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

  After going over her ledgers, she met for half an hour with Hippolyta about business affairs. The woman served as Bessie’s pit boss and oversaw everything in the gaming hell. Though not related by blood, Hippolyta was as close as a sister to Bessie. Either woman would give her life for the other.

  Once they’d completed their discussion, a maid rolled in a cart and served a well-cooked meal. After dining, she sipped on a whiskey, her only other choice of drink, and perused the daily newspapers. She found it important to keep abreast of events going on in London and beyond, especially since several of her clients were involved in politics. She also paid special attention to the gossip columns. It was within these pages that she discovered some of her most valuable information. Before a man walked through her doors, she wanted to know as much about him as possible.

  The maid returned and said, “Mrs. Dove-Lyon, you have guests. Two women insist upon seeing you at once.”

  She frowned. No appointments were on her schedule for this afternoon. She saw visitors—potential clients—only when she chose to, especially those men she blackmailed or the women who paid her to find them a husband. Dropping by The Lyon’s Den without an appointment simply wasn’t done. As for guests, she never had them. Her life existed within these walls. Here were her friends and employees.

  “Who is it?” she asked, curiosity getting the better of her.

  “She preferred not to give their names.”

  It didn’t matter. She had no need to see anyone she didn’t wish to and told the maid, “Send them away.”

  The servant replied, “She said you’d say that.”

  Bessie stilled. Only one person would have predicted her actions and commented in such a manner.

  The past had come knocking on her door.

  “Describe to me who has come to call,” she commanded the maid, knowing the girl would have done her job. All her employees were trained to carefully study anyone who walked into the Den.

  “The older woman is handsome for her age. She’s probably a bit older than you, with hair white as snow and brown eyes. Some wrinkles but not too many. Her figure is good for a woman well past her prime. She is dressed as a widow, all in black. The quality of her clothing is quite good. She is probably two inches over five feet.”

  She sniffed, not wanting to think of herself as old but knowing she was.

  “And the other?” she asked haughtily.

  “She is a beauty. A couple of inches taller than her companion and in her mid-twenties. Her waist is trim and her breasts small but ample. Her eyes are periwinkle blue and her hair is the color of honey. Her clothes are merely adequate. She looks as if she might be the older woman’s companion.”

  Maybe Bessie was wrong. Maybe it wasn’t whom she had thought. Still, she wanted to see for herself.

  “Bring them to me in five minutes.”

  Retreating to her room, she quickly donned the black hat and veil that obscured her features. She was never seen without it. It lent an air of mystery and also helped her observe others without them being able to study her.

  She returned to her office and busied herself at the desk, sensing the two women when they entered the room. Without looking up from her pretend correspondence, she brusquely told them to have a seat and then continued to keep them waiting another five minutes as she scribbled nonsense. She fought the urge to use her peripheral vision to observe them. Instead, she used her intense sense of smell. The younger woman only carried the scent from the vanilla oil of her bath, pleasant but nothing out of the ordinary.

  The older woman was different. Wafting from her skin was the subtle scent of roses, the same as came from Bessie’s own skin. She was certain without looking her in the eyes that it was Flo.

  Guilt flushed through her as she remembered running away, Flo ordering her to do so, willing to take the blame for Bessie’s mistake since Flo was the older of the two sisters. She wondered how she’d been found and what Flo might want after all these decades apart. Did it have anything to do with the young woman who accompanied her?

  “How long are you going to avoid me, Bessie?” her sister asked in a cultured tone.

  She looked up, her mouth dry, but her chin high, her posture perfect.

  Lifting her veil, she said, “It’s been many years, Flo. You look well. Younger than I do, in fact.”

  “I go by Florence now. Or I did many years ago when I married. I am Mrs. Blackwell, widow of Major Blackwell.”

  “You wed an army officer as I did.”

  “Yes,” Flo replied. “But mine fell in battle on the Peninsula.”

  Bessie said, “Mine didn’t.”

  “You won’t confirm or deny the rumors surrounding his death?” her sister asked.

  She merely shrugged, not wanting to go back to that time in her life. Then pity filled her. Flo had always wanted to marry. Escape the grinding poverty. Have children.

  “Is this your daughter?” she inquired politely, turning her gaze to Flo’s companion. “Or granddaughter, perhaps?”

  Her maid hadn’t done the girl justice. She had a heart-shaped face and delicate features. An air of fragility clung to her. Yet Bessie also noted resolve within her. An inner strength that wouldn’t be obvious to the casual observer.

  “This is Lady Emma Spencer.” Flo paused. “Lord Seton’s daughter.”

  Bessie’s eyes narrowed, recognizing the name of one of the most infamous men in England in recent years. “So, this isn’t a social call. You are asking to become a client.”

  “Yes. Lady Emma has a very large dowry and would like to wed.”

  She focused on the poised young woman seated across from her. “Is that so, my lady? The authorities never found your father, much less any trace of what he stole. Have you had access to these funds all along?”

  “No, they never did find him,” Lady Emma said, her voice low and even, but fire evident in her unusual eyes. “Lord Seton is dead—and he was no father to me. I wasn’t a male heir and that meant he had little to do with me or Mama, who couldn’t bear him any more children. He lived a life apart from us, rarely coming home. I often wondered if I saw him on the street if he would recognize me, much less know my name.”

  “I see.”

  “Lord Seton managed to be one step ahead of the law,” Lady Emma continued. “When he left England, he left me penniless. It was the night of my come-out, which obviously never happened.”

  Bessie admired how the girl stated the facts with no bitterness obvious. It spoke to her character. Many of her clients came to her waving plenty of money but were less desirable as people. She wanted to hear more of this girl’s story but she’d already made up her mind to help her.

  “No family took you in? Not even your cousin?”

  The young woman didn’t flinch. “My cousin could have done the Christian thing and allowed me into his household, Mrs. Dove-Lyon. He chose not to act with charity.” Lady Emma’s tone closed the door to any further inquiries regarding family.

  She found that interesting because she had been the one to arrange the marriage of this woman’s cousin, who would now become Lord Seton. He had been guilty of more than uncharitable behavior toward Emma Spencer. In fact, his indiscretions had led to Bessie blackmailing him into wedding one of her most desperate clients. The future Lord Seton had done as she’d asked without question, afraid for his sins to be made public. If she’d known he’d been so monstrously unkind, she might have allowed the information she possessed to slip out.

  She still might.

  “Fortunately, I interviewed with Mrs. Blackwell and have served as her companion for several years,” Lady Emma added. “She has been as a mother to me. I am grateful for being a part of her household.”

  Things became clearer now. “You’ve just learned of your father’s passing?” Bessie confirmed.

  “Yes. A few hours ago.”

  Flo spoke up. “Lady Emma will be granted access to the funds left by her father. What belonged to the estate—and the new
Lord Seton—and what he swindled from others is unclear. The matter is being handled privately. No one will know Emma holds any monies from her father.” She paused. “Emma believes even then finding a husband will be difficult, if not impossible.”

  “Because the mamas of the Polite Society would not find her a fitting bride for their cherished sons once they learn whose daughter she is,” Bessie concluded. She shook her head. “Tell me in your own words, Lady Emma, what you find to be the problem in making a good match?”

  “I am untouchable, Mrs. Dove-Lyon. The ton turned their backs on me. They blamed me for my father’s sins when I did nothing wrong. When I had no idea my father was a thief, stealing from his very friends. I am certain they still blame me, even now.”

  Lady Emma smoothed a hand across her skirts. “Frankly, I don’t really want the money but Mrs. Blackwell has encouraged me to accept it. I am only here because I long for children—and that means getting a husband. Polite Society won’t have anything to do with me. I truly do not need a gentleman. I would be happy if you arranged a union with someone such as a barrister or clerk or shopkeeper.”

  Bessie admired this young woman. She had been left destitute on the night she had dreamed of her entire young life. She’d had to go into the world and earn her keep. She could have been consumed by resentment but instead seemed to have adjusted and matured into the life she now had. In Lady Emma Spencer, Bessie saw much of herself. She had risen like a phoenix from the ashes, reinventing herself not once, but twice. This young woman deserved a chance at happiness. She would make sure Emma Spencer received her just due after her years of suffering a cretin as her father and then living in exile from the very company she had been bred to live among.

  “Oh, I can do better than that, Lady Emma. Much better. How long since your father left England?”

  “Five years.”

  Bessie nodded. “Long enough. True, some will remember but if you wed well enough, a man of unimpeachable character, you will once more be accepted by society. In fact, if you wed him and then are presented to society, it may never become known Seton sired you.”

  She rose and the two women did the same.

  “Give me some time. I will find the right candidate for you. You will offer a man grace, beauty—and courage. I must find one who will be fitting for you, as well.”

  “How long?” Flo asked eagerly.

  “I’m very good at arranging marriages. My services aren’t cheap.”

  She named a figure. Lady Emma gasped. Flo frowned.

  “Of course, I suppose I could give you a discount.”

  Flo glared at her. “You better. You still owe me. After all, I’m the one you left behind. I had to suffer the consequences.”

  The two women gazed at each other a long moment. Bessie sensed Lady Emma looking back and forth between them, trying to figure out things.

  “I will agree to waive my usual fee in this instance,” she amended, knowing she was going to do so all along. “Give me one week. Return next Tuesday. I will have found an appropriate groom by then.”

  “Emma is sweet and a bit naïve,” Flo said. “I want approval of this suitor.”

  “You don’t trust me to have the last word?” Bessie teased. “Very well.”

  She rang a bell and a maid appeared.

  “Show these ladies what door to call at when they come next Tuesday.” To her visitors, she added, “You should arrive at half-past eight. I will share with you how the night will unfold. You will then meet each of the various candidates and make your choice.”

  Lady Emma offered her hand. “Thank you, Mrs. Dove-Lyon. I appreciate your efforts on my behalf.”

  “You are most welcome, my lady.” She turned and embraced Flo, no words exchanged between them.

  The women left. Bessie expelled a long breath.

  She’d never thought she would ever see her sister again.

  Chapter Five

  His life was a nightmare.

  Marcus left the ballroom. Needing air. Needing money. Needing sanity.

  He went through the French doors and out onto the balcony. Couples strolled along it, the sweet smells of blossoming flowers from the nearby garden wafting through the warm May night.

  It had been just over a year since his father’s death. In that time, he’d solved none of his problems.

  His first move had been to abandon London. He’d already tired of his fast set of friends and had begun distancing himself from them, the idea of settling down with a wife and raising a family foremost in his mind. With the news of the family being almost bankrupt, he’d retreated into the estate’s ledgers, trying to find answers. He’d worked with his tenants on exploring new innovations regarding crops. Those results would take time, though. Time he didn’t have. Too many people nipped at his heels, wanting the debts of his father paid.

  Because of that, he’d returned to London for the Season, which was already three weeks old. He’d danced with every girl making her come-out and leftovers from other years. Doing something he’d never thought he would do, he’d begun focusing on those young ladies who brought hefty dowries. His heart wasn’t in it, though. Not one of them appealed to him. Marcus told himself it didn’t matter. He should just pick one. The one with the largest dowry that could save the Rutherford name.

  Yet he’d wanted so much more from marriage. Though most in the ton wed for finances and joining influential families together, he’d held hope in the back of his mind that he might actually wed for love. It was too late for that. He would have to choose some naïve, unsuspecting girl straight from the schoolroom and ply her with pretty lies. He would wed her and be kind to her and never have the relationship he’d yearned for. He ran through a list of possibilities in his mind, growing more disgusted with himself as he did. How could he sentence himself to a life shackled with someone he didn’t know or care about, all because of his father’s foolishness?

  Then a thought came to him. He’d heard rumors about a woman who played matchmaker to desperate people. Men who would do anything to secure a large fortune. Women who’d been touched by scandal and couldn’t find a proper husband.

  Should he visit the Black Widow of Whitehall?

  He returned inside and decided to fortify himself with something stronger than the ratafia being served in the punchbowl. Making his way to the card room, he ran into two people he’d avoided since his recent return to London, Jeremy and Luke St. Clair. He enjoyed both men’s company but was also jealous of them. They had married accomplished women. Everton, a popular children’s author, and Mayfield, a bookstore owner. Both were known for being besotted with their wives and children. In them, Marcus saw all he wanted and could never have.

  The pair greeted him. Being old friends, he did what was expected and shook their hands. He would chat for a few minutes and then make his escape.

  “You’ve danced with every debutante this Season, Rutherford,” Mayfield teased. “If I was a betting man, I’d think you have a mind to make some pretty young thing your countess.”

  “I am considering it,” he said cryptically.

  Everton’s gaze penetrated him. “Is something wrong?”

  The duke had been one of Marcus’ oldest friends, along with the duke’s older brother, Timothy. When Timothy drowned, the men had drifted apart and then come back together as adults. He remembered Everton had been saddled with hefty debts from his own father’s gambling and had somehow managed to pull himself up by the bootstraps and recover.

  He motioned them to follow him. They traveled down a corridor and found a small room. Marcus closed the door.

  “I am in dire financial straits,” he admitted. “Father lost almost everything in the Seton affair several years ago.”

  “That’s why you sold the townhouse,” Everton said quietly. He exchanged a look with his brother.

  “Yes. It was the only thing of value and kept the wolves at bay. For a time.”

  “Any unentailed properties?” Mayfield asked hopefully.


  “No. He sold those and tried gambling with that money to restore the family fortune. Father was kind and the least aggressive man I’ve known. He would have been eaten alive at the tables. And was.” He sighed. “I’ve done what I can at Shorecrest but I need a large infusion of cash. That means taking a bride.”

  “I had similar troubles years ago,” the duke said. “Once you have claimed a dowry, I’d be happy to advise you on business affairs.”

  “I would be most grateful, Your Grace,” Marcus said, hope stirring within him that he might somehow crawl out of this godawful mess.

  “Has anyone particular caught your eye?” Mayfield asked.

  “No,” he said glumly. “They’re all so young and boring. Nothing like what I had envisioned when I decided to wed.”

  He knew Luke St. Clair had been a rogue of the worst kind before his marriage and might have the knowledge he sought.

  Looking at the earl, he asked, “What do you know of The Lyon’s Den?”

  Mayfield’s eyes widened. “You’re that desperate?”

  “I am,” Marcus confirmed.

  “I only visited it once, several years ago. The food and wines were superb. The games were . . . odd. There were traditional games to be had. Hazard. Faro. Vingt-et-un. But many of those who came ventured there to bet on absurd, bizarre wagers.” Mayfield shook his head. “Some of them were cruel in the outcome. I never had the desire to return.”

  “Have you heard of the Black Widow of Whitehall?”

  “I have,” the duke confirmed. “She matches disreputable women to gentlemen who find themselves in your situation.”

  “I am thinking of going to her,” Marcus admitted. “I feel I have no other choice.”

  “Do you really want to be encumbered with a woman that many in society will turn their back upon?” Everton asked. “I would hate to see it come to that. Let me help you, Rutherford.”