He stepped out onto the terrace.
After the brilliance of the ballroom, it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the faint light of a waning half-moon. There, at the back of the garden. A flash of pale skirt disappearing into the gazebo.
He hurried down the path, keeping his footsteps light in case he had misread the situation, and peeked into the gazebo.
Hidden in deep shadows, he could barely see the girl, semi-reclining on a bench, her head lolled back, one foot on the floor, one leg stretched out on the bench. Striped Waistcoat had the fall of his breeches unbuttoned and was trying to raise her skirts. She roused a bit at that and feebly batted at his hands. “No. Go ‘way,” she slurred.
David stepped into the gazebo. “Leave her,” he commanded.
Striped Waistcoat dropped the girl’s skirt and glared at the intruder. “Get your own bit o’ muslin. Bugger off.”
“Leave now, under your own power,” David said in a conversational tone as he retrieved his dagger from its hidden pocket. He held the blade up, letting moonlight glint off the razor-sharp tip. He dropped his voice two octaves to a rumbling bass. “Or you’ll leave as a eunuch.”
The man squeaked—really, no other word could describe the high-pitched sound that emerged from his throat—and stumbled from the gazebo, holding up his breeches with one hand, trying to get past David without making contact. With grim satisfaction, David watched him dash down the path until he melted into the shadows near the house, before putting away his knife.
The woman struggled to sit up. “Go ‘way,” she said. “I’ll bite.”
“I’d prefer that you didn’t.” David reached for her but paused. “I’m going to help you stand up.” She didn’t protest further, so he grasped her wrists and pulled her upright.
She swayed and fell against his chest. “So tired,” she mumbled into his cravat, her arms going around him in a loose embrace. The scent of rosewater wafted up, light enough it must be from her soap rather than perfume. “Don’t un’stand.”
Awkwardly he patted her back, worried about what Striped Waistcoat had given her and its effect on her. “Let’s get you back to the ballroom before anyone misses you.” He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, got her moving, and steered them out to the path.
They’d gone only a few steps when she wrenched from his grasp. “Sick.”
He caught her about the waist in time to keep her from pitching face-first into the rosebushes while she cast up her accounts. He held her silk shawl back and supported most of her weight as she hung over his arm, retching. He hoped she missed his shoes.
She groaned. Coughed and spit. And groaned again.
He winced in sympathy. “Can you walk?”
She needed help to stand upright, but then pushed away from him. She took two steps and her knees buckled.
David caught her and swung her up into his arms.
“Guess not.” She patted his shoulder. “Good catch.”
“You’re welcome.” He headed for the terrace, slowing his steps as he realized he could not return her to the ballroom in her present condition. Not unless he wanted to see their engagement announcement published inTheTimestwo days hence. How would her companion, the matron in the purple turban, react? Would she be the type to seize any opportunity to marry off her charge to an earl?
He could summon his sister for help. Though Diana was not a gossip, she had never been able to prevaricate in her life. Word would certainly get out if she knew what he’d done, however innocent his actions, how noble his intentions.
After some swift calculations, he swerved off the path, staying in the shadows, and headed around the side of the townhouse. Fortunately Lord Sedgewick’s home was at the end of the row, so there was an easy path to the street out front. David paused while he was still fully in the dark. If he stepped out into the light of streetlamps and the half-moon to reach his carriage, the girl’s face would be seen.
He propped one foot on a garden bench that no doubt afforded a lovely view of the rosebushes, and rested her weight on his knee. “Please trust that I am trying to help, not make things worse.”
She didn’t speak. Just patted his shoulder again.
He tugged the delicate silk shawl with its distinctive colors and pattern from her shoulders and stuffed it into his coat pocket. Praying that she didn’t have anything more to cast up, he shifted his grip, heaved her up, and settled her over his shoulder, one arm wrapped around the back of her thighs, the other holding her arm over his opposite shoulder.
She made a muffled sound that might have been an indignant protest but sounded suspiciously like a giggle. Her left arm hung down his back, occasionally bumping into him. More than once he would swear she patted his bottom.
Ignoring the stares from passers-by and coachmen, he strode toward his carriage as if carrying a young woman over his shoulder was an everyday occurrence.
“My lord?” Gilroy, his manservant, jumped down from the bench. He and the coachman exchanged worried glances.
“A blackguard put something in her drink.” He quickly gave instructions for Gilroy to find the girl’s chaperone, a matron in a purple turban with three tall feathers, and tell her the young lady had a headache and was going home with friends. And then convey David’s apologies to his sister, as her party would need to find another way home. Several of Diana’s friends were in attendance tonight; he was certain she would be annoyed at first but only mildly inconvenienced.
He hoped the woman who was definitely patting his bottom this time did indeed have friends present tonight.
