Page 50 of Lyon on the Loose

“I’m glad we broke our journey with the great-hearted Metsons, but sorry we had to continue to deceive them regarding our identities.”

“Agreed. Deception is exhausting! I shall be on the alert for deceit in others from now on—I think I’ve been far too trusting in my life thus far.”

Lissy sighed. “As have I. As have I.”

He leaned forward and grasped her hand, thrilled at the way it felt in his, so delicate, so feminine, yet so accomplished. “I still think there was a conspiracy against us, conceived by your mother and Mrs. Dove-Lyon. She had such a knowing look when we told her we were in love and wanted to marry. And then she said, ‘Bessie is always right.’ What do you think she meant by that?”

“I have my suspicions. Goodness, I recognize this place.” Lissy released his hand and stared out the carriage window. “We’re in Whitehall already.”

“Good gad, I believe we are.”

In the next few moments, they’d be in Cleveland Row, Lissy would travel on to her cousin Sarah, and he’d have to endure her absence for at least a day. Added to that agony was the horror of having to explain to Mrs. Dove-Lyon that his secret mission to Mundlingham Castle was no longer a secret and that he was, in fact, terribly bad at being a spy. He fully expected ridicule, insult, and certain dismissal from her service.

As soon as the carriage halted, he pulled Lissy into a fierce embrace, then jumped down and signaled the vehicle to continue on its way. He couldn’t have kissed her—he’d never have been able to stop. Tempting as it was, it was more important to get this business out of the way.

He’d faced highwaymen, blackmailers, and the ridicule of the ton in recent months, but nothing in the world inspired quite the same tightening in his stomach as the front door of the Lyon’s Den on Cleveland Row.

He waited on the step, hat in hand, gloves tucked under his arm, the jewelry case safely in his pocket, until the door swung open and one of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s staff of veterans bowed him a greeting.

“Good afternoon, Egeus. Is Mrs. Dove-Lyon at home?”

“Please come in, Mr. Chetwynd. I shall enquire for you.”

He was shown into the smoking room, where, fortunately, he could see nobody he felt obliged to talk to. His mind was buzzing with questions, and distraction was the last thing he needed.

The former soldier reappeared at his elbow as silently as a cat.

“Mrs. Dove-Lyon will see you immediately. Follow me.”

Shortly thereafter, Roland was ensconced in Bessie Dove-Lyon’s private office. The veiled widow waved at a chair.

“Sit down, Mr. Chetwynd.”

“I would prefer to stand.” He sincerely hoped this interview would be brief.

“My mission is complete.” He bowed and held out the lacquered box. “I didn’t take the item surreptitiously—that became impossible. Lady Ashby herself gave me the necklace to return to you. I apologize for failing to be discreet and for revealing your scheme to her.”

“That cannot be helped now. She has written to me, posthaste, explaining everything. And now I, in turn, owe you an explanation.”

Roland blinked. “I don’t know that you owe me anything, ma’am,” he began, but was waved into silence.

“The commission I gave you was not strictly mine.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The original request came from Lady Ashby herself. Years ago, she confided that she had borrowed—let us call it that—my sapphire necklace. She kept it long enough that returning it would have embarrassed her, especially after she had her portrait painted wearing it, so she never did. We remained friends, but the matter still hung between us. Beatrice always did have a particular fondness for sapphires.”

Roland pinched the bridge of his nose. “I see. So why could you not simply ask for it back when you needed it? Why send me to steal it? I was about to risk my neck climbing up some ancient ivy to get it for you.”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon tilted her head. “You were never expected to climb anything, Mr. Chetwynd.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I sent you to Mundlingham Castle because Beatrice asked me to find someone worthy of her daughter. I am known for being rather good at matchmaking.”

This bald statement hung in the air between them like a challenge. Roland felt as if he’d been punched. It was some time before he could compose himself enough to reply without sounding furious.

“I have heard as much. I didn’t realize your methods were quite so . . . underhanded.”