Page 74 of How to Lose a Lord in Ten Days

‘I truly believe there is no other choice,’ she said. ‘We will be late to dinner – and if they find us in here, alone …’

Ashford heaved another sigh and began to take off his coat.

‘I am spending too much time with you. You are beginning to sound sensible and that does not bode well for my mental state.’ He held out his coat towards her.

‘Why, pray, am I to act as your coat rack?’ she asked.

‘Because I am the one risking my life,’ he said. ‘And because this cost ten guineas.’

‘And people say women are vain,’ she muttered, accepting the coat with a show of reluctance.

Ashford hoisted one leg out of the window, eyeing the trellis with a great deal of misgiving.

‘If I die, doing this,’ he said, ‘I shall never forgive you.’

‘If you die, doing this,’ she said, ‘all my problems will be entirely resolved, and I shan’t think of you again for a moment.’

‘Not if I come back to haunt you,’ he said, swinging the other leg out. ‘I have not done anything such as this since I was a boy – this is entirely undignified.’

‘You are doing wonderfully,’ she assured him, going across to the other window, so that she might lean out of it and observe. ‘It looks easy, if anything. All you have to do is put your foot there and there – make your way a little across and down to the window below, and then even if you fall, it is only a little hop, skip and a jump to the ground.’

He placed a foot on the trellis, testing it for a moment and then, with an inhale, lifted himself entirely off the windowsill onto the trellis. Lydia tensed, watching. For a moment, her courage fled entirely, and she was about to shout that he should come back in, now, and hang the consequences but there was not even a tremble on the vines and Ashford began to climb, hand over foot, down towards the ground. He was surprisingly strong, for one so lean.

‘Not too quickly,’ she advised. ‘Don’t get over-confident.’

Ashford muttered something under his breath that Lydia assumed was not flattering.

He was eight feet from the ground when there was the unmistakeable sound of the French doors below creaking open.

‘Stop!’ she hissed. ‘Someone is coming.’

Ashford froze, pressing himself into the canopy of leaves, just as Sir Waldo and Lord Dacre sauntered out onto the gardens.

Lydia crouched hastily down, so that only her eyes were peeping over the windowsill.

‘Can you truly not tell me the whole?’ Dacre was asked. ‘I might be able to help.’

Lydia’s heart was in her throat. If they looked up, even for a moment, they would see Ashford there – and what could they do then? This was, of all the options, the most damaging way possible to be caught. It would appear as if Ashford were fleeing the scene.

‘You can help,’ Sir Waldo said impatiently. ‘I am telling you how.’

‘It is a lot to ask, without explanation,’ Dacre noted.

Lydia frowned. What were they speaking about?

‘I expect you to help me. Stand by me, as I have stood by you, all these years.’

Dacre made no reply.

‘Come,’ Waldo said impatiently. ‘I do you the favour of keeping your secrets. Surely you can do me this favour in return?’

What on earth – what secrets?

But suddenly Lydia could see the wisteria trembling and her attention was entirely distracted as a few tiny tremors begin to rock the trellis. Ashford was not going to be able to hold on for much longer. He pressed himself closer to the house, face lost amidst the leaves.

‘We’ll be late for dinner,’ croaked Dacre. Lydia had missed the last exchange, but finally, finally, they moved back inside.

‘They’re gone,’ she whispered.