Kasey Michaels (36 page)

“So,” Sophie commented as Bramwell unexpectedly flattened her against a high wooden fence, pressing his body against hers to conceal her presence as a sleepy coachman steered his equally weary horses through the alleyway, “if he catches us out, he probably wouldn’t see the humor in any of this, yes? Still, you’re being terribly solemn about something that could turn out to be a most wonderful adventure. Would you like to kiss me?”

Their bodies were stuck together from knee to chest, Sophie tinglingly aware of every inch of their closeness. Which was why she had asked her question. She believed, the knowledge dawning on her slowly, but pleasurably, that she just might have the makings of being a one-man wanton, and she thought Bramwell might like to know that.

His head was mere inches from hers as he gave out a low curse, then caught her mouth with his own, the fierceness of his kiss nearly melting her dark, heavy hose to the soles of her tingling feet.

“Now, shut up,” he breathed into her mouth a moment later, as her heart, temporarily stopped, began to beat again, tripping along with all the rushing speed of a galloping stallion. “What the devil was I thinking? I knew I shouldn’t have brought you along.”

“Oh, you might say that, Bram. But you know you wanted to,” she all but purred, stroking his cheek. Giuseppe, obviously feeling a bit jealous (and perhaps a mite crushed), began loudly chattering nineteen to the dozen—which caused Bramwell to grab the animal by the throat, pull him close, and glare into his little monkey face. Giuseppe lifted a hand to his small red cap, tipped it jauntily, then puckered up his monkey lips as if offering Bramwell a kiss. And Sophie bent in half where she stood, still holding on to Bramwell to help keep her balance, and laughed until her sides ached.

All in all, it was an enjoyable few blocks’ walk to Lord Sidmouth’s residence. In fact, although Bramwell grumbled about juvenile overenthusiasm and addle-headed females in general, Sophie skipped for the entire length of the last block.

He should be home. In bed. Alone. He should not have cried off from Isadora’s plans to go to Lady Buxley’s soiree, and been sitting in a hot, stuffy room right now, listening to some ten-thumbed creature saw away on a violin, or fracture a perfectly good tune on a piano. He should be out on the town with Lorrie and Wally, drinking too much, talking nonsense, and perhaps turning a card or two.

He should, in short, be anywhere but here, outside Lord Sidmouth’s town house, skulking around in the dark and looking for an open, second-story window through which he intended to push a flea-bitten, yellow-toothed, light-fingered, less than aromatically appealing, faintly amorous monkey.

And yet... and yet... damn, but it was good to feel alive! And young. And adventurous. Breaking the rules, enjoying breaking the rules. And feeling not in the least bit betrothed, although very much in love. Although he had considered strangling Sophie more than once in the past twenty minutes. But she probably knew that. Sophie was a good girl, and a good sport. And he wanted this silliness over soon, so that he could kiss her senseless, and lose his own senses as well.

“I don’t see one,” Sophie whispered, treading lightly on his right foot as she leaned in front of him, to get a better look at the darkened upper stories of the town house. “Oops, I’m sorry, Bram. You know, I just now thought of something we might have wanted to consider before this. You don’t suppose Lord Sidmouth is one of those who believes the night air dangerous to one’s health, do you? Because that would be unfortunate, yes?”

“It wouldn’t help matters. Does Giuseppe know how to open windows? And, Sophie? I’d consider it a kindness if you’d tell him to climb down off my back. He keeps trying to pull my hair.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that, Bram. Giuseppe’s just looking for nits,” Sophie explained, holding out her arms to entice the small monkey into them.

“He’s doing
what
?” Bramwell asked, much too loudly, he knew. “He’s doing what?” he repeated, whispering this time, as he rubbed at the back of his head, which suddenly itched.

“Looking for nits, silly. You know. Itty-bitty baby lice eggs. Or is that louse eggs?” She shook her head, dismissing her own question. “Monkeys do that, you know. Groom each other. It’s a sign of affection, I think. But don’t worry, Bram. I’m sure you don’t have any nits. Or louses,” She looked up at him, grinning so that her nose wrinkled adorably. “Lices?”

He looked down at her dispassionately for a few moments, then declared, “I think I’ll go out into the center of the Square now, and start jumping up and down and shouting. If I’m lucky, one of the Watch will come and take me away to someplace safe, like a gaol cell.”

“A gaol cell? Better take Giuseppe with you then, Bram,” Sophie teased. “Bound to be louses there, yes?”

Bramwell knew when he’d had enough, and he was just about there. Grabbing Sophie’s hand, he daringly pulled her around to the front of Sidmouth’s town house, hoping against hope that there would be one, just one, window open overlooking the Square. “Aha!” he exclaimed a moment later. “Success! Here,” he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the snuffbox. “Give Giuseppe his climbing orders, all right?”

“Certainly,” Sophie said. “Giuseppe,” she went on, looking intently into the monkey’s face, so that he tilted his head and returned her gaze. “I want you to take this. That’s a good boy. Now, put it under your hat. Wonderful! What a good little Giuseppe you are. Now, what I want you to do next is climb up that drainpipe over there—straight up that drainpipe, yes, and then climb inside the house through that window. See the window, Giuseppe? Good! Then I want you to
put
the snuffbox on a table and come straight back to me.”

The monkey made a very monkeyish face and scratched his head.

“Oh, dear,” Sophie said worriedly. “I think we have a problem. He doesn’t understand. Giuseppe
takes
, he doesn’t
give
. How can I make him understand? Bram—quick! What’s the opposite of
fetch
?”

“Newgate Prison,” Bramwell drawled dryly, shaking his head. It wasn’t, but that’s where they’d all soon be, if Giuseppe didn’t perform as hoped. The Square was quiet, totally deserted, everyone who could be out and about already gone—Lord Sidmouth, he knew, among them—and those who’d remained at home already in bed. Still, time was slipping away from them, and he couldn’t be sure they wouldn’t soon be spied out by someone returning home early or sneaking away from a dull party being hosted in one of the houses here in the Square.

“Very funny, Bram,” Sophie said, then snapped her fingers. “I’ve got it!” She knelt beside Giuseppe, who was now sitting quite at his ease on the flagway, picking at his toes, and said, “Take the snuffbox into the house, Giuseppe—and bring Sophie something pretty. Something pretty for Sophie, Giuseppe, yes? Now—
go
!”

“Oh, good,” Bramwell commented, seeing a fortnight or more of nights spent looking for open windows in Sidmouth’s town house as Giuseppe scampered off, climbing the drainpipe as if it were a great iron tree. “But I do have one small question for you, Sophie. What do we do when he comes tripping back down here clutching Sidmouth’s plans to overthrow the new king?”

“Bram! He plans to overthrow the new king? You said he wasn’t a nice man, but he really plans to—” Sophie asked, wide-eyed, then slapped at Bramwell’s arm. “Don’t
do
that!” she commanded. “I thought you were serious.”

Bramwell began to laugh, quietly, but his laughter faded away to nothing as a coach pulled into the Square, passing by the flambeaux outside one of the other houses, casting light on Viscount Sidmouth’s coat of arms as it was painted on the door of the coach.

With a quick look to the open window, knowing Giuseppe was still inside the town house, he then grabbed Sophie by the upper arms and pushed her into the wrought-iron fenced stairwell leading to a belowground doorway in front of the Home Secretary’s town house. She went quickly and quietly enough, bless her, and didn’t even protest when he laid her flat on her back against the damp cobblestones in the small space at the bottom of the stairs. He lay down on top of her, hoping to shield her with his body.

“Not a word, Sophie,” he whispered into her ear as the coach drew closer, the jingle of harness and the rattle of wheels against the cobblestones growing louder, then coming to a halt not twenty feet from where the two housebreakers lay quietly, barely breathing.

She did, however, pull on both his ears, bringing his face down to within a hairbreadth of her own as she whispered fiercely, “Giuseppe’s still in there!”

“I know,” he whispered back, pulling himself slightly away from her once more, hoping to hear better what he couldn’t see taking place on the street level.

Still hanging on to his ears, she pulled him right back, her eyes wide-open, her expression intense, as if she longed to scream at him, but knew she couldn’t. “He might even be in Sidmouth’s bedchamber.”

“Then I suppose we should hope Lady Sidmouth either is inside that coach, or she prefers to sleep alone,” he shot back at her, trying to move away again, because he was sure he was all but smothering her. “Although, knowing Sidmouth, she might view Giuseppe as an improvement.”

There was another sharp pull on his earlobes—she seemed to be unable to release them—and his head was brought back down to within an inch of hers once more. “
What
?” he demanded, beginning to tire of having his ears tugged.

“That wasn’t funny,” she gritted out from between clenched teeth. “You might think it was, but it wasn’t. I just thought you should know that. And I think my left hip is broken. I hesitate to mention it, and I’m not complaining, really. But it might hamper our chances of flight, should we be discovered down here.”

Bramwell slid a hand between them, automatically running his hand over her hip as he would an injured man under his command aboard ship, searching for broken bones. What he found was the small pistol he’d tucked into his pocket—just in case, he’d told himself at the time. The pistol was jammed between them, pushing into Sophie’s leg.

“Sorry,” he said, removing the pistol, then rubbing at her sore hipbone before drawing back his hand as he finally realized what he’d been doing. And how good it felt. How good
she
felt.

“Sophie?” he asked as he felt her body begin to shake beneath his. “I didn’t mean to be so—well, so personal. I’m sorry?”

“You—you’re
lying
on top of me, Bram,” she whispered. “What could possibly be
more
personal?” Then she buried her head against his chest, trying to snuffle the sound of her giggles. God bless the woman—she was one in a million. Perhaps one in a hundred million!

All the time they’d been lying there, and it really had only been little more than a minute, doors had been opening above them, light had spilled onto the flagway, servants had been rushing to the assistance of their master and mistress, horses had been neighing—and Lord Sidmouth had been talking. The man was a prodigious talker, Bramwell knew, but he wished the fellow would take himself, and his conversation, inside. Or maybe he didn’t. Because there was still no sign of Giuseppe.

“Damnedest dull squeeze I’ve ever seen,” Sidmouth was saying—shouting, actually—as he stood on the flagway not five feet away from the wrought-iron-enclosed stairwell. “What was Buxley’s wife thinking? As if a party isn’t a success if you aren’t jammed in together so closely you learn more about the fellow standing behind you than anyone of any decency cares to know. Halton’s either hung like a stallion, or he stuffs himself. Last time you’ll get me to one of those sad crushes you favor, woman, you remember that!”

“Yes, dear,” Lady Sidmouth replied much more quietly, but still close enough for Bramwell to hear the disgust in her voice. “Why don’t you go directly upstairs, dear, and I’ll have Ryland here bring you some warmed brandy?”

“You do that, if you can get the damned lazy lout to move above a crawl,” Sidmouth said, and Bramwell, who was now struggling under much the same urge not to giggle as Sophie had been a moment earlier, listened as the sounds of His Lordship’s footsteps—followed by those of at least two hovering footmen—disappeared into the bowels of the town house.

“Ryland?” Lady Sidmouth said, her voice growing louder as she climbed the portico, heading for the foyer.

“Yes, milady?”

“I wonder. Have you ever considered murdering Lord Sidmouth in his sleep?”

“Any number of times, milady.”

“You’re a good man, Ryland,” her ladyship declared on a sigh, her voice slowly fading as the door closed on the Square. “A good man.”

Luckily for Bramwell and Sophie, who couldn’t possibly have been faulted for being unable to contain their mirth, the coach loudly moved away then, heading for the mews.

“You can get off me now,” Sophie said after a moment, at the same time her arms were snaking around Bramwell’s back, pulling him closer.

“Yes, I know,” he answered, adjusting his body slightly, moving it more comfortably against hers. “And I’ll do just that,” he went on, pressing his mouth against the side of her throat, her cheek, her chin. “Anytime now, I’ll do just that.”