Page 39 of Lyon on the Loose

Thrusting open the door of the sewing room, she glanced quickly around—but if Roland was there, he was exceedingly well concealed.

“Roland?” she called softly. “It’s me, Lissy. Oscar hasn’t arrived yet, has he?”

There was no answer.

In a panic, she hunted around the room, looking behind drapes, opening chests and peering under the table, but there was no sign of Roland.

It was almost nine o’clock. How, in heaven’s name, was she to face Oscar Treadwell alone?

Chapter Twenty

The plan had gone horribly wrong. Lissy was alone in the sewing room, Roland was nowhere to be found, and in a few moments, Oscar would arrive to enact whatever dastardly scheme he had in mind for her. Could she manage him alone? If his plan was to carry her off to a forced marriage followed by the blackmail of Mama, she wasn’t going to go quietly. The house was full of people—someone would be sure to intervene if they saw a man trying to make away with a screaming, struggling woman. Or would they just think it was part of the entertainment?

It suddenly struck Lissy that if she crept into the neighboring room, mostly full of unneeded furniture and ornaments, she could peep through a crack in the door to watch for Oscar’s arrival. Then, if Roland were merely late, she could stop him before he marched into the sewing room and warn him that Oscar could no longer be taken by surprise.

Curse Roland Chetwynd. The clocks in the castle weren’t that inaccurate, and he had a timepiece of his own, didn’t he? Had he no idea how much anxiety she was suffering now, in addition to all the fuss about the ball? Why couldn’t the bothersome fellow arrive when he’d promised to? She would have to take him to task about it—just one of several improvements she intended to make to Roland Chetwynd.

Now, where had that thought come from? The only woman in a position to improve a gentleman was his wife . . .

Resting her shepherd’s crook against the door jamb, Lissy slowly opened the box room door, careful not to make a sound lest Oscar hear her from the neighboring room. A light flickered from a lantern set on an untidy occasional table, revealing a scene that made her feel sick to her stomach. It was all she could do not to scream.

A man dressed as a medieval monk was kneeling on the floor with his back to her, as though in prayer. But the object of his attention was not an altar—it was Roland’s slumped form. His face was pale, his head swayed dizzily from side to side, and a trickle of blood ran down from his ear, disappearing beneath the dark collar of his costume.

Lissy froze in the doorway. Roland’s attacker was not yet aware of her presence, and she intended it to stay that way. Was it Oscar? It was hard to believe he could overcome a man as powerful as Roland.

Then the monk pushed his hood back, and she knew it must be Henry Sutton, the dangerous felon who’d once threatened her with a pistol.

Sutton gave Roland’s shoulder a rough shake. “It’ll be the same as we said before—before you took that idiotic jump out of the coach. A regular payment, made in London, through a third party, and no questions asked. Otherwise, I’ll take my written exposé to Fleet Street, where the vultures who call themselves ‘Gentlemen of the Press’ will pick through the dregs of your life—and that of the lady—like a heap of giblets outside a butcher’s shop.”

Roland’s eyes flickered open. “Enough of the description, I beg you. I may cast up my accounts on the rug.”

Sutton gave an evil laugh. “Not when I put the gag on you, you won’t. You can stay here, nice and quiet, until the ball’s finished. And then I’ll have some documents for you to sign. Your lady friend will be arriving next door any moment to meet Treadwell—so make sure you’re good and wide awake. I shall enjoy seeing you witness her capitulation.”

Roland twisted in his bonds, flexing his shoulders. “Leave Miss Ashby out of this,” he growled. “You know you can’t win. And you can’t keep me here indefinitely.”

“Oh, can’t I? Just another tap on the head like the last one, and you’ll be quiet enough. Nobody’s going to come in here, especially if I lock the door. Don’t worry, you won’t be forgotten. I still need those signatures. Let’s just get you trussed up nicely so you won’t be any bother.”

At that moment, Roland’s gaze flicked past Sutton’s shoulder and met Lissy’s. He widened his eyes meaningfully and tilted his head toward the passageway. He wanted her to run.

Run? And leave him at Sutton’s mercy?

While she was fetching help, Sutton might knock him out again—he could suffocate or bleed profusely from a cracked skull. No—she could not abandon him.

She shook her head firmly and pressed a finger to her lips, then stared around the room in search of an appropriate weapon.

This room was not as well-equipped with weapons as the sewing room, but there was something almost within reach that drew her eye. It was a decoratively painted wooden club—not lethal but nonetheless effective if wielded correctly.

There was no time to doubt. Oscar might hunt her down at any moment, and the two men together would overpower her in seconds. Mama had said she believed Lissy might grow to be the most determined of her children—well, now would be her chance to prove it.

Thankful she had chosen lawn, not silk, for her shepherdess costume, she sidled along the wall, praying her skirts would neither rustle nor snag.

Roland glanced at her again, then fixed his gaze on his captor.

“I don’t see why you must hound us like this. You captured an entire coach, and the team of horses pulling it—the sale of those alone would amount to a small fortune for men like you and Treadwell. All our possessions were on board as well—you could have sold those through your dubious contacts, no doubt. Why risk being caught by persisting in your schemes concerning Miss Ashby and me?”

Lissy exhaled silently. Good. Roland was distracting Sutton, giving her time to grab the club.

“The confounded coach went into a ditch,” Sutton muttered. “The axle broke. A crashed coach is hard to hide—people always want to help. And since we weren’t wearing coachman’s garb, I didn’t fancy explaining myself to the local constable. I also didn’t know how thick the skull of your driver was—if I’d hit him too lightly, he’d be awake, and before we’d managed to haul that cursed contraption out of the ditch, he’d have been upon us. If he’d denounced us, we’d have swung for it. No—it was all too much fuss. I’m no ordinary thief; I’m clever. I like my arrangements all neatly tied up, and my kind benefactors unable to trace me or change a thing.”