Mrs. Dove-Lyon sat forward, as though trying to see beyond the veil. “Lady Wade, there is no need to tell me you have never been to my house before, but do you know what goes on here?”
“You must keep her safe.”
“I am not operating a charity,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said harshly. “If she stays with me, she works—and willingly or not at all, because I have no time or inclination to deal with runaways. Take my advice. Send her to her grandmother.”
Diana interrupted. “What is it you will you do for me?” she asked Mrs. Dove-Lyon in a small, hard voice.
The veiled face turned toward her. “Get you a husband who will provide you with a home and respectability. If he accepts your innocence, so will the world.”
“Who?” Diana demanded. “Do you have someone in mind, or will it just be any revolting old man?”
“Diana,” her mother snapped. “You brought this on yourself. Beggars may not be choosers!”
“Yes, they may!” Diana argued, finding the courage to stand up for herself. “I want a say in who I am married off to!”
“It is precisely this sort of unreasonableness…” her mother began furiously, but Mrs. Dove-Lyon stood up, halting her in full flood.
“I have a rather delightful Scottish gentleman in mind.”
“Delightful?” Diana repeated bitterly. “What is wrong with him that he would take a ruined woman? Does he have a string of dead wives in Scotland? Is he some warty old Highland barbarian unfit for the drawing room?”
“He has a few rough edges,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon conceded. “Such as honesty and bluntness. They make him stand out from the crowd of glib society gentlemen. Such as Mr. Bamber.”
Stricken, Diana stared at her in silence.
“Then it is decided,” Lady Wade said briskly, rising to her feet. “I trust you will deal with the matter in timely fashion.”
“You are really leaving me here?” Diana exclaimed in disbelief.
“One night to look over your swain, to whom, hopefully, you will be engaged by morning,” her mother said, walking toward the door.
“You will allow me two evenings and two days,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon stated. “And then she will go home engaged, or work off the rest of your fee. I shall send a contract to you by messenger this afternoon. Be so kind as to sign it and have it returned to me before five o’clock.”
Lady Wade nodded and stalked out of the room, without even saying goodbye.
Chapter Two
Perhaps this was all part of the nightmare. She had never felt so alone in her life.
Her brain still felt somewhat wooly, and her mother’s abandonment did not help. She looked across the desk at the strange woman she’d been left with.
For a few moments, Mrs. Dove-Lyon let her look. Then she said abruptly, “You have a choice to make. You can sit there in misery and let things happen around you, which, I gather, is how you got into this mess in the first place. Or you can take an active part. For this night only, I will give you the power of veto over the husband we choose. After that, you will take who you’re given. Or explain to your mother why she paid all that money for nothing.”
“I am being sold!” Diana uttered in outrage.
“What else is the marriage mart?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon asked cynically. “Did you imagine Simon Bamber would have chosen you if your parents were poor or unconnected? Do you believe your father would have accepted him if he were not the heir to a considerable barony?”
Diana sprang to her feet and paced around the room.
“Life deals us blows, child,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said, not unkindly. “But we don’t have to bow under them. Make the most of what is on offer. Think of this as a little holiday, an adventure, and enjoy it. Come with me.”
Her hostess led her through a different door and up two flights of stairs. The first landing was carpeted in plush red and looked vulgarly opulent, but Mrs. Dove-Lyon went on up the next flight.
“What is this place?” Diana asked at last.
“The Lyon’s Den.”
Diana gaped. Sheltered as she had always been, even she had heard of the scandalous Lyon’s Den. It was a name only whispered in polite society, or, even more annoying, a subject that was brought to an immediate halt whenever an unmarried young lady approached.
“It is a gaming house,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said prosaically. “The unkind might call it a den or a hell, but I assure you my clientele is only of the highest birth and wealth, and there is no cheating here. Everyone plays and pays.”
“And you want me to work here?” Diana said in disbelief, “in order to get a husband I don’t even want?”
“I don’t want you here at all. Your mother does. As for the husband, you may not want him, but you—and your family—need him. However, don’t confuse your work with the acquiring of a husband. I shall do the latter for you.”
“How?” Diana asked, fascinated in spite of herself.
“That will not be your concern. As for work, I don’t suppose you would be much use as a waiter or running the gaming tables. Perhaps you could clean. With instruction.” She smiled beatifically at Diana’s expression of outrage. “But I suppose that would limit your chances of meeting the prospective husband whom you are allowed to veto. Perhaps you sing? Do you play the violin?”
“I sing a little,” Diana said humbly. “But I cannot play the violin, only the pianoforte and the harp.”
“The harp?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon pounced. “We might do something with that. We have a rather fine instrument here. I shall try you on it after we decide upon your disguise.”
“Disguise?” Diana repeated, following her hostess into what seemed to be a dressing room.
“Indeed.” The widow looked her up and down. “You have been out in society. You will know many of the gentleman—and the ladies—who come here. We do not want them to be aware Miss Wade is here or has ever met me. Therefore, we will make you look as different as possible, so that the possibility enters no one’s head.”
“How do we do that?”
“Well, you are tall and slender. If we bind up some of your curves, I think you will make a decent boy.”
Diana’s mouth fell open. “A boy?”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon regarded her. “Admit it. You must have wanted to run about with all the freedom of a boy instead of hampered by all the constrictions a young girl has to face.”
A conspiratorial smile began to curve Diana’s lips.
The widow said nothing, merely opened a wardrobe and began raking through garments. A pair of powder blue silk breaches was thrown across the sofa, followed by an embroidered coat of blue and silver, and a powdered wig from the previous century.
Slowly, Diana’s gaze lifted to Mrs. Dove-Lyon. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Don’t mince,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon commanded an hour later. “Swagger! Stride out, remembering how important you are, how all the ladies swoon at your feet.”
Diana giggled as she forced her legs into longer, wider strides, imitating Simon’s self-confident gait.
“Good,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon approved. “I particularly like the smug smile. You make a very pretty boy and should convince anyone who doesn’t look too closely. Just make sure none of your hair escapes from under the wig, because that will give you away. Very well, let us go downstairs, and you may show me your skills on the harp.” She paused in the act of turning. “What shall we call you? Most of my staff have pseudonyms taken from Shakespeare—A Midsummer’s Night’s Dream, to be precise—but I’m not sure that will answer for you when you will be with us such a short time.” She nodded. “I shall introduce you as Dionysius, Di for short. Hopefully, it will be enough like your real name to attract your attention. My staff will ask for no further details. If our clients do, invent what tale you like. They won’t believe you in any case. Just remember you are a boy. Keep your voice low, your words few. Most of them don’t want to listen anyway. They find themselves much more interesting.”
Diana blinked. “You don�
�t like your clients much, do you?”
“On the contrary, many of them I like a great deal. That doesn’t blind me to their faults or to the reasons they come here.”
“I suppose that applies to my mother and me, too.”
“I suppose it does.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon took her by the shoulders and turned her toward the cheval looking glass. “This is you, Dionysius.”
It was hard to find herself in the odd young man who gazed back at her from someone else’s face and someone else’s century. She looked like a handsome, elegant, over-dressed boy in a powdered wig that curled at her forehead and either side of her face.
Diana tilted her chin and strutted to the door. She was sure that behind her veil, Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s lips twitched.
The harp was discovered on one of the currently empty rooms at the front of the house.
“This is the gentlemen’s lounge,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon told her. “We are experimenting with using it as an informal supper room, too, distinct from the dining room next door. Though we have music at the back of the house, I thought a more here might be a pleasant idea. Calming.”
The idea that people might need calming did not comfort Diana. However, the harp was indeed a beautiful instrument, so much so that Diana sat behind it, and drew it back against her shoulder without being asked. The first strum of her fingers produced a full, delightful tone, and she smiled involuntarily—before she imagined the men she would be obliged to play for. Gentlemen, no doubt, whom she had already met, but who would behave quite differently around her.
Like the people last night.
Abruptly, she raised her gaze from the harp strings to her hostess who stood beside her. “Who is it you have in mind for me?”
“The Earl of Garvie.”
Diana grimaced. “I hope he is not that loud, Scottish fellow who waited once upon the princess.”
“Men may be loud for many reasons. It makes them neither worthy nor unworthy. Look beneath the surface, by all means, if you can. And remember an ancient lineage and the approval of an earl will go far to rehabilitate your family.”
“Especially if I am hundreds of miles away in Scotland for most of the year.” She glanced at her strange hostess, owner of this clearly disreputable gaming hell, who, despite a certain brisk and downright manner, spoke like a lady. And who, so far, at least, had shown her more kindness than her own mother. “Is his lordship looking for a wife?” she asked bluntly.
The veil trembled, as though with a breath of laughter. “Yes, though he doesn’t know it, yet.”
“You will compel him?” Diana asked, appalled. “That does not bode well for a contented marriage!”
The widow gave a careless little shrug. “It depends how the game is played.”
Having no idea what that meant, Diana moved on. “How do you know he will come here tonight? Or tomorrow night?”
“I have my methods, which need not concern you. Play the harp.”
Diana played from memory, grumpily at first, but gradually with more natural feeling, allowing the music to soothe and guide her. By the time she finished, there was a huddle of maids and manservants by the door, listening.
“Take a bow, Di,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon instructed. “You will do. This,” she said, turning to the crowd of servants, “is our new harpist, Dionysius.”
Diana rose and swept an exaggerated bow, more suited to her costume and the previous century, to received applause and a few grins before Mrs. Dove-Lyon sent them scampering about their duties.
“Decide on your music,” she instructed Diana on her way out. “Practice your pieces. If you don’t remember enough, just play what you know again. And again. It will be a long night.”
Diana’s sick stomach and thick head seemed to have vanished by the evening, perhaps because she was so distracted by the strange, fascinating situation she found herself in. Although slightly piqued that Mrs. Dove-Lyon sent her to eat with the staff—“She never eats in public,” a friendly member of staff told her, “she’d have to take the veil off, wouldn’t she?”—Diana actually enjoyed practicing her manly manners on her new colleagues, who regarded her with some natural curiosity.
But as Mrs. Dove-Lyon had foretold, they seemed to accept her, and no one asked personal questions, presumably so that none would be asked of them in return. She suspected everyone here had secrets.
They were an interesting mixture of rough, one-time soldiers—who seemed to act as porters and footmen but were called escorts and dealt with any trouble—waiters, and those who worked at the gaming tables, one of whom was intriguingly masked. The officer-type in charge was addressed as Titan. Then there was the French cook, two women who looked like housekeepers, and a quiet female from some distant land who kept the books and took her food away to eat alone.
After the meal, everyone rushed to be about their own tasks, leaving Diana to find her way to the gentlemen’s lounge where the harp awaited.
As the house filled up, a few gentlemen strolled into the room to sit at one of the tables to eat, or in an armchair to look at newspapers or talk.
For Diana, there was a certain novelty in being ignored while she played. Like most young ladies, she was used to showing off her accomplishments to an appreciative audience. Here, gentlemen talked over her or to the women on their arms, ate, drank, and paid her no attention whatsoever.
Until she stopped playing for a moment to rest her sore fingers. She was not used to plucking the strings for so long at one stretch, and the pads of her fingers felt as if they would bleed at any moment.
Almost immediately, heads turned toward her.
“Music, you lazy lout!” someone shouted. “You don’t get paid just for sitting on your silken rear all night!”
A few titters greeted this sally, which Diana first thought must have come from Lysander, the escort at the door. But in fact, the speaker was a guest, red-haired and florid, sitting at supper in the middle of the room, a massively heaped plate in front of him, a glass and a bottle by his elbow, and a woman on either side of him. He looked and sounded like a boor. Worse, he spoke with a distinctly Scottish accent.
Oh, dear God, is this the brute they would marry me to? She said a few rough edges, not a complete—
“Play,” Titan murmured in passing. “However short, it will look like obedience. Then take a half-hour break.”
Diana straightened her shoulders to hide her dismay and look more like the man she was pretending to be. But even then, she wondered why she bothered. Could she really bear to be married to that rude, red-haired man? Why was she putting herself through this charade? To please the mother who had abandoned her in this place? Among men given over to every form of gaming and self-indulgence, including the women hanging on their arms, who were by no means respectable ladies.
She sighed. No, she was here to save her family from the repercussions of her behavior and the ruin which would inevitably fall upon her. A ruin which would affect her sisters’ chances, even though they had not yet left the schoolroom, and heap disgrace upon all of them. Unless a respectable man denied the rumors by marrying her. It was their only chance, as she and her mother had both recognized.
Only…was this Lord Garvie a respectable man? He did not seem so to her. Presumably, his name was old enough, his wealth massive enough for no one to care.
The thought of being given to such a man made her shrivel inside. She played mechanically for a minute or two more, then stood abruptly. This time, the unspeakable Scottish lord was guffawing so loudly that no one could hear the music, or lack of it, and she simply walked out, remembering to stride like a man.
“Go to the kitchen,” Lysander advised as she passed him. “Rest, eat, and drink. We’re just building up to our busy time.”
Diana’s heart sank. She had hoped she was nearly finished for the evening.
As she sat in the kitchen, her poor fingers in a bowl of warm water, she wondered what on earth she should do. She could veto Lord Garvie, although she wasn’t sure Mrs. Dove-Ly
on wouldn’t come up with someone even worse. And the next time, she would have no veto.
I could run away.
Where? she demanded of herself with despair. In truth, there was nowhere she could go. She would leave her disgrace behind her, condemning her sisters to spinsterhood and her family to a life outside the ton, in the shadowy places of society they so despised.
And what would become of Diana? At best, she would probably end up like one of those women practically sitting in Garvie’s lap. In which case, she might as well marry him and save her family.
The decision did not make her happy.
“Best get back to it, Di,” a waiter said, hurrying in with a tray of used crockery and seizing another of heavily full dishes. “It’s busy, and you don’t want Madam after you.”
Diana took her fingers out of the bowl and stood up to empty the water down the sink before she dried her hands and swaggered out of the kitchen. Reaching the main hall, she halted in astonishment. The last time she had passed, a few gentlemen had sat at the tables, playing cards and talking. Now the whole space was heaving.
Nearly every seat was taken with both men and women squashed in behind to watch the play. At one table, everyone was clustered around a spinning wheel. These seemed to be much more serious gamers than she had encountered before, but the noise surrounding them was tremendous. They were too focused to notice her, as were the few well-dressed ladies watching from the gallery opposite.
Edging around the gamblers, Diana glimpsed a variety of incomprehensible activities taking place, including two men eating while gazing hard at each other in what appeared to be a staring contest to see who would blink first. She couldn’t help pausing in morbid fascination, for they weren’t looking at what they shoveled into their mouths. To Diana, their food looked like pig swill. She couldn’t imagine Mrs. Dove-Lyon serving anything so disgusting. Even the servants ate well here.
She hastily turned away from the bizarre sight and strode on—straight into the solid figure of a gentleman, who stood back at once, though not before he had slopped wine down his coat.
Fed to the Lyon Page 2