Chapter Eighteen
Roland hadn’t been able to check his appearance in a proper looking glass since all he possessed was a small shaving mirror.
No matter: his mask was a true executioner’s mask, covering his bright-blond hair and revealing only his mouth and eyes.
No one should be able to recognize him, probably not even Lissy.
Aside from the mask and the fake axe he carried, he was clad entirely in black, with a dark cloak he’d borrowed from Latymer to complete the ensemble.
It wasn’t a costume designed to inspire friendship; it might make the ladies swoon at him, but for the wrong reasons. However, it would serve both its purposes: firstly, to disguise him completely; and secondly, to strike fear into the hearts of those two rogues, Henry Sutton and Oscar Treadwell.
Making certain to arrive early, Roland had taken up position in an alcove at the top of the stairs, concealed in the shadow of an ancient suit of armor.
In his breeches pocket, he carried a folded piece of paper—one of the many sketches Lissy had made of that undeserving brute, Oscar Treadwell.
This was essential because he’d never actually laid eyes on the fellow, although he might recognize his voice from the incident with the stolen carriage.
Would Treadwell be intelligent enough to choose a costume that would be completely impenetrable to someone who knew him as well as Lissy?
Perhaps not. He might instead choose to rely on charm and present himself looking dashing and romantic, in the hope of melting her heart once more and ensuring she obeyed his instructions to the letter.
Treadwell was not the only person Roland was watching for. In the back of his mind lurked the threat of Henry Sutton, who might use the grand distraction of a masked ball to exact his revenge—or at least to reiterate his terms.
Only when Roland could be certain that both these gentlemen were either absent or safely incarcerated could he make a foray into Lady Ashby’s bedchamber in search of the sapphire-and-diamond necklace.
His fingers tightened around the haft of his axe as he watched a black-hatted Puritan enter the Great Hall to talk to Hugo, followed by a pert little Nell Gwyn, complete with her basket of oranges, and her companion, a very elegantly attired King Charles II.
If only he could join in the excitement—the old Roland Chetwynd was never one to miss a ball. But the new Roland Chetwynd had a moral dilemma on his hands. If he found the jewels—what then?
It looked as if he had plenty of time to make up his mind, as he couldn’t depart until he’d drawn Sutton out and dealt with him, and persuaded Treadwell to release Lissy from the threat of ruin.
Once all that was done, there’d be no reason to remain here.
There’d be nothing to stop him from leaving Mundlingham Castle.
What was he talking about—nothing? Of course there was something. There was Lissy. What would she think of him when she learned what he’d done? Even if they were miles apart by the time she discovered his betrayal, the idea of her thinking ill of him was agony.
Then there was the question of honor. Would it be more honorable to keep the vow he’d made to Bessie Dove-Lyon, or to refuse to carry out her commission because it was, in essence, a dishonorable one?
But then again, had not a felony been committed at the very beginning, when Lady Ashby had taken the necklace in the first place? That, too, had been dishonorable.
It was enough to make a man’s head spin.
Roland was distracted by the arrival of further colorful figures below, and he made a mental note of their costumes. He’d still seen no one who resembled Oscar Treadwell.
Suddenly, two very splendid creatures appeared from the Great Hall and made their way toward the supper room.
He knew the first by her stately deportment—it was Lady Beatrice Ashby, dressed in bejeweled Tudor garb—as Catherine Howard, perhaps?
Her companion was costumed as a simple shepherdess, with a hooped skirt, a broad straw hat, and a fichu over a low-cut bodice.
Even with her mask concealing the upper part of her face, Roland would have known her anywhere.
Lissy.
His heart turned to a lead weight in his chest. He could not move—could barely breathe. For a moment, he knew exactly what it must feel like to be cursed by the gaze of Medusa and turned to stone.
The urge to gallop down the staircase, clasp Lissy about her cinched-in waist, and rain a line of kisses down the white column of her neck was almost irresistible. Only her mother’s presence held him in check.
Both women glided amongst their guests as elegantly as if they had been on wheels, and Roland—still spellbound and immobile—watched Lissy, aching to be with her.
Then he noticed something significant about her costume.
He had barely registered it at first, having been blinded by her beauty, but Lissy was wearing a necklace of blue and white gems, sapphires as deep as midnight, surrounded by diamond points of light.
Dismay rapidly obliterated his desire—she was wearing the very same necklace Lady Ashby had worn when posing for her portrait.
The sapphire-and-diamond necklace he’d been tasked to steal!
Well—he could hardly pluck it from around Lissy’s neck without her noticing, could he? It was almost with relief that he understood he must abandon that part of his plan for the time being.
The clock down the passageway whirred into action and chimed delicately. With a jolt of alarm, Roland flipped open his pocket watch and discovered he ought to be concealing himself in the sewing room, ready to execute the other great plan of the evening.
He had no idea whether Treadwell had passed through the front doors while he was distracted by Lissy’s appearance. He would simply have to take the chance and hope Treadwell hadn’t had the same idea and arrived before him, thus catching him out before he could prepare his ambush.
He paused outside the door, glanced up and down the corridor, and saw no one.
Then he eased the latch, slipped into the room as swiftly and silently as he could—
—and immediately felt an enormous weight strike him on the back of the head, knocking him to his knees and enveloping him in blackness.