her formal dancing slippers had not been so slick and useless that
she'd been unable to keep her footing, she would have been fine.

She
was still fine at the moment, since her legs were strong from country
living and her head wasn't pounding too severely yet, but if she
didn't find a solution to her problem soon, she was going to have to
face a fate that currently ranked somewhat worse than death. She was
going to have to call for help.

Ethan
Damont left Lord Maywell's lovely ballroom with his pockets full of
Lord Maywell's lovely money. Since he'd been assured by reliable
sources that Lord Maywell was a very bad sort of man, Ethan had even
enjoyed the evening's card game.

The
refreshing thrill from a pastime that had mostly left him cold for
the last year put an additional spring to his step as he crossed
Maywell's expansive grounds.

Sauntering
down the gravel walk leading to a rear wall that hopefully wouldn't
be too high to manage, Ethan heard a sound that made him freeze in
place.

Somewhere,
not a dozen yards away, a woman was cursing softly and creatively.

A
woman? Out in the dark alone? Ethan's lips twitched. Who said she was
alone?

He
began moving again. Far be it from him to interfere in someone else's
mischief. He certainly wouldn't want to be disturbed at such a
moment. At least, not as he recalled such moments, dimly though that
was.