vigil, and all would have been well if he had done so. However, he turned back to glance up once more at the lit windows of Ashmont House. There he saw two figures.
Unable to believe his naked eyes, he lifted the spyglass to them and watched, riveted, until the pair left the window.
The first problem was sneaking out of Ashmont House. It wouldn’t do for any of the servants to get a good look at the strange young gentleman the porter had turned away, or to wonder how that gentleman had entered Ashmont House.
When the lady returned here as his duchess, she must be regarded with unequivocal respect. Ashmont wouldn’t have servants speculating or tittering behind her back. And when some were let go—this wasn’t an if, being inevitable when a man married—they mustn’t have any ammunition for spreading tales about her.
That alone was no small order.
For similar reasons, he and Cassandra couldn’t use one of his vehicles. For one thing, stablemen liked gossip as much as anybody else and, for another, Ashmont’s carriages were too distinctive.
But he enlisted Sommers, and after some turbulence of spirit and agitation of delicate nerves, the valet helped them make their escape.
He promised to create a diversion, and he must have made a spectacular one, because Ashmont and Cassandra passed easily down the main staircase and out of the saloon on the ground floor. Thence they made their way to Grosvenor Street, and found a hackney not long thereafter.
When they’d settled into the coach, and caught their breath, Ashmont said, “Now all we have to do is get you home unobserved.”
“I’ve a way in via Duke Street,” she said. “The trouble is the servants. They’re everywhere and very difficult to elude. Three times I was nearly caught as I tried to leave.”
He sat on the seat opposite, mainly to keep his hands off her. He and she had a tendency to forget where they were, and he truly didn’t want to make any scandals for her family. Still, he couldn’t help but lean toward her and take her hand. “You took a great risk.”
Greater than they’d faced in his house, assuredly. His wasn’t a family home. He hadn’t servants prowling the corridors constantly. Ashmont House, in fact, was far too large for one man, no matter how often and how extravagantly he entertained. This was why its owner more or less lived in the corner comprising his bedroom and dressing room. Bachelor quarters.
“Ah, well, I like to live dangerously,” she said.
He squeezed her hand. “I do love you.”
“How can you help it? I’m so lovable.” She laughed.
“I’m trying very hard not to kiss you.”
“Yes, it would be better not to think about that. I had no idea that kissing could damage the brain so extensively.”
“Ours is a special case,” he said. “I give it all I have in me. Can’t seem to do otherwise.”
She let out a shaky breath, slid her hand from his, and sat back in the seat.
“Let’s put our brain boxes to work planning how to get me into my parents’ house without scandalizing the servants,” she said.
He sat back, too, and looked out of the none-too-clean window. This time of evening was busy, with carriages traveling to parties or carrying late arrivals to the theater.
The theater. Performances.
The plan came to him as vividly as any scene on the stage. He told her.
“That will do,” she said. They agreed on various signals.
“Then tomorrow, I call on your father,” he said.
“Yes.” A pause. “No.”
“No? I thought—”
“Everybody believes we haven’t seen each other since Wednesday. You were supposed to be leaving London. When, exactly, did I change my mind about a pretend courtship? My father will ask questions. We have to be prepared.”
She was right—and it was a good thing one of them could still think. He only wanted to marry her as quickly as possible.
“I’m very glad one of us has a large brain,” he said.
“Yours is perfectly functional,” she said. “The trouble is lack of exercise.”
“Do be quiet,” he said. “I’m exercising.”
He told himself they had time to form a plan. Perhaps a mile or so lay between their respective houses. At this hour the hackney, like other vehicles, would be slowed to a walking pace for the most part.
At last, as the coach was turning into Piccadilly, she said, “I have an idea.”
“This one had better not involve wearing men’s clothes—and by the way, how did you come by them?”
“My brother Anselm, for a family theatrical. I think the Cossack