Where the hell was Hyacinth?
Was she in danger? It was late, and even though they were in one of the most expensive and exclusive areas of London, thieves and cutthroats might still be about, and—
No, she couldn’t have fallen prey to foul play. Not here. He would have heard something. A scuffle. A shout. Hyacinth would never be taken without a fight.
A very loud fight.
Which could only mean…
She must have heard his father talking about Mary Winthrop and run off. Damn the woman. She should have had more sense than that.
Gareth let out an aggravated grunt as he planted his hands on his hips and scanned the area. She could have dashed home any one of eight different ways, probably more if one counted all the alleys and mews, which he hoped she was sensible enough to avoid.
He decided to try the most direct route. It would take her right on Berkeley Street, which was a busy enough thoroughfare that there might be carriages rolling home from the Mottram Ball, but Hyacinth was probably just angry enough that her primary aim would have been to get home as quickly as possible.
Which was just fine with Gareth. He would much rather see her caught by a gossip on the main road than by a thief on a side street.
Gareth took off at a run toward Berkeley Square, slowing down at each intersection to glance up and down the cross streets.
Nothing.
Where the hell had she gone? He knew she was uncommonly athletic for a female, but good God, how fast could she run?
He dashed past Charles Street, onto the square proper. A carriage rolled by, but Gareth paid it no mind. Tomorrow’s gossip would probably be filled with tales of his crazed middle-of-the-night run through the streets of Mayfair, but it was nothing his reputation couldn’t withstand.
He ran along the edge of the square, and then finally he was on Bruton Street passing by Number Sixteen, Twelve, Seven…
There she was, running like the wind, heading around the corner so that she could enter the house from the back.
His body propelled by a strange, furious energy, Gareth took off even faster. His arms were pumping, and his legs were burning, and his shirt would surely be forever soiled with sweat, but he didn’t care. He was going to catch that bloody woman before she entered her house, and when he did…
Hell, he didn’t know what he was going to do with her, but it wasn’t going to be pretty.
Hyacinth skidded around the last corner, slowing down just enough to glance over her shoulder. Her mouth opened as she spied him, and then, her entire body tensed with determination, she took off for the servants’ entrance in the back.
Gareth’s eyes narrowed with satisfaction. She was going to have to fumble for the key. She’d never make it now. He slowed a bit, just enough to attempt to catch his breath, then eased his gait into a stalk.
She was in for it now.
But instead of reaching behind a brick for a key, Hyacinth just opened the door.
Bloody hell. They hadn’t locked the door behind them when they left.
Gareth vaulted into another sprint, and he almost made it.
Almost.
He reached the door just as she shut it in his face.
And his hand landed on the knob just in time to hear the lock click into place.
Gareth’s hand formed a fist, and he itched to pound it against the door. More than anything he wanted to bellow her name, propriety be damned. All it would do was force their wedding to be held even sooner, which was his aim, anyway.
But he supposed some things were far too ingrained in a man, and he was, apparently, too much of a gentleman to destroy her reputation in such a public manner.
“Oh, no,” he muttered to himself, striding back to the front of the house, “all destruction shall be strictly in private.”
He planted his hands on his hips and glared up at her bedroom window. He’d got himself in once; he could do it again.
A quick glance up and down the street assured him that no one was coming, and he quickly scaled the wall, his ascent much easier this time, now that he knew exactly where to place his hands and feet. The window was still slightly open, just as he’d left it the last time—not that he’d thought he was going to have to climb in again.
He jammed it up, tumbled through, and landed with a thud on the carpet just as Hyacinth entered through the door.
“You,” he growled, coming to his feet like a cat, “have some explaining to do.”
“Me?” Hyacinth returned. “Me? I hardly think—” Her lips parted as she belatedly assessed the situation. “And get out of my room!”
He quirked a brow. “Shall I take the front stairs?”
“You’ll go back out the window, you miserable cur.”
Gareth realized that he’d never seen Hyacinth angry. Irritated, yes; annoyed, certainly. But this…
This was something else entirely.
“How dare you!” she fumed. “How dare you.” And then, before he could even begin to reply, she stormed to his side and smacked him with the heels of both of her hands. “Get out!” she snarled. “Now!”
“Not until you”—he punctuated this with a pointed finger, right against her breastbone—“promise me that you will never do anything as foolish as what you did tonight.”
“Unh! Unh!” She let out a choking sort of noise, the kind one makes when one cannot manage even a single intelligible syllable. And then finally, after a few more gasps of fury, she said, her voice dangerously low, “You are in no position to demand anything of me.”
“No?” He lifted one of his brows and looked down at her with an arrogant half smile. “As your future husband—”