Chapter Thirteen
Why had Hugo chosen this moment to come home? It was going to be hard enough speaking to Roland alone under her mother’s all-seeing eye, and now Hugo had decided to make a pet of him. Roland wouldn’t have a moment to himself.
Lissy rolled her eyes silently at the family portraits as the three of them made their way into the hallway. Roland, who’d fallen back a little, paused and followed the direction of her gaze.
“A handsome-looking family,” he commented. Then he froze and stared up at the portrait of her mother, done not long before her wedding to Papa, when she was bedecked in all the family heirlooms.
“Is something wrong, Mr. Cowley?” She emphasized the false surname, determined to remind him that his alias relied entirely on her discretion.
He shook his head, then caught her by the elbow and hurried her along in Hugo’s wake.
“No, no. Nothing. I am dreadfully sorry. I’ll explain everything, I promise. But appearances must be kept up for the moment—your brother must be appeased.”
She didn’t need to be told that. Once Hugo’s enthusiasm had been sparked, it was impossible to extinguish.
She dreaded going down into the ancient dungeons, but the thought of Roland accompanying her—even though she was furious with him—was oddly comforting.
He, at least, would not trap her down there as her brothers once had when she was a small girl.
They’d forgotten about her entirely and gone off to play cricket.
They’d been duly punished, of course, after she’d been located and freed, but she’d never forgotten those moments in the dark, with her back pressed against the cold stone, certain she could hear scratching and the faint rattle of chains.
The shifting quality of the darkness that pressed against her eyes suggested she was surrounded by supernatural shapes.
An experience not easily forgotten. Or forgiven.
Hugo led the way from the Elizabethan manor house toward a tumbledown tower that once formed part of the original castle keep.
Lissy glanced at the ivy which spread from the broken flint and stonework and insinuated itself into the Tudor bricks of the main house.
Roland had asked if anyone had ever climbed that ivy—thinking, no doubt, about damsels in towers.
Which was, as it happened, how she had often viewed herself before Oscar rescued her.
Risking a glance at Roland, she was puzzled to see him staring at the ivy intently.
He really was the most peculiar man, and she doubted she’d ever truly get the measure of him.
Not that she wished to—not now. The last thing she wanted at this moment was to get to know him better.
She wanted to tell him exactly what she thought of him.
Before they moved on, she noticed him working his shoulder, reaching across with his other hand to massage it momentarily.
Guilt immediately assaulted her—this was the injury he’d incurred when trying to save them both from the speeding carriage and Henry Sutton’s pistol.
Perhaps she shouldn’t be too hard on him, even though he’d taken a foolhardy risk.
“I suggest we each take a light,” said Hugo, leading them toward a narrow spiral staircase.
“You’ll need to see your way and not have the steps obscured by the shadow of the person in front of you—they’re not all even.
The miners have their own lights fixed to their hats by a puddle of clay and wax.
Here—you have the lantern, Lissy. Mr. Cowley and I can take candles. ”
Hugo reached into his pockets and produced a tinderbox, then kindled all their candles and closed the lantern’s glass before handing it to Lissy. “Be careful—the handle will get hot.”
She tilted her chin at him. “I have held a lantern before, Hugo. I’m not stupid.”
“You most assuredly are not, Miss Ashby. I am sure Mr. Ashby meant no offense. Lead on, sir—I’m keen to see where you’re taking us,” Roland added, shielding his candle with his palm.
There was no pretense in his voice—he truly was eager to investigate the dungeons and the tunnels beneath the castle walls. She was merely trying to prove a point, but as the shadows grew darker and the walls became increasingly damp, she began to regret her foolish pride.
The next half hour was spent poking into nooks and crannies, admiring carvings, pretending to admire—on her part at least—some moldings, discussing oubliettes and various medieval punishments, before progressing toward the tunnel that would lead them outside.
If the passageway was clear of vegetation, they’d find themselves beyond the castle walls, in the overgrown garden now occupying the dried-up moat.
No further confidences had passed between herself and Roland—Hugo had always been in view or within earshot. She sensed Roland’s rising impatience, which was mirrored by her own. Nothing could be comfortable between them until they’d fought their battle and agreed on their terms.
She was still pondering what exactly her terms ought to be when the quality of the light changed.
The yellow candle flames paled as gray daylight filtered through the throng of bushes covering the tunnel’s open exit.
“Bother it! These have grown up a bit since I was last here.” Hugo leaned forward to peer through the tangle. “Mr. Cowley and I could probably scramble out, but I’d be worried about your gown, Lissy. Mama would not be impressed if I returned you to her a wreck.”
Roland massaged his shoulder again. “I’m sure I could push through and create an opening for Miss Ashby.”
“I wouldn’t hear of it, Mr. Cowley. I’m the one who’s been working down the mines, and I’m good at wriggling through small spaces. I shall run around and fetch a sickle to cut a space for you both. Make yourselves as comfortable as you can.”
Before either she or Roland could protest, Hugo had thrust himself straight into the undergrowth, wriggled through with much snapping of twigs and tearing of threads, and disappeared.
Roland pressed his lips together, then looked at Lissy. “I hope the garden toolshed isn’t too far away.”
“Why?”
“Can’t you hear it? The rain that’s been threatening all morning has finally arrived.”
It was, indeed, raining. She hadn’t heard it at first—her heart was pounding so loudly after being suddenly left alone with Roland. Not only was it raining, but it was pelting down, and she felt the ricochet of the drops landing near the mouth of the tunnel.
“I think we’d better retreat—we can’t really stand upright here anyway.” Roland held his candle aloft so she could see where she was going, supplementing the meager light of her lantern.
How dismal. A flash of lightning illuminated the tunnel, followed by a loud rumble shortly thereafter.
Along with enclosed spaces, storms were one of Lissy’s least favorite things; her brothers had always teased her mercilessly for flinching at thunder.
It took a huge effort not to clutch at Roland’s coat as he guided her back to the vaulted chamber preceding the tunnel.
She shivered and tried not to look at the shadows dancing on the walls, set into wavering motion by the light of the lantern and Roland’s candle.
“You’re cold.”
Before she knew it, he’d shrugged out of his jacket and placed it around her shoulders. Once again, she noted the pain in his expression when he rotated his injured shoulder.
The jacket was coarse wool but warm from his body, and it carried the faint scent of woodsmoke.
She remembered how he’d sheltered her from the cold when they were in the hollow oak; how it felt to be so close to him when they’d shared the bed in the Metsons’ farmhouse.
It would be so easy just to step into his embrace again and feel comforted and reassured.
Only—this was the last man from whom she should be seeking reassurance. He’d lied to her and deceived her and was still doing so.
Putting some distance between them, she held his gaze. “I think this may be our moment to parley, Mr. Cowley.”
His shoulders drooped. “I think you may be right. A fortuitous deluge, then—I thought we were never going to be able to shake off the Mole.”
Her mouth twitched despite herself. She recalled the view of her brother’s rear as he wriggled through the overgrown tunnel entrance. Yes—Mole was indeed a suitable epithet.
“Let me get straight to the point. What are you doing here at Mundlingham Castle, and why are you incognito? Oh yes—and the more important question is why I should keep your secret.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose, dislodging the awful pebble-lensed glasses he’d been wearing.
He made a deft snatch and caught them, and she resisted the urge to laugh.
They really did make him look a fright. It would serve him right if she were to draw his likeness wearing those spectacles and circulate it around the drawing rooms of the ton. That would take him down a peg or two!
Roland shot her an appealing look—too appealing. He was giving her his puppy-dog expression, but she wasn’t going to be fooled.
“I think we both know by now,” he said quietly, “that your mother and my employer conspired to ensure we traveled here together. I’m not certain either of them knows that we’d already met—or the circumstances of that meeting. They don’t know that you are aware of my true identity.”
“Mama certainly doesn’t seem to know who you really are, but that could very quickly change.”
He lifted a hand. “Please don’t give me away—not until you’ve heard me out.”
“I may not be fond of my mother, but I don’t approve of strangers trying to bamboozle her.”
“That’s a trifle unfair when you’re bamboozling her yourself. I can’t imagine you’re going to tell her about the night we spent in that farmhouse bedroom.”
So, he wanted to cross swords with her, did he? He certainly wasn’t doing himself any favors.
“Concealing information is not exactly the same as being deceitful.”