A soft, rustling noise broke her abstraction, and she froze. Was someone still about? She held very still, but the sound had stopped, and she shook herself. They must have mice or rats here—most houses did. She could send Alexander a polite, anonymous note suggesting he hire a rat catcher.
She grinned in the darkness. It would drive him mad. She liked driving him mad, just as he seemed to appreciate returning the favor. If she married someone like him she would never be bored.
Right now boring sounded wonderful. She didn’t want to question or doubt; she just wanted peace and safety. One night wasn’t so much to ask, was
it? She would figure things out tomorrow.
Wincing at her wounded toes, she rose and drifted across the dark room like a ghost. The door to the side garden was locked, of course, but the key was in it. The housekeeper should retain the keys, she thought, another example of a bachelor-run household. He really needed someone to take things in hand.
She could add that to her note, she thought, cheering up. Turning the key, she slipped out into the dark, foggy night.
The flagstones on the terrace were cold and damp beneath her bare feet. There was enough moonlight filtering through the clouds that she could see the heavy stone balustrade, and she sat down and pulled on Gracie’s shoes. The first foot was difficult; the other one with the stubbed toe was painful enough that she let out an unconscious little yelp, then froze. Had someone heard her?
After a moment she relaxed. They were all asleep, and no one would even notice she was gone till late tomorrow morning. Unless a housemaid brought tea in early, but even so, there’d be no way to trace her in a huge city like this, and Alexander wouldn’t bother. He’d be free of her, he would have done his duty and attempted the honorable thing, but her disappearance would acquit him of any more effort on her behalf.
There was something wet on her face, and she brushed it away angrily. The fog must be so heavy that it made her eyes water. She rose, holding on to the stone balustrade, and stepped down into the garden.
It was large, and she imagined quite beautiful in the daylight. Even at night the scent of early roses was evocative, reminding her of Alexander. The fragrant roses in the air as he’d caught her in his arms and danced with her. She would never again smell roses without thinking of that night.
Damn it, the fog was getting worse. It was making the tears stream down her face, and wiping it away didn’t seem to be doing much good. She blinked a few times, trying to stifle the hiccupping noise that sounded oddly like a sob, and headed for the back of the garden, where there must be a door to the mews.
There wasn’t. She moved carefully along the entire wall, but there was no opening at all. She started up the side wall, being careful not to trample any of the early flowers, sliding between the wall and shrubbery in case the door was hidden by an artful display, until she reached the back of the house. Nothing on that side—just the high brick wall.
Avoiding the house, she moved along the opposite wall. Who would design a garden with no egress or entrance? But there was nothing, nothing at all. She was trapped.
She wasn’t going to give up that easily. There were trees, young ones, since the house was new, but long ago she’d been adept at climbing. Nanny Gruen had moaned more than once about her torn skirts and scratched arms.
With more half-blind experimentation she found a tree she decided would do. The branches were low enough, and even if they weren’t terribly thick, the tree was young enough and sturdy. If she could just make it to the top of the wall she could drop down on the other side without much difficulty.
She hadn’t counted on her skirts. It had been many years since she’d climbed a tree, and she was only partway up when her petticoats caught on something and wouldn’t let go. She yanked as hard as she could—they could rip for all she cared, as long as she could continue her ascent. The walls were a good ten feet tall and very thick, and the tree was a foot or so away. She needed to get up high enough that she could swing over to the top of the wall, which had a wedged top rather than a nice flat surface, damn it. If she landed she might go tumbling over anyway, and falling without being prepared could lead to problems.
The tears had stopped—even though the fog had thickened to an almost-impenetrable layer, it seemed to have ceased bothering her eyes as she concentrated on the problem—and she wiped the last of the moisture from her face with the hem of her dress. A lady never went out without a handkerchief. Then again, a lady never crept out in the middle of the night wearing a maid’s shoes.
The petticoats were refusing to budge. She reached down with one tentative foot, trying to see what was holding her, and her shoe fell off, into the darkness below.
Sophie froze, wanting to weep. Then again, if she were honest with herself she’d already wept, hadn’t she? Why did she keep lying to herself? What good did it do? She was stuck up in a tree, with one shoe gone. She couldn’t free her petticoat, she couldn’t climb higher, and chances were she’d break her leg if she managed to jump down on the other side.
She couldn’t climb down either and regain the missing shoe—the petticoats were holding her prisoner. She tried to reach under her skirts, to untie the tapes that held them, but she started to lose her grip on the tree. She was standing on one weak branch, clinging to the slender trunk, and she leaned her head against the bark wearily.
She didn’t even hear him approach, but then, for all she knew he’d been in the garden the entire time. “Has Cinderella lost her slipper?” Alexander said softly from directly beneath her.
For the first time she was feeling entirely defeated. She had done everything she could, and nothing was working out. “Go away,” she said miserably. “You were supposed to be asleep.”
“You were supposed to think that,” he replied steadily. “You’d best come down. You’d never make it across to the wall, and I’m afraid the other side is a drainage ditch full of very unpleasant water.”
Blast. She was well and truly trapped. “I can’t get down,” she said, trying not to sound like a complete fool. “My petticoats are caught in the bushes.”
“Allow me.” She felt a tug on her skirts, a moment of freedom, and then another hard tug that had her falling directly into his arms.
He caught her, amazingly enough, not even staggering beneath her weight. “You may as well give up, Sophie. I’m going to do the right thing whether you like it or not.”
Those were the last words she wanted to hear. “What kind of idiot puts a walled garden in the back of his house and then doesn’t put a door in it?” she said, knowing she sounded peevish and not caring.
“One who’s careful about letting stray people in. Or out, in this case.” He was still holding her. She couldn’t see anything in the darkness but the gleam of his dark eyes, and she couldn’t read much from his voice. Was he angry? As weary as she was?
“You can put me down now,” she said in a small voice.
“I could,” he allowed. “But I don’t think I will. God, you feel even lighter than before. You barely ate enough to keep a bird alive today. Are you planning some kind of hunger strike to get out of marrying me?”