“Miss Smythe! Miss Smythe! I have some more questions for you.”
They broke apart, staring at each other, mirrored expressions of horror on their faces.
“Your mother,” she whispered.
Jemmy groaned. Of all the perfect timing.
“Miss Smythe? Are you in there?” Lady Finch called out.
“A moment, my lady,” she said sweetly. Then she turned to Jemmy and whispered, “Hide!” She glanced around the room until her gaze fell on the bed. Catching up the counterpane with her free hand, she dashed her valise under the bed. In a flash, the rope followed. Then she pointed to the dusty, cramped space. “You as well, sir.”
Jemmy heaved a deep sigh but knew whatever discomfort he’d undergo to get down under her bed, it would be nothing to the deafening and painful peal his mother would ring over his head if she discovered him here.
Down he went, and once he was beneath the bed, she put the coverlet back in place and opened the door.
“Good evening, my lady.”
“Yes, yes, Miss Smythe, good evening.” His mother’s skirts swished impatiently past the bed as she bustled in. “It is imperative we discuss the order of the dances.”
Then to Jemmy’s dismay, his mother went through an agonizingly long list of waltzes, quadrilles, and rounds, discussing whom Miss Smythe should partner with for each dance.
Demmit, why did his mother have to be so thorough? Meanwhile, dust clogged his nose, and he pinched it shut to keep from sneezing. Really, the upstairs maids were shamelessly neglecting their cleaning duties, but how could he complain since the inevitable question would follow.
And what exactly were you doing under Miss Smythe’s bed?
To his relief, his mother finally dispensed with her list and was about to take her leave when she paused before the bed. It seemed she had one last bit of advice to offer, though it wasn’t for Miss Smythe.
“Jemmy,” she said, her slippered foot lifting the counterpane.
He flinched. There was no way to deny his presence, so he answered her. “Yes, Mother?”
“I’ll give you five seconds to get out of this room, or I’ll tell Lady Kirkwood that I suspect you of harboring a tendre for her daughter.”
That was enough to send Jemmy scrambling up from beneath the bed and out of the room with only a breathless “Good night, Miss Smythe. Mother.”
It wasn’t until he was halfway down the driveway to the gatehouse that he recalled that he hadn’t warned Miss Smythe not to attempt to escape on her own. Now he’d have no choice but to wait up for her.
And hope he could stop her before it was too late.
Five
Amanda endured three more visits from Lady Finch, two from her harried secretary, and one last one from the housekeeper, who issued an admonishment that she “should ’ave been abed hours ago.”
As if she could sleep. She was trapped in this reckless bargain, as well as by Lady Finch’s determination to see her well matched. Dear Lord, why hadn’t Wellington just sent the determined baroness to scold the French into an armistice instead of wasting so many years fighting? Amanda suspected the lady could have nagged Napoleon’s army into a full retreat with nary a shot being fired.
And despite Jemmy’s assurances that he would help her, she wasn’t about to wait for his assistance—not after that kiss they’d shared.
Dire consequences might await her in Brighton, but nothing in her innocent and maidenly dreams had ever prepared her for the searing heat of Jemmy’s kiss, or the way her knees quaked beneath her.
No, she had to leave before he had a chance to bewitch her completely and leave her confessing her wretched circumstances to him. For despite his rakish reputation, Amanda had no doubts there was an all too honorable man beneath that devilish kiss—one who would put nobility and honor before everything.
And she didn’t want his pity, his wretched integrity. But oh, how she longed for his kiss, his touch once again.
She dug beneath the bed and retrieved her valise. With the house finally as quiet as a rectory, she opened the door and made her way down the hall, resolute in her desire to flee.
Silently she bid a farewell to Lady Finch. Despite the baroness’s machinations, the lady had shown her nothing but generosity and kindness. Amanda did her best to ignore the guilt creeping down her spine for running out on the lady’s grand plans.
She tiptoed down the stairs and considered how she was going to get outside. Her father always had their house locked up at night tighter than Newgate, as if their quiet corner of Hertfordshire was filled with brigands just waiting for the opportunity to pillage their possessions.