Page 6 of Lyon on the Loose

“Sutton’s been warned away from this place, and with an army of veterans and likely fellows like ourselves to eject him, he won’t chance it again.”

“But you can’t keep him away from George Street, can you? And what if he were to make his way to Brampton Hall?”

“If you are attempting to cheer me up, Melhuish, my friend, let me assure you that you are not succeeding.” Roland gave his friend a hard look.

“No need to get sticky with me, Chetters. I’m just saying—that’s all.”

Roland threw back his wine. “I suppose you’re correct. I do need a permanent solution to the issue of Mr. Sutton.”

He would have plenty of time to come up with a plan on the journey up to Suffolk. It would be good to spend some time totally incognito, not looking over his shoulder for danger, burying himself in an adventure of his own. Even if it did involve the rather dubious activity of theft. He would have to make certain that he didn’t find himself behind bars, or on a convict boat headed for America.

Chapter Four

It had taken Lissy the better part of an hour to trudge from the lodgings in Whitechapel to the George and Pelican Inn. Despite the crisp autumnal air, she felt overheated, bedraggled, and cross, and the single valise she carried grew heavier with every step.

By the time she reached the stable yard, her shoulders were agonizingly sore, and her chest ached with effort. She’d walked as fast as she could, because she had, about halfway through her journey, developed an uncanny feeling that somebody was following her. She’d tried to find subtle ways of looking over her shoulder and had noticed that there was a gentleman headed the same way that she was—a total stranger. One of her mother’s henchmen, perhaps, sent to make sure she got on the coach? That would be no surprise.

There was no sign of the man when Lissy entered the bustling stable yard, stepping aside to avoid the busy grooms and ostlers, whilst at the same time avoiding the feed sacks, buckets, and heaps of horse manure.

She clutched her ticket with grim determination, resolved not to give in to despondency. She’d made up her mind to leave London, and she was going to make the best of it, even though her return home to her mother almost certainly presaged reproach, lectures, and confinement.

She paused for a moment on the lee side of a wall, to catch her breath and recover her composure before she identified her coach. Out of habit, since the devastating theft of her purse, she fingered the small bag of coins she had sewn into the waistband of her pelisse. It was all she’d managed to get in exchange for her box of watercolors, easel, and paints, but she was going to need funds for food and lodging en route to Suffolk, since dear Mama had not thought to provide anything of that kind.

Lissy gazed around again to see if her possible pursuer was in evidence. No—he must have passed on by. If he had been in Mama’s service, he’d have had trouble recognizing his quarry in any case. She’d done as much as she could to be unrecognizable; her hair was scraped back into a severe knot beneath her bonnet, and she’d thrown an oversized gray pelisse over the top of her gown. The spectacles she’d bought—pebble lenses that distorted the world to a gray blur—completed her disguise. She looked, or so she hoped, like a governess traveling to a new situation.

Having located the correct vehicle, she climbed into the coach and sank gratefully onto the faded leather seat, tucking her valise beneath her knees and checking the presence of her purse once again.

“Only eleven hours or so of this confinement,” she murmured. “Then I shall be home.”

The coach tilted, and the steps creaked as another passenger embarked, carrying a small traveling case. He had to fold himself up to avoid banging his head on the ceiling. The coach jerked again as something was settled into place at the back—the rest of his luggage, presumably.

It would have been polite for him to remove his hat, but she noticed he did not. Like herself, he was wearing thick glasses, the reason for which became obvious when he pulled a copy of the Morning Chronicle from his valise and peered at it closely before apparently losing himself in all the latest news, trials, battles, and advertisements.

His indifference to her presence suited her. Having to make conversation with one’s traveling companions was an effort she felt unable to rise to at present. Her grief at Oscar’s betrayal had given way to a degree of bitterness, now mixed with fury that her mother must have had a hand in it. She also wished a hundred kinds of Hell on whoever had stolen her money; nothing like that would ever happen again, even if she had to use violence to prevent it.

The gentleman let out a sudden sneeze and was forced to put down his newspaper and fish for a handkerchief. She couldn’t help but sneak a glance at him. Something about the set of his jaw ignited a spark of memory, and she studied him surreptitiously as the coach rocked into motion. The breadth of his shoulders, the dark slash of his brows, and the hint of golden hair beneath his hat . . .

No. It could not be!

Before he could hide behind his paper again, she caught sight of the sardonic curve of his mouth—and her heart sank.

“Mr. Chetwynd?”

He dropped the paper abruptly and spent a few moments scrabbling the pages into some kind of order before staring at her over the top of his thick glasses.

His jaw dropped, then clamped shut, and he thrust the glasses back on his nose before taking a deep breath.

“You are mistaken, miss. My name is Cowley.”

She resisted an urge to kick him. “Don’t imagine those silly spectacles can fool me. I’ve seen you in close proximity very recently, and I never forget a face. Why are you pretending to be somebody else, Mr. Chetwynd?”

His eyebrows shot up. “I fear I recognize those dulcet tones.” Removing the glasses, he subjected her to a steely, blue-eyed gaze.

“By Jove—what bad luck! My sodden damsel in distress! Whatever are you doing here?”

She bristled at that. “Your bad luck? What about mine? I was hoping for a nice, pleasant journey, but now it has been ruined by the presence of an ungallant, objectionable gentleman. I sincerely hope you don’t intend to travel far.”

A faint flush spread over his cheeks. “I’m sorry I gave you so poor an impression of myself, Miss Whatever-your-name-is. You happened to catch me in a moment of severe melancholy, and I appreciate that I may not have been as gentlemanly as I should. For that, you have my apology.” He touched his hat.