He was far from composed himself, but he never troubled about such things.
He gave her a light push toward the door. “Never mind. Can’t be helped. Take my arm.”
“Certainly not.”
“Only to steady you.”
“I am perfectly steady.”
“Doesn’t look that way. You look as though you’ve been in a fight.”
“I was in a fight.”
“And a fine job you did, too. But you can’t look like it. I’m reasonably certain of that. If your aunt sees you as you are at this moment, she’ll trample me to death, and that will ruin everything.”
No exaggeration. Good girls needed chaperons, and he needed one on his side, or somewhere in that general area. Lady Charles was the only one who qualified.
“Ruin everything for whom?”
Before he could answer, Miss Pomfret looked down at herself. “Oh, Juno!”
He drew her through the door and toward the stairs, down which the last of the ladies had disappeared. “That’s what you can see. It’s worse where you can’t. But we haven’t time to fret about it.”
As they reached the staircase, women’s voices wafted up to them, one strident one rising above the others.
Miss Pomfret retreated from the staircase. “I’ll kill you.”
“You tried, but—”
“It’s Lady Bartham.”
Ashmont swore mentally. Even he knew about Humphrey Morris’s viper of a mother. Who didn’t?
“She can’t see me like this,” Miss Pomfret whispered. “With you.”
Footsteps on the stone stairs.
Miss Pomfret was scanning their surroundings, looking for a way out.
“Leave this to me,” he said. An experienced troublemaker learns not only to run fast but also to be aware of suitable exits and hiding places. Depending on the trouble. Some he’d rather meet head-on. This wasn’t the case at present.
He pulled her through a door into a large oval room opposite the one in which the club had met, thence to the nearest window and behind the curtains into the window enclosure. He loosened the decorative ropes holding the curtains open, which fell closed at the same moment the women reached the top of the stairs.
There they lingered, arguing about a charity event, the piercing voice indignant about something or other.
The window faced northeast, and tree branches obscured the view. Between their position and the curtains, some light penetrated, but not much. Beside him, Miss Pomfret was breathing hard, straining her bodice’s confines.
He was not so calm, either.
Hiding was all very well, and fun, usually. Not today. The state of her clothes . . . and she with him, of all men. The consequences . . .
Very, very bad.
At last the women moved on, their voices fading to a distant hum as a door closed behind them.
He peered through the curtain opening.
“All clear,” he whispered. “I’ll step out. You put yourself to rights. If anybody else comes through, I’ll keep them busy.”
This was such a bad idea.
The worst idea possible.
Cassandra should have held her ground.
She was only disheveled, and that was easily explained. She had witnesses. Her club members. Still, with Ashmont here instead of Keeffe—oh, she should never have listened to Keeffe! She should never have written to Ashmont. Ever since that day on Putney Heath, she’d done nothing but make one error of judgment after another. He’d infected her mind.
She looked down at herself and swallowed a groan. She was a wreck. Anybody who saw her would believe the worst.
But no one had caught them—yet. Hands steady, heart racing, she set about reassembling herself. So much easier said than done without a maid. She turned, hoping to use her reflection, but all she saw were leafy branches fluttering in the breeze and glimpses between them of the grounds.
She managed to get her hat straight—or what seemed like straight. She pulled her pelerine into place and tied the bow. Oh, but her sleeve! The puff had slid to her elbow and the now-deformed sleeve sagged. She must have torn the tapes during the fight.
The wonderful fight.
She tried to put it out of her mind and tamp down the heat that rose with remembering. She made herself focus on the job at hand.
Her belt buckle had snagged. She pulled and twisted and swore violently under her breath. It wouldn’t budge. Furious, she had to summon all her strength of will to keep her voice to a whisper: “I can’t see what I’m doing.”
Ashmont darted behind the curtain at the same moment she heard voices coming from the stairs.
“They’re going the other way,” he said. “By gad, it’s like the General Post Office at eight o’clock down there.”
“You must help me with my dress,” she said. “Otherwise it’ll