One Waltz with the Viscount
Autor
Laura Martin
Leituras
19,5K
Capítulos
21
Nothing will stop destitute Miss Sarah searching for her sister — even breaking into an exclusive ball in London! Fortunately, sneaking in through the window lands her in the arms of a dashing viscount! Henry's tedious evening among the ton becomes a lot more interesting when he decides to assist Sarah. His title might weigh heavy on his shoulders, but it can open doors. Yet time spent with the very unsuitable Sarah, when he's meant to be securing a suitable bride, soon finds them on the brink of scandal!
Chapter One
At the grand old age of twenty-three, Miss Sarah Shepherd had never seen anything quite like this. It was a beautiful midsummer’s evening, with the doors to the ballroom thrown open. The rise and fall of the music, played perfectly by a string quartet, floated on the air. Women in magnificent dresses twirled in the arms of dashing gentlemen. Even the servants looked fancy, and every few feet a footman stood, holding a tray of drinks or delicacies, offering them to whoever walked past.
From her position in the foliage outside the ballroom window, Sarah yearned to be part of it. The desire took her by surprise. Normally she prided herself on being a wholly practical person, never succumbing to the daydreaming or fantasizing that so often plagued her twin sister, Selina.
Reluctantly she pulled herself away. This was a world she would never be part of. She reminded herself, not for the first time, to be thankful for what she did have. Her future might not contain the beautiful ballgowns of the ton, but—as long as her trip to London to find her sister did not last too long—she had a secure job as a music teacher to three children from a lovely family in Kent. It was a position that would give her security and stability alongside her weekly wage. These past few months Sarah had learned to treasure her independence—this job would allow her to make her own way in the world, and not have to rely on anyone else.
She tried to block out the scene in the ballroom and focussed on the rest of the house. It was large, especially by London standards, a sprawling mansion, detached from other residences with a good-sized garden. Most of the house was in darkness, but light flickered in a few windows at the very top, no doubt those of the servants not needed for the night’s festivities. Her eyes flitted across the façade until she paused on a first-floor balcony. All the other windows were closed, but these doors had been left slightly ajar—every so often a wisp of curtain would billow out, caught in the evening breeze. The room beyond wasn’t completely dark either, but Sarah watched for a good minute and saw no movement within.
‘That’s the one,’ she murmured to herself. Her eyes trailed from the stone balcony to the wall below. It was shielded from sight—anyone stepping out of the ballroom onto the terrace would be blocked by a line of trees—although there would be a few seconds when she was vulnerable just before she pulled herself up onto the balcony.
Silently she cursed her decision to wear a ballgown. She had hoped to slip inside, concealed amongst the other guests. But when she’d arrived she’d spotted a footman carefully checking invitations, before escorting guests into the ballroom and announcing them to the room. Now that she had resigned herself to finding a different way in, she wished she had worn something a little less cumbersome.
Sarah waited until the swell of music signalled a new dance. With the dance floor filling up it was less likely anyone would step onto the terrace. After the first few notes she made her move, darting through the darkness. In the moonlight her dress shimmered. It was a beautiful gown, made of royal blue satin with a white sash around the waist. From a distance it looked almost regal, although close up, in good light, the frayed and mended hem was apparent. She wore tiny sapphire earrings in each of her earlobes. They matched perfectly with the dress, although that was more coincidence than anything else. Sarah did not have much jewellery of her own, but these earrings had been a gift from her mother, and she rarely took them out.
Not allowing herself to hesitate, Sarah grabbed hold of the wisteria that snaked up the wall of the house and began to pull herself up. A childhood spent in the country meant she’d climbed many trees in her life, although none quite like this. This was far from a relaxed outing with her sister, where they would spend their day playing in the stream and climbing trees before having a picnic in the sunshine. In many ways it had been an idyllic childhood, filled with fresh sea air and all the family she thought she ever needed in her mother and her sister. Of course there were hardships—money worries that worsened with each year, as well as the odd looks her mother received from a few of their neighbours—but all in all it had been happy.
Quietly she muttered encouragement to herself under her breath, hoping the branches of the wisteria tree would not buckle or break under her weight. When she was halfway up her dress snagged on a twig—for a moment, she felt off balance. Her heart thumped in her chest as she gripped the branch tighter, but thankfully she regained her control and was able to reach down and unhook herself without too much damage.
The hardest part of the climb was near the balcony. The wisteria curved away from the stone balustrade, leaving a three-foot gap for her to navigate. It was just a little too far for her to reach out and grip the edge.
Sarah made the mistake of looking down, wondering if she would break a bone if she fell from this height. It was a sickening thought, and quickly she pushed it away.
Without another moment of hesitation, she twisted her body and launched herself through the air, feeling a rush of elation as her fingers gripped hold of the stone of the balcony. The muscles in her arms screamed as she pulled herself up and, after a few more seconds, she was over the balustrade. She sank down, her chest heaving from the exertion, and sucked in great breaths of air, only straightening when she had recovered enough for the next part of her plan.
Silently Lord Henry Routledge blew out the candle as the shadowy figure climbed onto the balcony. He stayed completely still, not moving a muscle, watching as the person outside paused for a moment to catch their breath. There was no way he would allow a thief to creep into his host’s house without challenge.
Lord and Lady Shrewsbury were good friends. They’d helped him recover from the death of his first wife—through the mourning period and the months after, when he’d tried to build himself back up again. They had supported him in his ongoing feud with his father, encouraged him to reach out to the old man and try to rebuild the relationship for the sake of his sister, before it was too late. They had even given him a place to stay as he searched for a new set of rooms, after his old house had burned down in the fire that had killed his wife.
He half suspected this ball had been arranged with the sole purpose of encouraging him back into society, and to push him into meeting some of this year’s debutantes.
Henry, in his angst, almost forgot the person on the balcony, about to break into the house.
It was a bold move, climbing up the wisteria that grew outside the library whilst guests danced and socialised only a few feet away. Only a certain type of thief would attempt such a feat. No doubt they hoped to find the rest of the house deserted, with the guests and servants all gathered in the downstairs rooms or running between the basement kitchen and ballroom.
Stealthily he used the lull in movement to creep over to the open balcony door. He stayed in the shadows, invisible to anyone outside.
After what seemed like an eternity, the balcony door began to inch open and the thief slipped inside. Henry moved immediately, striking before the intruder was aware there was anyone else in the room. He lunged, grabbing hold of the thief’s arms, pushing back forcefully so they ended up pressed against the wall.
Henry froze as he looked down at the intruder, his mind not able to make sense of what he was seeing. Even in the darkness it was painfully obvious the intruder was a woman. He could feel the curves of her body through her clothes, and the softness of her skin under his hands. This woman was not dressed as a thief either. Rather than an outfit of dark breeches, or clothing that was easy to manoeuvre in, she was wearing a ballgown. It was dark in colour, perhaps blue or purple—it was difficult to see without proper light—but the white sash around her middle shone like a frozen river in the moonlight.
For ten seconds they just looked at each other, both as shocked as the other.
‘Please unhand me,’ the young woman said, her voice cultivated with the sharp clip of authority. She was no street urchin in stolen clothes.
Henry did not move. They were in a compromising position, his body much closer to hers than was appropriate, but that was hardly the most pressing matter.
‘No,’ he said, his eyes raking over her. She was pretty, despite her slightly dishevelled appearance. Brown hair was pinned back in the current fashion, but some had been pulled free and curled around her neck. Even in the darkness he could see her eyes were green, sparkling with life and vitality.
‘No?’
‘No.’
She spluttered, trying to find the words to convey her disbelief, but he silenced her with a look.
‘I find you breaking into Lord and Lady Shrewsbury’s house, sneaking in through a first-floor window, and I would be a fool if I released you without finding out who you are and what you want.’
Her eyes narrowed a fraction and he felt her body tense. Anticipating her next move, Henry shifted to the right just in time. The young woman’s knee came up but connected only with empty air rather than his groin.
‘That isn’t very friendly.’
‘You’re hurting my wrists.’
‘Tell me who you are and I will consider letting you go.’
There was silence for a moment whilst she considered his offer.
‘Sarah,’ she said eventually.
‘Sarah. A pretty name, but not enough to win your freedom I am afraid.’ He saw the darting of her eyes to the left and quickly continued. ‘No lies please. I have a peculiar flair for being able to tell if someone is lying to me.’
‘Shepherd.’
‘Miss Sarah Shepherd?’
A single nod of her head as she strained again against him, despite them both knowing there was no way she could physically overpower him. She wasn’t short, but even so, the top of her head only came up to his chin, and her body was lithe and slender. Good for climbing up to first-floor balconies, but not so much for a contest of physical strength.
‘A pleasure to meet you Miss Shepherd,’ Henry said, wondering what was wrong with him that he was actually enjoying himself more now than he had been fifteen minutes ago, dancing with the debutantes in the ballroom. ‘I am going to let go of your hands, but if you make any sudden movements, you will find I am not as gentle the second time around. Do you understand?’
‘Yes.’
Slowly he released her hands, taking a step back so their bodies were not pressed together. He saw her exhale in relief.
‘Are you a thief, Miss Shepherd?’
She tensed again.
‘No,’ she answered quickly, a hint of outrage in her tone.
‘I am struggling to see what other reason there could be for you to climb all the way up here into Lord and Lady Shrewsbury’s house.’
Her eyes trailed over him, inspecting him. ‘I need to talk to someone in this house.’
‘Did you try knocking at the front door?’
‘I did that just this morning. I was turned away.’
‘So your response was to break in through an open window?’
‘This may be merely a matter of jest to you,’ Miss Shepherd tossed the loose strands of hair back over her shoulder, ‘but it is vitally important I speak to Agnes Pepper who works here as a maid.’
‘Could you not have sent her a note? Or waited for her to have her afternoon off?’
‘There is no time,’ Miss Shepherd said, the words bursting forth with such feeling that they made Henry pause.
‘I should alert Lord Shrewsbury of your presence,’ he murmured after a moment. ‘And perhaps the local constable.’
He watched as some of the fight left her, and he suddenly realised how young she was. Miss Shepherd could only be twenty-two or twenty-three. Her skin was smooth, her face unlined and her hair was thick and deep in colour. She spoke as if born into the middle or gentry classes. If she was telling the truth about needing to speak to one of the servants in the household, whatever motivated her must be of great importance. You did not often find gently born young ladies climbing trees and breaking into houses.
Miss Shepherd pressed her lips together before speaking again. ‘I implore you not to call the constable. Let me be on my way. No harm has come to anyone.’
Her tone was stiff and formal, and he got the impression it was hard for her to ask for his assistance.
‘I will make you a deal, Miss Shepherd. You have five minutes. Five minutes to tell me your story and convince me not to call the authorities. If I deem you are telling the truth, I will escort you from the house and let you go on your way. If not, I will ensure the full force of our justice system is used against you.’
Miss Shepherd regarded him for a full minute before answering, inspecting his face so thoroughly he felt like a racehorse being put up for auction.
‘Very well,’ she said, her shoulders sagging. ‘I came to London in search of my missing sister and, with every passing day, I become more and more convinced she is dead.’
