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

by Whitney Blake

  Still, Dr. Neilson was quiet.

  “If it would satisfy you to know, as you are one of my old friends, I cannot bring myself to be as draconian as I normally am,” said Mrs. Dove-Lyon. “Besides, when I knew that Dr. Neilson was a viable candidate for Miss Black, I did not think I would have to resort to the measures I normally do.” A note of intrigue in her voice, she said, “Miss Black, I can inform you that many ladies and more of the men are somewhat reluctant to do what they must. Silly, is it not, that after procuring my services the women would get cold feet? But there we are.”

  Viola did not know what to say. “Perhaps.”

  “Am I correct, Miss Black, in conjecturing that you would not have to be frog-marched to marry this man?”

  The way she said “marry”, it may as well have been a certain four-letter word of which Viola should possess no knowledge. She dared not look at Dr. Neilson or Papa. Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s inflection would have been noticeable to them. They were clever enough.

  She was not embarrassed, but she was worried she might smirk. Then giggle. “Yes. You are.”

  She had barely said the words before Dr. Neilson said, “Similarly, I won’t have to be frog-marched, either. I was due to return home the day after tomorrow.” He said to Papa, “I’d never want to do such a momentous thing without you present—I do not want to come between you and your daughter at all. I could not imagine what would happen if anyone came between my Constance and me.”

  “Viola,” said Papa.

  “Pardon?” she said.

  “No, darling… I meant that the good doctor, here, should become used to calling you by your name.” Papa looked at the fire in the hearth, apparently determined not to meet her eyes.

  Is he going to cry?

  “Viola, then,” said Dr. Neilson, having the good grace not to look too closely at Papa. Instead, he turned his eyes on her and they were once again warm.

  —

  Malcolm would be the first to admit that he was a curmudgeon. He would be last to admit that under all that, he was actually quite soft when it came to those whom he loved.

  As he sat in that blasted parlor, he realized that Viola and this stranger would probably be a good match. Beyond a good match. He was rarely wrong about things. More to the point, he’d never seen her look enamored over a man before. A little flustered, yes, or perhaps flushed with interest.

  This, whatever it was, in even its earliest stages, seemed to leave both of them bewildered. He was secretly thankful that Dr. Neilson had bumped into her that night.

  He’d be damned if he showed his gratitude.

  And he was still peeved with Bessie for not disclosing their prior meeting, but that was a separate issue.

  “I’ve business to attend to over the next day or two,” he said. “But that’s no reason why you should not travel without me.” Of course, he did not want to think of them snuggled in an inn somewhere, but he was not an unrealistic person. Viola looked at this Neilson like he was her preferred course at supper. There was also the added weight of what Malcolm would never say: if she chose to go with her fiancé alone, she was as good as married in anyone’s eyes.

  All four of them in the room knew it. Bessie, he’d be ready to wager, counted upon it. Sometimes her ways of persuasion were subtler than people gave her credit for.

  Best of all for Viola and worst of all for Malcolm: if she was in Scotland, she would be far away from the bloody notes that haunted his office.

  “Then you must meet us,” Viola said. It was the first time all evening she had not sounded cross with him.

  He had to smile. “I’d not dream of missing whatever ceremony or lack of it you have.” Neither Black had been, nor was, traditional. But he meant it. Just because they were not following the normal order of things did not mean he wished to wash his hands of her.

  Perhaps I shall actually visit more often if she is there and not here. It was true he did not like Edinburgh as much as Glasgow. Many years had passed between his last visit there and the present. But mostly, he had demonstrated derision to test Dr. Neilson. He seemed hard to rile, but not without spirit. And I wouldn’t wish a dead child on anyone.

  “That is a good compromise. Travel is an excellent opportunity to get to know one another,” said Bessie. Malcolm knew what she implied: like him, she was likely thinking of inns and private evenings.

  This was another test for his future son-in-law: if Neilson made even the tiniest of lewd remarks… Malcolm glanced at him as he spoke.

  “Quite so,” was all he said.

  “I have not been north for years,” said Viola. “But I…” she took a breath. “I think… the change of scenery will do me good. I feel my creative horizons were starting to… narrow.”

  She was not about to cry, Malcolm knew. Viola rarely did. She still struggled all the same. It hurt to see her adjust to new circumstances. I should have been more honest. Perhaps when you are safely elsewhere, I can be.

  He’d dithered over showing her the notes. She was so intelligent that it was almost an insult to her to keep them secret.

  In the end, however, and especially after she was robbed, Malcolm decided it would be too unnerving. He had kept a hawk’s eye on the house and their surroundings, seeing no one out of the ordinary. He knew that meant very little. There were people who made it their living to peek at others without ever being seen. They were less obtrusive than ghosts.

  Being out of London would mean she was protected.

  “Sometimes,” said Bessie, “even the starkest of changes can foster the best of ideas.” She put down her teacup. “All shall be well, Miss Black.”

  From your lips to God’s ears, thought Malcolm.

  The problem was, he did not know if either God or Bessie paid much attention to one another. Perhaps it did not matter, and a prayer was a prayer.

  Chapter Four

  Barney thought that the Blacks’ arrival home to Cheapside that night was strange for two reasons: they did not usually return together, and they returned earlier than usual. He watched from a safe vantage point over the road, obscuring himself in the shadows.

  Personally, he knew little of the Silver Tongue. Black became notable before Barney’s own time in gambling circles, and not all the underworld’s creatures grew to be either old or respectable enough to live a life away from it. Their paths had never crossed.

  He’d watched Black, but Black had never seen him.

  Sensed him, maybe.

  Barney had offered the opinion that the notes were theatrical and pointless, especially if his employer simply meant to kidnap the little hoyden. Such an odd thing she was, running hither and yon to theaters. Barney frowned. But Everett kept insisting that the moment they chose was as important as doing it.

  He wanted to cause distress, not just take Black’s payment for his daughter’s safe return.

  Entirely why, Barney didn’t know. It was not his business to know. He did not believe Everett would harm Miss Black—Everett’s nature allowed for many creative uses of pressure to extract his prizes, but violence against women was not one. Everett claimed it was lazy and inelegant.

  Seeing as he ultimately wished to marry Miss Black to capture her father, he could not hurt her and expect things to work in his favor.

  The men he’d sent to go after Miss Black recently had botched the job. She had fought back, they had startled, and when they went to redouble their efforts, she’d already run into some well-dressed drunk who managed to shepherd her away.

  To where, they did not know. The hired help that night had turned out to be incompetent. They didn’t follow her or her rescuer.

  Barney wasn’t sure if he agreed with the aesthetic assessment that violence against anyone was vulgar. But he appreciated that his present work did not involve cleaning up any corpses.

  Besides, murderers were never dealt with kindly under the law or elsewhere, if they were caught. There was a great number of those who weren’t, but Everett claimed killing everyone
who vexed him was not worth the hassle or risk.

  He was extremely effective when applying his attention to other arts, like ransoming and blackmailing.

  Scowling, Barney wished he’d followed the Blacks’ carriage to its destination instead of staying put. Perhaps it might have given them more opportunities to discover where to nab the woman. Everett did not wish to do it under circumstances where her absence would be immediately noticed, or she might be easily tracked.

  Like his desire to cause distress, his desire for surprise was considerable.

  Something about a past with Mr. Black. Barney hadn’t retained the details—of the minimal ones Everett had actually shared. What Barney had done was deliver the little notes, written via dictation from Everett, to Black’s office. Barney was not just a lackey: he could read and write. He was proud of it. Being the bastard son of an earl granted him a few dubious advantages. Literacy was one.

  He’d also watched the Blacks with avid attention for a fortnight. This was the first deviation from their schedule in days.

  Everett would surely wish to know about it.

  He turned from his marks as they went indoors, prepared to relay what he’d observed.

  —

  Viola lay awake long after Papa went to bed and the house was quiet. Even Cook and the housemaid, Miss Jacobs, had retired for the night.

  She had questions on the tip of her tongue for Papa. They remained unasked only because she did not think he would answer. She wanted to know why he was so adamant that she be married now. It had never been much of a problem before.

  Certainly not in the way it was for incredibly wealthy women or the ton’s ladies.

  Papa had means, for she’d never had to work. So it could not be ruthless pragmatism, either. Frankly, she was puzzled. She did not need a husband to take care of her financially, nor was she raised with that expectation.

  Her childhood had been unusual for a handful of reasons. Papa never had remarried, his clients seemed to expect him to keep rather odd or long hours, and she’d been privately tutored instead of sent to one school or another.

  His new insistence on marriage when he rarely insisted that she behave properly struck her as meaningful.

  On the one hand, she had always been clothed in the best he could afford, and she did take an interest in fashion. As far as that went, she was as ladylike as could be. But Viola would admit without any shame that she hadn’t exactly been taught how to be a good lady. Her governesses and many of her tutors were women, of course. But they were bluestockings and did not generally expect to marry because of their professions. Apart from looking after her, they also provided tutelage in a variety of subjects. Not embroidery, painting, or comportment, but languages, mathematics, and the classics.

  It galled her that Papa was not as forthright as usual.

  Normally, should he want or need her to do something, he explained why. He was not like other papas who told their children to obey without question. He might not tell all in minute detail, but neither did he prevaricate.

  It was the same with life facts. If she had questions, he had sound, unflinching answers. Perhaps too unflinching, but that suited Viola. The best memory she had concerning this kind of conversation happened just after her first menses. Hysterical, for she was a solitary girl and had few friends, she’d sobbed her way into the parlor where he sat with a book.

  They were between governesses, or she might have gone to the woman.

  In a matter of three minutes, Papa had explained not only what all the blood was, but also its point. She was to be very careful, now, he’d said.

  At the time, she was too flustered to tell him how Miss Lloyd, the governess who most enjoyed the sciences, had long ago explained the mechanics of most sexual acts and one’s monthly cycle.

  And to her astonishment, he didn’t say she could not take someone to bed, merely specified that if she did, she needed to be careful. Older now, she knew that Papa certainly would not have wanted her to bed anyone at the age of fifteen and, indeed, if she did so at any time before marriage, the people who mattered would look down their noses at her.

  But he needn’t have fretted. Until she started to strike out on her own in the theaters, she did not even boast of friends, much less beaus or suitors. Those she still hadn’t had as such. She smiled into her pillow.

  While she still had many doubts about what would happen and what a marriage to Dr. Neilson might be like, she was looking forward to being initiated into everything she hadn’t explored with a partner. Her hand drifted between her legs before she let it rest on her thigh. She was too agitated to bring herself any pleasure.

  “Really, that is no way to be thinking of anyone,” she said. The gentle tick of the clock above her bedroom’s fireplace was her only answer. “But then again, why not? Men do it all of the time.”

  She did not always linger to see her works performed. She found the atmosphere of filled theaters, whether large or small, overwhelming. Her calling was to the words themselves.

  But from what she’d overheard, many men of all statuses truly had little to say about women unless it alluded to their physical charms. That was putting it in a decorous way.

  Justified, she let herself consider how they’d pass their first night together. It’s better than thinking beyond that, to the unknown of living in a new country, with a new person, away from everything you know.

  She scowled. Simply because Papa seemingly had a whim.

  Dashing the anger from her mind, she went back to thinking of herself and Dr.—no, Duncan. He said to call him Duncan.

  Duncan, then, in all manner of situations detailed by the lewd drawings and stories she’d come across. His understated intensity had to transmute into something sensual, or so she believed. She became warm under her bedclothes as she considered it.

  Throwing back her covers, she stood with her feet on the cold rug.

  “What in the world are you on about?” she mumbled. “You need something to drink. Maybe something strong to drink.”

  Despite their meeting place’s reputation, they had parted on polite terms. Mrs. Dove-Lyon swanned off to her tables, no doubt thinking of trapping some other man now that Duncan was seen to. Although Papa had offered Duncan an invitation to his study so that they could talk, Duncan declined and said he’d best explain to his friend what was afoot. She wanted to know if he would write his daughter but supposed that a letter might not reach her before they arrived. It depended on when they actually left.

  Arrangements were made that he’d call tomorrow.

  He did not kiss her, although he’d had two opportunities—one under the mistletoe and another before that, when she’d stood from her chair. But he did rest a warm palm on her cheek as he said, “Good evening, Viola” before taking his leave.

  He seemed to be playing a slow game, even though he had already secured his prize. To be fair, he was as stunned as her. Expecting a proposal immediately after an appointment with Mrs. Dove-Lyon, for example, was ridiculous. Such a wry, confusing person inspired little romance.

  She could not say she disliked his deliberate manner, she thought, as she took the stairs carefully in the moonlight. It was probably just his temperament.

  And she could say it quickened her breath, leaving her almost hypnotized in anticipation of experiencing more of his touch. She recalled it the entire ride home, so uncharacteristically quiet that Papa kept trying to look at her without looking at her.

  She pilfered Papa’s stores of spirits without clattering a glass or spilling a drop. A long sip of something peaty Uncle Jax had sent down was her reward.

  The modest garden beyond the window beckoned with a glimmer. Although the chill was fierce, she thought it would be bracing, just the thing, to venture out for some air. Her thoughts were mercurial as a temperamental goose. She was just as likely to think herself into a fearsome spiral as a lustful one.

  Lust was acceptable, but she would not give in to nerves.

  A
s she stepped outside in her slippers, wrap, and nightdress, she was struck by the fanciful idea that winter dancers, icy fairies, would be the most fearsome and beautiful of all seasons’ supernatural varieties. She supposed she was biased. Winter was her favorite time.

  The familiar scene in silver calmed her and she turned her face toward the haloed moon. Mrs. Dove-Lyon was right. All would be well. Her breath expelled in a puff.

  “It is a little cold to be outside this evening, is it not? And especially just in one’s nightclothes.”

  Viola didn’t recognize the voice. She turned to a broad gentleman lingering in the dark.

  A pistol glinted in his right hand.

  —

  Barney did not expect it to be so easy. It was rather like cornering a wobbly kitten. “I’m not going to hurt you, Miss Black.”

  She nodded to his hand. “So says the man with the gun.”

  He smiled. “You’re going to come with me, and you’ll be back before you know it. Though… not before your father knows it.”

  To that, she said nothing. Neither did she move, not that Barney expected anyone would move toward a man pointing a gun at their person.

  Just this evening, Everett had assured him that Mr. Black would do about anything to have Miss Black returned safe. They’d mobilized their plans as soon as Everett knew of the small aberration in the Blacks’ habits. Barney was glad he’d been right and taken the initiative to inform Everett, rather than think it was meaningless.

  For the Silver Tongue, said Everett, little should be left to chance. He was too perceptive, and they shouldn’t assume he was not reacting to the notes even if he did not know who sent them.

  “I suggest we go quickly,” Barney said. “Before you catch a chill.”

  “Your concern is touching.” She drew her wrap closer around her. “I might scream. What incentive have I to go?”

  “I shall leave all of your pretty limbs intact,” said Barney, gesturing lightly with his pistol. Neighbors were close in Cheapside. He hoped she would not make such a noise and believed she would not if he were intimidating enough. “I would never kill you, of course. You are too valuable as leverage.”