Page 21 of Lyon on the Loose

Roland made frantic signals behind Hugo’s back to make sure she didn’t give any indication of recognizing him.

With considerable aplomb, Lissy turned her scowl into an expression of surprise.

“Oh, my goodness, Hugo, you startled me! Have you forgotten how to knock?”

Roland clasped his hands together in a praying gesture, and after a moment, Lissy gave him the faintest of nods. Thank goodness! His secret was safe for now, but they would need a private conversation so he could explain himself. What, exactly, was he going to say, though? How much of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s schemes did he dare to reveal? He dreaded the thought that Lissy would despise him.

“Our new secretary, Mr. Cowley. Cowley, this is my sister, Miss Ashby. She’s been staying with our cousin Sarah in London, so she could visit a sick friend and has just returned. I bet you’ve missed your studio, eh, Lissy?”

That answered an important question. As far as the family was aware, Lissy had been staying with a relative, not absconding with her art tutor. How quickly her mother had rewritten events! Lissy was safe from scandal—for now.

“What are you sketching there?”

Hugo took a step forward, but Lissy immediately held the book behind her back. “I’m very tired after my long journey. Please don’t plague me now, brother. Don’t you have some tunnels or something to entertain Mr. Cowley with?”

“I most certainly have. I’ll see you at luncheon.”

“I’ll be here the rest of the morning. Please don’t disturb me again.”

Roland appreciated that the first part of the sentence was directed at him and the second at Hugo. Judging by her expression, Lissy was going to ring a peal over him as soon as she got him alone.

It was a damnable shame that what could have become a beautiful friendship would be trampled into the dust so soon. Without a word having passed between them, he felt what it was like to be held in contempt by Miss Felicity Ashby. If her displeasure made him feel this terrible, how much worse would it be if he were to admit the reason for all his deceit?

It was unthinkable that she should ever find out.

Chapter Eleven

Of all the infernal cheek! How dared he come into her home? How dared he inveigle himself into the position of her mother’s secretary? And why was he still using the name they’d used to protect their anonymity whilst traveling together? Had he no sense of decency at all?

She was very tempted to throw the watercolor set Roland had given her on the flagstone floor of the orangery and jump on it. But that would just mean a mess for the maid to clear up, and that was unfair.

She seized her drawing book, opened it at the most recent page, and glared at the portrait of Roland she’d sketched from memory. That could be destroyed without creating a mess—there was a fire in the parlor, and she could enjoy ripping the picture into tiny shreds before casting it into the flames.

Only one thing stayed her hand—it was an exceedingly good portrait. She had the color of his eyes just right, a vibrant blue like a summer sky. She’d captured the slash of his eyebrows, the straight line of his nose, the amused quirk at the edges of his generous mouth, and the determined chin. His corn-colored hair curled about his ears and flopped over his noble forehead. Anyone looking at the portrait might think she’d imagined the perfect man. Only he was real—startlingly and alarmingly real, and only a few moments ago, he’d been standing in the same room with her.

Her fingers tensed on the paper, then she flung it aside in annoyance, hating that her hands refused to tear it to shreds. But then, hurting his picture wouldn’t punish him at all, would it?

Why? Why was he here? He’d seemed so noble, so heroic when they were fleeing from their enemies, but what did she really know of him? Had she forgotten already that he could be deceitful and foolish? Had she forgotten how dangerous he was? He held far too many of her secrets in those capable hands. Was his sudden, unexpected appearance at Mundlingham Castle part of some hideous ploy to reveal those secrets? Had he entered into one of those abominable wagers with one of his friends, as young men of his ilk were wont to do?

The only thing she could be sure of was that he would come back. He’d understood totally that he owed her a full explanation, especially since she hadn’t given him away. It would be entertaining to watch Mama deal with him when the revelation came, which it surely would. Mr. Roland Chetwynd, younger brother to the Earl of Aylsham, had no right to anonymously enter Lady Beatrice Ashby’s home. Not only would Mama tear him apart with her vicious tongue, but she would also ensure that all the tabbies of the ton did the same thing. Roland Chetwynd would be hanging his head in shame for the rest of his life.

It was impossible to settle down to anything. Each time Lissy tried to sketch one of the plants in the orangery, her pencil quivered on the page, and she had to abandon the attempt. There were no seedlings to re-pot because it was the wrong time of year, and nothing needed watering because she’d done it this morning. She must find something to do while waiting for Roland’s return—she didn’t want him to think she had nothing better to do than wait.

Disconsolately, she trailed across to the grapevine and began snipping off the wizened grapes that had never filled out, and casting them into a bucket—until the sound of the door opening had her spinning around, her heart thumping painfully.

She drew a deep breath, ready to release a volley at Roland, but it was Mama who came into the room. The fight left Lissy’s body like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

“Please sit down, Lissy.”

She did what she was told and clasped her hands in her lap. At least her mama had thus far spared her the tirade she knew was coming and had seemed more concerned about her physical well-being than anything else. Now, Lissy must prepare herself for The Grand Telling-Off.

“I have a simple question for you.”

Lissy lifted her chin. She’d had good reasons for leaving, and she’d make sure Mama heard about them.

“Ask away.”

“Did you truly love Mr. Oscar Treadwell?”