Page 29 of Lyon on the Loose

So, this, then, was “the Bishop,” the unctuous brother Lissy had told him about. The man looked earnest, serious, and about as much use in a skirmish as a pocket handkerchief.

“I’m Cowley, Her Ladyship’s new secretary. I admire the craftsmanship,” he added, fumbling the polearm back into place, “though I confess, I am also making myself familiar with what might be useful should we be called upon to defend the castle.”

Latymer blinked. “Defend it? Against what?”

If only he could explain to someone that there was a genuine threat, that Henry Sutton was still at large, that Lissy’s former lover Treadwell was desperate, and that both men were capable of violence! But the truth would reflect badly on both Lissy and himself. Now was not the time. And even if Hugo might relish the idea of a fight, Latymer would most likely faint at the sight of blood.

“Nothing in particular,” Roland said smoothly. “I am simply a great believer in preparedness.”

Latymer nodded piously. “As am I. Vigilance and virtue must walk hand in hand. Now, then, I need to greet my sister.”

While Latymer wandered off to bestow his sanctimonious presence on the unsuspecting Lissy, Roland decamped into the entrance hall and found himself once again beneath the portrait of Lady Beatrice. The necklace gleamed on her painted throat: sapphires the color of deep twilight, diamonds shimmering like frost.

He studied it.

“Did you truly steal these from your friend?” he murmured to the portrait. “Or was it all a misunderstanding?”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon was never wrong—supposedly. Yet Lady Beatrice seemed so grounded in propriety and the expectation thereof from everyone around her. Surely, she was not the sort to steal from a friend.

This accursed necklace! This damnable mission! How was Lissy going to feel when she discovered he’d crept into her mother’s chambers at night, stolen a treasured heirloom, and vanished like a common thief? The thought made his stomach twist.

Stealing from Lady Beatrice Ashby was one thing. Stealing from Lissy’s mother was another. He needed to think.

Abandoning his prowling, he strolled across the courtyard to the coach house, rubbing his injured shoulder for the hundredth time, rehearsing arguments with himself and finding none of them satisfactory.

He’d just pushed open the door when he heard a light footstep behind him.

“Lissy!”

She glanced over her shoulder at the courtyard before shutting the door behind her. He realized she was brandishing something in her hand.

“I’ve brought the ointment I promised.” She was breathless, as if she’d run after him. “Comfrey and pennyroyal. Very good for strained muscles. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to make it up for you—Mama keeps finding things for me to do.”

His heart leaped and lodged itself somewhere in his throat. “You—you needn’t have troubled yourself.” And she shouldn’t have come here—it was not at all the done thing to pursue a member of the household staff into his private quarters.

“It’s no trouble. We need you fit for the ball. You are coming, aren’t you?”

“I mustn’t. It’s not my place. And my shoulder’s not that bad.” He didn’t want her to think of him as a weakling.

“It’s bad enough for you to keep fussing with it. Take off your coat.”

He hesitated. “Lissy—”

“Mr. Cowley,” she said, in the sharp tone of a governess disciplining a naughty boy, “take off your coat. Your shirt as well. Now, sit down.”

He obeyed, grimacing as he pulled the garment over his head. He felt oddly exposed as Lissy dipped her fingers into the salve, then moved behind him.

When her hand touched his skin, he barely kept himself from groaning aloud. Her fingers were small but firm, working the ointment into the bruised muscle with gentle, careful strokes. The scent of pennyroyal filled the air, cool and sharp.

Her breath fanned his shoulder. He closed his eyes as his heart sped up.

“Does this hurt?” she asked softly.

“No,” he said hoarsely. “No, Lissy.”

Her hand slid from shoulder to upper arm, then back again. The methodical warmth of her touch undid him utterly. A man could resist many things—cards, wagers, even temptation—but this . . .

This was intolerable without any participation from himself. He turned, catching her wrist.