Page 28 of Lyon on the Loose

But was he going to take the necklace at all? What had seemed a noble and righteous quest at the beginning of his adventure now seemed mean and underhanded. Here, at Mundlingham Castle, London felt a million miles away, and the opinions of his friends, gambling associates, and the gossips of the ton had no importance. Why should he continue with this charade at all?

But he would have to return to Town one day and face Mrs. Dove-Lyon, one of the most influential women in London. And who knew—he might one day require her specialist services, whether to find himself a suitable wife or to get himself out of a pickle—so he needed her to think kindly of him.

But he also needed Lissy to think kindly of him. Everything between them seemed calm for now, but he understood that all he had done was pour oil on troubled waters, and it wouldn’t take much to destroy their current understanding.

He hadn’t tried to avoid her exactly, but he’d buried himself in his work, both as secretary and would-be thief. He’d helped Lady Ashby by filing her letters, organizing and labeling documents related to the family’s history, updating the household accounts, meeting with her banker and her attorney to ensure everything was in order, and signing off on various purchases connected with the masked ball she intended to host.

He had also managed to find time to draw a complete plan of the castle grounds, the interior of the inner bailey, and the layout of the Elizabethan house. Having decided the most likely location for the sapphire necklace was in Lady Ashby’s private apartments, he’d determined he could, indeed, climb the ivy and break in through her window, once his shoulder was healed. He had also worked out that, if the theft were discovered before he managed to escape and the great gates of the castle were closed to trap the thief inside, he could slip down to the dungeons and make his exit through the tunnel that Hugo had so usefully revealed to him.

To this end, he made sure to conceal a lamp and a tinderbox in the vault, which he could use to make his getaway under cover of darkness. Several times, he traced the path through the gardens that he would have to take to exit the castle at speed. He had also investigated the possibility of having a horse ready and waiting for him below the castle walls.

However, neither Sutton nor Treadwell had shown their hand yet, so he couldn’t simply take the necklace and be on his way. There was another problem; when he departed with his spoils, he’d be leaving Lissy behind.

All of this—added to the fact that his heart leaped into his throat every time he set eyes on Lissy Ashby—created a tension in him that was hard to suppress. He tried to ease it with exercise, but the kinds of sports and recreations available to a London gentleman were not the same as those available to a lowly clerk. All he could really do was walk, and that meant he was likely to encounter Lissy, which interfered with his breathing and stretched his nerves until he felt as taut as a bowstring.

It was now Tuesday—just four days until the ball. There seemed to be a fresh flurry of activity today, with footmen staggering around beneath garlands of greenery, and housemaids carrying giant lanterns shaped like crescent moons, giggling as they tried to avoid knocking against the furniture. Boxes of masks and ribbons lay open in the Great Hall, and no one seemed to know who was supposed to be where or exactly what they were meant to be doing—the perfect opportunity for Roland to do a bit of poking around.

Lady Ashby had entrusted him with the key to the office safe, and he’d quickly established that the sapphire necklace was not inside. Until he could gain access to her private chamber, he must find out if there were any other safes in the place. A family like the Ashbys must have more than one place to hide jewels; old houses were bound to contain priest holes and secret strongboxes.

The quietest room in the building that afternoon was the drawing room. He glanced around before stepping inside, then knelt and began tapping lightly at the wooden paneling, listening for the hollow thud that might reveal a hidden compartment.

He tapped again. And again, all around the fireplace. It sounded disappointingly solid.

“Mr. Cowley?” said a voice directly behind him.

Roland jolted so violently, he cracked his head on the corner of the stone mantelpiece. He turned around to see Hugo Ashby in the doorway, eyebrows raised questioningly, and bit back the curse that came to his lips.

“Ashby! Goodness—you startled me.”

“Clearly. I hope you haven’t cut your head. Are you . . . inspecting the fireplace?”

“Yes. Most particularly this mantel, which, ah . . . is carved. Wonderfully carved. I was, er . . . admiring the craftsmanship. Up close.”

Hugo’s eyes narrowed. “Admiring it with your ear?”

He thought quickly. “Oh, well, I was also listening for deathwatch beetles. They tap back, you know, if they’re present. In the mating season, mainly.”

“You’re very well-informed about beetles for a secretary.”

“Indeed. But one tries to be thorough.”

Hugo stared at him for a long moment, then shrugged. “Mama says the musicians will taking over the drawing room this evening so they can practice. I should keep my distance if I were you—wailing violins and what-have-you. They’re here from now until Friday, so I fear they need a great deal of rehearsing.”

“Indeed. Best avoided.”

Hugo departed, giving him one last thoughtful look.

Roland let out a long breath. He was going to have to be more careful in future—he mustn’t do anything to arouse suspicion.

At that point, the door to the drawing room opened, and a group of gentlemen pushed inside, weighed down by cases, portfolios, and music stands. Roland beat a hasty retreat upstairs, pondering his next move.

As was so often the case in a house that had seen many owners, Mundlingham Castle contained an eclectic collection of ornaments, some of which were displayed in the most unlikely places. In the former solar, a good spot for uninterrupted thinking, sewing baskets vied with palstaves, empty helmets gazed down upon embroidered screens, and a curved sword hung above the doorway, coated in dust. There were weapons here aplenty, enough for a small skirmish. Were any of them usable still?

“I see you admire the instruments of war. Not the most Christian of thoughts.”

For the second time that afternoon, Roland nearly decapitated himself, this time with a palstave he’d just wrestled off the wall.

“I’m Latymer Ashby,” said the newcomer, clasping his hands behind his back. “And who might you be?”