Chapter Five
The barrel of Henry Sutton’s pistol glistened ominously. Roland had faced danger before, but never quite so inconveniently close, nor when he had someone else to protect.
To her great credit, Miss Lissy Ashby remained stock-still, giving the pistol the respect it deserved.
If only it were possible to tell if the fellow had reloaded it!
At this precise moment, Roland could think of nothing to do except play for time.
He had, quite wisely he thought, brought his own brace of pistols with him, but he hadn’t truly expected to need them, and they were out of reach.
That was a mistake he was never going to make again, if he lived to tell the tale.
“Mr. Sutton.” He kept his voice as level as he could. “We meet again. I trust you’re not planning on doing anything unpleasant in the presence of a lady.”
Sutton leered at Lissy. Roland had to admit that he was a handsome rogue, although he needed a shave—he could almost understand how Miss Charlotte Lavoisier had fallen head over heels in love with the man. It could sometimes take a while for a fellow to show his true colors.
“I know all about Miss Felicity Ashby. A pleasure, miss.”
Lissy stared at the interloper. “You followed me to the inn. I recognize you.”
This was unexpected. How dared that loathsome creature pursue Lissy! What could he hope to gain by it?
A look of surprise flashed across the villain’s face. “You have a keen eye, miss.”
“I suppose it must come from being an artist. I never forget a face.”
Good girl. She appreciated how important it was to engage their enemy, to lull him into a false sense of security so that they could make their move.
But what was their move going to be? A way out of their predicament had occurred to him immediately, but it was so dangerous, so frightful, he wasn’t convinced he could go through with it.
Well, he could, but how could he expect someone gently bred like Lissy Ashby to attempt it?
“I assume you’re not going to shoot anyone, Sutton. I don’t imagine either of us will be of any use to you dead. I know I won’t like the answer, but why have you been following my friend here?”
“Your friend, eh? More than that, I wouldn’t be surprised. Very cozy you’re looking—I almost feel I should apologize for interrupting your private amusements. I have a friend too, and he’s going to be most disappointed with you, Miss Ashby.”
Roland chose to ignore Sutton’s lewd insinuation. “To spare us spending too much longer in your odious presence, can we get to the point and learn what your demands are? Then you can be on your way, and we can attend to whatever injuries you’ve inflicted on our poor coachman.”
“Your coachman’s fine—he’s just got a little walk ahead of him, is all. My new friend is now driving us, and he’s not going to stop or let you out until we both get what we want.”
Sutton was working in league with somebody else, was he? No surprises there, considering he only hovered at the edges of polite society and most of his friends were dyed-in-the-wool criminals.
Was the whole story of his involvement with Sutton going to be aired in front of Lissy?
He rather hoped not—there was too much grist for the rumor mill in the tale.
Roland had encountered the fellow whilst on commission from Piers Darvill to find out what had happened to Piers’s son.
The boy had been in the care of his mama, Charlotte Lavoisier, who’d subsequently fallen under the influence of Henry Sutton.
The little family had regularly received a handsome amount from the wealthy Piers—until Roland and his brother’s sister-in-law, Belinda, had uncovered Sutton’s cruel deception.
“Tell us what you want, and please be sharp about it. We have a long journey ahead of us.”
Despite Roland’s apparent sang froid, it was an enormous relief when Sutton smiled evenly at him and lowered his weapon. At that point, the coach shuddered, distracting Sutton’s attention and giving Roland the opportunity to glance out the window.
While Sutton was involved in shaking his fist and swearing at his companion above, Roland whispered to Lissy, “If the coach continues to jolt, in a few moments, I want you to complain of sickness and ask to open the window.”
She nodded her understanding, and his arms tightened around her.
She needed to know how well she was doing—most young ladies would be in a dead faint by now, but she was keeping her wits about her and doing her utmost to stay calm.
He was going to get them out of this situation—he couldn’t bear to let her down when she was being so brave.
“I’m listening.”
“I want money, of course. A regular allowance to be sent through the same clerk in Lincoln’s Inn that my much-missed sweetheart Charlotte used when Piers Darvill was helping us out. You remember that, of course.”
Roland’s jaw tightened. “Vividly. You turned blackmail into a family tradition.”
“I’d prefer to consider it an art form,” Sutton corrected. “And you, Chetwynd, are to become my next patron. You owe it to me, you know, after everything I lost when you poked and pried into my private business.”
The coach hit another rut, jolting so violently that Lissy clutched at Roland’s lapel. He steadied her, glaring at Sutton. “You’ll find me a most unwilling benefactor. Are you planning to follow me wherever I go, with a pistol pointed at my head? I’m afraid you will find that most inconvenient.”
Sutton merely tilted his head. “Why would I threaten you when there’s an easier way? A gentleman will pay anything to keep his lady friend safe.”
Roland clenched his fists. “If you so much just look at her the wrong way, Sutton, I’ll—”
“What will you do?” Sutton waved the pistol at him. “You’re unarmed except for a badly mended walking stick. If it came to a battle, with your stick and my gun, which of us do you think would be the victor?”
Roland forced himself to keep his voice level. “You forget that I’m light on my feet and have a solid right hook. Both could make your life very unpleasant.”
Sutton narrowed his eyes, then laughed, cold and humorless.
“You’re not that stupid. You know I’ll put a hole in you before you can lay a finger on me.
So let us be sensible. My associate is going to turn this coach around as soon as he finds a suitable turning place.
We will head back to London via a back route—I don’t particularly want to run into that coachman again, or any constables he might have alerted.
When we’re back in Town, we’ll arrange everything at my convenience. Understand?”
The carriage lurched again, rocking so wildly that the pistol wavered. Lissy made a retching sound and glanced toward the window. Sutton swore and hammered on the roof again. “Ease up, you idiot!”
“Please, Mr. Sutton, may we have the window open? I feel as if I’m about to be most unwell.”
Lissy was as good an actress as any of the women Roland had seen strutting upon the stage at Piers Darvill’s Old Forum Theater. He gave her waist an appreciative squeeze.
Sutton grunted and waved at the window. “If you’re about to cast up your accounts, I would rather you did it out the window than over my breeches. It costs money to cut a dash in Town, you know.”
Roland knew full well that Sutton only “cut a dash in Town” so he could gull the unsuspecting into thinking he was a gentleman before parting them from their money.
The man was a walking falsehood, greedy and unreliable.
He could also be dangerously charming, which was how Miss Charlotte Lavoisier had fallen under his spell—and remained there, even when she started to notice Sutton’s faults and recognized that his drinking habits were excessive.
Another lurch had the villain leaping to his feet and swearing at the top of his voice. “You’ll have us over, you fool. You can afford to slow down now—nobody is going anywhere while I’ve got my pistol trained on them.”
As the coach slowed in a series of jerks, Sutton rolled his eyes at his captives. “He’ll get the hang of it, I’m sure,” he said, loud enough to be heard by the driver.
“I’m doing my damn best, Mr. Sutton,” came an exasperated voice, “But I’m very happy to change places, since you clearly have the easier task.”
Roland felt Lissy freeze. She seemed to have forgotten to breathe, so he stroked her shoulder comfortingly, bringing his lips close to her ear.
“Whatever is the matter?”
Not bothering to keep her voice down, she replied, “It can’t be!” She shook her head wildly. “I must be mistaken.”
“About what? Tell me.” Her reaction, the pallor of her face, alarmed him.
“That voice—I think I know it!” Her voice had dropped to a whisper.
“Who? Who is it?”
“It sounds like Oscar. Mr. Treadwell, I mean. But how can it be? What in the world would he be doing here, and why doesn’t he stop the coach and rescue me?”
Sutton gave her a mocking bow before resuming his seat. “Indeed—it is the gallant artist himself. I think he may be disinclined to rescue you unless you follow our instructions to the letter—both you and Mr. Chetwynd.”
“You’ve made Oscar your accomplice?” The disbelief, the betrayal, was clear on Lissy’s face.
A curse on Mr. Oscar Treadwell! What kind of fellow would abandon his future bride, then put her life at risk?
Did Treadwell have no idea how dangerous Sutton was?
At the earliest opportunity, Roland would teach Treadwell the error of his ways.
One never treated a young lady so heinously, especially not one of gentle breeding like Lissy Ashby.
But he must deal with Sutton now; Treadwell could keep.
Treadwell did not have a pistol. Or did he?
He prayed that the man’s shooting skills were no better than his carriage driving.
“We are a couple of fellows who have chosen to help one another,” Sutton informed them. “We have mutual interests, you see. He’s been trailing my mark, and I’ve been trailing his—and now we have you both. Two little pretty birds, helpless in a cage, chirruping pointlessly.”
“Oscar doesn’t know how to drive a coach. Stop him this instant before we’re all killed!”
“It’s not that difficult to control a few horses—he’s calmed them down already.”
Roland glanced out the window as casually as he could. Good—they were passing through pastureland, with the road elevated a little above the level of the fields. His escape plan very much required a soft landing.
Sutton rested his pistol on his knee for a moment and withdrew a battered hip flask before helping himself to a generous swig of liquor. Roland whispered two words in Lissy’s ear. “Brace yourself.”
“You should give some of that to the horses,” he said aloud. “They couldn’t run any more erratically than they already are.”
There was another jolt. Lissy’s former sweetheart might know how to hold a paintbrush, but he had no idea how to handle a set of reins or steer a carriage around holes in the road. Up ahead, Roland saw what appeared to be a reed-filled pond, edged by a wild straggle of trees.
There was another lurch, making Sutton spill the gin down his front. Red-faced, he leaped to his feet once more and yelled through the trap door, “Keep them steady, you imbecile, or I shall shoot you instead!”
He battered the wooden panel with the butt of the pistol to emphasize his point.
The moment had come. “Hold onto me,” Roland whispered to Lissy.
“Now?” she breathed. “Heaven help us!”
“Now.”
He seized her firmly about the waist, flung the door open, and tipped them both out of the coach.
He felt a snap of cold air on his face and a moment of weightlessness as they fell.
Then, with cruel inevitability, the agonizing pain of their landing lanced through his shoulder and left side.
Immediately, he released Lissy, gave her a shove, then rolled the rest of the way down the slope and in amongst the reeds.
He could hear yelling as the coach plunged on down the road, the horses bolting in fear.
The animals could sense they were in the hands of an incompetent.
“Come quickly. We can’t afford to stay here.”
Lissy, dazed and pale, attempted to push her way through the brackish water and reeds toward the trees, but her skirts were soaked, threatening to pull her down.
Cursing unrestrainedly, Roland lifted her up, ignoring the pain that shot through his shoulder, and carried his burden to the far edge of the pond.
Then he set her down, took her hand, and pulled her at a run into the protective shadow of the trees.
He refused to slow his pace until they were deep in the middle of the wood, by which time his lungs were aching fit to burst.
Before he could speak or consider their next move, there was a soft thump beside him.
He stared down in horror. Lissy had collapsed. She was white as a ghost, except for the thin trickle of blood running across her forehead and pooling in her hair.
He fell to his knees, dizziness blurring the edges of his vision. He hadn’t saved Miss Felicity Ashby at all! He had killed her!