A Wayward Woman: Diamonds, Deception and the Debutante / Fugitive Countess. Helen Dickson

what she was looking for without being seen. Letting herself in by a door that led into a passageway, she paused and listened. Sounds of domesticity and cook issuing orders to the kitchenmaids could be heard from a room on her right—the kitchen, she thought. Fortunately the door was only slightly ajar and she managed to creep by. A narrow staircase rose from the passageway and gingerly she made her way upwards. With a stroke of luck she found herself on a landing, on the top floor of the house, off which were several rooms.

      With her ears attuned to every sound—conversation and laughter from Lord Bingham’s guests and the clink of glasses—she went from door to door, pressing her ear to it before opening it a crack and peering inside. They were bedrooms mostly—though not one of them gave the impression of belonging to the master of the house. Undeterred, she crept along another landing, peering into each room until eventually she found it. Looking through the slightly open door she waited, afraid Lord Bingham’s valet might be in an adjacent room. After a few moments when nothing happened she stepped inside and closed the door.

      Only one lamp was lit, giving off a dim light. She could have done with more, but decided she would have to manage. She set to work, starting on a tall bureau beside the door. Thankfully the drawers slid open soundlessly. After rummaging inside and being careful to leave things as she found them, she went on to the next piece of furniture, working quietly, admiring the expensive quality of everything her fingers touched.

      She glanced at a rather ornate clock on the mantelpiece as it delicately chimed ten o’clock. Wondering where the time had flown and disappointed that her search had produced nothing as yet, she knew she would have to hurry. Looking about her, she saw a door that she assumed must lead into a dressing room. Slipping inside, she searched the chests of drawers and among racks of clothing, but all to no avail.

      Feeling crushed and extremely disappointed, she emerged into the bedroom once more. She was about to admit defeat when her eyes lighted on the bedside tables. She paused to listen. Had she heard a noise on the landing, or was it the noise of the wind that had risen? Whatever it might have been, she decided to get on with it. She had no wish to be caught red-handed.

      With one last desperate attempt to locate the jewels, she looked inside the first bedside table, almost shouting out in triumph when, on opening a small velvet pouch and seeing its sparkling contents, she realised she had found what she was looking for.

      ‘Got you, you thieving rogue,’ she whispered, pocketing the pouch. Quickly she closed the drawer and then halted abruptly. This time she could not mistake the footfall on the landing as someone came towards the bedroom. Her heart thumping wildly in her chest, Belle flew to the lamp and blew out the flame, placing it on the floor so it could not be lit in a hurry—although there were others in the room to light, so she needn’t have bothered. The room was now in almost total darkness. Belle stood in the middle, turning about indecisively. She had to find a place to hide. Her eyes lit on the dressing screen and she flew behind it just as the door handle turned.

      Lance came in, uttering an oath under his breath when he found his room in darkness, and an even louder oath when his foot made contact with the lamp and it toppled over.

      ‘What the devil has happened to the light?’ His voice bore an edge of sharpness that bespoke of vexation. Without more ado he picked up the lamp and, striking a sulphur match, soon had it lit. He stood for a moment in puzzlement. His eyes did a quick sweep of the room. Seeing that everything appeared to be in place, he removed his jacket and threw it on to the bed.

      From behind the screen Belle listened to him moving about, wondering why he had come to his room and how she was going to get out without being seen. Her heart racing in confused fright, she took a deep breath, trying to calm her rapid pulse and to peer through a crack in the screen. She saw him loosen his neck linen and remove his waistcoat—and what was that dark stain? It looked like wine. So that was it. He’d clearly spilled some on his clothes and come up to change. Hopefully he would do it quickly and go. Seeing him disappear into his dressing room, she waited in trembling disquiet, horrified when, having changed his clothes, he came back into the bedroom and approached the screen.

      Lance was just reaching to fold it back when it was shoved towards him by a decisive force. He was almost toppled over by its weight and was momentarily stunned as a shape leapt past him and ran towards the door, pausing for a split second to blow out the lamp. Angrily Lance tossed the screen aside and with quick long strides reached the intruder before he could escape, snatching a handful of his coat and pulling him back.

      A rending tear preceded a startled cry and then a booted foot kicked at his shins.

      ‘Dammit, who the hell are you, and what do you think you’re doing in my house?’ Lance ignored the hands that flailed the air, hitting out at him, and jerked the figure around roughly.

      Belle stumbled against the bed and in great trepidation scrambled across it to the other side.

      Angered beyond bearing, Lance lunged after what he thought to be a man, since the figure was wearing breeches and the face was concealed by a low-brimmed hat.

      Making a concerted effort to escape, Belle picked up his jacket and threw it at him, but swinging round the bedpost, Lance tossed it aside, his fingers again reaching out to ensnare the shadowy figure. Belle side-stepped and darted about the room, but the vague blur of bodies in the dark room gave away their movements. When he was near her, Belle abruptly changed directions and scurried to the door. Lance was faster and leapt after her in time to catch her full against him, clamping a hand over her mouth when she opened it to scream.

      ‘Be still. If you continue to fight me, I’ll knock you senseless. Do you understand me?’ His captive nodded, in which case he began loosening his grip slightly.

      The moment he did, Belle sank her teeth into the fleshy part of his palm and flung herself away from him. He grabbed her before she had taken two steps and held her prisoner in his arms.

      ‘So, you want to draw my blood, eh?’

      The sudden contact of their bodies brought a gasp to Belle’s lips.

      Lance continued to hold her, finding the form too slender, too light to be that of a man. A youth, perhaps?

      Taking her with him to the door, he turned the key before releasing her and lighting the lamp. Giving all his attention to his captive, who continued to squirm against him, he reached out and tore the hat away, his mind rebelling in disbelief at what he saw—the dark brown hair, with highlights of red and gold, framing a creamy-skinned visage. The lips were soft and sensuous, the eyes a clear, sparkling shade of green.

      ‘What the hell … Good Lord!’ he cried. ‘Belle!’

      Belle turned from him, but he caught her wrist. Blindly, insanely, she fought him, wildly twisting and writhing and clawing at him in an attempt to get away from him.

      ‘Will you be still?’ he growled, pressing her back against the wall and trying to still her frantic threshing with the weight of his own body. When she wouldn’t he increased the pressure of his grip upon the delicately boned wrist. Stubbornly Belle resisted the pain until Lance finally loosed his hold, not wishing to hurt her unduly. Feeling what little fight she had left drain away, slowly she quieted, breathing heavily, very much aware that his thighs were crushing her own quaking limbs.

      ‘Stop fighting me, Belle, and I’ll step away. Then I will listen to what you have to say. You owe me that much at least.’

      ‘I owe you nothing,’ she hissed through clenched teeth, open mutiny in her tone, her eyes hurling daggers at him. She sidled away from him, rubbing her wrist. ‘I swear I’ll break your hands if you dare touch me again.’

      Lance stepped away from her. A wave of anger that she could be so reckless, that she had put herself in danger like this, washed over him. ‘Do you realise I could have killed you, you stupid girl?’

      Belle tossed her head in defiance, her expression indignant. ‘Desperation leads me to do stupid things.’

      ‘Desperate? You? Don’t make me laugh,’ he uttered sarcastically. ‘How nice of you to drop in to my party. Do you mind