Fall of the Lyon: The Lyon's Den

by Chasity Bowlin

  Meg’s stomach roiled at the thought. “I can’t let them have this marriage annulled. I cannot be married to Neville… I’d rather die.”

  His hands closed about her upper arms and she looked up at him. His eyes, in the dimness of that small dressing room, were so deep and dark that she could almost drown in them.

  “I won’t let that happen. Whatever it takes, Meg, I won’t let them hurt you… I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

  “And you?” she asked, her voice a hushed whisper. “Will you hurt me?”

  A frustrated sigh escaped him. “I don’t want to. I’ll do everything in my power not to do so.”

  “Then don’t ever lie to me again… not even a lie of omission. If I can’t trust you, when you hold my very life in your hands—at least Neville and Roger are the devils I know.”

  He wanted to be incensed by that, to feel the righteous burn of indignation. But it wouldn’t come—because she was right. They needed one another, and if it was to work, trust had to be implicit. So he voiced his deepest and ugliest suspicions. “I think Roger was committing treason. What other reason would he have to be with a group of Frenchmen on the eve of a war? And there I was, a schoolmate of his son, a man who moved in similar social circles then… who might one day expose to the world that he’d been pretending to be his brother in a foreign land. They left me for dead, but I don’t think they intended to. I think, with every fiber of my being, that their intent was that I should die in that alleyway. The more I reflect on it, the more I think that the taking of those artifacts I had collected was naught but a ruse.”

  Meg frowned at that, shaking her head. “I’m not saying he is above treason. He’s not above anything, in truth. But it all seems so carefully orchestrated and, frankly, strategy is beyond him… unless perhaps there was trouble here that he was running from. Maybe he borrowed my stepfather’s identity and sort of fell into treasonous plots. It seems a likelier scenario.”

  Leo considered his next statement carefully. “Your stepfather had to know. It’s the only explanation for why he arranged the match between us.”

  Meg’s eyes widened. “I mean, of course. It makes sense. But I hadn’t quite put that together yet. Do you think Roger suspects that William had proof?”

  “I don’t know.” It was a difficult thing to admit. He wanted her to feel safe, but he’d just stated he wouldn’t lie to her again. The truth, even if it wasn’t very comforting, had to be outed.

  “Right… about our agreement… for one week?” she asked.

  “You may take all the time you need,” he said. “Under the circumstances, any sort of pressure—”

  “You mistake my meaning,” she interrupted. “Roger will move heaven and earth to get what he wants—my inheritance. For that to happen, he has to annul this marriage and get me married to Neville. If there is one glaring truth that we must both face right now, it’s that we do not have time to waste. And we cannot afford to give them anything else to use against us.”

  And with that, she rendered him entirely speechless. Shaking his head to clear it, he finally managed to say, “Let’s get out of here before Roger and Neville return… and we’ll discuss that later.”

  Chapter Nine

  Meg stood outside the drawing room. She should go inside. And yet, try as she might, she simply could not move forward. It was as if her feet had grown rooted to the spot. The reasons why were painfully obvious, of course. Until she saw him, until she laid eyes on the cold, still remains of her stepfather, she could at least hold on to the pretense of it not being real. Once she looked at him, that would be ripped from her forever. And she was not ready to say goodbye. Whatever she might have told herself, and even knowing for months and months that it was an inescapable outcome, the reality of it was a different thing altogether.

  They’d changed their clothes and, luckily, her more somber-hued clothing had survived her uncle’s vandalism. Beside her, Leo wore a dark coat and his waistcoat was a muted gray silk and he had a black band about his arm. She’d never considered that such a thing was simply a staple in a man’s wardrobe.

  “Take your time,” he said.

  “Why?” she asked. “It won’t change anything.”

  “It doesn’t have to,” he replied. “It isn’t about changing anything. It’s about giving yourself the space to breathe and to steady yourself for what’s to come.”

  “Or we could all just walk in there and get the whole bloody mess over with!” The words were uttered behind them, the tone snide and yet tinged with humor, as if the speaker had managed to amuse themselves regardless of the nature of their remark.

  That voice raked over her already jangled nerves. A glance over her shoulder confirmed that Neville was not only standing behind them, he was already drunk. Apparently, after leaving William’s chambers, he’d found a bottle or two to swill from. There was a glass of brandy in one hand and the bottle from which it had originated was in the other. He leaned indolently against the wall, his booted foot propped on the wainscoting. She felt Leo stiffen next to her before turning to her cousin.

  “Neville,” Leo said stiffly.

  Neville guffawed. “It really is you, Amberley! I’ll be damned. I guess the old man shuffled off and left you with pockets to let, didn’t he? Can’t see why you’d have married her otherwise. Plain… and a bit cold, I think.”

  “You’re not welcome to join us,” Leo said simply. “My wife, whom you will not speak of again, will have a moment of privacy to pay her respects to her stepfather and it will not be sullied by your presence.”

  Neville sauntered forward then, a cruel smile twisting his lips. “You’re not in charge here, Amberley. Viscount or not, it ain’t your house, now is it?”

  “It ain’t yours either… not yet,” Meg said. “You’ve made your presence known, Neville. You’ve dished out insults, cruelty and malice enough already without pressing it further. Please go away.”

  “Oh, Cousin… I’d never pass up any opportunity to enjoy your pain. Watching you weep over his rotting bones will be a balm to my soul,” Neville insisted, then took a long drink from his glass.

  “You don’t have a soul,” Leo pointed out.

  Neville laughed again. “Called that one right enough. Ask your sweet little wife about the night I caught her in the upper corridor. She said the same, you know?”

  What happened next was simply a blur. One minute, Neville was standing there, mouth open wide, laughing uproariously. The next, he was sprawled on the floor, a trickle of blood oozing from the corner of his mouth. Beside her, Leo was massaging his closed fist.

  “He’s got a firmer jaw than I’d have given him credit for,” her husband stated, clearly not in the least apologetic for giving in to his violent urges.

  “You struck him,” she said. It wasn’t an accusation. She was simply stunned by how quickly it had occurred.

  “I did. And if he gets up, I’ll likely do it again,” he answered.

  Meg turned away from Neville’s fallen form and moved toward the door of the drawing room. The sooner she forced herself to face what awaited her on the other side of it, the sooner they could get the whole matter over with. Drawing out the inevitable was nothing more than an exercise in torture. She said nothing, simply stepped toward the door of the drawing room. Leo followed close behind her.

  No sooner had they crossed the threshold than she regretted it. The room was unnaturally quiet, a stillness having settled over it that reflected, unflinchingly, the very absence of life within those walls. Her stepfather had been placed in his coffin, wrapped in a linen shroud. Around the coffin were several vases of flowers. Wreaths and garlands of pine had been placed about the room as well. All the furnishings had been draped in black baize and the mirrors covered. It looked rather like a poor man’s funeral, or at the very least a cheap man’s funeral. Many expenses had been spared, it seemed.

  Stepping deeper into the room, she approached the coffin. Her legs were shaking. Every part of her tremb
led and it was all she could do to hold herself upright. It was a cheap casket, built of pine, lined with what she suspected were bed sheets. He was being given a pauper’s funeral, far beneath his dignity because she hadn’t been there to assure that things were handled properly. No doubt, Roger or Neville had pocketed the funds intended to pay the undertaker. Closing her eyes, trying to bite back the furious scream that was boiling up inside her, Meg swayed on her feet. And then he was simply there… her husband.

  One strong arm was wrapped about her waist, supporting her, holding her up. And then he was guiding her toward the black cloth-covered settee and easing her down.

  “I hate them so much,” she whispered. “Is it horrible that all I can think of is how much I despise them instead of how much I shall miss my stepfather?”

  He shook his head. He also didn’t let go of her hand. Instead, he held it, his thumb stroking over the back of it, creating friction and warmth in a place where she felt so terribly, terribly cold.

  “I don’t think it’s horrible, at all. I think your mind is focusing on the thing that will hurt you the least. And they are very, very easy to hate.”

  “This is an insult to William’s memory. Cheap fabric to drape everything in. A pine coffin. No doubt, they won’t even have a real hearse. I’ve no idea who the pallbearers are to be or if—”

  “None of it matters… not really. Sir William is not truly here to suffer the indignity, is he?” It might have been a censure, but for the gentle smile that accompanied his words. “He’s beyond the pain of this world and that is all that matters. All these trappings are for the living, really. In the end, they don’t mean a damned thing to us, do they?”

  And with that very direct statement, a kind of clarity about it all settled over her. None of it really meant anything. It wouldn’t bring him back. And people wouldn’t remember Sir William as the kind and wonderful man he was because of the wood used to construct his coffin or the expense of the fabric used to line it. They’d remember him for being good to them, for being charitable, fair, honest and generous. They’d remember him for the way he impacted their lives and not the pomp and circumstances surrounding the end of his own.

  After a moment, Meg nodded. “You’re quite right. You are absolutely right. Thank you.”

  Together, they sat there and waited for the appointed time. It was half-past three when the butler opened the door to the drawing room and six of her stepfather’s tenant farmers stepped inside. Each wore their best clothes, those reserved for church services and celebrations. Each had a black band on their arm, likely hastily sewn by their wives or by one of Sheridan Hall’s servants.

  “Miss Margaret,” Joseph Walker said, ducking his head to remove his cap. “We’re here to carry him to the churchyard.”

  “It’s a half-mile,” she said, not bothering to correct him about his incorrect address to her. No one knew of her marriage, after all, not yet. “Is there no hearse?”

  “No, Miss,” Joseph said. “There’s a bier though. Done up in black as it should be. We’ll get him to the churchyard on it. I know things ain’t been done right as they should, but we’ll all pay proper respect. Sir William was a good man. The best of men, I think.”

  Meg blinked away more tears. “He was indeed, Mr. Walker. And I daresay, he’d be quite proud to be conveyed to the churchyard by all of you. Thank you.”

  Leo walked beside her. His hand ached from punching Neville and with every quiet tear she dashed away, he wanted to strike the weasel again. It wouldn’t halt her pain or really do anything to make her feel better, but it was something to do. That was infinitely better than simply falling in step next to her and watching her weep. It wasn’t just her grief that made him feel powerless, but the entire situation. Roger Snead had the upper hand and they had to find some way to wrest it back. Otherwise, the threat of him challenging the marriage would simply hang over their heads indefinitely.

  Behind him, Roger walked stiffly. Neville stayed home to nurse his newly broken nose. He could feel the weight of the older man’s glare on his back, but he had no regrets for decking the man’s son. Neville had begged to be struck down. Given an opportunity, he’d gladly do so again.

  As they neared the churchyard, the vicar was standing at the lichgate to meet them. From within the church, the bells began to toll as they passed beneath the roofed gate and into that somber space. The mausoleum bearing the Ashby family crest stood at the center of the small cemetery and a space had already been prepared for Sir William.

  “Please bow your heads,” the vicar intoned gravely. “We have entrusted our brother, Sir William Godfrey Ashby, to God’s mercy, and we now commit his body to the ground. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. In sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life through our Lord, Jesus Christ, who will transform our frail bodies that they may be conformed to His glorious body, who died, was buried, and rose again for us. To Him be glory forever.”

  With those words spoken, the pallbearers lifted the coffin, placed it in the carefully dug grave where it nestled into the earth. Leo stiffened as he felt Meg step forward from her spot beside him. She picked up a heavy clod of dirt and tossed it, along with the simple spray of flowers she carried, into the grave with her stepfather. Then she stepped back and they walked away together.

  He said nothing. There was, quite simply, nothing to say. But he did reach for her hand, take it in his, and hold it close as they made the long and sad walk back to Sheridan Hall.

  Chapter Ten

  The reading of the will was as expected. Hours after the last of the mourners had departed, the solicitor had gathered them in the library to convey Sir William Ashby’s last wishes. Thus far, it had been as expected. There were various bequests for long-time servants and loyal retainers. The bulk of the estate, all the funds, investments, properties and the collection of antiquities had been left to Meg. But Leo’s attention wasn’t on his new bride. It wasn’t even on the solicitor as he outlined the details of a man’s life and all his worldly goods. His attention was focused solely on Roger Snead.

  Neville was lounging negligently in his chair, his booted feet propped on the edge of the desk and a drink in his hand. He wasn’t concerned about the will, that much was apparent. But he’d never known Neville to be concerned with anything beyond his next drink and his next bed partner. But next to him, Roger fumed. His breath came out in sharp huffs, his fists clenching and unclenching. His jowls all but trembled with barely repressed rage.

  Leo was simply waiting for the explosion. There was no doubt in his mind that it was imminent. The real question was how terrible it would be and whether or not he’d wind up planting his fist in the face of another member of the Snead family before the day was done. He didn’t have long to wait.

  “Dammit, man! What did he leave to us? To my son! We cared for him, saw to his crumbling estate when he was too feeble to do so!” Roger shouted.

  The solicitor looked up, his faced pinched with a dour frown. “Let me see,” he said, and began shuffling through the pages before him. “Ah, here it is. To my half-brother, the less than honorable, Mr. Roger Snead… I leave only what he has already stolen. The statues of Athena that were pawned to a broker in Hampshire, the rents collected from tenants near my estate in Surrey, and all the brandy his worthless son has consumed… and sadly, Sheridan Hall. I leave it to him only because it is entailed and I have no other option. It is my greatest hope that it burns to the ground and leaves him with nothing.”

  Leo bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. Dead or not, Sir William had gotten the last word.

  Roger rose from his chair with such force that it went toppling backward. “What is the meaning of this? What do you mean he left us nothing? And we took nothing from him! How am I to keep this house running and pay the army of servants that we have here without any funds?”

  “You did, in fact, take those items,” the solicitor said. “I have sworn affidavits from the pawnbroker and from the tenants whose
rents you more than doubled… rents that Sir William reimbursed to them to atone for your perfidy. So, yes, you did. And we have proof. And if you feel inclined to contest the will… or to contest the marriage of Sir William’s stepdaughter, Lady Thurston-Hunter, then those affidavits will be supplied to the local magistrate and charges will be brought against you.”

  “I don’t have to stand for this!”

  “Indeed, you do not,” the solicitor continued. “You can petition to have the entail broken and then auction off the lot of it. Or you could, in exchange for the necessary funds to keep the house going for a bit, offer hospitality to your niece and her new husband while they sort out the personal effects of Sir William that make up a large portion of her inheritance.”

  Roger gaped like a fish. “Well, I can’t… there’s certainly no precedent for it… how would such a thing even work?”

  The solicitor raised his eyebrow at that. “No doubt, the coins you scavenged by being so miserly with funeral arrangements should buy you an hour or two with a solicitor who would be happy to advise you! I personally can’t stand the sight of you!”

  “I am a gentleman, sir!” Roger shouted. “You cannot speak to me this way.”

  “Mr. Linley,” Meg said, speaking up. It was the first time she’d said anything or even truly seemed to be present during the proceedings. “I realize that you have some moral objection to working for my uncle but, in truth, you’d actually be assisting me if you’d fabricate such a contract for us. My husband and I would dearly love to remain at Sheridan Hall for a time to sort out all of these things and to be certain that we can take care of things appropriately. Won’t you help us?”

  The solicitor was silent for a long moment, then gave a curt nod. “For you, Lady Thurston-Hunter, certainly. As for you, Mr. Snead, and how I’ve spoken to you… I can. I have. And push me further, Mr. Snead, I’ll do so again,” the solicitor said, his northern accent becoming stronger with his temper. “Sir William was a good man, a fair one. And you took advantage of his good nature and kind heart for your own selfish ends. You put him in an untenable situation and only at the end of his life, when he’d been able to secure Miss Margaret’s—forgive me, Lady Thurston-Hunter’s—future, did he have the option of putting it right. And I’ll see that it’s done, in his name and for his honor, whether you like it or not.”