Chapter Twenty-One
This should have been a moment of triumph—the man who had plagued him for so long was finally at his mercy, and justice could take over.
Roland had just been kissed by the most courageous, exceptional, desirable, beautiful young woman he’d ever met, and now he knew exactly where to find the jewels that he was supposed to return to Mrs. Dove-Lyon.
Around his beloved’s neck.
But the blow on the head had knocked some sense into him at last. Despite Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s power, despite the importance of his reputation, he knew that if he took the sapphire necklace, he’d be no better than the brute who lay trussed beneath him, bruised and awaiting his doom.
Lyon’s Den members didn’t steal things, not even for a dare or a wager, not even if the owner of the club tricked or inveigled them into doing it. He would have to come up with a dashed good explanation for Mrs. Dove-Lyon, or he’d have to look for another employer.
And then, of course, there was the matter of Lissy; he couldn’t take the necklace and leave her behind, thinking ill of him.
But if he didn’t take the necklace and took her instead, what future could he offer her? He would be a laughingstock at White’s, he would never again be welcome at the Lyon’s Den, and he only had a pittance to live on.
He was going to have to tell Lissy the whole truth about his mission. If she decided she no longer cared for him, he would accept it. He couldn’t blame her—not one little bit.
Where was Lissy? Surely, she’d found Hugo by now. He needed somebody to take custody of Sutton. His heart—newly exposed and raw with the recognition of his feelings for her—squeezed painfully. Had something gone awry?
He tightened the knots binding Sutton’s wrists, clambered to his feet, and swayed for a moment. The brute had hit him harder than he’d realized—but there was no time to worry about that now. He must find Lissy.
The door crashed back against the wall as he stumbled out into the passageway and stared wildly around him.
There was nobody visible upstairs, and when he peered over the balcony, he saw no change among the milling masqueraders below.
It didn’t look as if anyone had dropped a stone into that pond—no hue and cry, no alarm.
A faint sound behind him made him spin around. The sewing room door stood ajar. Of course, Treadwell would be in there by now, waiting for his assignation with Lissy!
After pausing a moment to let his dizziness pass, Roland crept toward the opening and peered inside.
What he saw was enough to boil his blood—Lissy, struggling in the clutches of a man he recognized from her sketches. Oscar Treadwell. The villain had gagged Lissy, had a penknife pressed against her neck, and was dragging her toward the door.
Without hesitation, Roland drew back his fist and planted it squarely in Treadwell’s face. The man yelped and gurgled as blood began to pour, releasing his captive to clutch at his nose.
Lissy dragged the gag from her mouth and clutched at Roland’s sleeve.
He shook her off. “Turn away, Lissy. This is no sight for a lady.”
While Treadwell was still flailing and gasping, he pressed a foot into the crook of the man’s knee and watched with satisfaction as he collapsed onto the floor like a house of cards.
“This is happening all too often,” he muttered as he placed his knee firmly in the middle of Treadwell’s back and grappled his hands together.
Lissy fell to her knees beside him and slapped at Treadwell’s head.
“You beast! You animal! How dare you attack me like that? How dare you pretend you love me, then abandon me, then come back here with all your threats! I wouldn’t marry you now if you were the last man on earth. You will never get your hands on any Ashby money, do you hear? Never! Never!”
Roland considered restraining her but thought better of it. Treadwell had put her through a great deal of suffering, and he deserved punishment. Let Lissy have her turn before the authorities had theirs.
“I’m so sorry, Lissy. I should not have sent you out of that room alone.
Now—I’d prefer you not to beat Mr. Misstep senseless, for it will be much harder to deliver him to the authorities.
Much as I admire your Boadicean courage, I think you might castigate yourself later.
You have a soft heart, my dear Lissy—softer than you wish the world to know. ”
She rested her head against his shoulder for a moment, and he felt a surge of pure, astonishing joy, a connection with another human being that exceeded anything he had ever known. They were a pair. A couple. Equals. And they had triumphed over their enemies.
There would be a reckoning to come, of course, but he might as well enjoy this moment while it lasted.
“I suppose I’d better find something to tie him with, hadn’t I?”
“Yes, my love. A curtain cord or something strong will suffice. It would be good to have both our villains safely trussed so that we can walk downstairs and alert the constable. Now then.” Roland grasped Treadwell’s foppishly long hair and lifted his head from the floor. “We have a few things to clarify.”
Treadwell was in no position to do anything other than listen—all the breath had been knocked out of him, much to Roland’s satisfaction.
If it hadn’t been for Lissy’s presence, he would have liked to harm the fellow further, but he must remember he was a gentleman above all else. At least, for now . . .
“Your criminal career is over, Treadwell. You will never again lay hands on a lady, nor will you attempt to sully the name of Miss Felicity Ashby. She will never be your wife, and you have no claim to her whatsoever. One of the most influential people in London will soon know the whole story, and there’ll be nothing you can do.
You abducted a vulnerable young female, then, having failed to marry her, joined company with a hardened felon and waylaid a coach, injuring the coachman and damaging the vehicle.
Your latter crimes are far worse than your former ones, and the only way you’ll be spared a hanging is if I, or my patron, ask for mercy.
Are we likely to do that if you ever mention Miss Ashby’s name again? ”
He waited until Treadwell shook his head. “Good. Then I think we understand each other. Hand me that cord, Lissy—I’ll start with the villain’s hands, so he can’t lay a finger on you ever again.”
Roland had just tied the final knot in Treadwell’s bonds and was about to start on his ankles when there was a thump from the adjoining room. A glance through the open door into the passageway revealed a partially untied Sutton careering toward the stairwell as fast as he could go.
Rage clouded Roland’s vision, and he leapt to his feet in pursuit.
No sooner had he done so than Lissy squeaked—and he looked back to see Treadwell scrambling upright and staggering out of the room.
“This is getting ridiculous.” Roland pushed his hand through his hair. “Time to raise the hue and cry!”
To his delight, Lissy understood him perfectly. She recovered her shepherdess’s crook and began waving her arms and shouting to anyone within hearing that the men now galloping down the stairs were thieves and must not be allowed to escape.
Roland snatched up his wooden executioner’s axe and swayed down the stairs after her, bellowing the same information to everyone within earshot and trying not to lose his balance.
A thick cluster of guests obstructed the main doors of the building, forcing Sutton and Treadwell to veer aside into the Great Hall. The dancers within parted before them like wheat being scythed at harvest time.
“No! Stop them!” Roland yelled in despair.
“Oh, what splendid theatricals!” cried one of the masked guests. The musicians fell silent as everyone turned to watch.
“Excellently well-acted!” exclaimed somebody else.
Then a Roman emperor was rudely barged aside by Sutton, an angel had red wine spilled all over their robes, and Treadwell, hurtling through the supper room in search of a way out, knocked Latymer’s rum-soaked fruit out of his hand.
Suddenly, the escape was no longer amusing.
When Roland reached the hallway, he found Hugo staring in astonishment at the ruckus caused by the fugitives.
“You have some uninvited guests,” Roland informed him grimly. “Take care of Lissy while I round them up.”
“Their hands are bound, so they can’t do much damage,” Lissy added breathlessly. “They’ll have to come back through the Great Hall as the double windows in the supper room are bolted and barred. And I don’t need to be taken care of, thank you. I’m staying with Mr. Cowley.”
“Tallyho!” shouted Hugo, and brandishing his miner’s hammer, he fixed his gaze on Sutton and joined the chase.
As the fugitives dove in and out of the crowd, trying to return through the Great Hall to the main doors, Latymer rose to the occasion, shepherding the guests and an astonished Lady Ashby back to their chairs and out of harm’s way.
Roland was almost on top of Treadwell when dizziness made him stumble. With one hand, Lissy steadied him, then reached forward with her shepherdess’s crook, caught Treadwell neatly around the ankles, and precipitated him face-first into Nell Gwyn’s oranges.
The onlookers erupted into applause.
Still reeling from the blow to his head, Roland stopped and leaned forward, hands braced on his knees. Lissy halted beside him, and it was as much as he could do not to sweep her into his arms and kiss her breathless.
“Good catch, Mistress Shepherdess! Now, where’s the other one?”
He pushed away the dizziness, then spotted Sutton.
The man seemed to have regained his bearings.
He hadn’t waited to see what had befallen his comrade but was making straight for the main doors.
Unfortunately for him, his route was blocked by a trio of guests dressed as musketeers, who seized him with professional gusto and waited for Hugo and Latymer to take charge.
Lissy rested her hand on Roland’s shoulder. “Are you all right? Your head’s still bleeding.”
He tore his thoughts away from the warm thrill of her touch and noticed that the dance was reforming itself and that the musicians had struck up once more.
“I see your brothers have everything under control—our work is done for now, and I believe we have earned ourselves a moment’s respite. Would it embarrass you to dance with me, Miss Ashby? I can replace my executioner’s mask, so you need not see what a wreck I’ve become.”
“Too late for that. I think it makes you look rather heroic.” She reached behind her head, untied the strings of her own mask, then stepped into his arms.
He gazed, his breath momentarily stolen by her radiance and the triumph glowing in her eyes. A curl trembled against her cheek, and the bodice of her shepherdess gown moved tantalizingly with each breath.
“My lady,” he said softly, extending his hand. “May I claim this waltz? I’m still reeling a bit from the blow on the head but I’ll endeavor not to tread on your toes.”
She placed her hand in his, and his heart tightened painfully. This was how it could be, how it should be between them. Enchantment, bliss, promise, and . . . trust. A perfect couple, under the eyes of everyone, uncaring of censure, meant for one another.
As they stepped into the dance, he felt the curve of her waist beneath his palm and the heat of her hand in his and tried to imagine a future in which this dance need never end.
Her eyes lifted to him, and he swallowed. He could no longer ignore the glitter of the jewels at her throat, the sapphire-and-diamond necklace, the very thing he’d been sent to steal.
His stomach twisted. A decision had to be made, and it had to be made now, before he was too deeply in love to survive the loss of Miss Felicity Ashby.
Drawing her a fraction nearer, he brought his lips close to her ear.
“Lissy . . . there is something I must tell you.”