Page 42 of Lyon on the Loose

Roland had just tied the final knot in Treadwell’s bonds and was about to start on his ankles when there was a thump from the adjoining room. A glance through the open door into the passageway revealed a partially untied Sutton careering toward the stairwell as fast as he could go.

Rage clouded Roland’s vision, and he leapt to his feet in pursuit.

No sooner had he done so than Lissy squeaked—and he looked back to see Treadwell scrambling upright and staggering out of the room.

“This is getting ridiculous.” Roland pushed his hand through his hair. “Time to raise the hue and cry!”

To his delight, Lissy understood him perfectly. She recovered her shepherdess’s crook and began waving her arms and shouting to anyone within hearing that the men now galloping down the stairs were thieves and must not be allowed to escape.

Roland snatched up his wooden executioner’s axe and swayed down the stairs after her, bellowing the same information to everyone within earshot and trying not to lose his balance.

A thick cluster of guests obstructed the main doors of the building, forcing Sutton and Treadwell to veer aside into the Great Hall. The dancers within parted before them like wheat being scythed at harvest time.

“No! Stop them!” Roland yelled in despair.

“Oh, what splendid theatricals!” cried one of the masked guests. The musicians fell silent as everyone turned to watch.

“Excellently well-acted!” exclaimed somebody else. Then a Roman emperor was rudely barged aside by Sutton, an angel had red wine spilled all over their robes, and Treadwell, hurtling through the supper room in search of a way out, knocked Latymer’s rum-soaked fruit out of his hand. Suddenly, the escape was no longer amusing.

When Roland reached the hallway, he found Hugo staring in astonishment at the ruckus caused by the fugitives.

“You have some uninvited guests,” Roland informed him grimly. “Take care of Lissy while I round them up.”

“Their hands are bound, so they can’t do much damage,” Lissy added breathlessly. “They’ll have to come back through the Great Hall as the double windows in the supper room are bolted and barred. And I don’t need to be taken care of, thank you. I’m staying with Mr. Cowley.”

“Tallyho!” shouted Hugo, and brandishing his miner’s hammer, he fixed his gaze on Sutton and joined the chase. As the fugitives dove in and out of the crowd, trying to return through the Great Hall to the main doors, Latymer rose to the occasion, shepherding the guests and an astonished Lady Ashby back to their chairs and out of harm’s way.

Roland was almost on top of Treadwell when dizziness made him stumble. With one hand, Lissy steadied him, then reached forward with her shepherdess’s crook, caught Treadwell neatly around the ankles, and precipitated him face-first into Nell Gwyn’s oranges.

The onlookers erupted into applause.

Still reeling from the blow to his head, Roland stopped and leaned forward, hands braced on his knees. Lissy halted beside him, and it was as much as he could do not to sweep her into his arms and kiss her breathless.

“Good catch, Mistress Shepherdess! Now, where’s the other one?”

He pushed away the dizziness, then spotted Sutton. The man seemed to have regained his bearings. He hadn’t waited to see what had befallen his comrade but was making straight for the main doors. Unfortunately for him, his route was blocked by a trio of guests dressed as musketeers, who seized him with professional gusto and waited for Hugo and Latymer to take charge.

Lissy rested her hand on Roland’s shoulder. “Are you all right? Your head’s still bleeding.”

He tore his thoughts away from the warm thrill of her touch and noticed that the dance was reforming itself and that the musicians had struck up once more.

“I see your brothers have everything under control—our work is done for now, and I believe we have earned ourselves a moment’s respite. Would it embarrass you to dance with me, Miss Ashby? I can replace my executioner’s mask, so you need not see what a wreck I’ve become.”

“Too late for that. I think it makes you look rather heroic.” She reached behind her head, untied the strings of her own mask, then stepped into his arms.

He gazed, his breath momentarily stolen by her radiance and the triumph glowing in her eyes. A curl trembled against her cheek, and the bodice of her shepherdess gown moved tantalizingly with each breath.

“My lady,” he said softly, extending his hand. “May I claim this waltz? I’m still reeling a bit from the blow on the head but I’ll endeavor not to tread on your toes.”

She placed her hand in his, and his heart tightened painfully. This was how it could be, how it should be between them. Enchantment, bliss, promise, and . . . trust. A perfect couple, under the eyes of everyone, uncaring of censure, meant for one another.

As they stepped into the dance, he felt the curve of her waist beneath his palm and the heat of her hand in his and tried to imagine a future in which this dance need never end.

Her eyes lifted to him, and he swallowed. He could no longer ignore the glitter of the jewels at her throat, the sapphire-and-diamond necklace, the very thing he’d been sent to steal.

His stomach twisted. A decision had to be made, and it had to be made now, before he was too deeply in love to survive the loss of Miss Felicity Ashby.

Drawing her a fraction nearer, he brought his lips close to her ear.