Page 7 of Lyon on the Loose

Well, she had to admit the apology was well made. But his presence was nonetheless unwelcome; even suspicious, considering he was pretending to be somebody he wasn’t. In retrospect, it might have been wise to remain quiet and let him fail to recognize her through the thick lenses of his silly glasses. But then, she wasn’t very good at taking the wisest course, was she?

“Forgive me. I’ve been suffering one misfortune after another of late, and you don’t find me in the best of spirits, either.”

He brightened. “Well, at least one of us is feeling better. So, there may be hope for the other. But please, if anyone else joins us on our journey, let us pretend we don’t know one another, and if you are forced to attract my attention, remember to use the name Mr. Cowley, or nothing at all. It cannot be known that Roland Chetwynd is bound on this coach for Suffolk.”

So, he was going all the way to Suffolk—she would have to bear his company for the entire journey. Hopefully, at the next stop, the vehicle would fill with passengers, and he could sit in his corner, she could sit in hers, and she might forget that he even existed.

Then suspicion struck. “You’re going all the way to Suffolk?”

His brows arched above the spectacles, which he’d pushed down on his nose. “Why, yes. Is there a rule forbidding it?”

Her mind raced. Surely, it could be no accident that they were both here. “You are following me! My goodness—how many people has Mama employed to make sure I bend to her will?”

“Following you?” His face was the picture of injured innocence. “May I remind you that I don’t even know your name, and I have better things to do than make unchaperoned young women feel anxious.”

Despite his protestation, she couldn’t shake off the dark feeling of foreboding. There was some conspiracy at work here; there had to be. Did Mama have something even more frightening awaiting her at the end of her journey than a scolding? Was there some suitable gentleman lined up and waiting at the altar, ready to clip her wings forever and turn her into a smug, dull wife like her sister Fenny?

She reached for the door. “If you’re not deliberately following me, sir, then you will not object if I remove myself.”

“By all means,” he said blandly. “Though I should remind you that the coach is already in motion. So, descending could be a problem unless we are passing a gentle slope with a soft landing at the bottom.”

She twisted away from the door, but at the very same moment, the wheels jolted over a rut. She was pitched straight into Mr. Chetwynd’s lap.

His hands shot out instinctively to steady her. “Good heavens! How many more of my walking sticks do you intend to break by throwing yourself at me?”

Mortified, Lissy scrambled back into her seat. The places where his hands had touched her felt warm, and she marveled at the strength of them.

“There’s no need to manhandle me, sir!”

“My apologies. Next time, I shall allow you to fall headfirst onto the floor.”

“I thought you were going to try to be more gentlemanly.”

He rested his face in his hands for a moment and shook his head. Then he removed his hat, and an unruly lock of hair flopped down over his forehead. Just for a moment, he looked like a lost and lonely boy, a golden-haired fallen angel with the face of an Adonis. Her breath caught.

“I’m sorry,” she managed. “I suppose I must at least continue on this journey until the first stop.”

“I suppose you must. I promise I will bear your sharp tongue as best I can. Or alternatively, we could parlay, learn to be civil to one another, and understand each other’s feelings a little better. It wouldn’t do any harm, would it? And it would pass the time.”

The look he shot her was immensely charming, and she understood that he was the sort of man who need never be without a female companion. How different from her Oscar, a slender, sprightly creature with intense eyes, long fingers, and an expressive mouth. If it came to a battle of wits, Oscar would most certainly beat Mr. Chetwynd. In any other kind of battle, her money must be on Chetwynd, with his square, determined jaw and unnecessarily broad, powerful shoulders.

She nodded meekly. He was right, of course. There was no point in continuing their journey whilst at loggerheads. If she were to reveal a little about herself, perhaps he would then be prepared to divulge his purpose in traveling to Suffolk.

“What did you want to talk about?”

“I confess, you are what fascinates me most. Shall we begin with your correct name?”

“My name is Miss Felicity Ashby, Lissy to my friends. But that doesn’t mean you’re allowed to take liberties, just because I’ve already told you I’m Lissy. But when the other passengers arrive, please don’t use either of those names—call me Miss Enderby.”

She had expected him to say, “I wouldn’t dream of calling you Lissy,” but instead, he regarded her with a furrowed brow.

“Miss Felicity Ashby? Good lord!”

“If you are familiar with Suffolk, you may have heard of my mother, Lady Beatrice Ashby, of Mundlingham Castle. As you may have already surmised, I was in London without her permission.”

“Lady Beatrice Ashby?” he repeated. His frown had deepened.

“Why? What’s wrong with that name? What have you heard? Has word got out already that Treadwell and I eloped?”