Lyon’s Prey Read online

  She looked at Charlotte and smiled cheekily. “From what I know of you, you will make a fine wife, and this will help your mother in other ways. Your husband—providing this match takes place, and I feel it will—will be able to petition for guardianship of your brother. That will take your uncle out of your brother’s money and the estate business he is handling,” she added, peering under some documents on her desk and extracting a piece of paper and a pencil. She wrote a few things on the paper and looked up. “There, now. I will make all of the arrangements. My hope is your marriage will take place in two days, no more than three. I will be in touch.” She stood, signaling the meeting was at an end.

  Charlotte felt dazed. Two days from now would see her married, and she had not the foggiest idea of the identity of her intended. She would be a Christmastide bride—a most special time to wed. However, this was not how she had ever imagined going to the altar.

  Chapter Five

  The next day.

  Evan’s insides roiled. If he had been a deeply religious man, he might have run from his house and found his way to the nearest church to repent for the activities that had brought him to this place in his life. Could things get any worse? Yesterday, he had found out that his carriage driver had almost killed a child while he was in the vehicle—and a peer, at that. To make matters worse, for the first time in a year, he found himself attracted to someone—the sister of the child his carriage nearly killed, and the sister of a friend.

  Now the Widow had requested to see him. They said trouble traveled in threes. He was not sure who they were, but they were right. He was in trouble—triple trouble. He needed to find a fast and ready solution.

  A double rap sounded on his bedroom door. It was Charles’s custom to knock before he entered, and that was only a cursory one before he pushed open the door. The older man walked in with a small stack of newly pressed breeches over his right arm and a shiny pair of Hessian boots tucked under his left. “My lord, your boots are ready. Which breeches will you wear?”

  “The buff ones will suit. I suppose haste is important as I have a quick meeting on Commonwealth.”

  “Ah yes. The Widow.” Charles drew out the last word with obvious distaste.

  “How do you . . . how did—? Never mind. What do you know about it?” Evan tried to quell his own nervousness about the meeting.

  “I believe you spoke of it to Lord Banbury as he was leaving.” He sniffed loudly. “I have only heard she is normally expeditious in her dealings and that lives change because of her . . . er . . . interventions.” His valet drew in a deep breath. “I hope you are not in her crosshairs, my lord.”

  “Since you are such an authority, what should I wear?” he asked, suddenly questioning his choice of breeches. Being called to meet with this woman had undermined his confidence without her uttering a word in his direction.

  “My lord, she is but a woman. I credit you will hold your own with her. And I believe the buff breeches and the navy and gold waistcoat would add just the polish needed.” His man laid the breeches on the end of the bed and extracted the waistcoat from the wardrobe. “I think this shirt will do nicely,” he finished, pulling out a plain cotton shirt and frilly cravat.

  Ten minutes later, Evan left his room and headed to his study. A quick drink might add just the right amount of courage. Not giving in to the voice in his head telling him to move past the liquor cabinet, he took out a clean glass and poured two fingers of his best brandy, enjoying the warm heat that traveled to his stomach. “I needed this,” he muttered to himself, turning up the glass. He grabbed for another, but thought better of it, knowing there would be no allowance for tardiness.

  Stanton, his footman, stepped into the room. “My lord, your carriage is waiting.”

  “Thank you.” Why was he more nervous about this meeting than betting his pocketbook at one of her tables? A voice in his head seemed to say because life may change, but he rejected the answer out of hand and turned his glass up, swallowing the rest of the brandy. Mollified that there were no excuses for not showing, he followed his footman to the door and picked up his heavy coat, cane, and top hat. He would need them for the chill sure to follow.

  His carriage slowed and stopped before the faded blue building that had become almost his second home over this past year. Even with its seemingly nonapparent upkeep, the building stood out among the red brick buildings that flanked it on each side. “I may as well get this over with,” he muttered to himself as he stepped from the carriage. Glancing behind the footman, he noticed his new driver still in his seat. “Please inform the driver to pick me up in thirty minutes. If I am not ready, have him wait.”

  “Yes, my lord,” the young dark-haired man replied as he closed the door behind Evan and climbed aboard the carriage.

  He fired his regular driver the day before, after the man gave an appalling excuse for his almost hitting a child and not even stopping. The man told him he thought his lordship would not want to become involved and offered not even a modicum of remorse. The reserve driver had done a suitable job today. He would have Bernard promote him to lead driver and hire another reserve. Not involved? Blast! The damn driver made his own muddles that much worse.

  A tall man Evan recognized as Titan stood scowling at the doorway and gave a quick nod to the door behind him, apparently waiting for him to enter. Burnished skin gave a rough-hewn appearance behind his unshaven face which, with the man’s very thick neck and stretched clothing, added to his formidable appearance.

  Suddenly I feel like a lad in short pants, he mused, passing his hat and greatcoat to another man who reached for them as the door closed. Evan followed Titan into the building, down the hall covered with a red-printed carpet to a stairway leading to the familiar smoking room and gaming rooms that overlooked the gambling floor. His destination, however, was the large ornate room in the middle, the one that always had the door closed—Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s office.

  “Wait here,” Titan grunted. “I will let her know you have arrived.” His voice hinted at displeasure before he disappeared into a smaller hall that ran off to the right.

  “Certainly,” Evan replied coolly, suddenly recalling Banbury informing him that Titan had seen the incident with Lady Charlotte and her brother.

  Titan returned and opened the door. “Mrs. Dove-Lyon will be here soon.”

  If they created this reception to add to his discomfort, it scored on that point. Evan looked around the gaudy office, taking in the oversized chandelier hanging in the center of the ceiling of a room full of red velvet. He chose an overstuffed velvet chair with ornately carved arms sitting to the left of her small parlor couch. He preferred to address opponents from the left side of the room, something he recalled his father mentioning to him years before. He did not have any basis to believe it made a difference, but it had become a habit.

  The opening of the door behind him and swish of petticoats alerted him that the woman had arrived, and he stood to greet her, a taut smile plastered on his face.

  “Ah, Lord Clarendon. It is good to see you again. I trust you and your family are well?” she asked with a curious intonation to her voice.

  It immediately reminded him of his disadvantage with this woman. He prided himself on being able to read people, but she purposely kept her face hidden. He would have to rely on the other aspects of body language and her voice to gain him any advantage in this conversation. His stomach tightened, and he drew up straighter in the chair. “My family is well, Mrs. Dove-Lyon.” He paused. “I have to admit to more than a slight amount of curiosity as to the purpose of our meeting today. I am not aware of any outstanding debts,” he ventured.

  “As to that, all in due time,” she answered, reaching to the table beside her couch and pulling out a tin of cheroots and offering him one.

  “No, thank you, but I appreciate the offer. It is too early for me.” Evan inclined his head politely, and she returned the metal box to the table.

  “I see that you are not a man who
appreciates small talk, so I will get right to the point. What I have to say will be a benefit to us both, Lord Clarendon,” she continued. “Your biggest debt, if you will, is to your son. You made a rather casual wager before leaving the gaming room two days hence, which relates to that.”

  “Pardon? That would be curious, as I do not recall placing such a bet. I picked up my winnings and left soon after that,” he supplied, outrage forming at her bringing his son into the conversation.

  “Do you recall wandering to the betting book before you left?” she asked.

  “No.” An icy feeling shot through him. He noted the firmness to his answer, yet a sliver of memory stabbed at him, something to do with Lord Christie. The man had bought him a drink . . . no, two drinks. What happened after that?

  “Are you sure?” she prompted, undeterred by his previous answer, and picked up a large brown ledger book sitting next to her.

  His head ached from the combination of stress and the feeling in his bones he was about to lose serious ground.

  She pulled a cord, and a youthful woman appeared. “Gertie, would you fetch us some tea and whatever the cook has in the way of sandwiches?”

  “Yes, madam,” the young woman replied. She curtsied and left, pulling the door closed behind her.

  Evan wished he could see her face but felt sure he would not see weakness or indecision in it. However, he was having an arduous time maintaining his emotions.

  “Lord Clarendon, do you recognize this?” She tugged on a thin red ribbon hanging from the bottom of the book and opened it to a page. Following the writing with her right forefinger, she drew it slowly down the page until it came to rest about two inches from the bottom. Turning the book around so he could read it, she handed it to him.

  Gertie returned with tea and sandwiches and poured each of them a cup, placing them on the small tables next to them.

  Squinting, he recognized his signature written in a flurry under a hand-printed statement. He stood and walked to the window that looked over the gaming room behind her parlor chair. The light from the room helped him to make out the handwriting.

  The Earl of Clarendon bets that should he lose all his winnings by the end of this night, he agrees to allow the House to choose his wife.

  Signed: The Earl of Clarendon

  Witnessed: Titus

  “That is a stupid bet. It has to be a joke,” he exclaimed. “You cannot hold me to that. I would have had to be deep in my cups to sign such a thing,” he responded, unease seeping into his stomach. He needed to leave the room, convinced that another shoe was about to drop. Feeling invincible at cards that night and having won against tremendous odds, he had bragged to Lord Christie about always winning, except in life. Lord Christie had been equally in his cups, he felt sure—too much to have concocted such a bet.

  He looked up at the Widow and caught a wide smile of red lips beneath her black veil.

  “I assure you it is no joke.” She studied him. “I see you are recalling this,” she spoke as she pulled the book back and closed it, its ribbon still in place. “Titan overheard you make the statement and asked you if you wanted to make that a wager. You accepted and lost,” she said with decisiveness. “That is your signature, is it not?”

  Damn it. As soon as she mentioned Titan, he remembered signing the book, and that was problematic. He was trapped by his own arrogance. “Where exactly is this going?” he asked, an edge to his voice.

  “Relax, Lord Clarendon. I do not believe its direction will displease you.” She fiddled with her sleeves, adjusting the lace to cover her hands. “I hear that you will finally assume the care of your son from your sister’s home. A wife would be perfect, and I have just the person in mind.”

  “Where do you get off—” he stopped and began again, his tone less heated. “Surely, you do not expect me to abide by—”

  “I do.” She cut him off. “You compromised this young lady after almost running over her brother with your carriage on your way here. My man witnessed the episode. Had you not already been soused, you would have demanded your driver stop, but you drove on, leaving both the little boy and his sister injured.”

  “How do you know of this?” he demanded.

  “I have ears. Let us leave it at that. The young lady spent a lengthy period in your house without a chaperone just two days ago, and her mother is most aggrieved that she will be quite ruined in the eyes of the ton. Lady Charlotte Grisham will make a beautiful wife, and I believe over time, you may come to appreciate her attributes.”

  He started to speak but stopped himself, realizing the prospect of the spirited woman becoming his wife excited him. “And if I agree to this, it will be a marriage of convenience. That is what she wants?” He could not believe it. The woman had beauty and wealth—at least he thought she did—was witty and did not speak of the weather as all other debutantes did.

  “The young woman’s father did me a kindness many years ago, and I seek to do his family a good turn.” She let out a long easy breath. “You are willing?”

  Evan remained silent for a few minutes with his gaze locked on the veiled woman across from him. “This appears to have been a setup.” She started to speak, but he held up his right hand in acquiescence and chuckled lightly.

  “You find this is amusing, my lord?” she inquired in a serious tone, tilting her head slightly.

  “No, I do not. Not really,” he began. “What I find amusing is something my valet occasionally tells me. ‘Be careful what you wish for,’ he says. This is one of those times I suppose I should have not wished for anything.”

  “You wished for a wife?” she replied, incredulous.

  “No. I assure you, that never entered my mind. I did, however, wish for a solution.” A rueful smile tugged at his lips.

  “Ah.” She smiled, although it looked more like a sneer, and gave an abrupt incline of her head. “Then we have an understanding. The wedding will take place as soon as you procure a special license. Send word that you have it. It will be a private ceremony the day after tomorrow, at ten in the morning at St. George’s Chapel. I have already made arrangements.”

  He sat stunned for a long minute. “You were sure I would agree to this,” he stated flatly, not expecting an answer. Yet rather than feeling his life continuing to spin out of control, he felt hopeful. Oddly hopeful.

  The woman stood to leave but stopped and turned to him. “One more thing, my lord,” she said with firmness in her voice. “It is my advice that you do not discuss this wedding with anyone outside of those you trust with your life. I believe the lady’s uncle does not wish the best for her,” she said caustically, pausing. “Should this wedding become foiled by the uncle, please be advised that according to the wager you signed, the House may choose a wife. I may not be as generous with my next selection. This is a business.”

  Chapter Six

  Lady Charlotte lay in her bed with her covers pulled to her chin and stared up at her ceiling, thinking. She felt chilled, but not because of the cold rain outside her window. Rather, she was unable to reconcile how her life had changed so in the past two days. By this time tomorrow, not only would she be a wife to a man she had only just met, she would be a mother as well. Worse, there was nothing she could do but accept her fate.

  Her mother had received a missive from Mrs. Dove-Lyon that all had been accepted and arranged. Charlotte would be Lady Clarendon, the wife of an earl, with all of the responsibilities she had seen Mama perform for Papa.

  The visit with her mother to the Lyon’s Den had been eye opening. She had no idea there was a matchmaker in London, and not once had she considered her family was acquainted with such a woman. Further, Charlotte had never considered she would need such a service. Unsure of how Mrs. Dove-Lyon had accomplished it, all plans discussed on her visit with her mother were in motion.

  For her part, Charlotte had made the poor decision to take matters into her own hands and confront the earl; consequently, she had only herself to blame for the predica
ment she found herself in. Mama had been the biggest surprise. For months, she had worried about her mother’s state of mind over the loss of Papa, only to realize her mother had been playacting to fool her uncle, whom no one trusted.

  Charlotte glanced over at the pale lavender chiffon dress draped over the chair in front of her fireplace. The sleeves were trimmed in double rolls of white satin, and the lacy bottom fanned out like a flower on the pink and white rug, embellished in ecru Belgian lace. It was a lovely dress. She had first worn it for her introduction to society, and now it would be her wedding dress. He mother had told her she looked like a princess and assured her that Papa would understand her not wearing black to her wedding. Perhaps she would feel like that wearing it again.

  It must do. There was no time for a seamstress to create a new dress. Luckily, everything still fit, and the style was still as stunning as it was when she first wore it.

  A quick rap sounded at her door.

  “Come in,” she said, wishing whomever it was would leave her alone and let her spend her day moping. It might be the last such day for a while to come. She sighed. “I may as well get up. I know better than to think I could just be lazy.” She pulled the covers back and swung her feet over the side of the bed, searching for her slippers.

  “Lady Charlotte, this package came for you.” Jane, her lady’s maid, nodded to a small package sitting on the left side of a silver tray, while her hot chocolate and toast sat on the right.

  “Who sent it to me? Did they leave a card?”

  “No card arrived with it. A courier delivered it. ’Tis exciting!” she gushed, handing the package to Charlotte.

  Charlotte turned the package over, examining it. A plain brown wrapper secured by twine gave no hints as to whom had sent it. A red wax seal of a flower added nothing remarkable, as she knew no one or nothing associated with the symbol. Deciding to open it when she was alone, she reached for the cup of chocolate. “I am famished. Perhaps it would be more prudent to drink my chocolate, first. I have been dreaming of a hot cup of chocolate, and I do not want it to get cold.” Raising the cup to her lips, she tasted. “Mmm. Perfect.” It was just what she needed. “Would you be a dear, Jane, and draw me a bath?” Charlotte asked before she took a second sip of the hot drink.