Fed to the Lyon

by Lancaster, Mary

  In fact, Diana didn’t think she could move just yet. Left to herself, she stared into the empty fireplace, her fingers gripping the glass.

  Only two days ago, she had been the Princess of Wales’s lady and engaged to marry Mr. Simon Bamber. She had been hopeful of traveling with Her Highness and seeing the world in Simon’s company. Life had seemed so rosy, so full of potential. And now, she was a menial in a gaming hell, dressed as a boy and preparing to accept some dreadful, drunken oaf as her husband.

  One way or another, her life was ruined. It was all a matter of degree.

  Well, she could at least refuse the drunken oaf and, since Mrs. Dove-Lyon seemed disposed to indulge her following Harrington’s assault, perhaps she could find a way to nudge her toward a better man.

  But that was for tomorrow.

  Leaning forward, she set down the glass untouched and rose to her feet. She walked very slowly to the back door of the room that led to the main staircase. As she opened the door, she almost walked into her savior, whose hand was already raised to knock.

  His arm dropped. “Is Mrs. Dove-Lyon within?” he asked.

  “She went to see to the wounded. I don’t believe she’ll be long.”

  Her instinct was to ask him politely to enter and be seated, but she was supposed to be the servant here, and she had no idea how the widow felt about guests being left alone in her private room.

  She shuffled awkwardly, reminding herself she was also a boy. Perhaps she should stay with him until Mrs. Dove-Lyon returned. But when she opened her mouth, quite different words came out instead.

  “Why did you shoot him?” she blurted.

  The gentleman shrugged. “I’ve seen Harrington in his cups before. Which was why I reloaded the pistol when Lysander rushed off.”

  “Yes, but no one else was prepared to interfere beyond words,” she pointed out.

  “I don’t like the man,” he said with a hint of impatience. He turned away from the door and walked toward the staircase. “Does it matter?”

  “Not in the slightest,” she assured him. “I don’t like him either. And to think when they first started this nonsense, I thought he was less offensive than Lord Garvie!”

  He paused, glancing over his shoulder at her. “Lord Garvie?”

  “His opponent? Who seemed more drunk at the time?”

  “Ah.” He held her gaze for an instant, then instead of climbing the stairs or making for the front entrance, he threw himself onto the sofa placed against the wall. “How long have you worked for Mrs. Dove-Lyon?”

  Diana closed the sitting room door. “This is my first evening,” she confessed.

  “And you have not played much for society before?”

  “I have played for the Princess of Wales. She was most kind.”

  “I imagine she was,” he murmured.

  “Her Highness is often kind without meaning anything else by it,” she said defensively, both because she had rather liked her erratic mistress, and because she well knew the interpretation that some might put on the princess’s interactions with young men. It wasn’t as if she could say, You needn’t think it, for I am not really a boy.

  He regarded her, his expression unreadable. “I’ll take your word for that. I am not personally acquainted with Her Highness. What is your name?”

  “Dionysius,” she replied, adding hastily, “My friends call me Di.”

  “Mine call me Bill,” he murmured for no obvious reason. She was hardly his friend and, in this guise, certainly not someone who would ever call him by his Christian name.

  Instead, as she often did, she let fall exactly what was on her mind. “I would not have thought you the kind of gentleman who would frequent this place.”

  “The food is good, the wine the best. And I enjoy the odd game of chance. Why wouldn’t I come here?”

  “I don’t know,” she admitted. “But I don’t think those are your reasons.”

  A smile lurked in his eyes, tugging at his lips. It came as something of a shock to realize that he was a very attractive man. He caused a strange, fluttery feeling in her stomach. Perhaps it was gratitude.

  “Not my only reasons,” he admitted. “I like to observe people. I like to know my friends and my enemies, and in a place like this, one can see the best and the worst of both.”

  “Hmm, and yet you strike me more as a man of action that an observer of life. Besides, by definition an observer doesn’t make many enemies.”

  “Well, if he plans to make them in the future, he might as well be aware of their character.”

  “You’re planning already which enemies to make? That does seem very calculating. To say the least.”

  “Oh, it is,” he agreed, quite unoffended. “Perhaps it would be more comprehensible if I explained I mean to enter politics.”

  She considered that while searching his face. There was a deep intelligence behind his eyes and hinted at the height of his forehead. By his previous actions, he certainly seemed to have a grasp of human nature. He hadn’t minded at all making an enemy of Harrington.

  “Is Mr. Harrington a member of parliament?”

  His lips quirked by way of response.

  “I would say you don’t just mean to enter politics,” she said shrewdly. “You mean to lead.”

  “What a perceptive youth you are.”

  “In which case, is it wise to trust me?”

  “I didn’t say I trust you. But probably, yes.”

  “And yet, you haven’t observed me for very long at all.”

  “What should I know?”

  She opened her mouth, then closed it again as she remembered who and what she was supposed to be. In panic, she went over everything she had said in the last few minutes.

  “Nothing,” she said lamely. “I am no one.”

  “Everyone is someone. Even very young men who play the harp in scandalous gaming dens.”

  Did she imagine the very faint hesitation before the word men? In real life, she should not be alone with this gentleman. With any man not of her own family. And she had been jabbering with him in the relative privacy afforded by the empty staircase for quite long enough.

  “I wonder if Mrs. Dove-Lyon has returned?”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll go and find her.” He rose and brushed past her to the door, where he paused, his fingers resting on the handle.

  At first, she thought he was going to say something personal and held her breath. Perhaps he had enjoyed talking to her.

  But he wasn’t paying her any attention whatsoever, and she couldn’t help feeling piqued, and then curious. His ear was cocked toward the door, a faint frown forming between his brows.

  Before she could ask what was wrong, he threw the door wide and impulsively, she hurried after him into the sitting room.

  There were papers all over the desk and the floor—and a man was bolting out of the far door to the gaming hall.

  With an exclamation, “Bill” lunged after him and vanished from her view. In pursuit of a robber, Diana realized with astonishment. Who else would have made such a mess in the widow’s private room and then run for it?

  Diana didn’t hesitate. Her head was full of one memory—the huge roll of bills her mother had handed across the desk, and Mrs. Dove-Lyon locking them away in a drawer. If thieves had stolen her mother’s money, she had to get it back, or she would never be forgiven, never recover the family’s reputation.

  In the hope of trapping the thief between them, she ran back the way she’d come, passed the grand staircase, bolted between various gentlemen entering the club, under an escort’s elbow, and out the front door. A blast of fresh air hit her as she ran into the street. Breeches were so much easier to manage than skirts.

  To her right, Bill, who must have chased the thief out through the kitchen or the garden exit, was loping down the road after a vanishing hackney. As she rushed after him, excitement soared within her, almost like elation.

  Bill hailed another hackney, which had probably just drop
ped someone off at the Den. He called swift, peremptory instructions and jumped inside. Again, Diana didn’t hesitate, simply hurled herself into the carriage after him. Suddenly, the chase was fun.

  “What the devil?” he exclaimed as the carriage lurched forward at a fast clip.

  She couldn’t tell him the whole truth, just uttered, “We need to get Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s money back.”

  He stared at her. “No doubt we’ll be following them into some thieves’ den. The sort of place you really won’t pass without comment.”

  Blue silk breeches, an embroidered coat, and powdered wig. He had a point. She couldn’t even pretend to be a footman.

  She swallowed. “Perhaps you could lend me a hat and a cloak.”

  “If I had my own, which I don’t. Perhaps you could stay in the carriage and go back to the Lyon’s Den.”

  “Perhaps,” she agreed, although she suspected they both knew she would do no such thing. She peered out the window, hanging onto the seat with both hands as the carriage swerved around a corner at full speed. “How many of them were there? What do you suppose they stole?”

  “Two,” Bill said. “And I can’t begin to imagine, but you mentioned money.”

  “The drawer where she keeps it was open,” Diana said. “I doubt they left it behind.”

  He pulled down the window and stuck his head out, peering ahead for a moment before he sat back down with a frown. “Nor can I imagine thieves brave enough—or clever enough—to steal from the Lyon’s Den.”

  Diana frowned. “Someone must have let them in, let them mix with the other guests. And they must have been very quick getting inside the sitting room, not to be seen by the doorman or anyone passing in the street.”

  “Meaning the Black Widow has a traitor in her midst.”

  “The Black Widow?”

  He cast her a curious glance. “It’s what they call Mrs. Dove-Lyon. The Black Widow of Whitehall.”

  Perhaps it was something an employee should have known. But he had already moved on. “There was a lot of trouble in the Den tonight,” he said. “Fighting, shooting, injuries requiring serious attention—though that is not, admittedly, a rarity for the Den.”

  “You think someone used—or even caused?—some of those incidents as a distraction to allow him the opportunity to go into the office?”

  “It’s possible—at least to find out the lay of the land. By the time the robbery happened, things seemed to be calm once more, although, of course, Mrs. Dove-Lyon was still absent from her room. As were you, though not for long.” His gaze focused on her. “I imagine there is a great deal of information in that house that an unprincipled person could use to make a lot of money.”

  “What sort of information?” Even as she asked, she knew the answer—contracts, such as the one made with her mother. Such as, however, the widow compelled her bridegrooms to matrimony. There could be more than money to worry about here.

  “Sensitive information,” he said wryly. “But would she keep such things in her desk? Does she have a safe?”

  “I don’t know. I have not been there twenty-four hours.” She said carefully, “I saw her put a lot of money in the desk drawer. Bills a lady gave her.”

  He cast her another of his quick, perceptive glances. The lantern light from outside the carriage glinted in his eyes and cast strange streaks of light and shadow across his face. He was a stranger, and she should not be here with him.

  “Is that why you are here?” he asked.

  Panic surged through her. How much had he guessed of her situation? Unable to defend, or even to think, she attacked. “Why are you here? What is this robbery to you?”

  He blinked. Something like a laugh escaped him. “Nothing.”

  But she thought that was only part of the true answer. He hadn’t hesitated but thrown himself after the thieves. Just as he hadn’t hesitated when he’d shot Harrington. Which made him a man of interesting contradictions. Someone who threw himself wholeheartedly into whatever adventure offered. And yet, a deeply thoughtful man who observed and calculated.

  Intrigued, she said, “You are enjoying yourself.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  She couldn’t help her quick grin. “Perhaps.”

  The carriage was slowing, and he reached for the door. “Then I think that is enough. Go back and tell Mrs. Dove-Lyon what’s happening. She’ll send her men to help.”

  Diana didn’t even consider it. She sprang out after him before he could slam the door. He swore under his breath, then said to the driver. “I’ll pay you for your coat and hat.”

  It was a warm August night. The driver gave up both coat and hat without a word. Bill plonked the hat on her head. Even with the wig on, it was too big and covered most of her face, which was probably a good thing. The coat, smelling of horse and sweat, hung to her ankles, and she had to hold it around herself.

  “Let’s hope you don’t have to run,” Bill murmured and set off down a dark, narrow lane she hadn’t even seen.

  They could barely walk side by side, and she didn’t like to think about what she was brushing against when she accidentally touched the wall.

  “I don’t imagine you know this part of town,” Bill said with a hint of grimness. “Stay close to me, keep your mouth shut, and don’t look directly at anyone.”

  “How do you know our men came down here?”

  “The driver saw them. That’s why he stopped. He wouldn’t take the carriage down here if he could.”

  “But where did they go?”

  He paused, and she realized a dim light shone from another passage to their left. “Perhaps in there. Perhaps straight on to the end.”

  “We could split up and find out?” she suggested without a great deal of enthusiasm.

  “No, we couldn’t,” he said and turned left.

  The pale light was coming from a window with a battered sign above it, though it was too dark to read what the sign said, he pushed open the door and walked in, Diana at his heels.

  Chapter Four

  The smell almost made her gag. Dirty humanity mingled with overwhelming tobacco and beer, and something stale and oniony. Through the fog of smoke, she could make out three or four rough tables around which sat a few disreputable, shabby figures, smoking pipes, and swilling beer. An uneven hatch in the wall served as the counter.

  “Yes?” asked the man behind it discouragingly.

  Diana, remembering her instructions, didn’t answer. In any case, the place was so unnerving, she suspected her voice would be a very unmanly squeak. Bill gazed about him, but she doubted he had seen much more of the thieves than she had. And it was unlikely he could recognize either of them.

  “Looking for someone,” Bill said.

  “Won’t find them here,” the publican said with certainty.

  “But they just came in,” Bill said in apparent surprise. “Pete and George.”

  “That wasn’t any Pete or—” The publican, realizing he’d just given away the fact that he knew who had just entered, shut his mouth.

  More revealing was the involuntary movement from the nearest table, as though to shush the speaker. Cut off as it was, it still drew Diana’s attention. She nudged Bill with her elbow. Being a boy really was quite liberating. A lady would never dream of nudging a gentleman in such a vulgar way.

  Bill smiled, already looking in the same direction. “Pete,” he said fondly.

  “You know what’s good for you, you’ll—” “Pete” got no further, for the man next to him lunged at Bill.

  He was quick, but Bill was quicker, throwing a punch before Diana even saw his arm draw back. The man staggered and fell to the floor, taking a chair with him. Bill didn’t watch, for almost in the same motion, he had seized “Pete” by the coat-front, and hauled him across the table.

  Without thought, Diana stepped back and wrenched open the door. Bill and “Pete” stumbled into the alleyway. With a roar, Pete’s friend jumped to his feet and flew after them. Diana stepped smartly o
utside and closed the door. She winced as their pursuer ran hard into it.

  She heard rather than saw the blow that sent Pete sprawling against the opposite wall. Then Bill turned to face the furious “George” who, having finally got out of the pub, charged him, like an angry bull.

  Bill sidestepped, and the man crashed into the wall beside his fallen friend. He must have had a head made of stone, for he bounced back almost immediately, charging once more at Bill.

  Keeping one anxious eye on the fight, Diana dropped to her knees beside the unconscious Pete. For a moment, she feared he was dead, but his heart still beat under her searching hand, and she breathed a sigh of relief as she rifled his pockets. She found a roll of money, though it wasn’t anything like as fat as the one her mother had handed over to Mrs. Dove-Lyon.

  Meanwhile, George had apparently decided to bolt. Bill flung himself at the man’s legs and brought him down, receiving a vicious kick in the chest for his pains.

  By then, Diana’s increasingly anxious search had found no more money save a few coins in Pete’s pockets. Fortunately, no one seemed inclined to come out of the public house to help their fellows.

  Jumping to her feet, Diana saw Bill searching the now limp body of his opponent. He came up with a square of folded paper, which he hastily stuffed in his own coat. His face was directed at the alleyway entrance, where a couple of dark shadows had formed.

  He spun around, stepped over the body, and grasped Diana by the arm. Without further urging, she trotted beside him. Behind them, their pursuers broke into a run. So did Bill, his grip sliding down to her hand and pulling her onward.

  She had to let her grubby coat fly wild as she ran with him and skidded around the next corner. They found themselves in a courtyard, which at least had the benefit of allowing in more moonlight than the narrow alley. Diana made out several doors off the yard, all leading into the surrounding buildings. Bill didn’t hesitate but dashed straight at the nearest door on the right.

  She didn’t know whether to be relieved or not as the door swung closed behind her. No one immediately yelled at them to get out of their house, nor could she hear snoring or any other signs of life. The place was pitch black.