And sure enough, there she was, holding the back door an inch ajar, peeking out through the crack.
“You’re right on time,” she said, slipping outside.
He stared at her in disbelief. She’d taken his order to heart and was dressed head to toe in unrelenting black. Except that no skirt swirled about her feet. Instead, she wore breeches and a waistcoat.
He’d known she was going to do this. He’d known it, and yet still, he couldn’t contain his surprise.
“It seemed more sensible than a dress,” Hyacinth said, correctly interpreting his silence. “And besides, I don’t own anything in pure black. Haven’t ever been in mourning, thank goodness.”
Gareth just stared. There was a reason, he was coming to realize, why women didn’t wear breeches. He didn’t know where she’d acquired her costume—it had probably belonged to one of her brothers in his youth. It hugged her body in a most scandalous fashion, outlining her curves in a manner Gareth would really rather not have seen.
He didn’t want to know that Hyacinth Bridgerton had a delectable figure. He didn’t want to know that her legs were quite long for her somewhat petite height or that her hips were gently rounded and that they twitched in the most mesmerizing fashion when they weren’t hidden beneath the silky folds of a skirt.
It was bad enough that he’d kissed her. He didn’t need to want to do it again.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he muttered, shaking his head. Good God, he sounded like a stick, like all those sensible friends he’d dragged into mischief as a youth.
He was beginning to think they’d actually known what they were talking about.
Hyacinth looked at him with accusing eyes. “You cannot back out now.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said with a sigh. The woman would probably chase him down with a club if he did. “Come along, let’s be off before someone catches us right here.”
She nodded, then followed his lead down Barlow Place. Clair House was located less than a quarter mile away, and so Gareth had plotted a route for them to travel on foot, sticking, whenever they could, to the quiet side streets where they’d be less likely to be spotted by a member of the ton, traveling home via carriage from a party.
“How did you know your father wouldn’t be home this evening?” Hyacinth whispered as they approached the corner.
“I’m sorry?” He peered around the corner, making sure the coast was clear.
“How did you know your father wouldn’t be home?” she said again. “I was surprised that you would have knowledge of such a thing. I can’t imagine he makes you privy to his schedule.”
Gareth gritted his teeth, surprised by the bubble of irritation her question brought up inside of him. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “I just do.” It was damned annoying, actually, that he was always so aware of his father’s movements, but at least he could take some satisfaction in knowing that the baron was similarly afflicted.
“Oh,” Hyacinth said. And it was all she said. Which was nice. Out of character, but nice.
Gareth motioned for her to follow as they made their way the short distance up Hay Hill, and then finally they were on Dover Street, which led to the alleyway behind Clair House.
“When was the last time you were here?” Hyacinth whispered as they crept up to the back wall.
“On the inside?” he asked brusquely. “Ten years. But if we’re lucky, that window”—he pointed to a ground-floor aperture, only a little out of their reach—“will still have a broken latch.”
She nodded appreciatively. “I was wondering how we were going to get in.”
They both held silent for a moment, looking up at the window.
“Higher than you remembered?” asked Hyacinth. But then, of course, she didn’t wait for an answer before adding, “It’s a good thing you brought me along. You can boost me up.”
Gareth looked from her to the window and back. It somehow seemed wrong to send her into the house first. He hadn’t considered this, though, when planning his entry.
“I’m not going to boost you up,” Hyacinth said impatiently. “So unless you’ve a crate hidden away somewhere, or perhaps a small ladder—”
“Just go,” Gareth practically growled, making a step for her with his hands. He had done this before, plenty of times. But it was a far different thing with Hyacinth Bridgerton brushing alongside his body than one of his school-chums.
“Can you reach?” he asked, hoisting her up.
“Mmm-hmm,” was the reply.
Gareth looked up. Right at her bottom. He decided to enjoy the view as long as she had no idea she was providing it.
“I just need to get my fingers under the edge,” she whispered.
“Go right ahead,” he said, smiling for the first time all night.
She twisted immediately around. “Why do you suddenly sound so equable?” she asked suspiciously.
“Just appreciating your usefulness.”
“I—” She pursed her lips together. “Do you know, I don’t think I trust you.”
“Absolutely you shouldn’t,” he agreed.
He watched as she jiggled the window, then slid it up and open.
“Did it!” she said, sounding triumphant even through her whisper.
He gave her an appreciative nod. She was fairly insufferable, but it seemed only fair to give credit where credit was due. “I’m going to push you up,” he said. “You should be able to—”