Elizabeth Powell (31 page)

Jane recoiled; her heart knifed sideways in her breast. Who was that? Heavens—the voice sounded like it came from right in front of her! She retreated several steps.

“He was never this bad when you were here,” continued the voice, “but now … God’s blood, I never thought he would go this far.”

Jane gulped. The voice, hard, brittle, and definitely male, emanated from the other side of the garden wall. Who was this man, and who was he talking to? She edged closer to the brick partition.

“But I think I have found a way to get the better of him. He will never suspect. You’d be proud of me, I know you would.”

Jane waited for another voice to reply, but the only thing she heard was the sound of the breeze rustling through the branches of the elm tree. She frowned. How very peculiar. When they had rented this house for the Season, Lady Arnholt had mentioned in passing that the place next door had stood empty for the last five years, something about a terrible tragedy. Obviously it was not empty now. Her heart slowed its frantic pace as curiosity overcame her alarm.

“I would never have had to resort to such drastic measures if you were here.” The stranger sighed. “I miss you, Alex. I only wish I had had the courage to tell you sooner.”

Who was this man? Did he have anything to do with the tragedy Lady Arnholt mentioned? Jane’s better judgment
told her to go back into the house, but something—perhaps mere curiosity, perhaps a reckless response to all the talk of marriage to pompous, trout-like Augustus Wingate—made her stay. Not only that, it made her want to catch a glimpse of the speaker on the other side of the wall. She had been responsible and dependable even before her father’s untimely death; for once, she longed to do something—well—adventurous.

Lifting her skirts, she stepped up onto the stone bench beneath the elm tree. But even when she stood on tiptoe, she still was not tall enough to see through the decorative ironwork at the top of the wall. Drat.

Jane glanced back toward the house; she could see no one at the windows. McBride was busy trying to glean information from Pen. Their mother was not due back from her afternoon calls for another hour. Even so, remaining unseen would be tricky. She would have to move swiftly.

Several of the elm’s branches stretched from their property into the garden next door. After tying her shawl around her waist so it would not get in the way, she took hold of the lowest limb, then used the knobby growths on the trunk like stepping stones and clambered her way up and onto the slender bough that arced over the wall. The branch bent and swayed beneath her weight; she lay there a moment, breathless, the rough bark digging into her hands. Twigs poked sharp fingers through the fabric of her dress. She ignored them and peered through the concealing veil of leaves to catch a glimpse of the mysterious stranger. Movement caught her eye. Her breath quickened.

As far as she could see, only one man occupied the overgrown tangle of vegetation that passed for a garden on this side of the wall. Had he been talking to himself, then? How odd. He stood several paces away from her
hiding place, his back to her, his hands clasped behind him. From what she could see, he was tall, but not overly so, with thick, wavy, golden brown hair that brushed the top of his collar. His shoulders needed no padding, judging by the precise cut of his jacket. Biscuit-colored inexpressibles outlined his muscular legs so closely as to be almost indecent. His Hessians gleamed. Athletic, well dressed, and probably wealthy, to boot—all the hallmarks of a Corinthian. Who was he?

“Gads, I am getting maudlin in my old age. I had better get on with this before I lose my nerve … or my stomach,” he muttered, and turned as if to leave.

If only she could see his face …

She edged herself a little farther out onto the bough. The branch trembled. A colossal CRACK! split the air, followed closely by Jane’s shriek. And then the tree limb, with Jane aboard, crashed into the rhododendrons on the other side of the wall.

Elizabeth Powell loves a good story, and a good Regency above all! A native of northern California, this 2004 RITA award finalist currently lives in the Midwest with her plush and pampered henchcat. When she’s not writing about the rogues and rapscallions of the
ton
, she enjoys reading, research, and raiding the sale racks at
DSW.

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