Chapter Fourteen
The next few days had passed in a flurry of activity as Mundlingham Castle prepared itself for the first large-scale entertainment it had put on in years.
Even though the great event wasn’t until the end of the week, everyone had been distracted, thus giving Roland the opportunity to put his sleuthing skills to good use.
He’d spent some time, when certain he was unobserved, staring up at the portrait of Lady Ashby on the eve of her wedding.
She had posed wearing, amongst other things, a startling sapphire-and-diamond necklace.
It had to be the one she’d appropriated from Mrs. Dove-Lyon.
He made sure he knew roughly how many stones were in it, their relative sizes, how they were cut, and how much the piece ought to weigh.
That way, he wouldn’t accidentally take the wrong thing or, God forbid, a paste copy.
But was he going to take the necklace at all?
What had seemed a noble and righteous quest at the beginning of his adventure now seemed mean and underhanded.
Here, at Mundlingham Castle, London felt a million miles away, and the opinions of his friends, gambling associates, and the gossips of the ton had no importance.
Why should he continue with this charade at all?
But he would have to return to Town one day and face Mrs. Dove-Lyon, one of the most influential women in London. And who knew—he might one day require her specialist services, whether to find himself a suitable wife or to get himself out of a pickle—so he needed her to think kindly of him.
But he also needed Lissy to think kindly of him. Everything between them seemed calm for now, but he understood that all he had done was pour oil on troubled waters, and it wouldn’t take much to destroy their current understanding.
He hadn’t tried to avoid her exactly, but he’d buried himself in his work, both as secretary and would-be thief.
He’d helped Lady Ashby by filing her letters, organizing and labeling documents related to the family’s history, updating the household accounts, meeting with her banker and her attorney to ensure everything was in order, and signing off on various purchases connected with the masked ball she intended to host.
He had also managed to find time to draw a complete plan of the castle grounds, the interior of the inner bailey, and the layout of the Elizabethan house.
Having decided the most likely location for the sapphire necklace was in Lady Ashby’s private apartments, he’d determined he could, indeed, climb the ivy and break in through her window, once his shoulder was healed.
He had also worked out that, if the theft were discovered before he managed to escape and the great gates of the castle were closed to trap the thief inside, he could slip down to the dungeons and make his exit through the tunnel that Hugo had so usefully revealed to him.
To this end, he made sure to conceal a lamp and a tinderbox in the vault, which he could use to make his getaway under cover of darkness.
Several times, he traced the path through the gardens that he would have to take to exit the castle at speed.
He had also investigated the possibility of having a horse ready and waiting for him below the castle walls.
However, neither Sutton nor Treadwell had shown their hand yet, so he couldn’t simply take the necklace and be on his way. There was another problem; when he departed with his spoils, he’d be leaving Lissy behind.
All of this—added to the fact that his heart leaped into his throat every time he set eyes on Lissy Ashby—created a tension in him that was hard to suppress.
He tried to ease it with exercise, but the kinds of sports and recreations available to a London gentleman were not the same as those available to a lowly clerk.
All he could really do was walk, and that meant he was likely to encounter Lissy, which interfered with his breathing and stretched his nerves until he felt as taut as a bowstring.
It was now Tuesday—just four days until the ball.
There seemed to be a fresh flurry of activity today, with footmen staggering around beneath garlands of greenery, and housemaids carrying giant lanterns shaped like crescent moons, giggling as they tried to avoid knocking against the furniture.
Boxes of masks and ribbons lay open in the Great Hall, and no one seemed to know who was supposed to be where or exactly what they were meant to be doing—the perfect opportunity for Roland to do a bit of poking around.
Lady Ashby had entrusted him with the key to the office safe, and he’d quickly established that the sapphire necklace was not inside.
Until he could gain access to her private chamber, he must find out if there were any other safes in the place.
A family like the Ashbys must have more than one place to hide jewels; old houses were bound to contain priest holes and secret strongboxes.
The quietest room in the building that afternoon was the drawing room. He glanced around before stepping inside, then knelt and began tapping lightly at the wooden paneling, listening for the hollow thud that might reveal a hidden compartment.
He tapped again. And again, all around the fireplace. It sounded disappointingly solid.
“Mr. Cowley?” said a voice directly behind him.
Roland jolted so violently, he cracked his head on the corner of the stone mantelpiece. He turned around to see Hugo Ashby in the doorway, eyebrows raised questioningly, and bit back the curse that came to his lips.
“Ashby! Goodness—you startled me.”
“Clearly. I hope you haven’t cut your head. Are you . . . inspecting the fireplace?”
“Yes. Most particularly this mantel, which, ah . . . is carved. Wonderfully carved. I was, er . . . admiring the craftsmanship. Up close.”
Hugo’s eyes narrowed. “Admiring it with your ear?”
He thought quickly. “Oh, well, I was also listening for deathwatch beetles. They tap back, you know, if they’re present. In the mating season, mainly.”
“You’re very well-informed about beetles for a secretary.”
“Indeed. But one tries to be thorough.”
Hugo stared at him for a long moment, then shrugged.
“Mama says the musicians will taking over the drawing room this evening so they can practice. I should keep my distance if I were you—wailing violins and what-have-you. They’re here from now until Friday, so I fear they need a great deal of rehearsing. ”
“Indeed. Best avoided.”
Hugo departed, giving him one last thoughtful look.
Roland let out a long breath. He was going to have to be more careful in future—he mustn’t do anything to arouse suspicion.
At that point, the door to the drawing room opened, and a group of gentlemen pushed inside, weighed down by cases, portfolios, and music stands. Roland beat a hasty retreat upstairs, pondering his next move.
As was so often the case in a house that had seen many owners, Mundlingham Castle contained an eclectic collection of ornaments, some of which were displayed in the most unlikely places.
In the former solar, a good spot for uninterrupted thinking, sewing baskets vied with palstaves, empty helmets gazed down upon embroidered screens, and a curved sword hung above the doorway, coated in dust. There were weapons here aplenty, enough for a small skirmish. Were any of them usable still?
“I see you admire the instruments of war. Not the most Christian of thoughts.”
For the second time that afternoon, Roland nearly decapitated himself, this time with a palstave he’d just wrestled off the wall.
“I’m Latymer Ashby,” said the newcomer, clasping his hands behind his back. “And who might you be?”
So, this, then, was “the Bishop,” the unctuous brother Lissy had told him about. The man looked earnest, serious, and about as much use in a skirmish as a pocket handkerchief.
“I’m Cowley, Her Ladyship’s new secretary. I admire the craftsmanship,” he added, fumbling the polearm back into place, “though I confess, I am also making myself familiar with what might be useful should we be called upon to defend the castle.”
Latymer blinked. “Defend it? Against what?”
If only he could explain to someone that there was a genuine threat, that Henry Sutton was still at large, that Lissy’s former lover Treadwell was desperate, and that both men were capable of violence!
But the truth would reflect badly on both Lissy and himself.
Now was not the time. And even if Hugo might relish the idea of a fight, Latymer would most likely faint at the sight of blood.
“Nothing in particular,” Roland said smoothly. “I am simply a great believer in preparedness.”
Latymer nodded piously. “As am I. Vigilance and virtue must walk hand in hand. Now, then, I need to greet my sister.”
While Latymer wandered off to bestow his sanctimonious presence on the unsuspecting Lissy, Roland decamped into the entrance hall and found himself once again beneath the portrait of Lady Beatrice.
The necklace gleamed on her painted throat: sapphires the color of deep twilight, diamonds shimmering like frost.
He studied it.
“Did you truly steal these from your friend?” he murmured to the portrait. “Or was it all a misunderstanding?”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon was never wrong—supposedly. Yet Lady Beatrice seemed so grounded in propriety and the expectation thereof from everyone around her. Surely, she was not the sort to steal from a friend.
This accursed necklace! This damnable mission! How was Lissy going to feel when she discovered he’d crept into her mother’s chambers at night, stolen a treasured heirloom, and vanished like a common thief? The thought made his stomach twist.
Stealing from Lady Beatrice Ashby was one thing. Stealing from Lissy’s mother was another. He needed to think.
Abandoning his prowling, he strolled across the courtyard to the coach house, rubbing his injured shoulder for the hundredth time, rehearsing arguments with himself and finding none of them satisfactory.
He’d just pushed open the door when he heard a light footstep behind him.
“Lissy!”
She glanced over her shoulder at the courtyard before shutting the door behind her. He realized she was brandishing something in her hand.
“I’ve brought the ointment I promised.” She was breathless, as if she’d run after him. “Comfrey and pennyroyal. Very good for strained muscles. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to make it up for you—Mama keeps finding things for me to do.”
His heart leaped and lodged itself somewhere in his throat. “You—you needn’t have troubled yourself.” And she shouldn’t have come here—it was not at all the done thing to pursue a member of the household staff into his private quarters.
“It’s no trouble. We need you fit for the ball. You are coming, aren’t you?”
“I mustn’t. It’s not my place. And my shoulder’s not that bad.” He didn’t want her to think of him as a weakling.
“It’s bad enough for you to keep fussing with it. Take off your coat.”
He hesitated. “Lissy—”
“Mr. Cowley,” she said, in the sharp tone of a governess disciplining a naughty boy, “take off your coat. Your shirt as well. Now, sit down.”
He obeyed, grimacing as he pulled the garment over his head. He felt oddly exposed as Lissy dipped her fingers into the salve, then moved behind him.
When her hand touched his skin, he barely kept himself from groaning aloud. Her fingers were small but firm, working the ointment into the bruised muscle with gentle, careful strokes. The scent of pennyroyal filled the air, cool and sharp.
Her breath fanned his shoulder. He closed his eyes as his heart sped up.
“Does this hurt?” she asked softly.
“No,” he said hoarsely. “No, Lissy.”
Her hand slid from shoulder to upper arm, then back again. The methodical warmth of her touch undid him utterly. A man could resist many things—cards, wagers, even temptation—but this . . .
This was intolerable without any participation from himself. He turned, catching her wrist.
“Lissy.”
Her hand stilled, and he stood, turned, and brought his other hand to her cheek, tilting her face up. Her eyes were wide, luminous in the lingering daylight.
“You undo me,” he whispered.
She made the smallest sound—something between surprise and longing—and then his mouth was on hers.
The kiss was slow at first, careful, reverent; he didn’t want to startle her. But she leaned into him, her free hand coming to rest against his bare chest, and the kiss deepened. Warmth flooded him—comfort, desire, belonging.
When at last they parted, breathless, he rested his forehead against hers.
“Oh, Lissy, none of this was meant to happen. I’m so sorry—I think I know what I’m meant to be doing, what I’m going to do, but then I see you, and everything changes.”
She blinked at him, lips parted.
“Roland . . .”
He rested a finger against her lips. He didn’t want her to say anything—she had too much power over him. What if she didn’t feel the same? Could he bear it?
“Roland, I—”
But before she could finish, a distant voice echoed down the courtyard calling her name—Lady Beatrice, sounding impatient.
Lissy stepped back, flustered, her cheeks charmingly flushed.
“I should go,” she whispered.
She slipped through the coach house door and was gone, leaving Roland standing shirtless in the gloom, his shoulder still thrumming from the effect of the ointment.
He pressed his hand to his brow and let out a long, helpless sigh.
He, Roland Chetwynd—scourge of the card tables, veteran of scrapes and brawls, lover of the widowed and lonely beauties of the ton—was at risk of giving his heart away.
He was on the verge of falling for a scapegrace beauty with a scandalous past, just as the wags at White’s had wagered he would. How would he ever be able to show his face there again?