at this time of night?’
‘I thought it was the gentlemen’s club...’ Violet faltered. She’d chosen it as a prime target for one of her banners. Normally it was full of stuffy old men swilling port, or so she believed, but on a Sunday night it was empty, giving her a perfect opportunity to execute her plan.
‘That’s around the corner,’ he said curtly. ‘There are no signs on the club entrances. On purpose,’ he added with a glare.
The tall stone mansions, with their columns and arched windows, were so similar. She’d been so pleased that the building appeared quiet that she’d quite forgotten to double check the address.
Violet’s sense of humour got the better of her. She didn’t know London well and she had carried out her reconnaissance from a passing carriage. She suppressed a giggle, felt the start of a smile.
The scowl on the man’s face wiped it away.
She raised her chin.
‘I must ask you to accept my apology,’ she said with dignity.
‘You had the wrong balcony. This is my home.’ His jaw clenched. ‘For the time being, anyway. I could have you arrested for trespass. For all I know you might be a burglar.’
‘I’m not a burglar,’ she protested. ‘And you wouldn’t dare.’
He raised a winged eyebrow.
‘Try me,’ he said grimly. ‘How did you get up there?’
‘That pillar.’ Violet pointed at one of the Roman-style pillars on either side of the front door and the portico where she’d balanced on top. ‘Then I climbed the drainpipe.’
A rather dirty drainpipe, she realised, by the state of her frock. The blue-striped taffeta was streaked with rust and dirt. Somehow she’d have to hide it.
His eyes followed the route of her climb. His hold on her arm tightened. ‘Promise me. No more balconies. It’s dangerous—surely you can see that.’
Violet shivered in the night air. She’d removed her cloak in order to climb more easily. Truth be told, the climb had been more difficult than she’d anticipated, teetering on the ledge, and her legs still trembled from her fall. If he hadn’t caught her...
‘Promise me,’ he demanded again.
‘How do you know I’m the kind of person who keeps her promises?’
He stared into her eyes. ‘You keep your promises.’
She found herself unable to break his gaze. ‘All right!’
Abruptly he stepped back. Beneath his coat his broad shoulders relaxed. ‘Then I’ll let you go without calling the constable. At least you won’t go climbing any more balconies, even if I suspect it won’t stop you tying more banners.’
Freed from his grip, Violet turned and ran.
‘Don’t worry,’ she called over her shoulder as she dashed away. ‘You can be sure of that.’
* * *
Adam Beaufort stared after the hourglass figure disappearing around the corner. Her fleeting footsteps clicked on the pavement as she vanished into the night.
He rubbed his eyes. What an extraordinary vision, witnessing the young woman stretched across the balcony, arms and legs spread like a spider. Her dress had hitched up as she inched across, clinging to the stone balustrade, using the columns as footholds, her banner clutched in one gloved hand. He had to commend her daring, even if it was sheer idiocy.
Then she had fallen into his arms. The feel of her as she landed right in them. Instinctively he’d leapt forward as she tumbled to where he guessed she’d land and caught her like a fish in a net.
He wouldn’t forget how she’d felt in his arms.
He scratched his head. Her brown hair was glossy, her eyes bright blue. When she’d realised that she had the wrong address a smile had curved her full cheeks, filling her eyes with laughter. Not beautiful, but pretty.
And soft. That’s what he’d felt, when he caught her. Frills and lace and, beneath it, soft, warm flesh. But her spirit—no softness there. She radiated strength and a cast-iron determination.
He had to admire that kind of female determination. His younger sister, Jane, had strength of character, too, although it was still developing. So did his elder sister, Arabella, but since their father had died the family relied on Adam for everything. Every decision, every penny.
Adam set his jaw. He didn’t resent the responsibility, but he had to make some hard decisions now. Damned difficult, sometimes, being head of the family.
‘There’s no need to swear!’ an irate voice echoed in his head. He frowned. She had an unusual accent. Northern, he guessed, beneath the carefully enunciated vowels. She wasn’t, as some of the more unpleasantly snobbish acquaintances of his mother would have put it, ‘one of us.’
His frown deepened as he stared at the shabby front door of their London home. Being ‘one of us’ took a lot of upkeep. The black paint was peeling on the wrought iron and the black front door needed a lick of paint, too. The marble steps leading up to the threshold were dull and dirty. The servants travelled back and forth with them, to and from Beauley Manor. He couldn’t afford to keep staff in both homes. The London mansion needed much more than a good clean, never mind what a country estate like Beauley Manor needed. Then he had to add what his mother and Arabella and Jane needed, too. They would be back in London to attend a ball tomorrow night. Neither of them had asked for new ball gowns that could cost a fortune.
A fortune he didn’t have.
From the corner of his eye he noticed something fluttering from the plane tree near the streetlight at the corner.
He strode over and pulled it down from the branch. It tore as it came free.
In his hand the banner unfurled. Purple, green and white. Under the streetlight he examined it more closely. It was made of silk, not cotton or sensible broadcloth. The tricolours were sewn together lengthways in somewhat imperfect stitches. In the corner of the white section was embroidered a tiny purple violet.
Scrunching up the silken banner in his fist, he shoved it inside his coat.
The sight of her, inching across the balcony, her suffragette banner aloft in her hand...
For the first time in months Adam laughed aloud.
* * *
Violet sighed over her embroidery as she unpicked a crooked seam. She’d been distracted ever since she fell off the balcony into the dark-haired stranger’s arms the night before. He had held her only for a moment or two, yet she had felt so comfortable, so secure in that strong grip, though a tremor of danger had run through her veins. It had been the most peculiar sensation. Still, it was unlikely she would ever see him again. Her heart gave a strange squeeze of regret.
She poked her needle, threaded with purple, into the white silk and put it aside into the sewing pouch on its polished rosewood stand. She needed to make another banner quickly. The only advantage
