Loved by the Lyon
Page 3
The tall man, his longish golden hair visible beneath his hat glinting in the street light, paused outside the door, his head canted as if he studied the exterior. Turning his head from side to side, he brought a gloved hand up to scratch the tip of his nose. After an extended moment, he shook his head, lifted a broad royal blue-clad shoulder as if in dismissal or resignation, and strode down the lane.
Well, at least one man in London had common sense.
What manner of men frequented the gaming hell in Whitehall, anyway?
Men of Owen’s ilk?
Drunkards. Wastrels. Womanizers.
She’d wager they were spoiled, pockets-to-let nobles desperate for wives. Make that the fortunes a wealthy wife would provide the rapscallions. Were the men snared into wedlock really as unwilling as Gaines had reported?
What kind of bacon brain wagered on the inanest things, as Gaines had informed her?
For instance, how many coins a demimonde could balance on her breasts. How many olives could one stuff in one’s mouth? Oh, and her favorite stupidity: which lackwit could go without sleep the longest while riding their horse backward through St. James’s Park.
What of the women who frequented the Lyon’s Den? Did they do so for a few hours of freedom? Did they crave the excitement and thrill at indulging in decadent pleasures?
Of its own accord, Vanessa’s attention roved from the ground floor to the upper levels where several windows glowed yellow-gold behind drawn draperies. According to Gaines, those chambers housed elegant boudoirs for patrons interested in pursuits other than gambling and drinking. Oh, and of course, the occasional arranged marriage for which The Black Widow was so famous.
Running her forefinger over the rough edge of her chewed thumbnail, Vanessa considered precisely what made a woman seek out Mrs. Dove-Lyon to arrange a marriage? Desperate ones, she imagined—compromised and ruined ladies. Or ones so unattractive, a husband must be purchased?
Buying and selling spouses.
In point of fact, the whole business was rather fascinating, in a terrifying, macabre sort of way.
Another shudder rippled across Vanessa’s shoulders and down her arms, even raising the hair on her scalp. At nearly three-and-twenty-she’d been spared an unwanted marriage, but not for any lack of suitors. An heiress—even one long in the tooth, stout as a heifer, or horse-faced, which she wasn’t—could always count on men lining up to woo her.
Vanessa had no interest in exchanging vows with any man who loved her money more than he did her. Well, the fortune she’d come into in eight days when her inheritance would be hers at last. She’d be free to do what she wished when she wished, and no man would dictate otherwise.
Bless you, Mama, and Grandmama.
For her very wise and astute mother and grandmother had established a trust that not even her husband, should Vanessa ever choose to wed, could touch. Oh, she could access the funds whenever she wished, but her monies did not transfer to her husband upon their marriage.
A fact which Owen was not aware of.
Ire thrummed anew behind her breastbone.
Owen’s repeated attempts to marry her off these past months while she was in mourning had been beyond the pale. Ever since her beloved brother, Gabriel, had died in Belgium, and dear Mama a mere month later. Vanessa was positive her vivacious mother had perished from a broken heart. Gabriel’s death had simply been too much for her to bear.
Familiar, unchecked pain sluiced through Vanessa at the double loss so close together, leaving her utterly alone in the world except for a disreputable, self-serving knave of a stepbrother.
Had Owen truly blown through his entire inheritance in the five years since his father’s death?
What about Patrick Elligon’s business ventures?
Had Owen bankrupted them as she’d heard whispered before people averted their eyes and scurried away?
How could a man be so reckless and irresponsible?
Anger and frustration also pummeled Vanessa that after Mama’s death, and Vanessa had opened her Berkeley Square house and moved in, Owen had promptly taken it upon himself to monitor her every movement. Even having the impudence to suggest that as her only male relative, he was her guardian now, though she was of age.
Pompous windbag.
Why, the blackguard had even tried to ensconce himself at number fourteen, Berkeley Square, claiming an unmarried young woman shouldn’t live alone. The truth was, he probably had to sell his residence or couldn’t afford his staff’s wages since Mama wasn’t paying the household expenses anymore. Or perhaps because, without a jot of compunction, Vanessa had taken the best servants with her.
However, the house was Vanessa’s, left to her by her grandmother, and she assuredly did not want Owen’s company—thank you very much. She’d endured sixteen years of his annoying presence after Mama had wed Patrick Elligon, thrusting Vanessa and Gabriel into the role of unwanted siblings to a spoiled, self-centered Owen.
An only child, four years her senior and two years younger than Gabriel, he’d been nothing short of hateful to her and especially Gabriel from the moment their parents married. She’d been heartily glad when Owen was away at school. Of course, he was sent down so often for bad behavior, it was a wonder he’d even received a modicum of education.
She eyed the gambling hell where she’d followed her stepbrother these past few days, always accompanied by a nervous Daisy Struthers and disapproving Leroy Gaines as Vanessa developed, considered, and discarded one plan after another.
Truth be told, the theft of her sapphire brooch had been the catalyst that prompted tonight’s bold scheme, the wisdom of which she still doubted.
Filling her lungs with a fortifying breath, she squared her shoulders and adjusted the black satin domino covering the upper half of her face. Her black elbow-length silk gloves followed. The flowing folds of her cloak hid a heavy purse. For she knew full well, a coin or two slipped into a palm proved the right incentive to be quite accommodating.
“I don’t know how long I’ll be, but wait for me,” she told the servants, silently praying she could be in and out of the Lyon’s Den in short order.
Only if the sapphire and diamond brooch couldn’t be located.
Which, quite frankly, was a genuine possibility. A probability, in point of fact, and her stomach sank at the admission.
Still, Owen must learn she meant what she said. Vanessa would pursue charges against him. If only to force him to keep his distance from her once and for all. She harbored no doubts that he’d see her committed and then attempt to finagle some sort of court directive naming him her guardian so he could make free with her fortune.
Would Owen go so far as to see her dead?
Honestly, she wasn’t optimistic he wouldn’t take such nefarious measures. He’d find himself sorely disenchanted if he thought to inherit, however. She’d bestowed generous settlements on her staff, but the remainder of her estate was bequeathed to charity.
Quite naturally, if there was a spy amongst her servants—and she very much suspected there was—she’d need to expose the rotter and update her will revoking his or her inheritance.
“I may be some time,” she reiterated to the servants opposite her, their disapproving silence as loud as a tolling church bell. They’d been against this venture from the start, and Vanessa couldn’t help but be touched by their protectiveness.
“Some time?” Daisy mumbled, her question sounding a death knell.
She made a little sound of distress, and Vanessa bit the inside of her cheek to quell the surge of trepidation her own statement had induced. Inhaling and exhaling thrice, she brought her chaotic pulse under control. “Depending on how swiftly I can locate Owen, that is.”
And determine if he’d already pawned or wagered her brooch. Which meant she’d have to leave the areas designated for ladies’ usage within the gambling hell. Gaines had provided her with a sketch of the floor plan, obtained from the same disloyal Lyon’s Den kitchen servant.
The kitchens were nearest the main gambling floor.
Vanessa caught her lower lip between her teeth. Mayhap she ought to go straight there?
No, she might be caught before she located Owen.
If he’d already transferred ownership of her brooch, she’d demand it back, or the person who possessed it would be named as an accessory to theft.
She wrinkled her nose.
Was such a thing even possible?
Perhaps she ought to have hired a Bow Street Runner, rather than rely upon the incompetent Mr. Dobkin.
Vanessa gave the maid and footman each a stern look, though the inside of the coach was so dark, she doubted either could see her face. A flush heated her cheeks when she considered how they’d likely pass the time until her return.
“Oh, Miss Vanessa. Do be careful, won’t you?” Daisy all but pleaded, her voice ringing with worry and the husky hint of tears.
“Are you sure I cannot escort you to the door, at least?” Gaines asked.
“No.” Vanessa shook her head. “Just follow me, and if something untoward occurs, then you may approach.”
He carried a loaded pistol tucked into his waistband, so while Vanessa didn’t feel safe exactly, she wasn’t concerned with being attacked either.
With a determined tilt of her chin, she opened the door and hopped down. Attired entirely in black except for her undergarments, she hoped to pass as a widow and not garner unwanted male attention. Her mourning weeds made that subterfuge feasible.
She’d even piled her almost white hair beneath a black lace cap.
Glancing at the sooty night sky, Vanessa wasn’t sure whether to be grateful or annoyed that no moon was visible. The streetlamps provided sufficient illumination as she made for the Lyon’s Den. Ears pricked, she listened for footfalls, even as she fingered the small gun in her cloak pocket.
In a matter of days, upon her third-and-twentieth birthday, she’d come into her full inheritance. Then she meant to expunge her stepbrother from her life, once and for all.
“It’s time for your comeuppance, Owen Elligon,” she said as she knocked upon the door to the ladies’ entrance.
The door swung open, and light spilled out onto the street, illuminating her.
Too late to turn back now.
Chapter Four
Kingston reached the end of the street, having been unable to force himself to enter the Lyon’s Den for his appointment with the infamous matchmaker. His steps slowed, then stopped altogether.
Choosing to walk rather than ride Tito, his chestnut gelding, had seemed a good choice earlier. He’d needed to work off a degree of tension before his meeting at The Sword and Shield, and a brisk walk was just the thing. But now, he couldn’t kick Tito’s coppery sides and thunder away from Whitehall as if the very flames of hell lapped at his heels.
He stood there for an interminable moment, head tucked to his chest and shoulders slumped, fighting an inner battle.
Flee or turn around?
He knew what he must do. Pride and self-respect be damned.
At last, drawing in a shuddery breath until his lungs ached from the fullness, Kingston swept a slightly tremorous hand over his face.
God, how had he come to this?
Relying upon the infamous Black Widow of Whitehall to arrange a match for him?
Pointing his gaze skyward, he studied the cloud-strewn sky. A few intrepid stars managed to twinkle through the sooty haze that inevitably hovered over London.
Goddamn stars.
Daring to shine cheerily amid the perpetual gloom.
Daring to stir Kingston’s hope. That perhaps—just perhaps—this impossibly idiotic, imbecilic thing he was considering might turn out well in the end.
“Shit.”
Shit was a wholly insufficient expletive to describe the raging inferno gyrating within him.
Fuck.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!
Fuck fate and providence and destiny.
Fuck Father, frittering away the family’s modest fortune and Kingston having to marry a stranger for hers. Fuck the war, and Odriana Janssen’s treachery, and fuck the goddamn bloody urgent letter he’d given to Gabriel to deliver to Colonel Pountney in his stead.
Kingston squeezed his eyes shut, unable to breathe as white-hot pain slashed him in unrepentant waves. Bile burned his throat and guilt pumped blood through a heart so badly mangled, he wondered how it could still beat.
And fuck you, Gabriel, for being such a bloody loyal and unselfish friend. It saw you killed.
Jaw clamped so hard his facial bones might shatter and the muscles spasmed, Kingston spun on his heels. Lengthening his stride, he strode back to the Lyon’s Den. Every step threatened to dislodge his teeth and rendered another crack in his already fractured soul.
The whisky he’d consumed earlier seemed to have evaporated, for every thought was needle-sharp. Every movement a jagged saber twist to his gut.
This was his penance for being a selfish bastard and costing Gabriel his life.
He snorted loudly, startling a pair of scrawny cats creeping along the pavement. With frightened hisses, they tore off in the opposite direction.
A few minutes later, Kingston once more stood before the unassuming building. Filling his lungs with a fortifying, if not precisely refreshing breath, he stepped forward and rapped briskly upon the door before he could change his mind again.
At once, the panel swung open, and an intimidating Goliath of a man stared at him with narrowed, suspicious eyes.
“Kingston Barclay to see Mrs. Dove-Lyon. She’s expecting me,” Kingston added for good measure. Though the unsmiling brute with deep creases lining his forehead probably already knew that fact.
Kingston would wager there was very little this man didn’t know about the goings-on within the walls of the Lyon’s Den.
Suspicion etched deep furrows into the man’s broad face, but he wordlessly stepped aside.
Kingston stepped across the threshold, unable to keep from sweeping his curious gaze over the opulent entry. It fairly screeched, “Look at me. See, my magnificence meant to impress you.”
Definitely not an understatement of wealth.
According to the Duke of Asherford, Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon served only the best food and alcohol to entice the most affluent clients into her extravagant web. Apparently, The Black Widow of Whitehall’s décor was intended to impress, as well. However, the effect was overdone in Kingston’s opinion.
His soldier’s instincts still in play, he continued his careful scrutiny.
To his right, there appeared to be a gentlemen’s cloakroom.
Boisterous male laughter filtered from the room to his left.
The gentlemen’s lounge?
Searching his memory, Kingston recalled the Lyon’s Den floor plan as detailed to him earlier by the Duke of Ashford. Yes, the lounge was to his left, and Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s private rooms were on the upper floors.
“I am Egeus,” the ham-fisted, barrel-chested servant intoned in a voice that sounded like carriage wheels on gravel. “This way, Mr. Barclay.”
Egeus? From Shakespeare’s Midsummer Night’s Dream? Ludicrous.
Surely not the behemoth’s real name.
He seemed more of a Doyle or a Mack or a Gunnar.
Kingston dutifully followed the man, unable to overlook the massive muscles flexing in Egeus’s back, pulling his coat tight as he lumbered forward. What did the fellow do to maintain his strength?
Heft full-grown cattle? Oak trees? Grain wagons?
The sounds of the establishment rose and fell like waves cresting on the shore as they passed room after room. With each footstep, Kingston’s dread increased, but he was no coward. He’d face his d
ismal future and bear the cost.
But what of the woman who would become his wife?
He’d be kind to his future duchess. Respectful and considerate. He’d not shame her, but neither would he escort her to ton functions. He wasn’t capable of such hypocrisy.
“Pray God, I can abide the sight of her,” he mumbled low to himself.
Egeus whipped his head around, the lower half of his face contorted in grim condemnation. His irate gaze speared Kingston, pinning him with hostile contempt. “As Mrs. Dove-Lyon is always veiled, you’ll never know—”
His eyes went wide then slashed to mere slits a blink later.
Swearing a stream of obscene oaths beneath his breath, he shoved brusquely past Kingston, never breaking his wrathful tread.
Obviously, politesse and finesse weren’t requirements for a henchman’s position.
“Absolutely no women in this area,” Egeus clipped out, marching back along the corridor he and Kingston had just traversed.
A woman’s shallow gasp echoed, and Kingston pivoted in time to see a flash of black skirts disappear into an alcove.
Not fast enough, my dear.
Egeus thundered to the alcove and jerked the curtain aside.
“Out.” A single sharp, uncompromising syllable that ricocheted like the report of a gunshot around the small enclosure.
Folding his arms, Kingston leaned a shoulder against the wall, curious why a woman would be sneaking around this part of the Lyon’s Den. Asherford had said the sexes were kept separate except for the rooms above, where carnal pleasures might be enjoyed for an exorbitant price.
Kingston was fairly certain Asherford had come by that knowledge firsthand.
Was this skittish minx a prostitute?
He scratched his nose before giving a dubious half-shake of his head.
Wearing black?
He supposed it was possible, but the light-skirts he’d been acquainted with tended to favor bright, arresting colors.
Odriana Janssen had adored tulip yellow and fuchsia pink.
That unsolicited recollection sobered him, and a scowl puckered his forehead.