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 was all goodness. He wanted to wrap himself in her goodness to forget for awhile. Forget about the woman responsible for his brother’s murder. If only he could return to France. But Secretary Hobart expected a report soon of the sea fencibles stationed in Kent to protect the shoreline that he had been assigned the task of overseeing. With resignation, he knew he had to finish this mission before beginning his own.
Bryce sighed and flexed his shoulders, then rose to pour himself another drink. Returning to his chair, he moved it farther away from the heat still emanating from the fireplace.
What in blazes? He noticed something blue blowing across the window opening. Obviously not his curtains, which, upon closer inspection, he realized were deep red.
Intrigued, he cautiously approached the opened window. He rested his left hip on the sill, leaned out, and looked over to his right. What he saw amazed him and immediately removed any lingering effects of the liquor.
A young woman, very wet, with eyes closed, clutched the side of his house. The edges of her nightdress blew teasingly toward him. Whatever was a young woman doing outside his window? And why did she seem somehow familiar? Could she be spying on him?
Without hesitation, he leveraged his hip across the ledge and reached out his hand toward her while grasping the side of the window with a firm hand.
Softly he called to her, “Don’t be afraid. Step toward me and grab my hand. I will pull you through the window.”
The woman’s eyes fluttered open in shock. She paused and studied his outstretched hand before lifting one trembling pale hand from its anchor to the house and trustingly placed it into his. Immediately, he tightened his grip around her fragile hand and drew her gently toward him, murmuring soft encouragements.
She managed the last few steps to his window in a wet shuffle until he could grasp her narrow waist. In one smooth movement, he pulled the woman against his chest and carried her through the window onto safer ground.
Or that is what he would have believed. When he felt her cool, wet body against his, rationality escaped him. Before he had time to reflect on the desire hardening his body, the uneven
