Page 16 of Lyon on the Loose

Farmer Metson came forward, his wide grin revealing his crooked teeth. “If you’re wondering where your good lady is, she’s in the kitchen garden taking a breath of air. That door there, then past the pantry and boot hole.”

The various Metson offspring greeted him as he passed, and he gave the farmer’s wife a smart bow which set her giggling like a girl. Hushed laughs and whispers followed him as he strode down the passageway and swung out the back door and into the garden.

He saw Lissy at once, at the far end, a blanket draped over her shoulders as she gazed across the fields to where a mist was creeping up from a nearby river. Black-barked trees edged the scene, their few remaining leaves a delicate tracery, a gilt frame for a picture in which Miss Felicity Ashby was the central subject.

He slowed and allowed himself a few moments to gather his thoughts. He had spoken partly in jest last night, but realized his words needed to be expanded upon, or he’d be traveling the rest of the journey with one very distressed young female. Taking a deep breath, he asked himself what Leo would do, and the answer was immediate—Leo would do the Right Thing.

“Lissy. Good morning. Did you sleep well?”

It wounded him to see how she shuddered and spun around at the sound of his voice. Yesterday, they’d been friends in adversity, but now he felt as if a chasm had opened between them.

“I slept a little, thank you.” She turned her back on him, and it felt as if the sun had gone behind a cloud.

“I apologize for what I said last night. I mean, I was in earnest, but I wouldn’t hold you to it if you didn’t want to. What I should be saying is that I’m an honorable man and I would have no objection, if you didn’t—”

He clenched his fists—he was making a mull of this!

“You don’t have to say anything further, Roland. I understand that you were being gallant, and I appreciate it. You’ll have to forgive my disbelief, following my recent experiences. Oscar swore to marry me and then persuaded me that it was not the wisest course at that particular time. You know the rest.”

Roland surged forward. “I was in earnest. And I’m a man of my word, despite what you might think. But we have known each other for barely a day, so perhaps the best I can wish for is that you should give me the benefit of the doubt. I will do the decent thing—I don’t want you to worry on that score. All the same, I suggest we do whatever we can to prevent the news of what happened last night from reaching the ears of any members of the ton. Indeed, it cannot reach the ears of anyone, particularly those of Sutton and Treadwell. Sutton is determined to extort money from me and wouldn’t think twice about using you as leverage. I wonder what it is that Treadwell requires from you?”

He paused, realizing his words sounded far from reassuring, then put an arm around her shoulder and pulled her against him. “What I’m trying to say is that I won’t let anything bad happen. I’ll protect your honor and your good name with everything I have. There! Does that sound better?”

Rather to his surprise, she rested her head against his shoulder for a moment. “We’ve been through a lot, and I’m very tired. I don’t know what to think—I just need to get home now, and when I’m rested and recovered, I’ll decide what to do.”

He stood beside her, watching the swirling shapes in the mist, observing the tiny droplets of water on the golden leaves, relishing the fresh chill of the autumn air on his face. It all made a very enjoyable change from London, and it was a pleasure to be standing next to a beautiful young woman who wanted nothing from him. How long could he get away with keeping his arm around her before she noticed and pulled away, thinking it improper?

“I’ve had an idea about how we came to be upon the same coach.”

“Indeed?” She gave him her full attention.

“Well, we know there has been a past association between your mother, Lady Ashby, and Mrs. Dove-Lyon. It may be that Her Ladyship asked her old friend to nominate a reliable gentleman—don’t laugh—to escort her recalcitrant daughter back home. Of course, neither of us was told of these arrangements, but as I have learned, Mrs. Dove-Lyon likes to be subtle and normally has a reason for keeping her schemes to herself.”

“But where are you traveling to? And why do you have to pretend to be somebody you’re not?”

She pulled away from him, and the air that thrust between their bodies was cold.

“Well, I can tell you where I’m bound now. I’ve decided I’m going to your home, which is, I believe, Mundlingham Castle in deepest Suffolk, somewhere between Ipswich and Norwich.”

“You’re coming all the way with me?” She had turned away, so he couldn’t read her expression.

“I most certainly am, after what happened yesterday. And I swear to do a better job of looking after you. Besides, I’ve studied the maps and considered the routes all the way to the town of Mundlingham itself. So, you might as well let me be your escort, Mrs. Cowley.”

She turned back to him, horrified. “You’re not intending to continue with this charade once we leave the Metsons, are you?”

He made a move toward her. “Oh, no, of course not. I didn’t mean to give you that impression. I mean, only if absolutely necessary. We’ll be traveling on public coaches for much of the way and sharing the journey with others—schoolmasters with their inky pupils, servants heading to and from market, and smallholders with baskets filled to the brim with chickens. Or so I imagine. Nobody will even notice us.”

To his relief, she chuckled. “What a bucolic picture you paint. I wonder if you know anything about the countryside at all.”

That was unfair; he’d been brought up at Brampton Hall and knew a great deal about running a country estate and about how the Home Farm operated. It was just that, as a youth, he’d found it mundane and longed for the excitement of Town.

But he had no wish to argue with Lissy. “Perhaps you should do some painting along the way,” he suggested. “If the weather remains fair, there’ll be some fine scenery, and I’m sure we can stop long enough for you to capture it.”

She lowered her eyes. “I only have my drawing book and pencil. I had to sell my painting things because someone stole my money.”

“What? When?” Why hadn’t she told him?

“The night before I boarded that coach. I was almost at my front door when it happened. And then I went in, and I found Oscar and his things had gone, and he’d left me a note to say that he had abandoned me, although he protested that it was for my own good and that I should let my mama look after me.” Her breath became a sob.