Chapter Four #3
As Chetwynd took the portrait and stared at it, his expression hardened. “Is this a good likeness? Does he wear his hair exactly thus, with his hat at that angle, and with a scar in that exact position on his chin? Is he wont to wear colorful, flamboyant cravats like the one in this picture?”
She nodded, grabbed the drawing book, and tucked it away. Looking at Oscar’s image was more painful than she’d anticipated.
“Curious. I could almost swear that this is the gentleman who has been prowling around my residence in George Street. I sensed someone following me at least part of the way to the George and Pelican this morning—but I couldn’t catch them out in the open.”
She stared at him in silence, disbelieving.
“I wonder why your Mr. Treadwell would be following me?” He gave her a searching look.
She bridled instantly. But before she could protest her innocence—why would she and Oscar be in league against Roland Chetwynd?
—the coach drew to a halt. The next few minutes were occupied with changing the horses, a scurried visit to the coaching inn’s facilities, and the purchase of a glass of lemonade.
As soon as she reentered their carriage, Chetwynd glared at her. “You will note, Miss Ashby, that no other passengers have boarded the coach. Does that not seem unusual to you, on a busy route between London and Ipswich?”
It was unusual, certainly. She shrugged.
“I’ve been speaking with our coachman. Apparently, this vehicle has been privately chartered. Were you not aware of the fact?”
Her heart lurched. “Chartered? By whom?”
“The man couldn’t tell me. He’s not privy to that kind of information.”
“If it were anyone, it must be Mama. How did you get your ticket?” Was he in league with Mama after all? Had Roland Chetwynd been sent to ensure she got on the coach and stayed on it all the way to Mundlingham? It hadn’t been him following her, though, had it? This was all most unsettling.
“My ticket was provided by the Lyon’s Den—I’m on an errand for Mrs. Dove-Lyon. They can’t both have hired the coach.”
She met his astonished gaze. “Mama might have asked Mrs. Dove-Lyon to do it for her, I suppose. They were friends once. Although I don’t know why Mr. Dashwood couldn’t have done it, as he was in Town.”
“Who’s Mr. Dashwood?”
“Her secretary—it was him I was escaping last week when I jumped into your carriage.”
“Secretary, eh? Now there’s a conundrum, because I—never mind. Are you sure you have no better explanation?”
“Of course not. Why would I, or my detestable mama, be interested in you?”
Tension stretched out between them, with Roland regarding her as if she were either a criminal or mad, and her glaring at him, hoping desperately that he had not been fooling her this entire time.
Their silent battle was interrupted by a lurch of the coach and the sound of hoof beats on the road.
A pair of horsemen drew up behind them, then sped ahead, their hats pulled low, their mounts lathered.
“Fools. Those horses won’t carry them another mile if they keep pushing them like that.”
Lissy shuddered. “There’s something untoward going on, Mr. Chetwynd, whether you have knowledge of it or not. We have both been followed, and for all we know, are being pursued still.”
He regarded her soberly for a moment, then reached across and pressed her arm. “Stay calm. It may be nothing.”
The coach rattled on its way, with Lissy pressing her face against the glass, her mind a maelstrom of suspicion and fear. The road wound through flat fields, freshly tilled and neatly hedged, but there were no landmarks or anything to give her an idea of where they might be.
Then came the crack of a pistol.
The coach lurched violently to one side, then righted itself before juddering to a halt. Lissy yelped, pitching forward, but Roland caught her before she lost her balance.
“Are you hurt?” he demanded.
She gave it a moment’s thought. “No.” But she was shocked and terrified.
Another shot rang out ahead of them and she pressed her hand against her breast in fright. The horses whinnied, and the coach rocked on its springs.
Roland tightened his hold. “I’ll protect you. Whatever happens, I won’t let anyone harm you. We should be able to talk our way out of this, if it’s what I think it is. Trust me.”
She stared up at him, very much aware of the pressure of his arms around her. The fierce protectiveness in his face left her momentarily breathless.
Outside, someone shouted. The coachman’s voice answered, fearful and angry.
She couldn’t help herself. She clasped Roland’s sleeve. “Are they going to kill us?”
“No, foolish girl. What use would we be to anyone dead? Besides, they’ve already emptied a brace of pistols. Unless there’s more than one of them, the coachman should be able to take care of them. He’s sure to have a blunderbuss.”
The coach rocked, and as she clung to Roland, a man climbed in and threw himself against the squabs opposite them, his unshaven face wreathed in a triumphant grin.
“We meet again, Mr. Roland Chetwynd.”
The fellow brandished his pistol, then pointed it directly at Roland’s head.