Chapter Fifteen
They were all right about Lissy—every one of them. She was a wicked, scandalous young woman who’d let down her family and her friends and deserved to be locked up in a tower for eternity.
Only . . . she was having the time of her life, thanks to her tantalizing liaisons with the Hon.
Roland Chetwynd, and she wouldn’t change a single moment of it.
No man had ever made her feel as he did—as if she were the most beautiful, most perfect woman on earth.
His affection and admiration surrounded her like a cloak, enveloping her, heating her blood, making her more aware of her womanhood than she had ever been before.
Was this what it was meant to be like between a man and a woman? If so, her relationship with Oscar had been nothing more than a dried husk, an empty imitation of love. There had been no hot blood, no passion, no devil-may-care delight.
For the first time since her mother had proposed it, Lissy realized she was looking forward Friday’s masked ball—particularly if Roland attended and danced with her.
Preferably, the waltz, because that meant they could be close again.
Everybody would see them, of course, but with their masks, no one would know who they were.
Her veins fizzed with delicious anticipation.
“What are you up to there, Lissy?”
“Latymer! Where’ve you been all this time?” Her brother had arrived the previous day, but had made no effort to seek her out. She climbed carefully down from the stepladder she’d been standing on to attach a branch of ivy above the door into the Great Hall.
“In my room. I had a sermon to finish so I’ve had my meals brought up. All finished now, and a very fine piece of work, I believe.”
Latymer took her elbow as she reached the ground. But as she moved to embrace him, he stepped back, his face stony.
“We are not children anymore, Lissy—no needless shows of childish affection are required.”
She’d forgotten how pretentious her older brother had become since acquiring his curacy.
“Latymer—you’re not in your parish now. Nobody is watching. You don’t have to behave like a boor.”
“I would thank you not to insult me when I have only just arrived, Felicity! I do not behave like a boor.”
“It is my job as your sister to insult you—or had you forgotten?” She pushed him lightly on the shoulder.
The mask he wore remained in place for a moment, then his expression relaxed, and his shoulders dropped. He gave her a brief peck on the cheek.
“Greetings, sister. I had forgotten how forthright you tend to be. How is Mama treating you—still like an unpaid skivvy?” He gazed up at the trailing ivy.
“No. Not so much. I went to Cousin Sarah’s to visit a sick friend in London—you’ve probably heard about that. I think Mama realized she had quite enough people running around after her and didn’t need me to do it all.”
In truth, since their recent conversation, Mama had been almost . . . pleasant. She’d even shown her daughter something akin to respect. Which was surprising, considering all Lissy’s misdemeanors.
God forbid Mama should ever discover what had passed between herself and Roland Chetwynd! Although Mama was going to learn eventually, when they began courting in earnest.
“Are you happy being back in your old room?” she asked Latymer.
“Yes—and very comfortable it is. My own home is somewhat drafty. Yes, I know—it’s hard to believe there is anywhere more drafty than a medieval castle with an Elizabethan house tacked onto it, but the walls here do at least protect us from the wind.
Where I live, there is no protection from the wind at all. ”
“Then perhaps you shouldn’t have chosen to live in the Fens. They always struck me as very bleak. Shall I call for some tea?”
“I shall wait until Mama calls for it. You know she doesn’t like us taking tea without her.”
“I always knew you were a stickler, Latymer—but I didn’t realize you were still afraid of Mama.”
“I’m not afraid of her. Whatever has got into you, Lissy? You are determined to tease me.”
Lissy felt her cheeks grow hot. She could hardly admit to the real reason she was so happy. She would have to be far more circumspect if the truth about herself and Roland was not to escape before they were ready.
“I suppose I may as well help with the ivy, even though it’ll be wilting in two days’ time. Should have used dried flowers instead. I’ve always thought of ivy as a pagan symbol, and therefore it has no place in a Christian house.”
“I am going to love having you help me and lecture me on morality at the same time!” she said tartly. Still, he would make the work go faster—and that meant she’d have more free time to spend with Roland—as soon as the latter escaped his duties.
Latymer ascended the stool, steadied himself, pushed the dangling ivy into place, and reached down for a pin. “That new secretary of Mama’s—what do you know about him?”
Lissy’s throat went dry. Why was Latymer asking about Roland?
“Oh, not very much. Only that he replaced Mr. Dashwood. He hasn’t been here long.”
“I was just curious. I found him examining the old palstave attached to the sewing room doorway. The sword that hangs above the door had also been disturbed—it was put back the wrong way round—and I noticed one or two other weapons had been handled. When I asked him about it, he joked that he wanted to make sure the castle could be protected in case of attack. But I cannot help thinking he was examining them for the purpose of putting a value on them.”
“Perhaps Mama asked him to do some valuations,” she said lightly. “She may be thinking of selling things. Ancient armor and weapons are not the most fashionable of decorations.”
“Do you have the shears? I’m going to snip this bit, so it doesn’t dangle.” Latymer held out his hand. “You may be right, but he gave a guilty start when I came in. Why would he do that unless he was doing something nefarious?”
She handed him the shears. That did sound odd. But all she said was, “Oh, I’m sure he wasn’t up to anything untoward.”
“There.” Latymer stepped down from the stool and surveyed his handiwork. “That will do—assuming you don’t want to change your mind and put up something less heathen.”
“No, brother. I’m very happy with it. Now, perhaps we can persuade Mama that it’s time for tea.”
“Yes, indeed. But I must warn you, I have a feeling in the pit of my stomach about that Mr. Cowley. I do not feel he is a man to be trusted, and I’m certain he’s concealing a good many secrets.
I shall be keeping a watchful eye on him while I’m here, and I suggest you do the same.
If I see anything else suspicious, I shall report it to Mama immediately. ”
Unfortunately, she couldn’t wholly disagree with his opinion. Roland was hiding things—just not the sort of things Latymer imagined. Or so she hoped. She didn’t bother to counter her brother’s assertions as she followed him out of the room.
Why—just when she had finally decided to give her heart to Roland Chetwynd—had Latymer come along and sown a seed of doubt in her mind? She would have to confront Roland about his examination of the weapons and pray that he had a proper explanation.
Roland, however, had made himself scarce and was no longer joining the family for meals—claiming, so Hugo informed her, that he preferred to eat as he worked.
Certain he must be avoiding her, she was beginning to worry she’d made a complete fool of herself—and that Roland held far more secrets than he had yet been prepared to reveal.
Her uncertainty deepened when Hugo engaged her in a whispered conversation at luncheon on the day before the ball.
“I’m starting to have my doubts about that new secretary of Mama’s.”
“But I thought you liked him,” she whispered back. “He showed an interest in your horrible old tunnels and the history of the castle. I’m surprised you aren’t on first-name terms by now.”
Hugo leaned still closer. “I don’t mean to suggest that Mama has chosen a wrong ’un, but I found him tapping the paneling beside the fireplace in the drawing room the other day. And I’ve also caught him staring up at that portrait of Mama when she was young—you know, the one in the entrance hall.”
“Well, it is an arresting portrait. He was probably admiring the artistry.”
“As did your Mr. Treadwell. That was the name of your art tutor, wasn’t it? Whatever became of him? No one has mentioned him since I came home.”
Lissy hid her face in her napkin and struggled to regain her composure. This was a question for which she had not yet invented an answer. If her brothers were to remain ignorant of her disastrous elopement, she and Mama needed to agree upon a plausible story—and quickly.
“You were talking about Mr. Cowley,” she said, striving for nonchalance. “What did you say he was doing?”
“He looked for all the world like a man trying to find a hidden panel, or a priest-hole, or something similar. Why would he do that?”
She honestly had no idea. Roland could not possibly expect their enemies to arrive through the walls—could he?
“Did you tax him with it?”
“Of course—he said he was listening for deathwatch beetles. But I’m not convinced he was telling the truth.”
Lissy had to bite back a smile. Roland was nothing if not inventive in his explanations. But Hugo was right—it was peculiar behavior. She would have to interrogate Roland the next time they met.
“Wood paneling certainly can be at risk from deathwatch beetles, and woodworm, too. Why, I framed a watercolor landscape last year, and it now looks as though someone drilled holes in it. One cannot be too careful in an old house.”
Hugo puffed out a sigh, glanced at his mother to ensure he was not observed, and leaned even closer.
“I shall say this quickly before Mama finishes her conversation with Latymer and chastises us for whispering at table. I don’t think Mr. Cowley is at all what he seems.”
“Why do you mistrust him?”