The Notorious Bridegroom. Kit Donner
to the second floor, forcing her cowardly feet forward step-by-step.
When the longcase clock in the Grand Hall began to chime, she stopped to take quick, shallow breaths, keenly listening for any sleepless companions in the night.
What if she was too late? What if the earl had not returned yet? Too late for a change of heart. A spur of righteousness lit her heels and with frantic archangels beating in her heart, Patience began her secret advance toward the enemy. As she crept down the long corridor in the west wing, she noted the ornate pillars standing sentinel outside every other door down the hallway, which would provide a perfect refuge if needed.
Luckily, nothing disturbed the night. Wax candles nestled in their wall sconces flickered from the slight breeze through the open window at the end of the hallway. The dim light slightly illuminated the path to the earl’s door.
Stealthily she continued on, her palms dampened, as she moved closer, four doors, then three doors away. Not far from his suite of rooms, she could see a light under his door. Was success near at hand or was disappointment about to send her scurrying back to bed? On tiptoe, she crossed the hallway to his door to listen.
All quiet. At the point of deciding whether to wish for better luck tomorrow, someone made the choice for her. Heavy footsteps thudded on the stairs heading her way. The only escape available was a nearby door. She fervently hoped she had done something good lately to warrant an unoccupied room and a place to hide.
Patience sprang for the door, jerked it open, and then almost slammed it shut, her nightdress and robe flying about her ankles. She pressed her back to the door, holding her mouth with one hand to muffle her breathing. Thankfully, no indignant person leapt from the large tester bed. She leaned against the door and listened as the footsteps continued past her door and the earl’s rooms. Who could that have been? If it was the captain, why had he not stopped?
Putting a hand to her heart to calm herself, Patience peered into the room, her eyes adjusting to the moonlight laced faintly through the window. She slowly and cautiously circled a long chaise longue in the darkened room while holding out her left hand to guide herself to the wall, which she thought must adjoin the earl’s room.
She leaned an ear to the silk damask wall and with her senses tuned for sound, she strained to hear. A moment passed and then another. She held her breath and waited. Nothing. Were the walls too thick for the convenience of eavesdroppers or would-be spies?
If only she had not fallen asleep. She shook her head and sighed, regret as unfamiliar to her as poverty to a king.
Patience straightened up with an idea. Perhaps the captain had not yet arrived for their rendezvous?
A puff of wind just then wafted a ribbon of white curtains into the room. The upper housemaid must have forgotten to close the window.
The window. Might she be able to hear something if the earl’s windows remained open? Not willing to give up yet, she hurried across the room. In her haste, she stubbed her toe on a small chest at the end of the bed. A knuckle in her mouth helped to stifle a moan as she rubbed her sore toe while hopping on one foot. Clumsy must be my middle name.
Had anyone heard the noise? After a few uneasy minutes and no one barged into the room, she sat on the chest in relief, her toe still throbbing.
All remained quiet, though she did not want to examine exactly how long her luck or the silence would last. Her heart might give out before then. At last, when she felt she could move safely, she limped to the window and drew aside the white curtains. Clouds paraded past the moon, dulling its white light. The night offered damp possibilities as Patience contemplated her next move.
When she stuck her head out the window, she discovered the earl’s windows were still open. Her moment of glee was cut short quicker than wind to a flame upon realizing the distance seemed too great to scale.
She perched on the windowsill, her nightdress and wrap smoothed underneath her, her toes curling against the cold stone, her chin resting on her hand.
Disappointing. It was times like these that Patience Leti-tia Mandeley had no idea what she was doing. She was not normally the adventurous type, but she had to do something to help Rupert.
Patience gazed across the sprawling lawn and neatly trimmed gardens of the estate and contemplated her situation. Perhaps the distance to the earl’s window was not as far as it seemed. She looked below and spied a stone balustrade running the entire length of the house. The balustrade appeared to be about two feet in width. Strong enough to stand on? There was only one way to find out.
She grasped her nightdress and wrap closer to her body, and with a deep breath she precariously crawled out the window onto the ledge a few feet beneath her. For a fearful minute, her feet dangled in the air as her toes sought purchase on the narrow shelf. Her luck held as her feet touched the hard, cold surface.
She held the window ledge in a firm grasp and tested the balustrade. It appeared to hold, even though it was designed more for an ornamental purpose than a functional one.
Her cheeks felt warm from her exertions as she tried to still her shaking hands. Reluctantly, she released her slippery grasp from the windowsill and slid her hands down the rough stone wall. Between both windows there was nothing to hold on to but the uneven surface of rough stone. Eyes closed, she carefully maneuvered her body around so that her back fit snugly against the stone wall.
She stopped to reward her efforts and regain her fortitude, if not her courage. The ground appeared exceedingly far away, and it would take only one slip—
She made up her mind to concentrate on the ledge and not look beyond it. Grasping the raspy edges of the stones blindly with touch as her only guide, Patience started to walk sideways along the side of the house. The distance was farther than she had initially determined, but by a tentative step-and-slide crawl she felt her way over to the earl’s windows.
A chair scraping the floor stopped her progress. What was happening? Was there anyone with the earl? Her heart pounded in her ears, and she suddenly felt quite ill.
This is too dangerous. I shall never make a spy. Torn between retreat and advance, Patience abruptly had a more pressing concern and realized this is where luck deserted her to the elements. While she had been concentrating on her progress, the moon’s light had diminished and the breeze had picked up.
Was that a wet drop on my nose? Please let it not be rain. Three plops landed on top of her head, convincing her this prayer would go unanswered. A gentle hushing heralded the drizzle. Perhaps it will only last a few minutes. At about the time she was soaked to the skin, Patience had decided that whatever the earl had to discuss with his friend could wait to be discovered another day.
Bryce stretched out his legs before the fireplace snapping and sputtering to its death. The room had become quite warm, so warm that he had earlier discarded his shirt and wore only breeches. With a half-empty glass in his hand, he leaned more comfortably into his velvet wing chair.
Their trip to Winchelsea had proved unproductive. Normally reliable informants had nothing to report about the French spy’s location or his new meeting place. The only interesting tidbit gleaned was a rumor that the spy might be a woman. Could it be the same—no, she must still be in France. He shook his head. Probably the good pint of ale he had paid the man had embellished his story.
Tonight seemed like a fine night to waste at the bottom of a bottle. He did not eagerly anticipate his visitor, due any moment, which contributed to his imbibing. With his right thigh pulsing a dull pain, his mood grew as foul as the weather had become. The wind taunted the last bright sparks as he rubbed his leg. He didn’t want to remember the night of Edward’s murder, and the French bullet torn into his own leg trying to bring his brother’s body home.
The floor-length curtains flag-waved from across the room while the quiet rain lullabied the night’s peaceful stillness. Admiring the fiery contents in his brandy glass, the brilliant color reminded him of a beautiful young woman.
I wonder where she is. Mrs., or, more likely, Miss, Grundy.
She