Elizabeth Powell (4 page)

“Make haste, before she notices we have made the switch,” Jane murmured. “I will follow in a few moments.” Turning her back to the house, she tucked the book snugly into her sleeve.

Penelope rose and took her leave; Jane watched her make her way back into the town house. She breathed a sigh of relief. The List was safe, for the moment. She rose, shook out her skirts, then wandered over to admire a patch of fragrant hyacinths that grew by the garden wall. She would stay outside a little longer so that Pen
might send McBride on a merry chase. Rather like playing hunt the slipper, only with a slipper that would never—could never—be found.

Then a voice intruded on her solitude.

“Dammit, Alex, why did you leave me alone with him?”

Jane recoiled; her heart knifed sideways in her breast. Who was that? Heavens—the voice sounded like it came from right in front of her! She retreated several steps.

“He was never this bad when you were here,” continued the voice, “but now … God’s blood, I never thought he would go this far.”

Jane gulped. The voice, hard, brittle, and definitely male, emanated from the other side of the garden wall. Who was this man, and who was he talking to? She edged closer to the brick partition.

“But I think I have found a way to get the better of him. He will never suspect. You’d be proud of me, I know you would.”

Jane waited for another voice to reply, but the only thing she heard was the sound of the breeze rustling through the branches of the elm tree. She frowned. How very peculiar. When they had rented this house for the Season, Lady Arnholt had mentioned in passing that the place next door had stood empty for the last five years, something about a terrible tragedy. Obviously it was not empty now. Her heart slowed its frantic pace as curiosity overcame her alarm.

“I would never have had to resort to such drastic measures if you were here.” The stranger sighed. “I miss you, Alex. I only wish I had had the courage to tell you sooner.”

Who was this man? Did he have anything to do with the tragedy Lady Arnholt mentioned? Jane’s better judgment
told her to go back into the house, but something—perhaps mere curiosity, perhaps a reckless response to all the talk of marriage to pompous, trout-like Augustus Wingate—made her stay. Not only that, it made her want to catch a glimpse of the speaker on the other side of the wall. She had been responsible and dependable even before her father’s untimely death; for once, she longed to do something—well—adventurous.

Lifting her skirts, she stepped up onto the stone bench beneath the elm tree. But even when she stood on tiptoe, she still was not tall enough to see through the decorative ironwork at the top of the wall. Drat.

Jane glanced back toward the house; she could see no one at the windows. McBride was busy trying to glean information from Pen. Their mother was not due back from her afternoon calls for another hour. Even so, remaining unseen would be tricky. She would have to move swiftly.

Several of the elm’s branches stretched from their property into the garden next door. After tying her shawl around her waist so it would not get in the way, she took hold of the lowest limb, then used the knobby growths on the trunk like stepping stones and clambered her way up and onto the slender bough that arced over the wall. The branch bent and swayed beneath her weight; she lay there a moment, breathless, the rough bark digging into her hands. Twigs poked sharp fingers through the fabric of her dress. She ignored them and peered through the concealing veil of leaves to catch a glimpse of the mysterious stranger. Movement caught her eye. Her breath quickened.

As far as she could see, only one man occupied the overgrown tangle of vegetation that passed for a garden on this side of the wall. Had he been talking to himself, then? How odd. He stood several paces away from her
hiding place, his back to her, his hands clasped behind him. From what she could see, he was tall, but not overly so, with thick, wavy, golden brown hair that brushed the top of his collar. His shoulders needed no padding, judging by the precise cut of his jacket. Biscuit-colored inexpressibles outlined his muscular legs so closely as to be almost indecent. His Hessians gleamed. Athletic, well dressed, and probably wealthy, to boot—all the hallmarks of a Corinthian. Who was he?

“Gads, I am getting maudlin in my old age. I had better get on with this before I lose my nerve … or my stomach,” he muttered, and turned as if to leave.

If only she could see his face …

She edged herself a little farther out onto the bough. The branch trembled. A colossal CRACK! split the air, followed closely by Jane’s shriek. And then the tree limb, with Jane aboard, crashed into the rhododendrons on the other side of the wall.

The earsplitting CRACK! brought nerve to life. The subsequent shriek nearly sent him out of his skin. By the time the crash registered in his befuddled brain, Sebastian’s body had already taken the initiative and spun him around to see what sort of catastrophe had landed in his lap this time.

No, not a catastrophe. A woman.

And she hadn’t landed in his lap, but in Alex’s rhododendrons.
His
rhododendrons, now.

Egad, had the Almighty heard his desperate prayers and taken to throwing women at him from above?

No, not a woman. He peered at her. A girl. Damnation. The figure struggling out from under the greenery appeared far too small to be a lady of marriageable age, and her serviceable gown more suited to the schoolroom than the drawing room. So much for divine intervention. The viscount studied first the injured elm, then the fallen branch. The chit had probably been playing in the garden next door, overheard his one-sided conversation (next time he would remember to temper the volume of his vehemence!), and climbed the tree to spy on him.

His jaw tightened. After the events of the last four-and-twenty-hours,
an underdeveloped, overinquisitive little hoyden was the last thing he wanted to deal with. The ache behind his eyes increased to a full-fledged pounding, as though some demented Eastern monk had mistaken his head for a temple gong.

He straddled the branch, then held out a hand to her. “Are you all right?”

“Y-yes. I believe so.” After a moment’s hesitation, she slipped her scratched and reddened fingers into his.

Sebastian pulled her from the tangle of branches as though she weighed no more than thistledown. Gad, the top of her head barely reached his shoulder. He could not get a clear view of her face; her long hair, loose from its pins and hopelessly snarled, veiled her features. No matter. From her lack of stature alone, he’d wager she was no more than thirteen. Fourteen, at most. He leaned over her and scowled. “Good. Now you can tell me
what in the bloody blue blazes you think you are doing!
”

The chit backpedaled, slipping like a minnow from his grasp. “You need not shout at me.”

The viscount’s lips settled into a grim line. “Oh, no? First you have the temerity to spy on me, then you crash into my garden—which is private property, I might remind you. You trample my rhododendrons and cut up my peace, and I have no cause to shout? You could have gotten yourself killed and me along with you!”

“I’m sorry! I did not mean any harm,” she protested, her hands bunched around fistfuls of her skirt.

“God forbid I should be in the vicinity when you do,” he snapped. “Do you realize the trouble you could have caused me—caused us both? What if someone were to see us together? My servants have orders not to disturb me, but for all I know, your father, or perhaps a very large, very overprotective older brother, will come charging
through the garden gate at any moment and demand my head on a platter for compromising you.”

She lowered her head. “You have nothing to fear on that account, sir.”

“Do I not? How fortunate.” Sebastian didn’t bother to temper the sarcasm in his voice. “You did not even stop to consider the potential consequences of your actions, did you? Zeus’s beard, I’ve a good mind to do your governess a favor and paddle your backside here and now.”

She gasped. “You would not dare.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Are you so sure of that?”

She retreated another few steps, nearly tripped over a heretofore undamaged rhododendron, wobbled, but managed to stay upright with no further damage to either herself or the hapless shrubbery. What pins remained in her hair came undone; she brushed the loose mass away from her face with an impatient hand, then stared at him with wide, wary eyes. Sebastian stared back. Lud, what a strange little thing. Daubed in mud, with twigs and leaves in her disheveled locks, she seemed more fey than mortal. Her enormous eyes, gray-green like the sea before a storm, all but overwhelmed her heart-shaped face. Her nose was a trifle too long, her mouth a trifle too lush, her chin a trifle too sharp. She could not be considered beautiful, for her features were too irregular for beauty, but neither was she plain. Well, not exactly. Something about her drew the eye. The more he thought about it, the more she resembled one of the sprites from the illustrated edition of Shakespeare’s
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
he’d had as a boy. If he pushed aside that tangle of walnut brown hair, he fancied he just might find a set of small, delicately pointed ears.

His assessing gaze wandered downward. The insistent breeze snugged her gown against her body, and though
she was small and fine-boned, Sebastian could see now that she was no child. Outlined in dirt-smudged gray poplin, her figure was that of a woman, slender and lithe, with a waist so narrow he could span it with both hands. Small, firm breasts rose and fell with her rapid breathing. Sebastian’s pulse lurched into an erratic gallop.

“Well, imp,” he drawled, “it seems I was mistaken. You are too old to have a governess after all.”

A rosy blush stained her cheeks. Suddenly self conscious, she folded her arms across her body. “You are no gentleman.”

Sebastian allowed a wicked smile to lift the corners of his mouth. “You should have thought of that possibility before you invaded my garden.”

She raised her sharp little chin. “I did not—! You, sir, are nothing but a rogue and a scoundrel, and I take my leave of you.” She lifted her skirt and began to walk toward the garden gate.

Sebastian stepped sideways to block her path. “And you, my dear, are a meddlesome minx who should be more wary of strange men.”

She halted, her back ramrod straight, her slender body taut as a drawn bowstring. “Let me pass.”

The viscount’s smile broadened. “In a moment. We have something to discuss.”

Distrust shadowed her eyes. “What would that be?”

“There is the matter of payment for the damage you caused,” he replied lightly.

She glanced back to the twisted, truncated tree branch, guilt written on her elfin features. “What sort of payment?”

He heard the worry in her voice and almost regretted what he was going to do, but not quite. After all, someone had to teach this woefully naïve little country miss to
be more circumspect in her actions. “Don’t worry, imp— I am not after your pin money.”

“Then what do you want?”

“A kiss.”

She blinked. “A what?”

“A kiss,” he repeated.

“Why?”

“Why not? At present I can think of no better form of currency.”

She stared at him with patent disbelief “You must be joking.”

“I never joke about so serious a subject.”

“You want to kiss me,” she said slowly, as if she had not heard him correctly.

Sebastian fought back a stab of impatience. Egad, from the look on her face he would swear the plaguey creature thought him all about in the head! “I believe I just said that.”

“Then I shall ask you again—why?”

“And I shall give you the same answer: why not?” he countered.

“That is hardly a valid reason, sir.”

He planted his fists on his hips. “Well, then, why should I
not
want to kiss you?”

“Because I am not pretty.”

“Are you so certain of that?” He imbued the question with all the persuasion at his command.

She flushed. “Come now, sir, let us speak plainly. You do not wish to kiss me because you find me attractive. No, no—please do not try to refute it or attempt to salve my feelings with flattery. You would be lying, and we both know it.”

The viscount, who had opened his mouth to do just
that, closed it again without saying a word. Lord help him, this was the most unusual female he had ever met!

“I suspect you know a great many beautiful women who would gladly kiss you without protest,” she continued, “so you must have another reason for wanting to kiss me. If I were to hazard a guess, you want either to frighten me or to punish me, or both.”

Sebastian’s brows rose toward his hairline. Most young chits, their heads filled with all sorts of romantic nonsense, would thrill to receive a kiss from a handsome lord, even though they had neither the wisdom nor the experience to recognize the possible motivations behind it. So how in the name of heaven had this one read him so easily? Perhaps she was a bit fey, after all.

“Did I guess correctly?” she prodded. She hesitated a moment, then grimaced and said, “Or have I just added insult to injury?”

“Well… yes, but I deserved it,” he admitted. “And, yes, I was going to teach you a lesson, but now the point seems rather moot.”

He thought he saw the barest hint of a smile slide over her lips, but he might have been mistaken. She met his gaze, transfixing him with a forthright stare. “Then I beg you, spare us both any further ignominy, and let me leave with what remains of my dignity intact.”

His mind may have been flummoxed, but his instincts were still in perfect working order. Before he could stop himself, he said, “Very well. I will let you go for now, but you will still owe me that kiss.”

“It is a debt you have no chance to collect, sir, for I sincerely hope we never see each other again.”

Sebastian chuckled. “I would not count on that,” he replied. “We are neighbors, after all.”

Again, that half-smile shaded her mouth. “You need
not remind me. Good day to you, sir.” With gazelle-like grace, she sidestepped him and hurried toward the garden gate.