Chapter Twenty-Six
Roland barely noticed when the rutted country roads gave way to the busy cobbled streets of London—he only had eyes for his bride-to-be. Lissy had been permitted to accompany him back to Town, to be conveyed to her cousin Sarah’s house while preparations for their wedding proceeded.
It was quite remarkable how all of this had come about, and he often caught himself staring at Lissy and wondering if he was dreaming.
“I can’t believe your mother accepted the idea of me as a suitor so readily.”
Lissy’s grin warmed him from top to toe. “Nor can I. But in the light of what we’ve done, it’s just as well.” Her fingers went fleetingly to her throat, and her eyes shone.
“I sincerely hope she never finds out about that,” he muttered. “Seducing you in the middle of the day, in your own room, with the risk of being discovered by a servant at any moment—I don’t think I’ve ever done anything quite so dangerous.”
“You’re not afraid of my mother, surely? Her bark is worse than her bite.”
“No. However, people with domineering natures need delicate handling.”
“Indeed. I can’t believe I’ve had to deal with her for nineteen years. Except when I was away at school, of course.”
Roland toyed with the end of his lion-headed cane, which had been mended again, with glue and a leather band. “It still seems incredible to me that Lady Ashby did not demur when I asked for your hand. Your brothers were shocked, I know.”
“They’ll soon lose themselves in their sermons and their secret tunnels. Besides, they still have the enjoyable task of ensuring that Sutton and Treadwell get their just deserts and will forget about my hasty marriage in no time. Men tend not to question that kind of thing, do they?”
Some men might. Particularly those at White’s, who’d wagered that he would wed a scandalous hoyden, an epithet which could, if the truth came out, be applied to Lissy.
But now, gazing at her, he didn’t give a jot about their opinion.
He’d been presented with a prize beyond his wildest dreams, and he would do what he could to make her happy.
They might have to live on air for a while, once Mrs. Dove-Lyon dismissed him from her service, but he’d find a way to manage.
No more chancing his luck at the card tables, however.
Lissy had already expressed her firm dislike of gambling.
“Jeffrey Metson has done an excellent job on my cane,” he commented, trying to forget about the fellows at White’s and about his confederates at the Lyon’s Den. “It will serve for show. I just hope I don’t have to defend you with it, for it will surely break.”
“I’m glad we broke our journey with the great-hearted Metsons, but sorry we had to continue to deceive them regarding our identities.”
“Agreed. Deception is exhausting! I shall be on the alert for deceit in others from now on—I think I’ve been far too trusting in my life thus far.”
Lissy sighed. “As have I. As have I.”
He leaned forward and grasped her hand, thrilled at the way it felt in his, so delicate, so feminine, yet so accomplished.
“I still think there was a conspiracy against us, conceived by your mother and Mrs. Dove-Lyon. She had such a knowing look when we told her we were in love and wanted to marry. And then she said, ‘Bessie is always right.’ What do you think she meant by that?”
“I have my suspicions. Goodness, I recognize this place.” Lissy released his hand and stared out the carriage window. “We’re in Whitehall already.”
“Good gad, I believe we are.”
In the next few moments, they’d be in Cleveland Row, Lissy would travel on to her cousin Sarah, and he’d have to endure her absence for at least a day.
Added to that agony was the horror of having to explain to Mrs. Dove-Lyon that his secret mission to Mundlingham Castle was no longer a secret and that he was, in fact, terribly bad at being a spy.
He fully expected ridicule, insult, and certain dismissal from her service.
As soon as the carriage halted, he pulled Lissy into a fierce embrace, then jumped down and signaled the vehicle to continue on its way. He couldn’t have kissed her—he’d never have been able to stop. Tempting as it was, it was more important to get this business out of the way.
He’d faced highwaymen, blackmailers, and the ridicule of the ton in recent months, but nothing in the world inspired quite the same tightening in his stomach as the front door of the Lyon’s Den on Cleveland Row.
He waited on the step, hat in hand, gloves tucked under his arm, the jewelry case safely in his pocket, until the door swung open and one of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s staff of veterans bowed him a greeting.
“Good afternoon, Egeus. Is Mrs. Dove-Lyon at home?”
“Please come in, Mr. Chetwynd. I shall enquire for you.”
He was shown into the smoking room, where, fortunately, he could see nobody he felt obliged to talk to. His mind was buzzing with questions, and distraction was the last thing he needed.
The former soldier reappeared at his elbow as silently as a cat.
“Mrs. Dove-Lyon will see you immediately. Follow me.”
Shortly thereafter, Roland was ensconced in Bessie Dove-Lyon’s private office. The veiled widow waved at a chair.
“Sit down, Mr. Chetwynd.”
“I would prefer to stand.” He sincerely hoped this interview would be brief.
“My mission is complete.” He bowed and held out the lacquered box. “I didn’t take the item surreptitiously—that became impossible. Lady Ashby herself gave me the necklace to return to you. I apologize for failing to be discreet and for revealing your scheme to her.”
“That cannot be helped now. She has written to me, posthaste, explaining everything. And now I, in turn, owe you an explanation.”
Roland blinked. “I don’t know that you owe me anything, ma’am,” he began, but was waved into silence.
“The commission I gave you was not strictly mine.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The original request came from Lady Ashby herself. Years ago, she confided that she had borrowed—let us call it that—my sapphire necklace. She kept it long enough that returning it would have embarrassed her, especially after she had her portrait painted wearing it, so she never did. We remained friends, but the matter still hung between us. Beatrice always did have a particular fondness for sapphires.”
Roland pinched the bridge of his nose. “I see. So why could you not simply ask for it back when you needed it? Why send me to steal it? I was about to risk my neck climbing up some ancient ivy to get it for you.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon tilted her head. “You were never expected to climb anything, Mr. Chetwynd.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I sent you to Mundlingham Castle because Beatrice asked me to find someone worthy of her daughter. I am known for being rather good at matchmaking.”
This bald statement hung in the air between them like a challenge. Roland felt as if he’d been punched. It was some time before he could compose himself enough to reply without sounding furious.
“I have heard as much. I didn’t realize your methods were quite so . . . underhanded.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon ignored the reproof. “Beatrice wanted a man who could protect Lissy, not just from others, but from herself. I needed to supply a potential husband who was intelligent, resilient, capable, and not easily deterred.”
He could feel her eyes, hidden behind her habitual veil, regarding him intently. Was she trying to flatter him now?
He made a circuit of the carpet, then stopped before the desk, his mind working feverishly. “How extraordinary! You contrived it all?”
“There wasn’t much to do. I generally just give people a little push in the right direction, and they do the rest themselves. I wanted to get you out of Town in any case—you were looking dreadfully defeated after that nonsensical wager at White’s.”
Roland stared at her in utter disbelief. Did this woman know everything?
“I cannot believe you contrived our first meeting when Lissy climbed into my carriage.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon sat up straighter. “I didn’t know about that. Pray, tell me about it later—it will be diverting, I’m sure. But no—I did not arrange Henry Sutton. Or Oscar Treadwell. I am a matchmaker, not a conjurer of villains.”
Roland let out a hollow laugh and pressed his hands briefly to his face. Then he sank into the chair he’d been offered.
“All this time,” he murmured, “I thought I was working for you. When really—”
“You were being tested by Lady Ashby. And you passed the test. Spectacularly.”
Roland swallowed hard. “I betrayed Lissy,” he said quietly. “She trusted me—and I concealed my purpose.”
“You did nothing more than hurt a young woman’s pride.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon waved a dismissive hand. “Beatrice secured your presence there, not you. And Miss Ashby seems in no danger of holding a grudge. In fact, I understand congratulations are in order.”
He closed his eyes, heart twisting. The memory of Lissy—her hair wet with rain, breathless in his arms, whispering “I love you”—rose with unbearable vividness.
“What about the necklace?” It lay on the desk between them, like some kind of grenade. “I assume this comes back to you now?”
“Indeed. And I have also, of course, been paid in full for my matchmaking services.”
An idea sparked in Roland’s mind, and he leaned forward. “May I ask . . . how much is it worth? The necklace, I mean, not your matchmaking service.”
“That is a peculiar question. Why do you ask? It is the principle of the thing that matters, not the value.”
“I ask because I wish to buy it.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon went still. “Buy it?” she repeated slowly. “And what would you do with a sapphire-and-diamond necklace, Mr. Chetwynd?”
“I would give it to Lissy.”
He sensed that the lady behind the veil was genuinely taken aback. “And how,” she asked eventually, “do you intend to raise its value?”
He inhaled deeply as a further idea struck him. “Do you consider that I have carried out my commission successfully?”
There was a decided pause. “In essence, yes. But—”
“Then I will buy the necklace with the fee you owe me.” Or at least offer a down payment—he had no idea of the real value of the jewels.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon stood in one graceful, liquid movement. She inclined her head, and he noticed her breathing had become rapid. She held out the inlaid box. His fingers trembled as he touched it, and he felt as if the hand of Fate had just precipitated him into a new future.
“Take it, Mr. Chetwynd, in lieu of services rendered. Present it to your bride. But wait until after the wedding—your gift will have more impact then. She’ll know it is not a bribe, but a gift from the heart.
” Her voice sounded choked, as if she were under the power of some deep emotion. If only he could see her face!
“Oh, and Mr. Chetwynd, before you go . . .”
He paused, mid-step. Was she about to change her mind?
“Yes?”
“I understand your wife-to-be paints watercolors.”
“She sketches, too, exquisitely. Portraits, landscapes, buildings—”
“I know. I have seen a few—Beatrice showed me when she was here last, staying with her cousin Sarah. Both ladies thought them admirable. I expected them to be biased, but when I looked, I couldn’t help but notice the quality.
Therefore, I would like to commission a few images of the London parks, including Vauxhall, to decorate the ladies’ rooms at the Lyon’s Den. ”
“She’ll be delighted to hear it. Thank you! It will stop her fretting too much about the preparations for our wedding.”
Anything that made Lissy happy would make him happy, too, and the extra income wouldn’t go amiss if they were to set up their own establishment.
Roland bowed his way out of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s office, his mind buzzing with delight, his heart full of glorious expectations. For once, the Hon. Roland Chetwynd, younger brother to the Earl of Aylsham, had done something right.
And because of Lissy, he intended to keep doing so—for the rest of his life.