Page 51 of Lyon on the Loose

Mrs. Dove-Lyon ignored the reproof. “Beatrice wanted a man who could protect Lissy, not just from others, but from herself. I needed to supply a potential husband who was intelligent, resilient, capable, and not easily deterred.”

He could feel her eyes, hidden behind her habitual veil, regarding him intently. Was she trying to flatter him now?

He made a circuit of the carpet, then stopped before the desk, his mind working feverishly. “How extraordinary! You contrived it all?”

“There wasn’t much to do. I generally just give people a little push in the right direction, and they do the rest themselves. I wanted to get you out of Town in any case—you were looking dreadfully defeated after that nonsensical wager at White’s.”

Roland stared at her in utter disbelief. Did this woman know everything?

“I cannot believe you contrived our first meeting when Lissy climbed into my carriage.”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon sat up straighter. “I didn’t know about that. Pray, tell me about it later—it will be diverting, I’m sure. But no—I did not arrange Henry Sutton. Or Oscar Treadwell. I am a matchmaker, not a conjurer of villains.”

Roland let out a hollow laugh and pressed his hands briefly to his face. Then he sank into the chair he’d been offered.

“All this time,” he murmured, “I thought I was working for you. When really—”

“You were being tested by Lady Ashby. And you passed the test. Spectacularly.”

Roland swallowed hard. “I betrayed Lissy,” he said quietly. “She trusted me—and I concealed my purpose.”

“You did nothing more than hurt a young woman’s pride.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon waved a dismissive hand. “Beatrice secured your presence there, not you. And Miss Ashby seems in no danger of holding a grudge. In fact, I understand congratulations are in order.”

He closed his eyes, heart twisting. The memory of Lissy—her hair wet with rain, breathless in his arms, whispering “I love you”—rose with unbearable vividness.

“What about the necklace?” It lay on the desk between them, like some kind of grenade. “I assume this comes back to you now?”

“Indeed. And I have also, of course, been paid in full for my matchmaking services.”

An idea sparked in Roland’s mind, and he leaned forward. “May I ask . . . how much is it worth? The necklace, I mean, not your matchmaking service.”

“That is a peculiar question. Why do you ask? It is the principle of the thing that matters, not the value.”

“I ask because I wish to buy it.”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon went still. “Buy it?” she repeated slowly. “And what would you do with a sapphire-and-diamond necklace, Mr. Chetwynd?”

“I would give it to Lissy.”

He sensed that the lady behind the veil was genuinely taken aback. “And how,” she asked eventually, “do you intend to raise its value?”

He inhaled deeply as a further idea struck him. “Do you consider that I have carried out my commission successfully?”

There was a decided pause. “In essence, yes. But—”

“Then I will buy the necklace with the fee you owe me.” Or at least offer a down payment—he had no idea of the real value of the jewels.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon stood in one graceful, liquid movement. She inclined her head, and he noticed her breathing had become rapid. She held out the inlaid box. His fingers trembled as he touched it, and he felt as if the hand of Fate had just precipitated him into a new future.

“Take it, Mr. Chetwynd, in lieu of services rendered. Present it to your bride. But wait until after the wedding—your gift will have more impact then. She’ll know it is not a bribe, but a gift from the heart.” Her voice sounded choked, as if she were under the power of some deep emotion. If only he could see her face!

“Oh, and Mr. Chetwynd, before you go . . .”

He paused, mid-step. Was she about to change her mind?

“Yes?”

“I understand your wife-to-be paints watercolors.”