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

by Whitney Blake

  She did not have to know that he wouldn’t shoot any part of her person, as he was under strict orders not to harm Miss Black.

  Scaring her was the tactic on which he was supposed to rely.

  Barney had to admit that the majority of people would concede if they were scared enough, and it was no trouble at all to frighten her into compliance.

  He wished to do more, but Everett trusted him and paid handsomely. That was too persuasive to allow any animal instinct its dominance.

  Nonetheless, she had to be afraid of coming to harm or she would not do as he said.

  “Your delicacy of feeling is commendable,” said Viola.

  But she stepped closer to him.

  “Thank you, Miss Black. Now, if you would be so kind, our carriage awaits. Once we enter it, I shall have to blindfold you. But I am certain you can understand why that might be.” Her face gave away little emotion. The impassivity was, in its way, impressive. He smiled. “If you struggle, I will deal with you as I see fit. However, if you comply, you have nothing to fear and I expect your journey away from home will not be entirely unpleasant.” He paused. “Barring, of course, the indignity of this present moment.”

  Chapter Five

  Duncan was not prepared for Black to be so harried upon his arrival. He knew their situation was strange. But given Black’s prior association with Mrs. Dove-Lyon, he would not expect him to have second thoughts.

  Likewise, he had not expected a hurried note to be delivered to Watson’s asking if he could please come to Mr. Black’s office instead of the Blacks’ home.

  The change in plans made him nervous in a manner he did not appreciate.

  His heart needed to commit to a desire. Either he wished to be free of this woman and their looming marriage, or he did not. The enormous feeling of dread that took hold when he wondered if perhaps Viola had spoken to her father, and demanded she be released from the entire affair, confirmed that he did not wish to be free of her at all.

  It was bloody inconvenient.

  He hardly had time to examine it now, though. The young clerk who had shown him inside left the room almost immediately. Had he been younger in age, Duncan might have said he actually skittered.

  It didn’t bode well. When the door shut, Duncan stared at Black. His short, wavy gray hair stood at all angles and his eyes were red.

  Neither was a good omen.

  “Ought I to have brought something calming?”

  “Sit down.”

  Civility was not to be the order of the day, then. Duncan sat in the chair opposite Black’s orderly desk. The man himself looked out the window facing the busy street.

  “Might I help in some other fashion?” said Duncan.

  “I believe you’re going to have to help, although I would rather you didn’t.”

  “How flattering.”

  “I knew something was amiss,” said Mr. Black, nearly to himself.

  “Mr. Black, I’m going to need something more to go on than cryptic or insulting asides.” He was almost in profile to Duncan, and his eyes wouldn’t stop moving while he stared through the glass. After a sigh, he let thick, opaque green curtains fall. The room went much darker.

  Trying to be patient with his erratic behavior, for he did appear most distressed, Duncan blinked.

  “And that is what I am grappling with. But we haven’t much time to blether about it.”

  “You might be surprised at what I’m accustomed to hearing. Nothing you can say will shock me.” Over the course of his career, treating patients had led him to believe there was very little human beings could or would not get up to. Listening to fellow physicians led him to a similar conclusion, and many of them had far grislier tales to tell than their patients.

  The majority of patients, for example, had not ever participated in or turned a blind eye to a nighttime, graveyard resurrection. He had done the latter. Neither had they dissected someone or knew the sound of a bone when it was set. He had done both.

  Whatever Black had to say, Duncan had most likely heard or helped facilitate something worse.

  “I need you to retrieve Viola.”

  Duncan’s careful look of benign patience faltered. He tried not to let it be too eclipsed by shock. “You’re serious.”

  “As a bailiff.”

  “You…”

  “She was taken this morning. He left a note.” Mr. Black sneered, then rubbed his face.

  “Taken? By whom?”

  “How good are you with a pistol?”

  “I am quite a good sh…” Duncan shook his head. “No. I’m sorry—who are you?” He kept a pistol, at any rate, and knew he was good enough to feel protected when he had it in hand. He’d gone to his first gunsmith years ago and often kept one of the weapons at hand. It was a tough custom to break, even if he was no longer skulking about university halls or chapels in the dead of night.

  He had one on his person now.

  Black carried on as though he hadn’t heard the question. “I don’t expect it to come to that, but there’s always a chance with certain men that there might be violence.” Duncan scowled. “He is really very docile, not that that is saying much when one is speaking of a masterful blackmailer.”

  Rather than sound like an owl and repeat himself, Duncan waited, certain Black would get to some kind of an intelligible point. He was not in his cups and he did not seem to be otherwise intoxicated.

  “I would go myself, but I’d likely kill him… and I don’t want to hang for it. You seem more rational and less likely to kill anyone.”

  He said rational like one might say dull. Duncan neither took overt offense nor corrected him. When it came to Viola, he did not think he could be particularly rational. He should be, especially because he had Constance. Endangering himself would be foolhardy.

  Yet, for Viola, he would.

  “Surely you may explain to me what has happened,” said Duncan.

  “Only the barest details needed for you to accomplish what has to be done.”

  Duncan crossed his arms. “No.”

  From his position by the window, Black turned his head and glowered at him. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Tell me, or you can go yourself.”

  It was possible that Black did not trust himself not to become too reliant on force, but Duncan thought it more likely that he was either ashamed or frightened, possibly both, and did not wish to appear weak before an antagonist.

  Duncan also had no intention of leaving Viola in any peril. But Black did not need to know it.

  “I have an appointment in half an hour.”

  “An appointment more important than Viola?”

  Mind running with the possibilities, Duncan made yet another analysis of Black from where he sat. He was well aware that every city had those who worked in or from the shadows. Mrs. Dove-Lyon was one of those individuals. They were not all cutthroats and some of them were downright pleasant. It was like any other category of laborer or professional, he thought. They had a vast range of temperaments and ethical alignments. No doubt Viola knew a few through the theaters, whether or not she knew them for what they were.

  Where does he fit?

  Rather than be unsettled by the idea, he found it fascinating.

  Clearly, Black was first and foremost a solicitor, which meant whatever he did otherwise couldn’t have been so utterly terrible. There was too much risk. And he could not be simply a victim of blackmail, for Duncan did not know what ordinary man would go so quickly to asking questions about a pistol.

  Also, Black was being remarkably succinct, as though he knew the strategies of whoever had taken Viola… or had some way of understanding them beyond the usual logic.

  “No, not more important. But I am providing a service.” Black sighed. “You have never practiced in London, so therefore I cannot think you quite understand some of the biases there are to contend with. I try to be as punctual and thorough as possible in the hopes it might counteract any presuppositions about a man li
ke me.”

  Duncan assumed he meant because of the way he spoke and his origin. He inclined his head in assent. Watson had mentioned something of the kind once. “It does help that I never left.”

  “I also need to contact a magistrate.”

  “They don’t take kindly to abduction,” Duncan said, trying to keep his voice level.

  “And I have worked very hard to have the means, as well as the number of clients, I have. They shall listen to me.”

  “Interesting that you should separate the two categories. Surely they are one and the same.”

  “Not always. In another life, I was a gambler.”

  After a moment of incomprehension, Duncan had to grin.

  That did explain much. A vague picture, a watercolor of Black’s life, started to come to mind. It now made some sense why Viola was not terribly conventional, at least in a few key respects.

  Black’s friendship-or-more with Mrs. Dove-Lyon also seemed more understandable, though Duncan would not be thinking about it too closely.

  “Hard work of a sort, eh? What brought you to the next life?”

  “Viola’s mother.” For the very first time, Duncan watched as Black’s face softened. “She was an actress, you see, and…” His expression became more normal, or more like the countenance Duncan had been used to seeing in their short and impactful meetings.

  “You loved her.”

  “I did. Very much.”

  “And now her daughter… writes.” Duncan said it with wistfulness. He realized that whatever happened between them, he should not come between Viola and this connection to her mother.

  “Funny how family aptitudes bear themselves out, isn’t it? I think Viola would prefer to be tarred and feathered to performing in a play, yet she writes them.”

  “Constance does like to gut fish,” said Duncan, well before he could structure the thought in such a way that it did not sound like nonsense. She’d asked one of her governesses if she could help in the kitchen, and Mrs. Langley, the cook, had obliged.

  It was all rather more anatomical than Duncan expected—he’d thought they might try making biscuits or a soup, but he’d come in to see perfectly prepared cuts of fish instead. Then his daughter proudly explained how she’d been taught to make them.

  “Do you think… people are like fish in that they tend to go about in mindless schools, or do you actually go fishing?”

  With some wonder, Duncan realized that Black was bantering with him.

  “Thankfully, I don’t need to do much gutting of people… although, I alluded to the physician’s aptitude with knives. Perhaps one day, there will be consulting physicians who are women. Perhaps my daughter shall be one. I do also enjoy fishing, however.” He shook his head, knowing when he was being purposefully distracted. It was another area in which he had experience due to evasive patients, and it just tended to obfuscate things entirely. “Mr. Black, I implore you to explain further.”

  At last, Black sat in the chair under the window. Duncan let out a breath he was only vaguely aware of holding.

  “It starts, like a lot of things do, Duncan, with a love story.”

  In an attempt to lessen the nervous energy emanating from Black, Duncan said, after a smirk, “You may call me Duncan, but I’m not calling you Mal. That seems to have a specific use which I do not want to claim.”

  “You need not worry. You aren’t my type. But since we are to be relations, Malcolm will do.”

  —

  In all, if she had to be abducted, at least she was somewhere warm. If she had her guess, it was somewhere like the rooms above the Lyon’s Den. Perhaps it was a personal living space, or perhaps it was a den of iniquity. Perhaps it was both.

  Regardless, it was clean, inviting, and fashionable.

  She could say the same of the man who sat across from her, a well-attired gentleman of Papa’s age who was as impeccably dressed as the latest miss to have her first Season. He was nothing like the man who’d chivvied her into an unmarked conveyance and blindfolded her before they proceeded anywhere.

  That man, Mr. Barney, did frighten her.

  It was possible that this one should, too, but he did not quite scare her as much as he just unnerved her.

  The prior man—clearly hired help of some kind—put her in mind of a hungry wolf with the barest self-restraint.

  This one was more of a snake, watchful, but not ready to bite unless somehow provoked. His name, he said, was Everett.

  And Everett had quite the tale to tell her, as it happened.

  “You really had no idea of any of this, my dear?”

  “I do not see what I stand to gain by lying to a stranger,” she said, fixing her eyes on the gilded clock on the wall behind his head. In truth, she was struggling to comprehend his words and had no wish to show vulnerability.

  She believed this Everett would not hurt her unless he was denied what he wanted, which was money, and she knew Papa would never hold out against it. Not where she was concerned.

  “You know, you look like her,” said Everett.

  “I would think I do, as I don’t take after my father.”

  He chuckled. “I did not say that. I see him, there, too.”

  Papa was more like Mrs. Dove-Lyon than she ever could have imagined. Everett had said he was quite the advantage player, quite the strategist, and after leaving the tables, still had his eye to the hells. As a consulting gambler, of sorts.

  Viola might rage against Everett and say all manner of things she was sure loyal daughters should say if someone lied about their fathers. But the trouble was, since she was presently ensconced in an unknown location, she felt she had no choice but to take Everett at his word.

  Solicitors might make enemies but, to her knowledge, those enemies would not be so rancorous as to kidnap family members for ransom.

  Why Everett would make this up, she could not begin to guess.

  Worst of all, he seemed to relish the shock she was trying to hide. She thought he might pity her a little, too. Even if he did, it was not enough to stop him from glorying in her disquiet.

  “How do you mean?”

  “The way you immediately looked around when Barney removed the scarf from your eyes—that was pure Black. Were you looking for a means of exit?”

  “How perceptive of you. I was,” she said, settling back in her chair. She was not tied up, but she suspected that with Everett here, it was not necessary. The consequences of running, or trying to run, seemed clear. Still, she had considered them. Evidently, she was not subtle about it.

  “You may find one, if you can get past me. The windows, obviously, might be a way.”

  “Why are you discussing escape with someone whom you are trying to ransom?”

  “I like to see the fight leave people’s faces, Miss Black. I have set guards on this location, so even if you make it out, you would need to contend with them—as well as me, and bitingly cold weather.” He glanced at her slippers. “I do not see how those would get you very far.”

  She also had no notion of where she was. If not in London itself, then they could not have gone far. Her time in the carriage had not been long enough. But it would be tiresome work, indeed, to navigate her way home with no money and ill-suited footwear. She might court losing her toes, for a start. When Everett brought his hazel eyes back to her face, she knew that lost toes would not be as bad as what he might do if provoked.

  She noted that it fully seemed to be if he was provoked. He was restrained and even pleasant in his manners, but it disguised a coursing sense of venom.

  She arrived at the conclusion that between Barney and Everett, she should be more nervous about Everett.

  Confident that Papa would do as Everett asked, she was able to bide her time. She decided that if Everett became erratic, she would try her hand at making an exit.

  “Very well, Mr. Everett.” She reached for her teacup. In some odd attempt at cultivating either normalcy or hospitality, an older woman who looked like a gra
ndmother brought them tea not twenty minutes ago. “Then, may I ask, if you know my mother is dead, why are you doing this? You cannot marry a dead woman, and I hardly think that this would ingratiate you to her if she was still with us.”

  “I know all of that.”

  Viola made herself take a measured sip of tea. “Well? I’ve nothing to do but wait. If you really loved her, then please do me the courtesy of telling the truth.”

  She doubted that he had loved her. Papa and Mama were a love match, of that she had no doubt. Papa did not speak of her much, but that was part of why she thought so: the lack was tangible and seemed made all the more painful for Papa when he mentioned it.

  She’d tried to ask when she was younger. It was one subject on which he would hesitate to speak. And it was not hesitation, so much as reluctance and treading carefully—as though Mama’s memory was an injury that he did not wish to aggravate with any movement.

  Everett spoke with distinct avarice, not love or affection.

  He said, “I am sure that even you do not know how much wealth your father possesses.”

  Rather than answer, for she knew he was correct, she shook her head. “And you wish to have it all?”

  “More or less.”

  “Then you shall. He shall come here, wherever here is, and you shall have your ransom.”

  “I know he shall come. That is merely the lure.”

  “What do you mean the lure?” she asked. So that her hand would not tremble the teacup and give away her nervousness, she returned it to the table.

  “Oh, my dear,” said Everett. “I wish to marry you, you see.”

  Her immediate thought was of Duncan, which she took as a good portent that however bizarre their engagement, it was the right choice.

  “Then why not away with me now? Why waste time on conversation and ransoming?” she asked. It was, she thought, rather bold of her to demand anything of a kidnapper. But the questions came well before she could think about them.

  “I’d be part of his family if we married. I’d hate to get things off to such a bad start.”