Loved by the Lyon
The Lyon’s Den Connected World
COLLETTE CAMERON®
Sweet-to-Spicy Timeless Romance®
© Copyright 2020 by Collette Cameron
Text by Collette Cameron
Cover by Wicked Smart Designs
Dragonblade Publishing, Inc. is an imprint of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc.
P.O. Box 7968
La Verne CA 91750
[email protected]
Produced in the United States of America
First Edition November 2020
Kindle Edition
Reproduction of any kind except where it pertains to short quotes in relation to advertising or promotion is strictly prohibited.
All Rights Reserved.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
License Notes:
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook, once purchased, may not be re-sold. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it or borrow it, or it was not purchased for you and given as a gift for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. If this book was purchased on an unauthorized platform, then it is a pirated and/or unauthorized copy and violators will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. Do not purchase or accept pirated copies. Thank you for respecting the author’s hard work. For subsidiary rights, contact Dragonblade Publishing, Inc.
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Dearest Reader;
Thank you for your support of a small press. At Dragonblade Publishing, we strive to bring you the highest quality Historical Romance from the some of the best authors in the business. Without your support, there is no ‘us’, so we sincerely hope you adore these stories and find some new favorite authors along the way.
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CEO, Dragonblade Publishing
Additional Dragonblade books by Author Collette Cameron
Heart of a Scot Series
To Love a Highland Laird
To Redeem a Highland Rogue
To Seduce a Highland Scoundrel
To Woo a Highland Warrior
To Enchant a Highland Earl
To Defy a Highland Duke
To Marry a Highland Marauder
To Bargain with a Highland Buccaneer
A Christmas Kiss for the Highlander
The Lyon’s Den Connected World
Loved by the Lyon
Other Lyon’s Den Books
Into the Lyon’s Den by Jade Lee
The Scandalous Lyon by Maggi Andersen
Fed to the Lyon by Mary Lancaster
The Lyon’s Lady Love by Alexa Aston
The Lyon’s Laird by Hildie McQueen
The Lyon Sleeps Tonight by Elizabeth Ellen Carter
A Lyon in Her Bed by Amanda Mariel
Fall of the Lyon by Chasity Bowlin
Lyon’s Prey by Anna St. Claire
Dedication
For Tito.
Thank you for seventeen incredible years, full of laughter, joy, giggles, and so much dachshund love. Tito Tot, you adored your stuffy toys, fathered ten puppies, and loved your humans with fierce loyalty and faithfulness.
Tito Mosquito, you can see and hear again, frolic, play, and wag your tail, pain-free.
I will miss you forever—until I see you in heaven, Little Tito Man.
I also dedicate this book to every pet owner who has lost a beloved pet. We always know the time will come when we have to say goodbye to our precious fur babies, but we’re never ready for the separation.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Publisher’s Note
Additional Dragonblade books by Author Collette Cameron
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Epilogue
About the Author
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
My colossal thanks to Kathryn Le Veque and Dragonblade Publishing for inviting me to participate in the Lyon’s Den World. It has been so much fun and such an honor to be included with such a prestigious author line-up.
I must also give a shout-out to Darlene Albert for LOVED BY THE LYON’S incredible cover and my editor Amelia Hester for her expertise. As always, my reader group, Collette’s Chéris, came through for me with the names for Romulus and Remus. And they agreed, Kingston’s horse should be named after Tito—the little runt of his litter dachshund who always thought he was much, much larger than he was.
Finally, I want to thank all of the other authors who contributed to the Lyon’s Den world. It’s been a magical adventure.
Chapter One
London, England
Late Evening, March 1816
Sitting in the finely appointed carriage, Vanessa Becket nervously bit her thumbnail. A habit she’d long-since eschewed. Or so she’d believed until she’d set herself on this daring—utterly-mad-I-must-be-out-of-my-mind—course.
Wiggling her feet to ease a bit of her tension, she surveyed the distinctive blue building poised at the end of Cleveland Row. Flanked on either side by ordinary structures, nothing in its exterior hinted at the wicked nature of what transpired inside.
As she gathered her courage to exit her conveyance and enter said building, several riders and a variety of vehicles passed the nondescript structure. To her heightened senses, their horses’ hooves clacked inordinately loud on the rain dampened pavement.
Her heartbeat—an irregular staccato behind her ribcage—whooshed inordinately loud in her ears. A shiver skittered up her spine despite the unseasonably warm spring evening. She swallowed hard against the lump that had formed in her throat.
I can do this. I must.
For who else would if she didn’t?
She had no one to defend her, to act as her champion, to demand recompense from the man who had wronged her.
Not anymore.
She was a woman alone in an unkind and often unforgiving world.
A pair of skinny cats slinked across the street, mangy ears pointed backward and raggedy tails downward. Leery and alert, they disappeared between two sturdy brick structures.
Vanessa rather knew how they felt.
Wary and watchful.
Her attention gravitated back to the structure that commandeered her interest. The front entrance swung open, admitting two approaching gentlemen attired in the first stare of fashion. At almost that precise moment, a pair of women, heads down and covered from top to toe with dark cloaks, glided toward what Vanessa had learned was the infamous establishment’s ladies’ side entrance.
Of its own accord, her upper lip curled a jot. Not quite a scornful sneer but a mark of her marked contempt, nonetheless.
So bloody typical and gallingly hypo
critical.
Men needn’t hide their vices the way women must. Males could parade their immoralities and depravities about proudly, but if a woman’s indiscretions became known, she was ruined.
Just as you’ll be, Vanessa Euphemia Samantha Becket, if you’re caught this night.
True, but her rapscallion stepbrother, Owen Elligon, was in there—the swine.
With my jewelry.
Just as he’d been the past fortnight. Mayhap longer.
Vanessa had only taken to following him these past two weeks, and this was the eighth time he’d visited the Lyon’s Den in that interval. Most convenient that every time a piece of her jewelry had gone missing, he toddled into this gaming hell at the end of Cleveland Row.
Rotten bugger.
Vanessa clamped her teeth together as a wave of renewed wrath gripped her. She lowered her hand to her lap and grasped a handful of her cloak’s black satin. Squeezing. Squeezing.
Owen had gone too deuced far this time, however.
Entering her house—her bedchamber!—and stealing her jewels right out from under her nose was bad enough. She itched to slap his face or box his ears. Or punch him straight in his bulbous nose. If she’d been a man, she’d have called him out long ago. The very first time he’d touched her inappropriately and made his vulgar suggestions.
She shivered again, earning her a concerned look from her stern-faced maid.
The sapphire brooch Owen had absconded with while she’d been out this morning was the final straw. Damn the spawn of Satan’s black soul.
Foolish, foolish, naive girl, she berated herself. Believing Owen wouldn’t discover her new hiding place—a faux book in the library. It was as if he’d known precisely where to look.
That suspicion troubled her no small amount.
The brooch had been her first-and-twentieth birthday gift from Mama and was her most treasured possession. The unique piece of jewelry had been handed down from mother to eldest daughter for over a century. Each mother had shared the legend of the sapphire brooch with her daughter, too. And each woman had worn the treasured piece on their wedding day.
Vanessa allowed her eyelids to drift close as she recalled Mama’s kind, lyrical voice.
“Nessa, my darling. If an unwed man shows the brooch to a single woman and she asks to try it on at once, she’s a foolish choice for a bride. But, if she permits him to offer to let her try it on, then she’s a wise choice, and he should marry her.”
Vanessa scrunched her nose as she opened her eyes.
Shouldn’t it be the other way around, since the women of the family had possession of the brooch?
It made no difference. Vanessa didn’t believe in such stuff and nonsense.
Still, the brooch was a priceless family heirloom, and without a morsel of remorse, Owen had stolen her heritage. Truth be told, the dishonest cur had been stealing, first from his father and then from her family, for as long as she could recall. And acted as if it was his due to help himself to whatever he wished when he wished.
She’d already contacted the constable and reported the other jewels stolen. Without compunction, she’d named Owen the suspected thief. The dratted, spindly investigator she’d met with had dared to chuckle at Vanessa, pooh-poohing her complaint. Treating her like an overwrought female in the midst of histrionics.
As if she’d ever resort to such theatrics.
All superfluous condescension, Mr. Wesley Dobkin had even ventured to inquire if she was positive she hadn’t misplaced the baubles.
Baubles worth several hundred pounds.
Nonetheless, at Vanessa’s insistence, Mr. Dobkin had withdrawn a smallish, worn, black leather book from the pocket of his badly wrinkled coat, along with a stubby pencil in need of sharpening and had begun jotting down notes.
That had been three weeks ago. And not a confounded word yet as to his progress. In truth, Vanessa doubted Dobkin was even investigating Owen. Or perchance, Owen had bribed the man not to. It wasn’t above her stepbrother, and she’d learned very few people turned away a generous bribe.
Right and wrong, decency and corruption, integrity and immorality, seemed melded, transient things when one might gain a coin or two.
Vanessa was reasonably confident the twig of a man assigned to her case had only been humoring her, for he claimed she had no proof that Owen was the thief.
Proof!
Who else would have trespassed so brazenly?
A servant?
Until now, she’d have sworn her well-paid staff was loyal and devoted to her.
They were. Vanessa was positive.
Well, she had been until today.
No, Owen was the culprit. Some inner instinct shouted that truth. His past behavior all but condemned him.
He’d likely sold everything of value in the townhouse he’d inherited when his father had died five years ago. In all probability, if the whispers she’d heard were true, the scapegrace had also mortgaged the place to the hilt. Which was why he wanted to take up residence with her, no doubt. Not only to avoid the debt collectors but because his property might very well be sold out from under him.
Resolve engulfed Vanessa, and she notched her chin up an inch. She might be alone in the world, but she wasn’t a helpless, hapless female in need of rescuing. Nor a bird-wit to be taken advantage of or exploited.
By God, she meant to see the brooch returned to her. When she once more had the jewel in her possession, she’d have Owen arrested for thievery. She mightn’t have aristocratic blood running through her veins as he did, but she was acquainted with and had found favor with several titled ladies and lords.
Combined with her status as an heiress, she wasn’t without influence.
Upon her arrival on Cleveland Row several minutes ago, Vanessa had discreetly pulled the royal blue velvet window covering aside—just enough to afford her an unobstructed view of the building she meant to enter this night. A deceptively benign façade that hid every manner of vice and sin.
Squinting the merest bit, she confessed to a sense of disappointment. She’d expected such a disreputable gaming hell would sport a bright ruby door at the very least—something to pronounce the place as the devil’s playground.
Another man boldly strode up and rapped his cane’s silver handle upon the unpretentious entry. He was promptly admitted by a giant of a man, who looked up and down the street before shutting the door.
The notorious Lyon’s Den.
Owned and operated by the equally notorious Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon—The Black Widow of Whitehall.
How in God’s holy name did one acquire such an appalling moniker?
Didn’t black widows kill their mates?
A little shudder raised Vanessa’s nape hairs.
Surely she didn’t honestly wish to know how the Widow of Whitehall had earned her unflattering title.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon was a matchmaker extraordinaire, providing services to only the most elite clients–according to the twitchy cook’s helper Vanessa had bribed information from these past weeks. Or rather, her footman had bribed the girl on Vanessa’s behalf.
Eyeing her dubiously from across the carriage, that same footman, Leroy Gaines, sat beside his betrothed, who was also Vanessa’s lady’s maid and chaperone, Daisy Struthers.
“This is the height of folly, Miss,” the large, well-muscled man grumbled for at least the sixth time. Serving the family for ten years, he leaned forward a fraction as if to impart the urgency of his words. “Once you’re inside, I cannot keep you safe. Should I try to enter the Lyon’s Den, I’ll be tossed out on my backside. They only cater to rich nobs, gentry, and aristocrats.”
He made the pronouncement with such authority and conviction, Vanessa couldn’t help but wonder if he’d previously tried to gain admittance and been turned away. Or had he actually been tossed on his backside, as he had so eloquently put it?
Gaines was right, of course. All manner of things might go wrong, and if she were of a more timorous nature, she’
d order the coach home. But she wasn’t a timid mouse. Never mind that her knees practically knocked together in apprehension, and her pulse fluttered so fast, it felt like a thousand winged insects zipped along her veins.
“Douse the carriage lights,” Vanessa murmured, determinedly turning her attention back to the multi-story building. Having no wish to be identified, she’d walk from here. Gaines and Daisy trailing her at a discreet distance, of course.
Her midnight blue coach was sure to draw attention if she were to alight directly in front of the gaming hell. In point of fact, though parked almost a full street away and under cover of darkness, someone might recognize the unique conveyance.
Vanessa really ought to have listened to Gaines and hired a hackney. But previous experience had taught her hackney drivers couldn’t always be relied upon to remain and wait as directed. That first night she’d followed Owen, she and Daisy had disembarked the hackney to peek inside the Den’s windows. Their bounder of a driver had taken another fare and disappeared into the night, despite her promise of a generous tip if he waited for her.
Besides, what if Vanessa needed to make a swift escape? Yes, having her coach nearby was the wisest course of action.
Leroy snuffed the lamps, and at once, the inside of the vehicle grew dark. However, Vanessa experienced no fear. She’d never been afraid of the dark. Fine, she was a trifle uneasy, but not from the shadows gyrating against the buildings or flitting eerily across the lane.
Gas lamps cast luminous halos along the street, though the farthest reaches remained dark and slightly ominous.
Her heart pulsed a frantic rhythm at her intention to brazenly enter an establishment of such ill-repute and retrieve her priceless heirloom.
Pray God, she wasn’t too late.
Every female ancestor for over one hundred years had worn the brooch on her wedding day. If Vanessa couldn’t retrieve it…
But wasn’t that the point?
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