“Lord Radcliff. Oh, Lord Radcliff. Where are you? You are cheeky!”

Morgan held his breath. He daren’t move or Mrs. Newton would surely see him in the shadows. It was a minor miracle she had walked past him at all but he suspected she had enjoyed one too many sherries and the drink was making her bold.

It was not that he was averse to the occasional dalliance with a curvaceous, attractive widow—or perhaps a regular dalliance either—but Mrs. Newton was no widow and he did not engage with married women. Not to mention that Helen Oxford was here and he had yet to break things off with her. Helen was not the best choice of bed partner, as he had unfortunately learned. She was the jealous sort and would not take well to the delectable Mrs. Newton following him around.

“Lord Radcliff...” Mrs. Newton pivoted at the end of the darkened corridor and tried one of the doors. She had the same problem as he...all locked it seemed—likely to keep the rabble of guests out.

Hence how he had found himself tucked into a corner behind a dusty velvet curtain trying to ignore the tickle in his nose.

“You are a tease. Where are you? If you are trying to make me more eager, there is only so much waiting a girl can take.”

Mrs. Newton tried the next door, then another. She staggered before she came to the next and paused to rest against the wall. She pulled out a fan and swished it rapidly in front of her face. The fierce movement sent a gentle breeze his way. But it was strong enough to stir the dust on the curtain.

Morgan closed his eyes and breathed through his mouth. He was not going to sneeze. He was not going to—

The sneeze escaped him, sounding like the singular most loud sneeze in the history of mankind.

“Oh!” Mrs. Newton whirled in his direction and, even in the dark, he saw her eyes light up.

He dashed down the stairs, then back up on the other side, finding himself in another corridor of the same design. Behind him, he could hear tapping footsteps and a giggle.

“Lord Rad—”

He twisted a doorknob and fell through the doorway, surprised by its unlocked status. From his position on the floor, he slammed the door shut with a foot and rose to press his back to it.

Breath held, he waited. She had likely heard the door slam but did she know which room he was in? The light slap of slippers on floorboards scurried past then stopped. One door rattled a way down the corridor. Then another door opened and shut. He scanned the darkened room which looked to be a music room of some sorts. A piano sat in one corner with sheets of music laid out across the top of it. A cello was propped up by the fireplace and several violin cases were next to it.

Under his breath he cursed. No places to hide. He briefly debated folding himself into the open cello case on the floor but there was little chance his large form would fit.

The sound of a door closing far too near reminded him of his conundrum. He should just turn around, open the door and tell Mrs. Newton to go back to her husband, but everyone knew Mrs. Newton did not take no for answer. The tales of an extensive list of lovers was almost as notorious as his—with one exception, of course—Mrs. Newton did not much care if her lovers were married, engaged, virgins or confirmed bachelors. Morgan prided himself on having a little more discretion and taste.

No, he did not want to be added to that list. He was liked by all in London, and he did not need the taint of Mrs. Newton affecting his chances with the next beautiful widow on his list.

He tiptoed over to the window and pushed his head between the curtains. Only one floor up. Hardly a big drop. Perhaps he could find something to shimmy down and escape into the night. He was reluctant to give up an evening of dancing but it was surely better than being found in some sort of compromising position with Mrs. Newton.

Morgan popped the two locks on either side of the sash window and pushed it up, wincing at the slight squeak it made. Then he eased out onto the large stone window ledge and drew the curtains behind him. He waited there, crouched like an animal hiding from his hunter.

His legs began to ache as he waited. This was not a natural position for a man, particularly not one of his build. His heart thudded in his ears when the door opened and the floorboards creaked.

“Lord Radcliff,” Mrs. Newton called. “This is not funny anymore.”

He was not sure that any parts of this had been funny. Ending up being crouched on a ledge, only one step away from many broken bones was not his idea of fun.

Morgan braced himself for the sudden swish of curtains and the delighted cry of Mrs. Newton but it never came. She gave a huff. “I am not giving up. I shall be waiting right out here until you decide to come out. I am a stubborn woman, my lord, and no man gets away from me.”

He had to assume she meant the corridor as she left the room and shut the door. So that meant he had no choice but to try to escape via the window. He glanced down. There were no handy drainpipes or anything for him to climb down. If he jumped, he would surely break a leg.

As he peered over the edge, a redheaded woman came out from the assembly rooms, almost directly underneath him. She paused, looked up at the skies then sank down onto the step. He only knew of a few redheaded women in attendance so it had to be one of the Chadwick sisters. His good friend the Duke of Weston had married one of the sisters recently. The man had found himself utterly enamored with the girl.

He was about to call out to her when another redheaded girl joined her. The younger sister, he reckoned, although he could only see the tops of their heads. She was the smallest, though. These were the two unmarried ones by his reckoning.

What two skinny redheads could do to help, he did not know, but he was in quite a pickle, and he had little choice. He grinned as the youngest, Catherine, declared she would kick someone in the shins. He would wait just a moment, then rope them into help.