Chapter Two
The weather was showing no sign of mercy—Lissy would be sopping again by the time she reached her front door.
She turned into the dark alleyway in Whitechapel where she and Oscar Treadwell had set up home.
In this weather, the place was even more gloomy than usual, with the ground glistening with black puddles and the air reeking of soot and blocked drains.
Lissy broke into a trot. This was not a salubrious area, and unsafe for a young lady even in full daylight. The alley into which she had turned was narrow, its houses leaning inward as if conspiring. The gutter by her feet gurgled with filthy water.
She was busy counting the doors—all the streets in this terrace looked the same—when somebody hurtled toward her along the passage.
She staggered to one side, but it was too late to avoid a collision, and following a muffled apology, the shrouded figure disappeared back in the direction of the main road.
Rolling her eyes, Lissy took a deep breath and ran the last few steps to her front door. She fumbled for the key, which she kept tied to her wrist with a ribbon, alongside her purse.
There was the ribbon, there was the key.
But her purse was no longer there.
The breath froze in her chest, and she frantically patted at her pockets, stamping up and down and shaking herself. Nothing. Had she left her purse in the carriage with the odious Roland Chetwynd? If so, it was going to be a nightmare trying to get it back from him without enormous embarrassment.
Then, just as she was letting herself in through the door of the lodgings, grim realization struck her.
The stranger who’d collided with her had stolen her money.
There was no other explanation for him crashing into her—no one else had been in the alleyway, so he could easily have skirted around her.
She understood how the London backstreets worked well enough to accept that her purse was gone, never to be seen again.
As were her savings, the much-needed funds for the market stall where she and Oscar planned to sell their watercolor paintings.
If there were any delay in renting the stall, would Oscar not just see that as a reason to further postpone their wedding?
No. She wasn’t going to give up, not when she’d come so far.
She had defied her family, run away with the art tutor with whom she was madly in love, and chosen freedom rather than the prison of an arranged marriage.
She and Oscar would find a way—he was a talented artist, and surely it would be no time at all before he was welcomed in the drawing rooms of the ton, sketching portraits of fine ladies and listening with an amused ear to the latest on dits.
She wasn’t looking forward to breaking the news of this setback to him, though.
Stepping gratefully into the chilly but mercifully dry room, Lissy removed her rain-drenched cloak, then paused, fingers on the ribbons of her bonnet.
Something was amiss.
“Oscar?”
There was no answer. Perhaps he was asleep; he should most certainly have been home by now, unless he’d stopped off for a pint of ale.
He couldn’t have done much sketching in Hyde Park because of the weather, so she couldn’t blame him for wanting to spend a few moments in the warm fug of a tavern, nursing a drink.
In truth, after that recent shocking glimpse of her mother’s secretary, Mr. Dashwood, she wouldn’t have minded a drink herself.
“Oscar? I’m home. Shall I heat up the kettle?”
Still no answer. Well, perhaps he’d had two pints and was now having a sleep.
She understood, from what little knowledge she had of the world, that artistic types often found alcohol smoothed the process of creation.
But Oscar would have to watch out once they started saving for their wedding—whatever funds they brought in would have to be apportioned wisely.
At least, until she attained the age of one-and-twenty and came into her inheritance.
She was a fine one to talk about wisdom! What a fool she’d been to have any money in her purse when it could have remained safely here in their lodgings! What a fool to imagine she needed to keep her coin on her person in case of an emergency. Ah, well. She’d learned a bitter lesson on that score.
The fire in the tiny range was almost out, so she shoveled some coal from their meager store and stoked up a blaze before filling the kettle from the large water jug.
Wiping her hands on her skirts, she held them out, reveling in the warmth of the fire and wondering if she should just stand there for the next half an hour while her clothes dried out.
No. That was just delaying the inevitable, admitting to Oscar that she had lost her purse.
“Oscar—are you all right?” She pushed open the door into the bedroom they shared and battled her dislike of the enclosing walls and the tiny space between them.
There was space for two tiny truckle beds—one against each wall—and little else.
A moth-eaten blanket had been hung between the beds to provide a modicum of privacy.
They might be sharing a bedchamber, but neither she nor Oscar wanted to admit to “living in sin.” Oh, if only they could marry, and soon!
There was nobody in the room. It had a spine-chilling emptiness about it, and as she gazed around, she realized Oscar’s traveling case had gone.
There was no coat on the peg behind the door, nor any hat.
Her heart lurched into a rapid beat, and she hurried back into the living room.
Where was his box with his paints and brushes, where was his portable easel?
All gone! Had someone broken in and taken all their possessions?
Surely this could not be a coincidence, coming so soon after she’d had her purse stolen?
She went back into the bedroom, limbs shaking in shock. No. Her clothes were still in evidence, and her painting things, as well as her various knickknacks and writing materials.
Glancing at her bed, she spotted the corner of a piece of paper poking out from beneath the pillow. Dread flooded her veins, and she plucked out the paper with trembling fingers.
My dearest Felicity,
Forgive me. I cannot continue in this madness.
I was wrong to pluck you from the bosom of your family, from your comfortable life and prospects, and subject you to poverty and uncertainty.
What a selfish being I would be were I to persist in driving you into penury!
You must return home at once, before any more damage is done to your reputation.
Here is a coach ticket for the journey back to Suffolk.
I ask you to take it and never think of me again.
Be assured, I shall never forget you. I know you will make the right decision, my darling. Your ever-loving but regretful,
Oscar
Her first feeling was disbelief. Oscar would never have done this—he loved her too much. And where could he have got the money to buy a coach ticket to Suffolk? Their finances had only just recovered from purchasing their two tickets to London.
For some moments, she struggled to breathe.
She’d been abandoned by the man she loved, by the man with whom she’d eloped.
It couldn’t be true, could it? This must be some cruel nightmare.
Why would Oscar leave her, why? She’d done nothing wrong, she’d done nothing to deserve this; she’d allowed herself to be led by him in everything, so why would he push her away?
There was something else behind it—there had to be.
As she collapsed onto the edge of the bed, an image of Mr. Dashwood’s face flashed across her mind.
What was Mama’s secretary doing in London when he should have been back home in Suffolk, at Mundlingham?
She knew he occasionally traveled to Town to deal with her mother’s business interests, but that he should be in the same place as herself at the same time .
. . that had to be by intention, not accident.
Were the two events connected? Dabbing at her eyes, she tried to push away the agony of Oscar’s betrayal. She needed to think straight—perhaps the situation was not as desperate as it appeared. Perhaps it could be remedied. Think, Lissy, think!
Her mama, the indomitable Lady Beatrice Ashby, must have had a hand in this.
She’d put pressure on Oscar, bribed him, threatened him, forcing him to give Lissy up.
She’d made it quite clear Lissy would never be permitted to marry a man of her choice, and certainly not for love.
That was not the Ashby way, oh no! And even though Lissy had a sizeable inheritance, she was expected to marry into money.
How ruthless, how cold Mama’s plans had seemed.
Lissy had wanted the love, the adoration of a husband; that was the only recipe for future happiness.
And Oscar had loved her. He still did, for why would he not?
The pressure to write that note, to abandon her, had come from elsewhere. She was wrong to give in to despair.
Lissy rolled her eyes, then stared at the note, which still trembled in her hand.
This was proof—if any were needed—that Lady Beatrice was an unfit mother, ruling her household like a female Napoleon, and showing her offspring only tough love, if it could be called love at all.
Whenever her children objected that some rule or decision was unfair, Mama had assured them they’d eventually thank her for her strictness.
They’d all need a bit of backbone if they were to get on in life.
They had got on—mostly by leaving home at the earliest opportunity.
Would Mama have taken a gentler approach with her offspring if she’d married again after Papa’s death?
He had clearly doted on her, made her happy and content, and brought joy to the household.
A second husband, a handsome, happy-go-lucky fellow like Mr. Roland Chetwynd, perhaps, would have helped Mama revisit the pleasures of her youth.
Such a man would have brought entertainment and warmth into the family.
Curse you, Mama! She couldn’t let the woman get the better of her, could not permit her to separate her from Oscar.
Seizing the coach ticket, she was about to tear it to shreds.
But this was all she had now. There was no money, no future husband, no market stall, nor the money to rent one.
There was nothing left to pay for this miserable set of rooms. Even though the plaster was coming away from the walls and the wind whistled through cracks around the windows, the landlord still required his rent.
Outside, a barrow rattled past on the uneven cobbles, and somewhere a woman laughed drunkenly and shouted something incomprehensible.
The world went on, it seemed, indifferent to Lissy’s heartbreak.
She stared at the coach ticket again, her mind whirring with questions.
If she sold it, how long would the money she got for it last?
What would Dashwood have done or said if he’d caught up with her?
If she’d asked Mr. Chetwynd to bring her to her door, would she have found Mama and Oscar still here?
Couldn’t everyone have just had a sensible conversation?
Mama might have been persuaded to facilitate a speedy marriage to avoid a scandal, and Lissy would have been spared the ignominy of Oscar’s apparent betrayal.
Lady Beatrice Ashby, compromise? When it came to family matters, that was highly unlikely. She’d far rather punish her recalcitrant daughter and teach her the error of her ways. Letting her wed the man of her choice would have been seen as weakness.
Another tear rolled down Lissy’s cheek as despair threatened to overwhelm her, but she wiped it away with fierce resolution.
Was there any alternative to returning to Suffolk?
She knew nobody in London except Cousin Sarah, who, being family, would feel obliged to inform Mama immediately of Lissy’s whereabouts.
She knew of Mrs. Dove-Lyon, of course, the proprietress of the Lyon’s Den gambling club, whom Mama had occasionally referred to as a former friend.
However, the word was that the woman never did anything without requiring a fee of one kind or another—and she’d only help the daughter of a long-lost friend if said daughter could come up with an extremely plausible lie about her presence in London.
Besides, Lissy had already aired her opinions about such places in the presence of Mr. Roland Chetwynd—imagine the smirk on his handsome face if he were to catch her asking for help at the Lyon’s Den!
She pressed her fingers into her palms, relishing the pain as her nails bit into the flesh.
She was going to come through this; she must come through it!
There was no alternative; she must return to Suffolk, fully uncover the conspiracy against her, unravel it, and persuade Oscar to reconsider his options.
She would then exact her revenge on Lady Beatrice.
For the first time that day, a faint smile touched Lissy’s lips. Mama would soon regret trying to bully and outwit her youngest daughter!