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In retrospect, reflected Viscount St. George, for all Adler's reputation for coming up with 'all the most thrilling dares', a suspiciously high proportion of them tended to involve the Women's Colleges, and walls, and the climbing thereof. Uncle Peter would most likely have found some sort of entertaining symbolism in the phenomenon, but even Uncle Peter wasn't likely to be much help right now; nor, funnily enough, was Adler. Later on, when all this was sorted out, St. George really would have to look into just where his purported friend had cleared off to.
In the meantime, St. George hooked a thumb into his hip pocket and let out a low, despondent whistle as he considered his predicament. He'd been set the straightforward, if risky, task of not only getting over the back wall of St. Hugh's-- he'd taken the unconventional liberty, at this juncture, of leaving a ladder hanging down the inside of the wall, in a shallow indentation where it was least likely to be seen-- but of making his way to the front gate, checking in with a friend stationed there for that purpose, and then creeping back through the College grounds to get back over in the same place he'd left the ladder. And everything had gone so smoothly-- until he'd made it back to his starting point to find his ladder gone, and the wall too high and sheer to scale without it.
He was just calculating the risk involved in calling out-- in hopes of finding a friendly soul out in Canterbury Road and not, God forbid, the Proctor or someone equally unsympathetic-- when something rustled faintly above him. St. George flattened himself hastily into the nearest corner, but someone coughed lightly overhead. 'I can see you, you know.'
A shadowy figure was sitting atop the wall; there was a streetlamp right behind it, but St. George could only just discern a glint of red hair and long shapely legs dangling over the edge. Most certainly not Adler, who was dark-haired and on the short side and definitely not possessed of a voice that appealingly feminine. St. George squinted up from the safety of his corner, hoping for a better view. 'I say,' he ventured, 'I don't suppose you've seen a rope ladder about? A nice sturdy sort-- not that it's mine,' he added hurriedly, 'I was just wondering.'
'I might have,' the figure admitted, head tilted. 'Though I don't see what business it is of yours, seeing as it isn't your ladder.'
The coast seemed clear enough, so St. George ambled back into range of the streetlamp and switched on his most charming smile-- which, he was reliably informed, was very charming indeed. 'Seeing as I've been trapped here by pure unfortunate accident--'
The girl nodded tolerantly. 'Naturally.'
'Naturally,' St. George echoed without missing a beat, 'I was hoping to find my way out with a minimum of fuss, and therefore with a minimum of damage to--' he bowed, slight but entirely sincere-- 'the virtuous reputation of your distinguished College.' Enough long words in there, he thought, to satisfy just about anyone.
The corners of her mouth twitched up into a smile that was dangerously close to genuine. 'If you didn't look like such a nice young man, I'd say you were trying to blackmail me.'
'Not at all,' protested St. George, with just the proper amount of shock, and spread his hands wide. 'I'm only appealing to your better nature.'
The girl pursed her lips for a few long seconds, during which St. George had plenty of opportunity to contemplate just how visible he would be if any sort of authority figure happened to come by. 'I suppose it's lucky for you I have one,' she concluded, and rolled his ladder back down the side of the wall.
St. George scrambled up with all possible haste, thanking her profusely all the way up; he was even relieved enough, once he joined her atop the wall, to put words to the obvious question. 'What were you doing up here, in any case?'
She shrugged. 'Waiting for you, of course.'
'What for?' St. George dropped down at her side, letting his legs dangle over the wall next to hers; now that he was no longer trapped, he found himself unexpectedly disposed to linger.
'Well, suppose you were up late writing an essay-- though you don't seem the type to do much of that,' she added, offhand, and St. George frowned indignantly-- 'and someone who clearly has no business in your College goes creeping past your window. And then, shortly afterwards, back he goes in the other direction. Now would you rather keep on with the essay, or go see what was going on?'
'I wouldn't do the essay,' St. George admitted frankly. 'Though I don't know that I'd take the poor blighter's ladder hostage. Seems a bit excessive, that.'
'Effective, though,' she pointed out. 'And I thought I could do with a spot of wall-climbing myself. I know it's not very ladylike,' the girl admitted confidentially, 'and my uncle wouldn't approve, but I suppose he'll never have to know.'
'Uncles,' St. George agreed gloomily; he had just been reminded of a half-written appeal to his own, still waiting on a desk back in his rooms. 'They never seem to approve of anything.'
'Oh, I don't know.' She toyed idly with her hair; it appeared to have been knotted up at some point in the evening, but portions of it were trailing down the back of her neck, and St. George found the sight momentarily distracting. 'Yours isn't so bad, really.'
'He is jolly decent, I suppose, as disapproving uncles go,' he granted, and then backtracked half a minute. 'Half a tick, say that again?'
'Oh! Oh, dear.' The girl's hand flew up to her mouth; even muffled behind her fingers, her voice sounded distinctly crestfallen. 'And I was being so careful not to mention it, too.'
St. George groaned in resignation. 'It seems half of this infernal continent knows my uncle, some way or other. What sort of good turn did he do you, then?'
'It's a long story; I suppose you could say he's sort of my financial advisor. He'd mentioned he had a nephew up at Oxford, but I swear I never realized who you were until I saw you in the light.' The girl offered him a sheepish half-smile, fidgeting with the hem of her skirt. 'It didn't seem a very polite sort of guess to venture.'
'Well, since you've ventured it, we might as well be formally introduced.' St. George offered his hand, with a hopeful grin. 'The name's St. George, madam, and it's a very great pleasure. Though you can call me Jerry,' he added optimistically.
'Honored, Lord St. George.' Her tone was only mildly pointed, and her grip was firm; she seemed to be recovering her composure with impressive speed. 'My name is Hilary Thorpe. I suppose this happens to you a great deal,' she went on ruefully, retrieving her hand.
'Not so much-- only with people like you who are too clever for their own good.' St. George folded his hands idly in his lap. 'Though I confess I'd enjoy it if, just once, someone met Uncle Peter coming around a corner and said "By Jove, Lord St. George! Has it been that long?"'
Miss Thorpe laughed, but just then they both caught the murmur of voices approaching along Banbury Road. Any potential for further conversation was lost in brief confusion over which of them needed to be climbing down which side of the wall; St. George offered Miss Thorpe his ladder in a hasty fit of chivalrous spirit, but she firmly refused.
Halfway down the outside of the wall, a belated thought occured to him and he paused, hanging on to the stones for dear life.
'Miss Thorpe?' St. George waited a moment for her head to reappear, peering down at him over the top of the wall. 'Since you've done me such a favor, might I repay you with dinner under better circumstances?'
She folded her arms and beamed down at him. 'You might.'
In his distraction he forgot his grip and slid the rest of the way down the wall, ruining the fronts of his trousers in the process; but Miss Thorpe only laughed at him a little, which St. George thought was uncommonly generous of her, all things considered.