by Amelia Grey
He knew she was telling the truth the instant she’d said her name, though her manner of dress and his aunt’s assertions a brothel was being established in the neighborhood belied her words. No wonder he’d thought her too young, too beautiful, and too wholesome-looking to be working in a house of pleasure when he’d first seen her twirling in the drawing room like a lighthearted miss.
Now he knew why.
In his twenty-eight years he thought he’d seen, heard, and done most everything that was available to a man of his privilege and station in life. But this lady had just proven otherwise.
With unquestionable clarity.
For now, he was cautiously managing, with difficulty to be sure, to hold his anger in check. After all, why surrender to the madness of what she’d done and give her the satisfaction.
Lyon Marksworth, the Earl of Lyonwood, had never been slapped. By a madam or a lady. That garnered her his admiration and his ire. He was accustomed to calm and order in his life, and the countess had just upset both by not being who he thought she was.
“Lady Wake, I am Lyonwood. Your neighbor.”
The countess’s flushed face suddenly went ashen.
He bowed but offered no apology. At first. She’d had her justice in spades and aces—the whole damn deck. However, she looked appalled by her action upon hearing his name so he would take it on the chin and shoulder the responsibility. And he had been wrong, so he added, “For entering your house without an invitation and mistaking who you were, my apologies.”
So they were both in a deep dilemma. How did an earl and a dowager countess proceed now that their identities were made known after such an unforgettable first meeting?
“Lord Lyonwood,” she said, managing a begrudging, rigid, and very slight curtsy.
From his first memory, Lyon had been taught to be a gentleman. He knew all the acceptable rules of proper behavior and manners depending on whatever situation he found himself—a gentleman, a gambler, or a rake. There were certain values a man of honor followed no matter the situation. Above all, he protected his family and others when necessary. He respected life and loyalty, and he paid his debts. Whether or not warranted, he always gave a man he suspected might be cheating at cards the benefit of the doubt—once.
A gentleman lavished gifts, financial support, and satisfaction on his mistresses. Likewise, he bestowed sweet compliments, rides in the park, and when appropriate, flowers on proper young ladies in Society. Lyon had never muddled the two.
Until this afternoon.
Now that he knew who she was, he felt it incumbent that he should say something about her husband.
“It was tragic what happened to your—”
“Please stop.” She interrupted him quietly, lowering thick, velvety lashes over her golden-brown eyes and inhaling deeply. “It was a tragic event and a trying time for everyone who was touched by the tragedy. It’s been over two years now and no words are necessary.”
He could understand her not wanting to talk about that time, so he quietly said, “That long. I hadn’t realized.”
She lifted her head, as if she’d searched deep inside herself and gained new strength. “There’s no reason for you to. And I would appreciate no further mention of it.”
He nodded once.
“However,” she added, “you should have immediately told me who you were. This matter could have been settled much quicker.”
Perhaps he should have stated who he was when he first entered the drawing room, but he’d thought it wasn’t necessary. He was only too well aware of how many private pleasure houses were hidden among the cozy streets of respectable London and how easily and quietly they were established. He’d certainly availed himself of more than a few over the years, which was why he’d promised his aunt he’d deal with the one she believed was moving in next door to him and down the street from her.
Lyon could now see that Lady Wake’s earlier perplexed expressions and her sense of outrage had flashed warning after warning, which he’d ignored. That the countess didn’t immediately engage him with welcoming smiles should have been a swift indication all wasn’t as it seemed, but he was already in an irritable state of mind when he arrived at her house and unwavering in his thoughts not to be persuaded from his mission by a tempting woman.
He’d returned home from a laborious meeting with his unprepared solicitor, wanting only to get ready for an evening at White’s so he could get caught up on the latest news and indulge in a game or two of billiards, a few hands of cards, and an expensive bottle of brandy. Instead, he’d come home to find his aunt in his drawing room wringing her hands in misery over the possibility of unmentionable women setting up a forbidden business in their quiet neighborhood. And insisting he must do something about it at once.
Given all that was put before him, including the countess’s attire, what else could he have possibly done other than assume she was a paid woman preparing to fulfill some lucky man’s fantasy for the evening?
“The mistake was mine. I thought this was the kind of house where a man is always free and welcome to come and go as he pleases without hindrance, and not have to reveal his name or wait around to be announced. If I had known you were a lady and not an angel of the evening, I wouldn’t have acted so freely.”
“An angel of the evening?” She puffed out a breath of exasperation. “What rubbish. Clever words or phrases won’t hide what you thought when you entered or how you spoke to me. Now that you know who I am, you are still free to speak to me as before.”
That she would suggest he continue to speak so openly with her surprised him and was downright refreshing. Most of the ladies he knew would have fainted when he made the remark about paying her fee for the evening and pray to never hear such a vile comment again.
“Nevertheless, I will give you the respect you deserve and watch my language now that I do know, my lady.”
He watched her breathing ease and calmness settle over her as they each assessed the situation. That her recovery was quick and solid was a testament to her strength.
“I heard you were out of Town when I moved into the neighborhood a few days ago,” she continued in a calm and confident voice.
“I returned last evening.”
“That doesn’t absolve your actions tonight. You should have checked with someone before you came charging over with uncivil actions, assumptions and untrue allegations.”
Lyon’s jaw clenched tighter. No doubt about that. He should have questioned his aunt more about her suspicions, but he wasn’t about to explain that to the countess and implicate his aunt and her friend. “I was reasonably certain I had good cause to act as I did.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No.” What else could he say?
“And earl or not, sir,” she added valiantly, “you are an ogre as I’ve found most of your ilk are.”
He couldn’t argue with that either.
“Before you go, I’d like to know what made you think this was a house of pleasure for men.”
Lyon shook his head slowly. She was unbelievable. Asking him to explain what she’d just slapped him for. He wasn’t going to get caught in that snare again. “I’d rather not say, my lady.”
“Of course you don’t want to, but you must. I need to know what caused you to act as you did. Others could make the same mistake.”
Something settled in Lyon’s chest. A feeling that he’d never had before. Lady Wake was no shy or simpering female. She was courageous, impassioned beyond belief, and probably too strong-willed for her own good.
That intrigued him. It made him want to answer her with candid freedom, but every fiber of his being as a gentleman warned against such talk with a proper lady.
Yet, after only a brief hesitation, he responded, “If you insist.”
“I do.”
“It was brought to my attention that there have been some peculiar things going on over here while I’ve been out of Town.”
“Peculiar?” Concern resurfaced in her expr
ession. “What do you mean? There is no reason for us to stand on ceremony, my lord. We are quite familiar with each other now. Speak to me as you would a madam and tell me what made you think my home was a house of ill repute.”
“Very well. An abundance of deliveries of bedchamber furniture going into the building behind this house.”
“Why would that be strange, sir?” she asked him crisply. “Beds are necessary for everyone.”
“And women coming and going at all hours of the day and night.”
“Ah, yes,” she said on a breathy sigh as the meaning of his words became clear to her and she relaxed once again. “Now I understand. Beds and women. What else is a man to think of other than pleasure?”
Lyon felt the only thing he could reasonably do at this point was lift his brows, and say, “For that I can offer no apology.”
“It’s true, there have been many beds delivered. The building behind this house is being furnished as a boarding school for girls, my lord. The women who have been seen coming and going will be their tutors. Currently, some of the women have different jobs they must return to each day. They are free to leave at whatever time they deem necessary to make their other duties and commitments.”
“A boarding school?” he repeated, wondering why the hell his aunt didn’t know that. She was usually one of the first to hear the latest gossip.
“Yes. So whatever tawdry vision you’d imagined would be taking place between these walls tonight or any other won’t be happening. My home is not what you thought it was, and anyone else who assumed the same will have to look elsewhere for his decadences.”
The countess opened the door for him.
Lyon felt his expression softening, his admiration growing. For a number of reasons, including the truth of her words, there was no repairing their inauspicious meeting.
He nodded without further words, turned, and walked out of her house.
Chapter 3
The chill of an early spring wind cooled Lyon’s cheek, but nothing else, as his boots crunched the damp ground on the pathway that led to the pavement in front of the countess’s house. That the long-shrouded sun was trying to peek from behind gray clouds at the end of the day did nothing to change his mood.
Not that it mattered or that he cared, but he finally remembered why he and the countess hadn’t immediately recognized each other. He’d been late attending her debut Season, and she was already betrothed by the time he’d arrived in London that year. Lyon was sure they’d met, but he never pursued another man’s fiancé or wife. There were more than enough unattached ladies in the ton to woo without stepping in another man’s footprints.
From what Lyon remembered, the countess had never been to London with Lord Wake after they married. The earl must have been at least a decade older than Lyon, and Lyon hadn’t known him well. They had a different group of friends, but there had been a few times they sat down at the same table to play a hand of cards or a game of billiards when Wake was in Town. Lyon remembered Lord Wake saying on more than one occasion that his wife was too delicate to make the long and bumpy journey from his country manor to London.
Delicate?
Lyon rubbed his thumb across his cheek. Not the lady he’d just met, Lyon groused to himself. She had not spared her strength when she struck him. He had no idea what disorder may have caused her fragility when she was married, but he could safely say she was over it.
Another flicker of admiration struck him for how she’d handled herself considering what he’d done, and right on the heels of it was a streak of remorse as he opened the tall, creaky gate hanging on the iron fence that surrounded his home. He should have been kinder to her once he found out who she was, he thought as he let the gate clank shut behind him. She was a widow after all, whether or not she had been dressed like one.
Lyon remembered when the ship Salty Dove sank in a sudden and fierce storm off the coast of Portugal. No doubt everyone in the ton still remembered, as did the rest of London. It was a stunning blow to all of England, as most everyone either knew or had heard of someone who perished that day. Little more than a handful of the one hundred and fifty people on board had survived to tell what had happened.
Lyon strode into his house, ripping his hat off his head and tossing it and his cloak and gloves onto a side chair without breaking stride. He brusquely waved his tall, portly butler, Brewster, aside as he came hurrying from the back of the house to take Lyon’s wrap.
“What did you find out?” his aunt called out to him before he made it halfway down the corridor.
“It’s a boarding school for girls, Aunt Delia,” Lyon replied, entering his drawing room with determined steps. He walked past his mother’s sister, straight to where the brandy decanter was placed on a round table beside his favorite chair. “There’s no cause for the state of worry you and Mrs. Feversham allowed and no reason for me to bring down the wrath of Hades on anyone in that house.”
“A girls’ school?” his aunt questioned from the end of the dark rose-colored velvet settee where she always sat when she came to visit him. “Next door to you?”
“It appears so.”
“How can that be?” she asked. “This is a neighborhood. Not a business district where such institutions should be located.”
“The school is the building behind the house,” he answered, having no reason to doubt the countess’ word. “Which, as you know, backs up to the business district. The boarding school is the reason Mrs. Feversham saw so many beds being carried to the back of the house. The women she saw coming and going through the gate during the day and in the middle of the night will be instructing the girls. For now, the tutors have other jobs they must go to.”
“That’s really quite odd. Mrs. Feversham didn’t mention seeing girls living there. Only women.”
Lyon lifted the topper off the decanter and covered the bottom of a glass with the amber liquor. “They will be soon. So you can tell your vexed friend across the street that she can stop watching what is going on at the house next door. All is well. And while you are at it, Aunt”—he stopped and gave her a rueful smile—“remind her I don’t want to hear that she’s been observing my comings and goings either.”
“Well, really now, Lyon.” Cordelia adjusted the pillow behind her back and smoothed down the folds in her blue sprigged skirt. “What else has the poor lady to do since she can no longer get out into Society?” His aunt paused. “I’ll have one of those since you’re pouring.”
“I was going to open a claret for you. I know you prefer it.”
“That not necessary,” she said, lifting her chin and giving him a genuine smile. “I won’t be here that long, dearest, and you know I won’t have more than a sip or two of it, anyway. You’d have to finish off the bottle or let it go to waste. Not much tastes worse than day-old claret.”
Maybe for her.
Lyon downed a generous swallow of the strong liquor and breathed in long and heavily, letting it settle in his stomach before adding a splash of the fortified wine to the dainty crystal he kept on the tray just for his aunt’s visits. He then added another ounce to his glass. After his meeting with Lady Wake, he needed it to help him put the entire incident out of his thoughts.
For good he hoped.
Having a late afternoon drink with his aunt was nothing new. Mrs. Cordelia Carbonall was his late mother’s only living sibling, probably the reason he was so patient with her. That, and the fact she had a bold streak he’d admired and sometimes appreciated. It had always seemed strange to him that his aunt had more the nature, wit, and strength of his father than of her sister, Lyon’s mother. As best he could remember her, anyway.
His mother had been gone close to twenty years, and time had started taking its toll on his once-vibrant memories of her. She had been a beautiful lady with a softly sweet voice. He could no longer hear her singing to him in the evenings before his governess took him off to bed, but he knew she had. Time had erased the feeling of the smooth touch of her ha
nd when she cupped his chin in her palm so she could make sure he was listening to her, but he knew she’d done it.
Cordelia wasn’t a classic beauty as his mother had been, but she had sparkling, playful blue eyes and a smile that matched her quick drollness and even temperament. Cordelia’s husband had passed away only two years after Lyon’s mother. Over the years, she’d attracted the attention of several gentlemen. At least two of them had offered for her hand, and more than once. But she’d remained a childless widow, and from all Lyon could tell she was happy with her choices.
Much to his father’s liking, Cordelia had never tried to be a mother to Lyon. That had actually suited all three of them. It didn’t mean she hadn’t been a part of his life. For as long as Lyon could remember, his aunt hadn’t been shy about asking for whatever she wanted from him or his father, be it monetary or a social favor. The only difference was that the Marquis of Marksworth wasn’t nearly as accommodating to her as Lyon had always been. Mostly because Marksworth had bestowed a generous allowance on Cordelia after her husband passed. No doubt thinking that would be the end of his duty to her and she would quietly fade away from Society.
He’d been wrong.
Ever since Cordelia had moved to the neighborhood three years ago, she’d made it a point to visit her friend Mrs. Feversham once a week and fill her in on the latest gossip. And of course, Mrs. Feversham, who lived across the street from Lyon, always had plenty to tell his aunt about the neighbors she could see from her first-floor chambers. Cordelia considered it her duty to occasionally stop by for a visit with Lyon, when he was in Town, and share all she’d heard. Lyon listened patiently to every sentence. She was considerate of his privacy and never stayed very long.
Today, her troubled chatter of gossip had led to his barging in on the countess thinking he was going to be keeping the neighborhood safe from being invaded by a bevy of the lesser sort.
“It’s curious that a school is going to be next door,” his aunt said, taking the drink from him. Not giving him time to answer, she continued by saying, “In my day, a girl was taught in the home with a highly qualified and proper governess. Tutors for French and pianoforte lessons were sometimes brought into the house, but a good governess could handle it all. Dancing, too.” She sighed as she put her nose to the glass and sniffed its content indulgently. “I’ve always enjoyed the smell better than the taste.”