Page 32 of Lyon on the Loose

“I’m starting to have my doubts about that new secretary of Mama’s.”

“But I thought you liked him,” she whispered back. “He showed an interest in your horrible old tunnels and the history of the castle. I’m surprised you aren’t on first-name terms by now.”

Hugo leaned still closer. “I don’t mean to suggest that Mama has chosen a wrong ’un, but I found him tapping the paneling beside the fireplace in the drawing room the other day. And I’ve also caught him staring up at that portrait of Mama when she was young—you know, the one in the entrance hall.”

“Well, it is an arresting portrait. He was probably admiring the artistry.”

“As did your Mr. Treadwell. That was the name of your art tutor, wasn’t it? Whatever became of him? No one has mentioned him since I came home.”

Lissy hid her face in her napkin and struggled to regain her composure. This was a question for which she had not yet invented an answer. If her brothers were to remain ignorant of her disastrous elopement, she and Mama needed to agree upon a plausible story—and quickly.

“You were talking about Mr. Cowley,” she said, striving for nonchalance. “What did you say he was doing?”

“He looked for all the world like a man trying to find a hidden panel, or a priest-hole, or something similar. Why would he do that?”

She honestly had no idea. Roland could not possibly expect their enemies to arrive through the walls—could he?

“Did you tax him with it?”

“Of course—he said he was listening for deathwatch beetles. But I’m not convinced he was telling the truth.”

Lissy had to bite back a smile. Roland was nothing if not inventive in his explanations. But Hugo was right—it was peculiar behavior. She would have to interrogate Roland the next time they met.

“Wood paneling certainly can be at risk from deathwatch beetles, and woodworm, too. Why, I framed a watercolor landscape last year, and it now looks as though someone drilled holes in it. One cannot be too careful in an old house.”

Hugo puffed out a sigh, glanced at his mother to ensure he was not observed, and leaned even closer.

“I shall say this quickly before Mama finishes her conversation with Latymer and chastises us for whispering at table. I don’t think Mr. Cowley is at all what he seems.”

“Why do you mistrust him?”

“He may dress like a secretary, but he does not look like one. He carries himself too well, and his diction is too precise. He clearly exercises—which is not something one associates with secretaries—and he has an air of self-confidence about him one does not normally find in a mere clerk.”

“But you barely know him, Hugo, and you’ve hardly been in the house five minutes. I think your imagination is running away with you. Mama will laugh at you if you go to her with this story.”

Why was she defending Roland? She had suspicions of her own. Yet every time she thought of him, her heart turned over, and her blood flowed hotter. It was utter folly, but she had fallen for his easy charm and gentle teasing. She cared for him—and that was a serious lapse of judgment.

“I shall be watching him closely,” Hugo murmured. “If he makes one false step, I shall present my case to Mama. You should watch him too—you are exactly the sort of person he might prey upon.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Behind those thick lenses—which I’m sure he doesn’t need—there’s a handsome face to go with the toned body and air of self-importance. He is, I am convinced, the disgraced younger son of an aristocrat.”

This was meant as wild speculation, but it made Lissy’s breath catch. Hugo had, quite by accident, landed an arrow close to the mark.

Hugo twirled a piece of gammon on the end of his fork and peered at it. “He is incognito because he cannot allow the authorities to catch up with him, having slain some fellow nobleman in a duel. Or he has ruined some young lady, and his family has refused to support him. He’s now hiding away in Suffolk to avoid her people. Give him a wide berth—he’s exactly the sort of man to ruin you and break your heart.”

Lissy choked on a piece of bread, and the ensuing commotion ended all further conversation. Breathless, cheeks tear-stained from coughing, she excused herself, grabbed a glass of water, and retreated upstairs where she could splutter in private.

Her first instinct had been to laugh at Hugo’s ridiculous theories. On reflection, however, most of what she knew about Roland Chetwynd came from Roland Chetwynd himself. What if none of it were true?

Lies could grow like snowballs rolling down a hill—you tell one lie, then you must tell another to conceal the first. Before you know it, you are maintaining a whole avalanche of falsehoods for fear of being exposed.

Hugo was correct—she was at risk. She’d already allowed Roland to invade her heart, and now he was weaving his spell around her body too. It might be better for everyone if he left. She didn’t need his protection; she could alert the local constable to the imminent arrival of Henry Sutton and his new accomplice, Oscar Treadwell. Now that both her brothers were at Mundlingham Castle, she felt less vulnerable. Mama could use the ball to spread warnings about Sutton and Treadwell amongst their neighbors—soon the whole county would be on the alert.

But if she persuaded Roland to leave, she might never see him again. He’d still be in danger from Sutton, and she wouldn’t be able to help him—and if he left Mundlingham Castle now, he’d be defying one of the most influential women in London, Mrs. Dove-Lyon.

All the same, it might be better to persuade him to leave—he was certainly not doing a good job of keeping a low profile, not after making both Hugo and Latymer suspicious.