The Lyon's Den in Winter: The Lyon's Den Read online

  The Lyon’s Den in Winter

  A Lyon’s Den novella

  Whitney Blake

  © Copyright 2020 by Whitney Blake

  Text by Whitney Blake

  Cover by Wicked Smart Designs

  Dragonblade Publishing, Inc. is an imprint of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc.

  P.O. Box 7968

  La Verne CA 91750

  [email protected]

  Produced in the United States of America

  First Edition December 2020

  Kindle Edition

  Reproduction of any kind except where it pertains to short quotes in relation to advertising or promotion is strictly prohibited.

  All Rights Reserved.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  License Notes:

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook, once purchased, may not be re-sold. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it or borrow it, or it was not purchased for you and given as a gift for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. If this book was purchased on an unauthorized platform, then it is a pirated and/or unauthorized copy and violators will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. Do not purchase or accept pirated copies. Thank you for respecting the author’s hard work. For subsidiary rights, contact Dragonblade Publishing, Inc.

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  Dearest Reader;

  Thank you for your support of a small press. At Dragonblade Publishing, we strive to bring you the highest quality Historical Romance from the some of the best authors in the business. Without your support, there is no ‘us’, so we sincerely hope you adore these stories and find some new favorite authors along the way.

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  CEO, Dragonblade Publishing

  Additional Dragonblade books by Author Whitney Blake

  Dukes of Destiny Series

  Duke of Havoc

  Duke of Sorrow

  Duke of Disgrace

  Duke of Misfortune

  The Lyon’s Den Connected World

  The Lyon’s Den in Winter

  Other Lyon’s Den Books

  Into the Lyon’s Den by Jade Lee

  The Scandalous Lyon by Maggi Andersen

  Fed to the Lyon by Mary Lancaster

  The Lyon’s Lady Love by Alexa Aston

  The Lyon’s Laird by Hildie McQueen

  The Lyon Sleeps Tonight by Elizabeth Ellen Carter

  A Lyon in Her Bed by Amanda Mariel

  Fall of the Lyon by Chasity Bowlin

  Lyon’s Prey by Anna St. Claire

  Loved by the Lyon by Collette Cameron

  Author’s Note

  Or, on influences and scene-setting

  I’m including these little tidbits of information because I think they might be of interest… I’m always interested in the thought process behind stories. This, more than others I’ve written, was full of nods to other people and things.

  Here are just a few, and I’ll leave you to find the rest:

  - The most obvious is to “The Lion in Winter”, with Malcolm and Bessie echoing—just a little—1968’s fictional Henry and Eleanor.

  - Duncan owes something to Keats, though he’s not as dramatic as the original physician-poet. He’s also older.

  - Everett was inspired by a Sherlock Holmes villain. It actually isn’t Professor Moriarty.

  And since this is a novella, it’s Viola and Duncan’s, as well as Malcolm’s, introductions. I’ve written it to be a sweet standalone within the Lyon’s Den world, but it’s absolutely setting the scene for more beyond that. There are a couple of unpulled threads—that’s by design. It didn’t make much sense to portray Duncan and Viola’s situation as an easily resolved one. This is just their start!

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Publisher’s Note

  Additional Dragonblade books by Author Whitney Blake

  Author’s Note

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  About the Author

  Dedication

  For my Boswell, the Stormy Petrel of goodness (not crime). I’d be lost without you.

  Chapter One

  Early December 1814

  London

  “Mal, I don’t know why you’re surprised Viola has taken after you.” Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon’s black-gloved fingers counted his qualities one at a time. “Stubborn, cunning, prone to disguises, sneaks about.”

  “I’m not surprised. She got herself robbed. I’m pure livid.” Malcolm’s left hand fidgeted.

  “She did not get herself robbed. Women are not to blame for the terrible things men do to them. Besides, I think you’re worried about something else.”

  Malcolm scoffed. He agreed with her, of course. At least about the prior statement. “I do wish you’d remove your obtrusive face covering. You’ve nothing to hide from me. There’s no need to pretend you’re the grand dame of the demimonde when we’re just amongst ourselves.” But he wagered Bessie would not lift her veil. Not even for him, an old friend. It was her battle armor now.

  Well, I say friend. They’d once been lovers. It hadn’t lasted long.

  That was for the best. He was certain they might have ended up destroying half of London or owning all of it. But they were friends, too. It had been a natural alliance for them, the reformed gambler and the clever widow.

  To him, she was usually Bessie, and to her, he was generally Mal. They did not see much of each other now, and indeed could never have lived in marriage or even under the same roof. Nonetheless, they were on a pet-name basis.

  She’d determined catering to the rich’s seedy whims was the way past her late husband’s debts. Malcolm would never take credit for her work. He’d just advised her on a handful of things. How to spot sneaks, how to tell if a man was an easy mark, how to make strong drinks that confounded without injuring. The rest of the Lyon’s Den was purely her design. Especially the bespoke matchmaking.

  True, it was usually mothers who came to her, not fathers.

  But Viola had no mother, and Malcolm could think of no more expedient a solution than to ask Mrs. Dove-Lyon for her expert services.

  Thanks to some blasted, mysterious notes, he feared Viola was in trouble.

  She shook her head. “It would never do to expose myself.” He was sure she played with him. “But let us be frank. You want Viola married. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be seeking me out.”

  “I need Viola married.”

  His Viola should have been born a man with the way she carried on. It would have made things simpler. For one, he would have felt better telling her the truth about what he still did for a living. Half a living, at least. He did not worry about her judging him. But he did worry about her being judged.

  He was also worried that someone might use her as leverage. He had ruffled enough feather
s that it was hard to count the people who disliked him. If she were biddable and never raised a fuss, she might be all right.

  She was not biddable in the least.

  “Look at these. They’ve been left at my office. Sealed, of course, so the secretary doesn’t think anything is amiss.” Malcolm drew several scraps of paper from his waistcoat and passed them to Bessie. She read the scribbles upon them and sighed.

  “Marrying her off might protect her,” she said. “I believe I see your logic. These are troubling.”

  “You do not have to tell me.”

  Pretty little thing going from the house at all hours, said one.

  She looks like her mother, said another.

  Malcolm did not recognize the hand, but that was to be expected. No one worth their salt would give away their identity while playing a game like this. But the references to Viola’s mother made him think it was one man in particular. One whom he’d crossed on a personal, not professional, level.

  During normal trading hours, Malcolm was a solicitor. At his leisure, he was an advisor of sorts, drawing upon his knack for winning at card games and wagers of all sorts. He helped proprietors of various venues to turn a profit off unsuspecting patrons with the money to lose.

  If Viola were judged the product of bad stock, her prospects would be ruined. If anyone found out what she did to amuse herself, she might be lost. Those were his tamest concerns, in a different category from the idea that one of his disgruntled old colleagues might see fit to harm her.

  Viola was a writer of plays and, evidently, she was considered a good one. Perhaps it was in the blood and taking another form. Her mother, Iris, had been a performer. It was true that Viola was no debutante, no lady who would have a Season. But as a supposed solicitor’s daughter, she still had little room to be anything society said respectable women should not be.

  A wealthy woman from a respectable family and with good connections might be forgiven eccentricities. Viola wouldn’t be. She was not wealthy enough, though Malcolm had plenty of money.

  Her father was from Glasgow, and her connections were neither good nor respectable.

  Men were cruel. Men of the ton or of other means were not excepted from the rule. They could never know that Mr. Malcolm Black had a deft hand in managing some of the most lucrative gambling hells they frequented.

  He no longer played in the hells like he once did, but he still advised and accounted and suggested. He provided cover stories and genteel assurances. When legalities were so gray, a genteel veneer was of the utmost importance. Some called him the Silver Tongue of Whitehall, just as Bessie was the Black Widow. It suited him that his clients of a certain kind thought he was dangerous and, in a way, he was.

  Preying on Viola was different from preying on him. As a woman, she was more vulnerable.

  “Have you told her? Do you have any idea who could be leaving these for you?”

  After a sigh, Malcolm said, “No. And, yes.” He had an inkling—his longest-standing enemy was not his enemy because of business. Rather, the man who called himself Everett was Malcolm’s enemy because between the two men, Iris chose Malcolm.

  Malcolm would have preferred business was the cause. It was much simpler than matters of the heart.

  “And have you never thought of marrying her off before?”

  “I enjoy having her at home.” It was the truth.

  “She is, what, almost thirty? Old enough to be considered a spinster by some. Most.”

  “You’re not sitting in Almack’s, Bessie. You don’t care about that. This is your den—well, your own parlor above your den. But you’ve never cared what people think.”

  “On the contrary, I care and I know how to manipulate it.”

  Malcolm smirked at the summation and said, “I am concerned that her attackers might not have been random. I don’t know for sure, of course.”

  “Your instincts are usually good, though.”

  “And I won’t have her hurt by opportunistic numpties who favor blackmail or extortion. There are two things which worry me: her plays, and my second occupation.”

  “If she has talent, Mal, why can she not be an eccentric and make her way in the world? You can both be eccentrics together.”

  It was a valid question. He did understand Viola’s expansive spirit, if only because he possessed it, too. “I fear she will grow to resent her choices.” No, that was not really all. “That world can be a difficult one.” He thought of Iris as he spoke. She died young and Malcolm didn’t wonder only a wee bit if her acting and singing had anything to do with it. It was not that he believed the life was immoral—it just left one open to instability and a lack of funds in exchange for often strenuous work. Their marriage had ended the instability, but it could not undo the stress of years of scraping by.

  “Iris would be proud of her.”

  “For dressing as a man and selling her words?”

  “That tone doesn’t fool me. You are proud.”

  “All the same. Will you not help me?”

  “I shall help you.”

  “But don’t saddle her with anyone…”

  “Trust me,” said Bessie. “I rate them as they come in. I don’t bait the ones who do not pass muster.”

  “I do trust you.”

  “Good. I may have someone in mind, already,” said Bessie. “But he is only visiting his friend. A widower from elsewhere, you see. He is a mild gentleman, but I heard tell he might have something of a past.”

  He wondered if it would not be better for her to meet Viola properly before she said she had anyone in mind. Malcolm rubbed his temples with each of his pointer fingers. He adored her, but his daughter was more like a dram of whisky than a cup of tea.

  Then there was the matter of introducing Mrs. Dove-Lyon to her.

  No doubt she’d heard of the Black Widow. She might have heard of the Silver Tongue. There was no accounting for what theater folk knew.

  “She won’t do well with a retiring type,” said Malcolm, before he could think better of nagging Bessie.

  “He isn’t retiring.”

  “Good.”

  “He’s older than her. By about a decade, I’d think. No more than forty.” Bessie’s words were an aural smirk. “He’s very attractive.”

  “Perhaps you should marry him, you vixen.”

  “I do hope you don’t object to a suitor from north of the border.”

  “I won’t speak ill of my peers.”

  “Mal, try not to sound so dour. I can almost chew on your syllables when you are incensed.”

  He crossed his arms and sat back in his chair, studying the ceiling. He actually loved their repartee. “You used to like the accent.”

  “I still do.” Bessie shook her head and the veil drifted with the movement. “Have faith. We will look after your Viola.”

  “His name had better not be Hamish, or Alasdair, or Duncan, or…”

  She must have been beaming. He didn’t quite see it, but he heard it when she spoke. Not all of her veils hid her entire face. This one did. “As a matter of fact, it’s Duncan.”

  Malcolm reached for his tepid tea and leveled it back like it would intoxicate him. He should have taken her up on her offer of sprits when he’d first arrived.

  Bessie was, as ever, up to something.

  —

  Duncan hadn’t had a thing to drink since long before this visit south. It was best for his nerves to abstain, even if it was sometimes considered an odd choice. His father often teased him for it.

  Unlike some, he was not reliant on alcohol and he did not feel especially mournful without it. He just liked how it loosened his muscles for an hour or two. Thus, it was not difficult to refrain from consuming spirits. He could take or leave them. But his normal ability to stay temperate left him as soon as he saw Watson again. It was an old habit when they were together, and their friendship was too long and storied to break it.

  Now, however, he found that imbibing as a man who was months away fro
m forty was a far cry from drinking as a young buck.

  As soon as he levered himself upright and his feet were flat on the floor, the room tilted. He buried his face in his hands and contemplated whether a fall from a third-floor window would kill or injure him.

  Likely the latter rather than the prior. Then he would just be paying the price for his overindulgence with a few broken bones or a cracked skull.

  They might give you something stronger than spirits if you’re that injured.

  He glanced up, ruffling his hair, and tried to remember all that had happened last night.

  The woman, Violet—no, Viola. She’d said her name was Miss Viola Black. A fairy of a woman.

  With excessive force behind her fist. He’d been too drunk to really feel it, but she’d landed a good punch to his sternum. Not that he could blame her. She’d just been assailed by two good-for-nothings who’d taken her valuables. They hadn’t done worse than that, for which he was thankful.

  But then, they’d thought she was a young man. He smiled through his headache. They might have, but he hadn’t.

  She wasn’t terribly injured, but she’d flung into him in a daze. He was heading back to Watson’s townhouse, deep in his cups, then quite out of nowhere—it seemed to him—there was a lady in a man’s hat, and men’s attire, crashing into his chest.

  “Out of my way,” she’d said.

  He should have been all too happy to let her go. But while drunk, his mind seemed to have more relaxed views on women and their company. After Annie, he hadn’t been very interested in serious courtship. He’d had a couple of nights with light-skirts, which suited him better than trying to navigate the whole complicated business of marriage.

  Not to mention pregnancy, which was a shame, as he’d envisioned himself with a family.

  Wrinkling his nose, he pushed that thought aside.

  It also wasn’t fair to Constance, because even if he wished to marry again, he would not want someone who didn’t fit their life becoming her new mother. He’d taken an age determining her nanny and eventual governesses. Choosing anyone else to be near his daughter seemed a monumental decision.