Patrick took off the bottle top and sniffed it. “No.” His voice admitted no argument.

“Well at least wear the cape,” Braddon implored. “It has a hood, so she won’t be able to see who you are, at least until you get her on the ground. I don’t want her to start screeching and wake the whole household. Sophie probably won’t be pleased to realize that you’ve come up the ladder instead of me.”

In Patrick’s estimation, that was a vast understatement of Sophie’s likely feelings about the matter.

But Braddon continued blithely. “What’s more, you need the cape to wrap around her once you’re on the ground. You can’t ruin the reputation of my future wife by being seen with her in the middle of the night!”

Patrick’s eyes flashed with amusement. “You’re asking me to go into your future wife’s bedchamber and fetch her into a solitary carriage, in the middle of the night, without her parents’ knowledge, and you’re worrying about her reputation?” He threw on the cloak and pulled up the hood, catching a glimpse of himself in the fireplace mirror. “My God, I look like a caricature—one of those medieval figures of Death. All I need is a rope belt and a sickle!”

Braddon pulled on his lip. “Sophie’s reputation will be compromised only if someone recognizes the two of you. So you should wrap her in the cloak on the way to the carriage so that no one can see her face. I mean, if someone happens to be walking down the street at that hour.”

Patrick sighed. The situation was ridiculous. The best he could do would be to fetch the chit and dump her at Braddon’s house.

“I suppose you’ve thought about what you’re going to do with her once she’s in your house?”

Braddon nodded. “I’m sending her over to my grand-mama’s. The house is just a few streets over, and I already warned the housekeeper. Grandmama is in the country, so in the morning the housekeeper will simply escort Sophie back to her own house with no one the wiser.”

The cloak had about twice the volume of his riding cloak and Patrick had no doubt that he looked absurd. But it wasn’t until he was standing in the pitch-dark gardens of Brandenburg House, looking through his deep hood at a ladder which innocently leaned against a window, that he realized forcefully how absurd the night had become. He almost turned about and headed out of the garden; but just as he started to turn on his heel a soft voice hailed him from above.

“Lord Slaslow!”

Patrick looked up. He could only indistinctly see Sophie’s small head and shoulders peeping out the window through the ladder studs.

“Well, come on down then,” he snarled. “If you want to elope.” Some Romeo I make, he thought savagely.