The Lyon's Lady Love: The Lyon's Den Read online

  Amanda returned, Stanley in tow, and said, “Mother can come live with us. You can, too, Marcus, whenever you’re in town. We’ll be in the country most of the year. I know you’ll need to be in London more, trying to iron out everything. Stay at the London townhome for as long as you wish.”

  “Thank you both,” he said humbly, grateful for the offer.

  He wouldn’t be able to afford his rooms, much less pay his tailor or bootmaker. He’d need to sell his carriage and horses. The weight of the world pressed down upon him. In one afternoon, his beloved father had made a mess of Marcus’ life. Not just today but for years to come. True, he had the title but nothing to go with it.

  How could he get out of this quagmire?

  Chapter Three

  London—May 1817

  Emma paused at the end of the chapter and saw that the back of Mrs. Blackwell’s head lay against the cushion. A soft snore came so Emma closed the book and set it aside. A wave of love for Mrs. Blackwell filled her. If not for this wonderful war widow, Emma might be living in some hovel with no means of support. Immediately after her father’s disappearance, her cousin disowned her, furious that his uncle had fled England, leaving the estate in limbo. No word had come in the five years since Lord Seton barely escaped the law. Her cousin told her that he wouldn’t have her as a nursery governess, much less a scullery maid in the kitchen, blaming her for her father’s sins. She heard from him through a solicitor once a year, each time demanding to know where Lord Seton had fled and if he was still alive.

  She had no idea. After her father’s disappearance, she hadn’t cared if she ever heard from the man again. She didn’t care if he died and her cousin became the new earl. When that day came, who knew if there would be funds to reopen the country house? Emma had gone to address the servants regarding her father’s crimes and written references for each of them before dismissing them and closing the house. It lay empty to this day. She would never have been able to afford living there with no income. She hadn’t known at the time but her father had sold off all the land surrounding the hall and pushed his tenants off the land, preparing for the day he would leave England.

  She wished she could say all this had come as a surprise to her but she’d never known the man. Her father had been a stranger to her, rarely home, and barely acknowledging her when he was. Sometimes she wondered why he had agreed to purchase her wardrobe for the Season she never had. Maybe he had thought she would attend the events after his departure and find a husband to care for her. It was also possible that he had thought she would have her Season and already be wed before he left England. The night of his flight had been rushed. Emma doubted he had thought he would be leaving so soon.

  She still heard from Sir Howard occasionally. He had been good enough to meet with her after her father vanished and cleared up the few questions she had. He had also recommended an employment agency which hired impoverished, genteel women as governesses and companions. The thought of having to earn her own living had troubled Emma greatly. She hadn’t been raised to do anything other than be a lady. She prayed for hours the night before her interview, hoping to land a position right for her. She had never been around children and had longed to be a companion to some elderly woman.

  Instead, the agency had sent her to Mrs. Blackwell, a woman in her mid-fifties, who was the widow of an army major who had died in battle the previous year in Spain. They had gotten along well and Mrs. Blackwell offered Emma the job as her companion. She had not accepted immediately, candidly revealing in detail to the woman exactly who she was.

  “Why should I care if your father was a scoundrel, Miss Spencer?” Mrs. Blackwell had asked. “It is you who will be my companion, not that blackguard who abandoned you. Besides, I don’t move in Polite Society.”

  Emma didn’t either. The invitations that had poured in for the upcoming Season were quickly rescinded, as if she would taint others by merely being in their presence. It didn’t matter. Society had turned its back on her and she had done the same. She would never be a part of the ton. Never wed. Never have children. Her life was a quiet one, spent reading and conversing with Mrs. Blackwell. Gardening with her. Having tea. It wasn’t what she had imagined for herself but it certainly was better than what could have happened to her.

  Mrs. Blackwell began to stir and Emma opened the book again, rereading the last few lines of the chapter aloud, pretending she hadn’t noticed her audience of one dozing off.

  Her employer smiled. “I do believe Emma has become my favorite novel. I like it even better than Pride and Prejudice. Although this Emma is such a busybody.” She patted Emma’s hand. “Nothing like you, my dear.”

  She chuckled. “I hope not. I would never meddle in the lives of others the way Miss Woodhouse does. At least she learns the error of her ways, thanks in part to Mr. Knightley.”

  “Oh, Mr. Knightley is such a gentleman. Just like my Major Blackwell.”

  Emma knew officers were always gentlemen, having had to purchase their commissions in order to become officers. She often wondered why Mrs. Blackwell did not move among the ton since her husband had most assuredly been a part of them.

  “I wish I could have met the major,” she said. “You speak of him so fondly.”

  Mrs. Blackwell smiled wistfully. “My husband was the best of men. It still brings me sorrow that I could not have children. We both wanted them so.” She patted Emma’s hand again. “But fate brought me you, Emma darling. You are as a daughter to me. I am blessed to have you in my life.”

  Emotion overcame here. She blinked away the tears that misted her eyes and cleared her throat. “Shall we read more of Emma’s exploits?”

  “Yes. But please skip over any part with Frank Churchill. I abhor that man.”

  Since they’d read the novel a good dozen times since its publication last year, she saw no problem with avoiding the Churchill portions. They both knew this story forward and backward.

  She began reading again, hoping when they finished this chapter that Mrs. Blackwell would agree to a walk outside. Sunshine streamed in the windows and walking was something the two women enjoyed doing when the weather was pleasant.

  The housekeeper entered the room and Emma paused. “Yes, Mrs. Smith?”

  “You have visitors, Mrs. Blackwell.”

  That surprised her. Mrs. Blackwell rarely entertained. Every now and then, her employer would have an old friend to tea. Emma was excused on those occasions and usually went to the park to walk along the Serpentine.

  “It’s a Lady Seton and Mr. Crenshaw,” the housekeeper continued.

  Shock rippled through her. Her jaw dropped as Mrs. Blackwell took her hand. Her mother had been dead many years. This Lady Seton must be her father’s wife. Had he returned to London? Why did he send this woman to her? How did he even know where she lived?

  “You may send them in, Mrs. Smith.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the housekeeper said.

  Squeezing her hand, Mrs. Blackwell said, “Sit up. Be the lady you are. And remember, I am here for you. We will meet this challenge together.”

  Gratitude filled her. “Thank you.”

  They rose and Emma took a deep, cleansing breath. She was glad she wore her lilac gown. It was slightly outdated but the fit was good and the color suited her.

  Their visitors entered the parlor and approached. Mr. Crenshaw looked like a hundred other men of his age and occupation. It was Lady Seton who drew Emma’s eye.

  Her hair was as black as midnight. Dark brown eyes complimented her smooth, olive skin. She looked to be in her early forties, perhaps a bit older. Her figure was trim and, despite being petite, she carried herself as if she were ten feet tall.

  She offered her hand. “How do you do? I am Lady Seton. This is Mr. Crenshaw.”

  They exchanged pleasantries and Mrs. Blackwell invited them to sit.

  “I am sure you are surprised to find me calling upon you, Lady Emma,” the woman began. “Especially since I know you were unawa
re of my marriage to your father.”

  “That is correct,” she said stiffly, bristling at the mention of him and wishing she could forever unlink her name from his.

  The countess smiled. “Please, we are family even though we are only now meeting. Would you call me Margarida?”

  “I’m not sure if I can,” she admitted. “What led to you calling upon us, Lady Seton?”

  “I am from Lisbon. It was there I met my husband. We became friendly and then wed after a time. I had lost my own husband several years earlier and the earl mentioned losing his wife.” The countess paused. “I’m sorry that he did not mention your existence.”

  The words cut Emma to the quick but she rallied, as she had learned to do. “That doesn’t surprise me, my lady. My father deserted me when he left England five years ago.” She started to say more and then fell silent. It wasn’t her place to tell her father’s sordid story to this stranger.

  “I know about his . . . activities,” the countess said.

  Anger flared within her. “He told you how he swindled a large number of his friends out of their fortunes?”

  “Yes.”

  She sniffed. “I’m surprised you wed him.”

  “I did not learn of this until after our marriage,” Lady Seton said. “I would not have married him if he had made it known.”

  Emma thought a moment. “Did he marry you for your deceased husband’s wealth?”

  “No,” Lady Seton said calmly. “Seton had plenty on his own. I made sure we kept our finances separate. He signed legal documents before our wedding ceremony took place. I alone control the fortune left to me by my first husband.”

  “I don’t understand why you are here, Lady Seton.”

  “I came to inform you that your father has passed away.”

  She took in the words, feeling nothing. “My father betrayed me, my lady. He told me even as he took flight that he’d never cared for me, much less loved me. His death means very little.” She stood. “I thank you for sharing the news.” Then remembering her manners, she added, “I am sorry for your loss.”

  The countess also rose. She took a step forward and captured Emma’s hands.

  “He only spoke of you once. On his deathbed.” Lady Seton shook her head. “It seems he had a conscience, after all. He asked for a priest, though I know he wasn’t Catholic. He confessed his sins. That is when I learned of his perfidy. How he betrayed trusted friends for money.” Tears glinted her eyes. “And how he shamelessly neglected you. If I had known of your existence, I would have sent for you.

  “It is the reason I had to find you, Lady Emma. To somehow make it up to you. His guilt has eaten away at me.”

  Emma pulled her hands from Lady Seton’s. “As you can imagine, the topic is a painful one to me. I’d prefer never to hear his name mentioned again.” She swallowed. “Thank you for alerting me to his death, my lady. I will notify my cousin that he is the new Lord Seton. I bid you a good day.”

  Anguish filled the older woman’s face. “I’m afraid you don’t understand. I am wealthy in my own right. I have no need of Seton’s money. I have relinquished all claims upon it. Mr. Crenshaw here has assisted me in doing so. The money your father possessed goes to you, Lady Emma. From what Mr. Crenshaw tells me, you are now a wealthy woman.”

  “How . . . can I accept it?” she sputtered. “He stole it from men in society. The ton already turned their backs on me. I have been ignored by all. My own friends. Friends and acquaintances of the Seton family. No one cared what happened to me. I don’t see how I can take something that doesn’t belong to me—when it never belonged to him. I would be ostracized. Viewed as complicit in his schemes.”

  “Not all of it is tainted, Lady Emma,” the solicitor said. “Lord Seton was already quite prosperous before the scandal broke. I know because I was his solicitor. I never understood why he felt the need to accumulate so much wealth, especially at the hands of his fellow peers. The point is, my lady, no one knows exactly how much he took and from whom. Even if you wanted to return it, we don’t know the names of all the men, much less how much he stole from them. I suggest we set aside a healthy portion to use as your dowry. You are still young and can marry.”

  “You mean buy myself a husband with this blood money?” Emma asked, her bitterness obvious.

  Mrs. Blackwell came and put an arm about her. “Emma, dear, I won’t be here forever. Don’t you want a husband? Children of your own? You would make for the most perfect mother. You are nurturing and giving.”

  She burst into tears, burying her face against Mrs. Blackwell’s shoulder. Of course, she longed for a husband and a family. It had been her dream to find love and have half a dozen babies. Create a happy home, unlike the one she had been raised in.

  Mrs. Blackwell murmured soothing things as she patted Emma’s back. Finally, she raised her head, brushing away her tears.

  “I do want to wed,” she said quietly, “though I would never leave you behind, Mrs. Blackwell. I would insist you come and live with me. You could be a grandmother to my children.”

  “That is very kind of you, Emma.” Mrs. Blackwell turned to their guests. “You need to set up an account at the bank for Emma at once. Do so this afternoon. Send word and we will meet you there tomorrow to discuss the funds to be transferred into her account.”

  “Very well, Mrs. Blackwell,” Mr. Crenshaw said.

  “Might I see you again, Lady Emma?” the countess asked. “I will be returning to Lisbon at the end of the month but I would like to see you settled.”

  Emma took her stepmother’s hand, regretting her earlier behavior. “You have shown me nothing but kindness, my lady. I am sorry for my harsh words to you. My mother raised me better than this. I allowed my anger at my father to be pushed onto you. Please forgive me.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive,” Lady Seton said. “He fooled me as well. He was all charm and good looks. I’m ashamed at my age that I succumbed to them both. I’m sure it was very hard having to make your way in the world with no money and no family. It looks as though Mrs. Blackwell has been a blessing in your life.”

  “She is my one true friend. I would have nothing if not for her.”

  “I will make the arrangements as requested,” Mr. Crenshaw said. “The matter will be confidential. Lady Seton had Lord Seton’s funds placed in her own account in Portugal since she was his widow and gained access to these upon his death. Her account is in her married name—that of her first husband. When the transfer is made, the name Seton will be kept out of it. No one will know Lord Seton’s ill-gotten gains are going into Lady Emma Spencer’s account. Even if the banker makes the connection after all this time, he will exercise discretion.”

  “Thank you for coming,” Mrs. Blackwell said. “We look forward to hearing from you.”

  The pair left and Emma fell onto the settee, exhausted by the entire matter. Mrs. Blackwell came to sit beside her, wrapping an arm about her. She placed her head against the older woman’s shoulder.

  “I have an answer to your problems, my dear.”

  “What answer?”

  “You desire a husband. I won’t have you marrying some clerk or laborer. You need an appropriate gentleman, one with a title. One who will allow you to regain entry into Polite Society.”

  “No one of quality will have me, Mrs. Blackwell. It’s as if I have a badge pinned to my bosom, noting the shame my father caused, even though I am innocent of his crimes.”

  “My sister will know what to do. She will solve all your problems.”

  “Your sister?” Emma sat up. “I never even knew you had a sister. You have never mentioned her to me in all these years.”

  Mrs. Blackwell pursed her lips. “I don’t know if she’ll acknowledge me. We haven’t seen one another in close to forty years. She helps women with your kind of problem, though. And she owes me a huge favor.”

  Patting Emma’s knee, she added, “Yes, Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon is exactly the woman to solve your problems.” br />
  Chapter Four

  Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon, the Black Widow of Whitehall, rose at noon and called for hot chocolate and a bath. She sank into the steaming water and sipped at the chocolate. Never tea. Her husband, Colonel Sandstrom T. Lyon, had been the tea drinker. The drink reminded her of her deceased husband and she had never drunk it after his death. They had wed when she was twenty-one. He was almost five decades older and happy to have her—and what she could do for him. The marriage had only lasted two years, which had been two years too long. Bessie had rejoiced to find her husband dead in the bed beside her one morning, ready to collect what was due her as a widow.

  Only it had all been a front. While Colonel Lyon came from a family of good standing and social position, no real money was left. At least she owned Lyon’s Gate Manor outright. Located on the west end of London, along Cleveland Row, her husband’s former home was now the most lucrative gaming hell in London—and home to her unusual matchmaking service. This was her life and had been for some time. Those years long ago with her husband were now locked away, as was the rest of her past.

  She finished her chocolate, its richness still on her tongue, and bathed in the water scented with rose oil, one of her favorites. The colonel had loathed roses. Another reason to be glad he was gone.

  She dressed in her usual black, her figure still trim despite her fifty-one years, and went to her desk. Her first task of the afternoon was always counting the receipts from the night before, sorting the markers, and seeing which men had fallen into her debt. Next, she looked over some of the new games devised by her staff. While The Lyon’s Den made traditional games such as faro and vingt-et-un available, her establishment was known for its unusual ways to bet. She had a reputation to maintain and constantly looked for new ways to lure the wealthy gentlemen of the ton to her tables. Some of them came for the fine wines and foods she served but most were lured to her establishment for the excitement or the chance to gain a wealthy bride. Her unique matchmaking service created matches for some of the women who held the largest dowries—and were unsuited to wed, at least in the eyes of Polite Society.