Page 1 of Lyon on the Loose

Chapter One

London

The carriage clattered to a halt at the road junction, then rocked alarmingly as someone yanked the door open and flung themselves into the interior. The Honorable Roland Chetwynd automatically reached for his lion-headed cane, a gift from Mrs. Dove-Lyon, with which to defend himself. Too late. There was an ominous cracking sound as the unwelcome intruder lost their balance and collapsed onto his lap.

An interesting twist to an already disastrous day; his carriage was now full of rain-drenched young female, and his new walking cane had been snapped in two. He also now had mud on his trousers whilst a trail of water dripped enthusiastically from the woman’s bonnet onto the toes of his carefully polished Hessians.

His coachman, apparently unaware of the new arrival, set the carriage lumbering off once more. Speechless, Roland glared at the damp young lady as she seated herself opposite him and shook the rain from her hooded cloak.

“I’m most awfully sorry, sir, but I was in dire need and your coach stopped in the street at just the right moment. I promise you needn’t take me far—I only need to travel a few blocks to make sure he can’t find me.”

Usually of a sunny disposition, Roland found himself feeling particularly ungentlemanly today. He was currently boasting a black eye following a set-to with his old enemy Henry Sutton. He’d also discovered that there was a book set up against him at White’s, a further blow to his rickety self-esteem. Rescuing bold young ladies from unwanted suitors—or whomever—was not what he had in mind right now. A few games of cards, a harmless wager or two, and a very decent Canary wine awaited him at the Lyon’s Den gambling club, and he had every intention of making his way straight there. He had no desire to become entangled in somebody else’s affairs—the last time he’d come to the aid of a damsel in distress, it had not gone well.

The young woman was subjecting him to a sober perusal, and he wondered what he must look like to her, dressed to the nines, his jacket tailored as tightly as Beau Brummel’s, his unruly blond hair well-suited to the windswept style, and a swelling eye. Part of him wanted to inform the young lady at once that he hadn’t been the loser in the battle with Sutton, and that he had every intention of evening the score, but why should he care what she thought of him? This was his carriage, his ghastly day . . . and she wasn’t likely to make it any better.

When she pushed her water-blackened hair back from her face, he noticed a pair of intelligent blue eyes peering out from an elfin face with a determined chin. “Oh, I am desolated,” she exclaimed. “I’ve broken your beautiful cane.”

“Never mind that. Coachman!” He rapped on the roof of the carriage with what remained of the lion-headed cane. “Halt!”

The woman glanced fearfully through the window and pulled her cloak tightly about her neck. “Please, no, sir! He’ll see me if you set me down now. Please—can we not just go a few more blocks? I cannot allow him to catch me.”

Roland raised an eyebrow as the coach slowed. “Who exactly is this ‘he’ you’re so eager to avoid?” Not that he was interested, but she owed him an explanation, didn’t she?

“I’d rather not tell you. I noticed the Earl of Aylsham’s coat of arms on your vehicle. Is that you? The reputation of your family is such, my lord, that I knew I would be safe with you.”

Roland snorted. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Miss . . .?”

Her eyes darted away from him. “It would be better if you didn’t know who I am. I find myself in difficult circumstances, and I’m sure you understand how delicate a young lady’s reputation can be, and how valuable.”

A damsel in distress? A reputation at stake? All very intriguing. The old Roland Chetwynd would have doffed his hat and taken the fleeing young lady wherever she wanted to go, no questions asked. The new Roland Chetwynd, however, was trying to make something more of himself and had, to that end, become something of a spy. He had found it useful to make it his business to know what was afoot in London. Mrs. Dove-Lyon, proprietor of the Lyon’s Den, and a renowned matchmaker to the upper echelons of the ton, had become his patroness. He had felt almost useful. Until today’s misfortunes . . .

“If you don’t tell me your name, I shall eject you this instant.” He did his best to look fierce, and the young woman blanched.

“Very well. But you must promise not to set me down yet.”

Roland didn’t see why he should have to bargain with somebody who had invaded his territory in so dramatic and damaging a fashion, but there was a hint of stubbornness about her dainty chin. He tapped the roof of the carriage to indicate they should continue on their way, then inclined his head.

“They call me Lissy.”

He waited. “Is that all?”

“That’s all I’m prepared to reveal for now, sir. Don’t forget that you are a gentleman and I am a lady, and we have not been introduced. There are rules, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

He laughed openly at this. “You don’t strike me as a person averse to breaking rules. I think we’ve passed the point of formality, since you have already been in my lap and are currently sitting unchaperoned in my private conveyance.”

She tilted her chin at him. “Perhaps I was wrong in suggesting that you’re a gentleman. Just because there is a coat of arms on the door does not mean knightly behavior can be expected within.”

Roland lifted an eyebrow. The damp damsel in distress was rapidly becoming a combatant, and curiously enough, he had no objection to a bloodless battle. It matched his mood, the chill air, and the smoky London skies perfectly.

“You may not have realized it, but I am not the Earl of Aylsham—I’m his younger brother. I may not be as exemplary as he, but I consider myself deserving of a similarly untarnished reputation.” His voice caught on the word reputation, thinking back to the bet he’d uncovered at White’s. Some wag—he had yet to find out who—had laid down five guineas that the Honorable Roland Chetwynd would never make a respectable marriage, and if he were to wed at all, it would be to avoid a scandal. Those who felt this wager was a good idea apparently included some of his friends, who would no doubt assert that they thought it a fine joke. But rather than take anyone to task about it, he’d vowed to prove them wrong. He was still young enough to marry well—after a proper courtship—and lead a stainless life. It stung that Society should already think of him as a lost cause.

“I wonder what is said of your reputation, Miss Lissy Whoever-you-are.”

“Well, at least my reputation does not precede me, since you can’t identify me from my Christian name. How refreshing it is not to have one’s name on the tongues of the tittle-tattles, or the wastrels who frequent the sort of gentleman’s club with which you must be familiar.”

Aha! A direct attack! But why should he pay any attention to her opinion of gentlemen’s clubs? She was far too young and fresh looking to have ever seen the inside of one, let alone associate with the members.

“A wastrel? Me?” That might have been true a few weeks ago, but he had hoped that the ton was now prepared to reevaluate the Hon. Mr. Roland Chetwynd.