The door opened.
And then, amazingly, it closed again. Hyacinth felt herself sag against the back wall, felt Gareth sag against her. She wasn’t sure how it was they hadn’t been detected; probably Gareth had been better shielded by the clothing than she’d thought. Or maybe the light was too dim, or the man hadn’t thought to look down for feet peeking out from behind the gowns. Or maybe he’d had bad eyesight, or maybe…
Or maybe they were just damned lucky.
They waited in silence until it was clear that the man had left the baroness’s office, and then they waited for a good five minutes more, just to be sure. But finally, Gareth moved away from her, pushing through the clothes to the closet door. Hyacinth waited in back until she heard his whispered, “Let’s go.”
She followed him in silence, creeping through the house until they reached the window with the broken latch. Gareth leapt down ahead of her, then held out his hands so that she could balance against the wall and pull the window shut before hopping down to the ground.
“Follow me,” Gareth said, taking her hand and pulling her behind him as he ran through the streets of Mayfair. Hyacinth tripped along behind him, and with each step a sliver of the fear that had gripped her back in the closet was replaced by excitement.
Exhilaration.
By the time they reached Hay Hill, Hyacinth felt as if she was almost ready to bubble over with laughter, and finally, she had to dig in her heels and say, “Stop! I can’t breathe.”
Gareth stopped, but he turned with stern eyes. “I need to get you home,” he said.
“I know, I know, I—”
His eyes widened. “Are you laughing?”
“No! Yes. I mean”—she smiled helplessly—“I might.”
“You’re a madwoman.”
She nodded, still grinning like a fool. “I think so.”
He turned on her, hands on hips. “Have you no sense? We could have been caught back there. That was my father’s butler, and trust me, he has never been in possession of a sense of humor. If he had discovered us, my father would have thrown us in gaol, and your brother would have hauled us straight to a church.”
“I know,” Hyacinth said, trying to appear suitably solemn.
She failed.
Miserably.
Finally, she gave up and said, “But wasn’t it fun?”
For a moment she didn’t think he would respond. For a moment it seemed all he was capable of was a dull, stupefied stare. But then, she heard his voice, low and disbelieving. “Fun?”
She nodded. “A little bit, at least.” She pressed her lips together, working hard to turn them down at the corners. Anything to keep from bursting out with laughter.
“You’re mad,” he said, looking stern and shocked and—God help her—sweet, all at the same time. “You are stark, raving mad,” he said. “Everyone told me, but I didn’t quite believe—”
“Someone told you I was mad?” Hyacinth cut in.
“Eccentric.”
“Oh.” She pursed her lips together. “Well, that’s true, I suppose.”
“Far too much work for any sane man to take on.”
“Is that what they say?” she asked, starting to feel slightly less than complimented.
“All that and more,” he confirmed.
Hyacinth thought about that for a moment, then just shrugged. “Well, they haven’t a lick of sense, any one of them.”
“Good God,” Gareth muttered. “You sound precisely like my grandmother.”