Still, that hadn’t put off some people. Four of the two dozen gaming tables in the main salon were in use, but the gameplay seemed less than enthusiastic.
Opal headed toward the ladies’ gaming rooms, smaller, more intimate affairs; these too were deserted. She passed a set of stairs that led to private rooms upstairs. The sounds of a virginal and the rhythmic tap-tap-tap of a cane rapping the floor, marking time, made their way down to her.
Dance lessons?
What else went on in The Lyon’s Den?
“May I help you?”
Opal spun on her heels.
A young maid, dressed in a crisp black uniform, regarded her curiously.
“I’m looking for your mistress, Mrs. Dove-Lyon.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
Opal’s heart sank. She hadn’t thought of that. The longer the young woman looked at her, the faster her courage receded.
“No, I don’t, but…”
Finally, the young woman spoke.
“Please follow me.”
Opal did as she was told and followed the maid upstairs. The music grew louder, but instead of walking toward it as Opal anticipated she might, the girl turned away and down a corridor lined with smaller rooms if the number of doors was anything to go by.
The maid finally opened a door on a compact but elegantly appointed drawing room.
“Please wait here. I will see if the mistress can see you today.”
The girl prepared to turn away, then turned back.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. Do you have a card, so I may say who’s calling?”
Opal stared blankly a moment before fishing through her reticule.
The maid took her card, bobbed a curtsy, and left.
How long ought she to wait?
A few minutes went by before she thought to take a seat by the window. Alone with her thoughts, the doubts returned.
Peter loved her. She knew he did. It was there in the way he looked at her. The way he teased her. And her own feelings were unchanged, although she wondered whether she did indeed know him as well as she claimed.
The sound of chimes echoed out, indicating an hour had passed since she had first made her way into The Lyon’s Den. Did the prophet Daniel sit in dread waiting for the lions to devour him? Or did he find them to be pussy cats?
Her doubts roared louder.
It was too much.
She got to her feet just as the door opened. The maid was back with a tea tray.
“Mrs. Dove-Lyon will see you shortly,” she said cheerfully.
It was too late. She was trapped.
Opal sank back into her seat as the young woman poured tea and unveiled a plate of little delicacies.
“You wish to see me, Miss Jones?” The elegant older lady glided into the room. Just as she was at the ball, Mrs. Dove-Lyon was still dressed head to toe in black. On anyone else the color would be draining, but on her it was magnificent.
Opal heard the emphasis on her last name. It seemed slightly mocking in tone, as though the woman believed the name to be an alias.
“I want your help to get a husband.”
There was silence as the host – aged in her sixties, Opal guessed – lowered herself into a seat and accepted a cup of tea, black, from the maid and took a sip of it before answering.
“Stand up.”
Opal responded to the instruction without thought.
“Remove the veil.”
She hesitated.
“I mean today, Miss Jones.”
Opal took a deep breath and lifted the fall of lace over her head until it fell back over the crown of her bonnet.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon took another sip of her tea. “I’ve seen you before, haven’t I? You were at the ex-servicemen’s relief ball. You wore a most remarkable piece of jewelry, if I recall, a bangle in the shape of a snake.”
Opal nodded and silently submitted to the older woman’s scrutiny of her.
“You have a fair enough face and figure. You dress quite fashionably, too. Tell me why you cannot find a husband by your own charms.”
“There is one man I want in particular.”
“Ahhh. Then you’d better sit down and tell me who he is.”
But screw your courage to the sticking place and we will not fail.
Opal applied the words and ignored the fact it had been Lady Macbeth who had spoken those words. She told Mrs. Dove-Lyon his name, then the whole story from the day Peter saved her in the Indian markets to the events of just yesterday.
“And yet he has not made an offer for your hand? Do you know why?”
Opal shook her head and picked up her own cup of tea which had now gone cold.
“I believe I can help you, but my services do not come at a small cost.”
Opal swallowed. “I understand. How much?”
“Two hundred pounds.”
Opal gulped.
“And your beautiful cobra bangle.”
The expensive cup rattled on the saucer. Opal set it down before she dropped it, but she knew every expression on her face was being catalogued. She would not do anything to jeopardize the lady’s help.
“And then?” she asked.
“We will discuss the particulars when you arrive.”
“Does that mean we have an agreement?”
“When you return with the money.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon paused a beat. “I will accept the bangle as a deposit. Bring me a banker’s cheque for the balance. And there is something else you ought to know. You will be required to sign a contract. You will be obliged to do everything I instruct without question or qualm. Do we have an understanding?”
Opal took a deep breath and mustered a confidence she didn’t feel.
“And you will guarantee me the outcome I’ve paid for?”
“Life doesn’t come with guarantees, Miss Jones.”
Chapter Fourteen
“I nearly forgot,” said Evans. “There’s an invitation that arrived today. I left it on the mantel for you.”
Evans put a piece of buttered toast in his mouth as his valet helped him on with his jacket.
Peter found the invitation propped up against a spill vase. It was a heavy card, very expensive.
The attendance of Captain Peter Ravenshaw is required at The Lyon’s Den for a special entertainment which will be to his advantage.
Repondez s’il vous plait no later than Thursday inst. where further instructions will be given regarding the particulars including attire.
An invitation? More like a bloody summons!
“You look like you’ve lost a sovereign and found a sixpence,” his friend observed. “What’s the matter, old boy?”
“This!” he said, holding up the invitation. “My presence is ‘required’ no less.”
“A summons, eh? From whom?”
“Mrs. Dove-Lyon.”
Evans dismissed his valet.
“You should go.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said you should go.”
“Winston, what’s going on? What hold does this woman have on the great and good of London that has them dancing to her tune?”
Evans lowered his voice, although Peter doubted the valet was lurking at the keyhole. “Look, there are things you don’t know about how politics is played in London. Most decisions are not made in Parliament at all. They have been carefully worked out long before we get to the Commons.”
“Let me guess. Many of these decisions are made at The Lyon’s Den?”
“Or at least by people strongly associated with it.”
“And you? Did you know about this?”
Evans looked sheepish. “I’ve been told your attendance is not negotiable.”
The same dread that struck him just before the fateful ambush assailed Peter once more. He would not suffer the same fate twice.
“Then I will attend. But I’ll be doing so with my eyes wide open.” He didn’t miss the look of relief on his friend’s face. “Howe
ver…”
Winston groaned. “How did I know there was going to be a condition?”
“Because you wouldn’t expect me to be otherwise. I want to know who pressed you into demanding my presence and why.”
The relieved expression vanished.
“If I promise to point them out to you at the ball tonight, will you promise not to run them through? I do need to work with these men. Diplomacy, dear chap, if your beleaguered soldier’s brain can comprehend the concept.”
The insult leavened the mood immeasurably. It also gave him something to look forward to at tonight’s ball – apart from seeing Opal, of course.
It had been a long climb out of the abyss he had found himself in. Coming to London had been like waking up from a long sleep. The pace of the city had awakened something in him, making him aware of things he hadn’t seen before.
He was still navigating his way as a gentleman, rather than a soldier – a man on his own merits instead of the conferred authority of rank and the scarlet uniform.
How much of India did Opal miss? Or had she left it in her past? It would appear so, considering how confidently she moved with the fashionable set.
By God, she had become a beautiful woman.
The fact she hadn’t yet wed had taken him by surprise. He was assured now that the bonds between her and the men who were her friends were simply fraternal.
It shouldn’t have surprised him. A girl who grows up around the military grows up around men and quickly learns their measure.
But what had been the reason for two failed seasons and disappointed suitors? Him? More to the point, what did she think of him now that she had declared her feelings unchanged while he had refused to be as frank with her? Why had he done it? Why?
Was it because of his plans for Inglewood Manor? Opal seemed so at home in London. Forty miles away in Berkshire might very well seem like the other side of the world to someone so vivacious. Did he fear she might become unhappy there? Yes. Would it be fair to tie her to that? No…
He reflected on the invitation – the summons – to The Lyon’s Den.
He was told there was no shortage of eligible misses at these affairs. And if he had come to the attention of the formidable Mrs. Dove-Lyon, it occurred to him without conceit that other matchmakers probably had all his particulars identified and catalogued as well.
Truly, the Home Office could do no better than employing these gimlet-eyed social observers to act as intelligence gatherers.
Tonight, he planned to dance with as many women as he possibly could and to chat to as many more. His obsession with Opal was not healthy and unfair to her. Perhaps there was another female who would be better suited to him and his plans for a life as a country squire. He would never know unless he tried.
He was glad he had arrived as guest of Winston Evans. As MP for Berkshire, his name carried a degree of cachet and, as his neighbor, it set Peter’s status in the room.
“Lord Byrn…” Evans nodded toward a tall, impressive figure. “He’s a good man to know. I was pleased to support his bill to fund relief for returned soldiers.”
“Is he the one who pressed you regarding my summons to The Lyon’s Den?”
The man shook his head.
“But he does have a connection there.”
Peter watched as a striking woman in a powder blue gown approached Byrn, the light of the chandeliers causing her remarkable golden lion hair ornament to glint. Even from this distance, he could see the way they looked at one another.
“The woman he’s standing with?”
“That’s his wife. I don’t know the particulars, but Mrs. Dove-Lyon was a singular figure in arranging the match.”
“So. A wife is being chosen for me without my knowledge? Is that what this is about?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then what do you know?”
Evans had by now dropped out of the conversation as he responded to a man who raised his hand in greeting from across the room.
“All I know is you’re on your own, old chap.”
As Evans left, a clutch of young ladies engineered to draw his attention. The boldest of them, a brunette, fluttered her fan and gave him a direct look.
He casually made his way toward them just as Opal and her friends were announced. The temptation to look at her was great, but he ignored it and bowed to the young ladies. Soon, half his dance card was filled.
But even as he was making small talk, he was aware of Opal’s presence as she and her friends moved their way around the room, indirectly heading in his direction. He bade farewell to the group and readied himself to see Opal.
Her gown was a shade of purple that he supposed might be described as deep pink. He saw how the beautiful silk shimmered of its own accord, accented by the gold embroidery under her bust which showed off her fine décolleté.
The same trim also appeared at the hem and swayed as she moved. The color and the quality of the silk could have come from no other place but India. She turned to laugh at a joke someone made, and he saw the sweep of her hair held in place by a gold filigree ornament in the shape of a teardrop. From the creation, three strands of pearls and gold beads extended to her temple where they were fastened with a hairpin decorated with a gold flower with a pearl at its center.
It was another jewel from India but, even so, it couldn’t compare to the jewel who wore it. She was as beautiful as the lotus flower she reminded him of.
“Good evening, Captain.”
To his shame, her husky, wryly amused voice went straight from his ears to his groin.
He took her hand and bowed over it, noting a moment of surprise. Did she expect him to kiss her hand? It would do her a world of good not to make assumptions about him.
“Good evening, Miss Jones.”
He greeted the rest of her friends and accepted an invitation to join the Earl of Harcourt and Viscount Roxbury at Epsom soon for a day at the races. Amber and Veronica accepted dances from him. And here and now, he looked to Opal who glanced down at his nearly full dance card.
“My, I shouldn’t wonder at keeping your bootmaker gainfully employed. Nearly a full dance card? You will have holes in the soles of your shoes before we sit down to supper.”
Peter looked at his card with deliberate attention.
“I take your point, but I still have two dances free, including the first waltz. I can’t imagine you’d possibly be interested in being my partner?”
Interest flared in Opal’s eyes a moment before she schooled her expression and coolly looked at her own dance card.
Peter grinned. This reminded him of how they used to spar as children.
“I am already engaged for the first.”
That was a blow to his ego.
“But I find that I have the last waltz free.”
“I count myself most fortunate, especially if you would consent to being my partner at supper,” he answered, writing her name down on the card – not that he was likely to forget.
“Did you save two of the waltzes for me? Why, imagine the talk, Captain. You know that is simply not done.”
Yes, he knew it. But he wanted to see her reaction. And so far, he had to admit to being outmaneuvered.
Opal had deliberately ensured her dance card wasn’t filled. When she was not dancing, she watched Peter, how much attention he paid to his dance partner, the lithe grace of his movements.
“If I didn’t know any better, puss, I’d say you look like the cat that got the cream,” said Miles Rutherford.
“Not yet,” she said, “but soon.”
“I really wish you would reconsider your plans.”
Opal forced an airy confidence to her voice.
“It’s too late now, the invitation has already been sent.”
The earl winced, making his displeasure known.
“I like your friend, Peter. He’s a top sort. And I can’t think of two people better suited to each other.”
“Then you won’t have a p
roblem helping me with my scheme then.”
“Let me tell you something about the opposite sex, puss. Men like to do the chasing – or at least like to live under the illusion that they do. A man’s ego is large and a lot more fragile than you might imagine. When he discovers you’ve created this contrivance to force him to wed you, is it more likely or less that he will appreciate your efforts?”
The words hit their mark but she ensured they didn’t show, otherwise Rutherford would never let the matter go.
“Do you not think I’ve already considered this?” she asked “I have. I’ve spent more years than not in love with Peter. I know he loves me, too. All he needs is a little nudge in the right direction.”
“Nudge? More like a push – and off a cliff as well!”
“You didn’t have to help me you know. You could have said no.”
“Actually, I did, as I recall.”
She wrinkled her nose in response. “Well, you helped me anyway.”
“You’re a very difficult woman to say ‘no’ to.”
“That’s what I counted on.”
“And so is Mrs. Dove-Lyon.”
Miles raised his glass of lemonade in a toast.
“Here’s to the ever-diminishing membership of the Brothers Bachelor club with our honorary member setting her sights on her man.”
Chapter Fifteen
Peter’s breathing became more rapid and shallow. The green of the forest closed in on him from all sides. He listened to the sound of the bundar – the monkeys – in the trees. He’d come to rely on their cries and screeches to tell him when others were approaching.
He paused, raising his hand. The squad of men behind him stopped. The air around them fell silent. He listened.
His heart pounded faster. He was dreaming – he knew he was dreaming – but once started, the nightmare galloped on like a runaway horse and he was helpless to stop the events to come – except they weren’t to come. They had already been, and the fear seemed worse for it.
He could hear the screams of his men as they were picked off one-by-one by the silent, near invisible assassins.
From the corners of his eyes, he caught a flash of yellow cloth, a ramal, before it wrapped around his neck and tightened. He felt the knot at the front press against his wind pipe, constricting the air.
The Lyon Sleeps Tonight Page 8