The Lyon's Den in Winter: The Lyon's Den

by Whitney Blake

  —

  Papa was at the door by the time the light had changed. Viola untangled herself from Duncan, who grumbled, and padded over to unlock the door at the soft knock. She lingered near the threshold, hit with misgiving.

  Then a very familiar voice said, “It’s me.”

  There was no need to worry about either her or Duncan being in a state of undress. Neither had bothered removing much clothing in the pursuit of gratification. She’d little idea such a thing could be accomplished, but Duncan had proven that it could happen.

  Shaking her head, she banished the very thought, lest it be read in her eyes.

  She was relieved to see Papa, yet much like she had the night they’d visited Mrs. Dove-Lyon, she found it difficult to look him in the eyes. “Before you think I am ashamed of having been compromised, I must say I am simply furious,” she said. And it would have been silly to be embarrassed at being seen in this tawdry room with her fiancé—Papa had sent them there, after all.

  He nodded and glanced at Duncan, who was sitting upright at the foot of the bed. “You did better than I expected, my lad. Are you sure you haven’t some tricksters in your lineage?”

  “You wouldn’t have sent him if you thought he would be foiled,” said Viola, tolerating none of Papa’s usual, covert jibes. There was so much she did not know about Duncan but refused to let the thought paralyze her. She glared at her father. “What now, Papa?”

  “I went to a magistrate and—”

  “A magistrate?” Her eyebrows rose. “Are you not nervous you shall be implicated? The infamous Silver Tongue of Whitehall?”

  Papa went paler in the weak light.

  She was not surprised that Duncan remained quiet. It was her fight, not his, and it was not so much a fight as it was a reckoning. She accepted that everyone had secrets and things they did not wish to tell. It still stung that she was not privy to Papa’s.

  “I deserve that,” said Papa.

  “You do,” said Viola. “You should have told me everything.”

  “When?” Papa asked.

  “Any time!”

  Papa’s voice rose. “I didn’t know how, or when… or indeed, what good it would have done. Men will do awful things no matter what precautions are taken.” He brushed her look of skepticism aside. “The magistrate has sent officers to watch our home—one a Runner, though they don’t like to be called that—so returning should not pose a threat to you.”

  There was more he left unsaid. She could tell. Viola searched his expression.

  “What else have you done?”

  “What use is a past if I cannot use it to keep you safe?” His smile was tired and brittle. She would have felt pity for him, had it not been her future and their closeness at stake.

  While Duncan seemed to trust him, she was unsure how she could.

  I hope that trust comes back. She knew he’d done what he thought was best, and perhaps he did not wish for her to live in terror at every shadow. Nonetheless, the way he’d kept her from seeing, from knowing, was a dear price to pay for the illusion of safety.

  She could not begin to imagine how tense he must have been and still was, fearing that, one day, she might be leveraged against him.

  It is a wonder he let me outside at all. The thought struck her with almost physical force. It did say much about his character that he’d allowed her such freedoms. He could have smothered her with protection. Instead, he allowed her to be very much her own person.

  “That is not an answer, Papa.”

  “It is the only one you shall get for now.”

  She looked at the pistol on the mantel, then her father. “Are we safe?”

  “As safe as I can manage for now.”

  It was another non-answer.

  Duncan said, defusing her mingled dismay and anger with his gentle words, “If we leave soon, am I correct in saying the matter won’t follow us north? I’ve already sent word home that I shall be late in returning, so they’ll be expecting us at some point. Not today or tomorrow, of course.”

  There was not much he could not defuse, she decided, if he spoke that way forever.

  She looked from Papa to him, waiting for the prior to confirm.

  “You should leave London,” Papa said, raking a hand through his hair. “I’d say marry here, then go. But Bessie was on to something with Gretna Green. If you journey away, I shan’t let you be impeded.”

  Even when they bundled into a carriage headed home to Cheapside, Viola still had few solid answers and a bevy of questions about what, exactly, her father had gotten himself into.

  —

  “I have to know they’re dealt with.” Malcolm scowled. He’d seen quite enough of Bessie’s private parlor in the last month. Although it did look festive, he couldn’t be bothered with Christmas, or Hogmanay, either. Hang the lot. “The one who calls himself Mr. Barney, at any rate.”

  He and Viola had not spoken much since he’d gone to fetch her and Duncan from Berwick Street. She could not ignore him entirely, seeing as they still lived under the same roof. A few times, she talked of Everett, and less of the henchman who’d secreted her away.

  He’d gleaned enough over the week to know the lout’s working name, though.

  “I would make some quip about coming back to me with your tail between your legs, but things are far too serious for that.” Bessie shook her head and another dratted veil rippled. It was very slightly less opaque than the others she’d worn of late. “I am not normally in the business of assassination, you realize.”

  “Who said anything about assassination? Can you not just pay someone to lock him up indefinitely in your basement? Starvation is not assassination, is it?”

  “I cannot court fate with such a nefarious doing,” said Bessie. “Even for you.”

  “You’d have no hand in it.”

  His light air did not conceal the fact that he was seething. Bessie would know that.

  But to deal with any of these reprobates, Malcolm knew he needed to proceed with caution. Barney could perhaps be collateral damage.

  Someone like Everett would not see him as so valuable, which meant he could feasibly disappear.

  Everett, meanwhile, was more like Malcolm. He’d carved a niche in society. It would be harder to make him pay on a personal level. They would have to go to the law, and Viola would be key to the proceedings. Be that as it may, Malcolm wanted her to be as out of reach for Everett as possible when those proceedings happened.

  Giving advice on things that were not, strictly speaking, legal was wholly different from revenge. But Malcolm and Duncan both wanted vengeance.

  It had been Duncan who fully explained to him what Everett wanted to do—marry Viola, then make Malcolm a puppet.

  In a way, he was almost proud of the physician. Didn’t think he’d have the teeth. There had to be more to the lad than he was saying. Appearances often hid truths.

  Perhaps I should lock Everett or Barney in a room with Duncan for an hour and come back when he is finished. Forget the law.

  “I know that tone in your voice,” said Bessie.

  “You don’t know the first thing about me,” he said, with a smirk.

  “Would it please you to know that Mrs. Saxon, the darling housekeeper who allowed Dr. Neilson into the house in which Viola was kept, has provided me with a thorough schedule? I have a rough understanding of where Everett shall be for the next fortnight. Possibly longer than that, if he is a man of habit.” She sat back in her chair. “Naturally, I can make no promises that he will not change it… but I do also have his club.”

  “He’s been outfoxed,” said Malcolm, “and while I expect that he is incredibly angry, he is not the sort to lash out. Besides, you trust this housekeeper?”

  “Yes, I employed her here for quite some time before realizing she had a knack for being eyes and ears.”

  Malcolm accepted that. Bessie would not say such a thing lightly.

  “But as for your Mr. Barney…”

  �
�What about him?”

  It appeared that Bessie, with all her panache and ability for orchestrating, had been waiting for an appropriate moment to do something. She twitched her fingers in the direction of the doorway—still hung with mistletoe, though no berries were missing, noted Malcolm with distaste for the entire practice of mistletoe—and two of her strapping wolves who manned the downstairs doors jostled their way into sight.

  A burly man was wedged between them. He looked most put out by his circumstances.

  “This one,” said Bessie, “seems to call himself such.”

  “Is this the soul who kidnapped my daughter? Bessie, you shouldn’t have.”

  “It is, indeed. He is not one of my illustrious regulars, but when one comes into my den moaning about a ‘little bitch’ who used a fire iron to disable him and run away, I do take notice. For one thing, I hate it when men use such slurs. Consider it chance—I hardly exerted myself.”

  Malcolm rose and went to him. He was a sorry-looking person of about five and twenty. His face showed signs of a recent beating.

  “Did Everett do this to you?” Malcolm said, soft and conspiratorial.

  Barney seemed disarmed by the tone, if not fully taken in by its honeyed notes. “I shouldn’t have let her get away. He was right to do it. He’s not normally a violent man.”

  “You shouldn’t have opened your mouth here,” said Bessie. “Has your master taught you nothing about discretion? It’s a wonder he’s a successful blackmailer at all.”

  Malcolm looked him in the eyes. “I think, in a while, you shall wish I was Everett.”

  “You don’t fucking scare me.” Barney squirmed against the wolves’ hold. They did not budge.

  “Happy Christmas, Mal,” said Bessie. “Do try not to stain the carpet.”

  Malcolm started to smile, both at her words and Barney’s conviction. “Oh, I’m sure I will scare you. Soon enough.”

  The defiance in Barney’s eyes ebbed into misgiving, giving Malcolm no small amount of satisfaction. He had many things to atone for, he knew, but he would not consider this to be one of them.

  Chapter Eight

  January 1815

  St. Monans

  “I suppose if you’re not near a university, there’s no need to worry about men coming to dig you up,” said Constance, as though they were not walking to her mother and brother’s resting place. “Is that not right, Papa?”

  Viola glanced at Duncan to see how he would react. Constance never actively tried to be flippant or hurtful.

  But she was often frank, as Viola had learned in the last fortnight or so.

  It was endearing, bracing, and probably much like encountering a younger version of herself. She would have to ask Papa when she was in a better humor with him. Though, Constance looked very much like her own father, especially around the eyes, which gave no illusions as to whom she was related. Duncan told Viola that he actually had not taken Constance to see the grave for several years, so she imagined that Constance was excited to visit it once more.

  She seemed filled with boisterous energy. It was actually sweet, in Viola’s opinion.

  Constance, he was certain—even more so, now that he had presented her with his fiancée and Constance was overjoyed at the development—could handle almost anything. Viola had to agree.

  “You little beast,” he said, with no bite. “I wish you wouldn’t dwell on that subject.”

  “It’s fascinating,” said Constance. She was visibly unruffled by his words. Viola looked away from her for fear she would laugh.

  Wisely choosing to navigate away from that line of thought without making much of avoiding it, Duncan said, “Well, I never thought your mama would want to be buried there. This is where she was born, and it’s where we met. Leaving aside the possibility of… ah… any possible… ghouls. I assure you the reasoning was purely sentimental. Why should she and your brother be anywhere else?”

  Viola felt as though she was intruding a little. She suspected she might feel like an interloper until she and Duncan were married. No, even then, she worried that she might struggle to bond with Constance… who had shown her nothing but affection. All Viola could do was proceed, because she knew it was only a fear in her mind and no one else’s. Her recent experiences had made her skittish of trust and trusting. She was sure of it.

  Hopefully, her misgivings would only linger for a little while.

  The misadventure with Everett had changed Papa. She thought it was for the better. He seemed more relaxed, quicker to laugh, and less prone to long silences. He also got on well with Constance, much to Viola’s amusement. Not that she told him so.

  All he said about Everett was that he was being monitored.

  Barney merited no particular mention at all, which raised the hair on the back of Viola’s neck.

  Papa had come to stay after Duncan invited him. This was in anticipation of their wedding, which would be incredibly small. Uncle Jax would attend, as would Papa, and Duncan’s father would come down, too. She expected that Duncan’s closest friend, Watson, would come up from London. He knew the short version of their tale, of course, but she looked forward to meeting him properly.

  And I haven’t many friends at all who would want to be present at a wedding. Some would make the journey, however. Wee Sue, supposedly, was going to help her with the flowers.

  Luckily, for she did not know if she could negotiate between Duncan’s grief and Papa walking on eggshells around her, Papa was not accompanying them on this present jaunt to St. Monans. He’d remained behind. She’d told him not to burn down Duncan’s house while they were away, to which he’d replied there needn’t be worry over that—just for Duncan’s stores of libations, which had been largely untouched for most of Constance’s lifetime.

  Papa insisted that they should still marry however they saw fit. It was Duncan who now wanted church proceedings. She looked at her surroundings and thought what a pity it was that they had not planned on making them occur here.

  God, she thought, or at least any of his priests and vicars, probably disapproved of their interim living arrangements. She and Duncan didn’t see the point in not sharing a bed. Since they’d already done everything pleasurable there was to do in one, it was silly to pretend they hadn’t just for propriety’s sake.

  Neither was a good enough actor, anyway. They would stand no chance of deceiving anyone who saw them. She found that niceties and rules were more relaxed compared to London. But like anywhere else, it fully depended upon where one was.

  “It’s beautiful here,” said Constance, “though I see how one might have wished to leave and explore somewhere larger.” She fell happily silent and looked around the graves. The church was so near the sea that the water could be seen from almost all directions.

  Duncan shook his head, eyes full of fatherly affection despite the way he rolled them.

  He still clutched the small notes he’d kept folded in his hand. Viola had not read them, though she’d encouraged him to leave them. He said he felt churlish admitting that, although he would not have wanted Constance’s younger brother alive at the expense of Annie, losing Annie was not the keen cut that some imagined it to be.

  Viola was of the opinion that such feelings could not be straightforward or simple. They made him no less of an honorable person in her eyes.

  It made some sense to her that Duncan would have conflicting reactions. His melancholy was also related to the guilt he felt about not grieving as deeply as he believed he should.

  Rather than justify himself to her, for she did not believe it was necessary and she did not think he was doing anything wrong, she told him to write letters. One for Annie, and one for his son.

  Some might call it ritualistic. But Viola was half-convinced that the words would reach their intended recipients. At the very least, she hoped the exercise would help Duncan feel better. She still did not think she was in competition with a dead woman, but she was in some competition with how Duncan regarded himse
lf. He needed to do something to absolve his own shame.

  If not for her, then for himself.

  Duncan had stopped before a grave. She watched him, unable to read the letters on the stone until she came closer. “Is this it?”

  “Yes.”

  Constance went to the stone and touched it with her ungloved hand. “It’s weathered a little, I think. I don’t really recall properly, though perhaps I should.” She ran her finger along the surface, tracing some of the letters.

  Viola said to Duncan, “Do you wish me to give you some privacy?”

  Instead of replying, he took her hand. She squeezed it.

  Constance looked back and smiled at them. “I do try to be very rational, you know, even if I like ghost stories. But I think it feels happy here.”

  Viola thought she knew what Constance meant. “It does.” It was a cold day, and overcast, but something about being in this very spot at this exact time did seem cheerful. She hoped that was not just wishful thinking, and that the woman buried in the ground near her feet did not think she was a spiteful little sprite.

  If, of course, the dead could think poorly of the living. While she believed in the hereafter, its rules and mechanics were not something she brooded upon much.

  Displaying a rare moment of tact, Constance wisely slipped a few feet from them, giving her father the luxury of space. He left one of the notes at the headstone’s base. It rested in dirt, protected slightly by a small, natural dip in the earth.

  Viola watched him as his hand curled around the second. It must have been for the child.

  “Duncan?”

  The paper crumpled.

  She took his second hand in hers and gently unclenched the cold fingers. He was not wearing his gloves. “Duncan, it’s all right.” She took the note herself when she was sure he would not take offense.

  He brought the back of her hand to his lips and kissed it. “I think it will be,” he said.

  “Shall I… leave it for him?”

  Duncan went almost cross-eyed when he looked at her hand. Letting it down gently, he said, “No, I believe I should.”