Fed to the Lyon

by Lancaster, Mary

  “It’s not as if I was much use in your fight.” She glanced back at him. “Is that how you knew I wasn’t a boy?”

  “No. I suspected when you walked into me.”

  “And that was why you saved me from Harrington? Because I was a girl?”

  “No, I would probably have done that anyway, though I confess I watched you and you intrigued me. And then your courage impressed me. Still, it was none of my business, and I wouldn’t have sought you out again. Only you were in Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s sitting room, and then there was the robbery.”

  He didn’t tell her his initial suspicions, but he thought she probably guessed. She met his gaze. “Did she throw us together?”

  Something about her—her honesty, perhaps?—tugged at unaccustomed feelings. “I don’t know. It’s one of the things I mean to ask her.”

  “It’s what she does, isn’t it?” Diana blurted. “Women pay her for matches, and she compels men into them with wagers or whatever.”

  He nodded. “Mostly. Though it’s not really compulsion. Men who wager with her know what they are getting into.”

  “Have you wagered with her?”

  “Not in that way. Only—” He broke off, almost angry that they had covered the distance so quickly and that the horses were already pulling up outside the blue-painted house in Cleveland Row.

  “I want you to know,” she said in a rush, “that you are compelled to nothing. No one saw me as more than a scruffy boy in your company, and I will never say that we were alone together. She gave me a right of veto, and I’ll use it.”

  Before he could even respond, she threw open the carriage door, jumped down without the step, and ran up to the front door. Cursing under his breath, he followed her, curtly ordering his coachman to wait.

  As he strode into the house, a man known only as Egeus was saying bitterly, “Well, you’ve got a damned nerve showing your face here after what you did!”

  “What did I do?” she asked, more bewildered than startled, which told him a great deal about the terrible couple of days which must have turned her inside out.

  “Stole from her nibs and ran away!”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Bill snapped. “The boy helped me catch the thieves and retrieve what they stole. Where is Mrs. Dove-Lyon?”

  “I’m here.” The Black Widow of Whitehall stood in the middle of the empty hall, still fully dressed and veiled in her usual black, even though her guests must have all departed for the night. “Di, a word. My lord, be so good as to wait upon me in the morning.”

  He couldn’t help the breath of sardonic laughter that hissed between his teeth. He supposed it was the novelty that kept him coming back here. Nowhere else in the world would he be dismissed so cavalierly, and certainly not by the manager of a gaming hell. However, he didn’t choose to accept.

  “I shall,” he agreed, “in return for one moment of your time now.”

  Although she had turned her back to him, he saw her hesitate, infinitesimally. Then, perhaps fearing he would blurt something out in front of her staff or whoever might still lurk in the public rooms, she swung back to face him.

  “One,” she said impatiently.

  He strolled up to meet her. “The boy,” he said deliberately, “did nothing wrong from any point of view. It was I who let him come, and he who retrieved your money. All else we will discuss tomorrow. Madam.” He bowed to her and held out his hand to Diana. He wasn’t sure why—for her strength or his? Because she was unforgivably alone in the Lyon’s Den, and he could see nothing for it but to leave her there. For tonight at least. “Good night, Di. It was a good lark.”

  The wary glint in her eyes drowned in a beautiful smile that caught at his breath. The evening’s adventure was their secret, theirs alone, and he valued that far too much. She took his hand in a manly grip, although her skin was so soft, he knew an urge to kiss it.

  “It was, sir,” she agreed. “Good night.”

  Their hands parted, and he strolled back to the front door, smothering an ostentatious yawn. But his step was jaunty as he left. He looked forward to tomorrow.

  It seemed Diana was growing used to shocks. To be accused of the theft was just the most recent. But as she followed Mrs. Dove-Lyon into her office, she began to realize the damage such a belief would do. The widow would wash her hands of her and her mother, tear up the contract and leave her ruined and her family disgraced.

  Only Bill—Lord Garvie—would know the truth.

  “Close the door,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon instructed from the desk, where she stood with her back to the room.

  Diana obeyed, and the woman swung on her with a hint of desperation. “What the devil did you think you were doing?”

  Diana stared at her. “You are welcome,” she said, taking the roll of money from her pocket and walking forward to drop it on the desk. “It isn’t all there, but it was all the thieves had.”

  A fascinated expression entered Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s eyes. “How do you know how much was there?”

  “My mother gave you more than that.”

  Mrs. Dove-Lyon smiled faintly. “That is true. But I have contracted other business since then. That was not your mother’s fee, which is safely stowed away elsewhere. Is that why you went after the thieves?”

  “Mostly,” Diana replied, incurably honest. “And because I didn’t want you to be robbed. Also…when Bi—Lord Garvie—ran after them, it seemed…fun.”

  “And now?”

  Diana met her gaze. “Now I feel foolish and manipulated.”

  Mrs. Dove-Lyon let out a short, harsh laugh. “My dear, you will be the death of me. You were not manipulated at all.”

  “Then…you were not conducting some game of your own?”

  “Of course, I was. But you were not meant to play, at least not beyond being impressed by his lordship’s courage in going after the thieves. He was not meant to catch them, and you were most certainly not meant to go with him! You are a very odd young lady. And you draw trouble like a magnet.”

  “I suppose that is true,” Diana allowed. She sat in the chair by the tidy desk and sighed.

  “I take it,” the widow said, “that you are not hurt?”

  “I was more hurt by the strings on that wretched harp.”

  “I think you know what I mean,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said steadily.

  Clearly, the widow knew Bill had guessed her sex. “You don’t need to force him to marry me if that’s what you mean,” Diana retorted. “He behaved like a perfect gentleman.”

  The widow relaxed, walking across the room to sit in a more comfortable chair. “Then you have changed your mind about him? You seem to be friends.”

  Diana couldn’t help her smile, although it faded quickly enough. “You cannot force him to marry me.”

  “Is that a statement of fact, or are you using your veto? Your one veto.”

  Diana stared at her. The idea of being married to Bill was not repellant. Far from it. In fact, if she had to choose between him and Simon, she would pick him. Which said even more about her fickleness than she had confided to Bill. In truth, she was not yet ready to be married to anyone, but she had removed that choice from herself when she had swilled brandy with the princess’s abandoned court and staggered home alone.

  Bill was the easiest, most charming way out for her and her family. For a moment, she imagined laughing with him, going off on many, varied adventures with him, kissing those firm, expressive lips…

  She blinked. Yes, all that might be fun. But he was a friend now, and he had saved her life. She would not have him compelled.

  “I veto him.”

  “Think carefully,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon warned. “I allowed you only one. If you don’t take his lordship, you must take my next choice.”

  “And who is that?” she asked, suddenly depressed.

  “I haven’t decided. But this must be done tomorrow evening. Don’t waste your veto if you are not sure.”

  “But I am sure,” she said tiredly. “I have not yet lost
all my principles. May I go to bed now?”

  “Of course.”

  As she fell at last into the comfortable bed, she felt lost. And as she drifted into slumber, she actually smiled at the memory of running down dark alleys, hand in hand with Bill.

  Entering the Lyon’s Den just before midday, Bill was conscious of a little too much excitement. He was calling in on his way to a meeting with an important member of the Cabinet, but it wasn’t the possibilities of those discussions that most agitated his mind and body. He wanted to see Diana again.

  However, there was no sign of her as he followed Egeus across the wide hall to the widow’s office.

  She sat at her desk, busily writing, although she had the courtesy to glance up as soon as he was announced and wave her hand graciously to the chair opposite. By the time he reached it, she had set her pen in the stand and shoved the document into her drawer.

  “My lord,” she greeted him icily. “What on earth were you thinking of?”

  He lifted one eyebrow. “In connection with…?”

  “You know exactly to what I refer.”

  “Why did I take a member of your staff away from his duties?” he asked. “Or why did I take a young lady of gentle birth out of a gaming hell and into a thieves’ den?”

  The veil twitched. “Both.”

  “Madam, I may attend your establishment on occasion—with great pleasure, I assure you—but I don’t recall granting you any control over my movements.”

  “That child is in my care!” she snapped.

  “Then, forgive me, you’re making pretty shoddy work of it. In truth, I took her for curiosity, because very little happens in this place without a reason. But don’t disturb yourself, ma’am, you won’t lose your fee for her. More than that, it seems you have won your wager with me. I’ll marry the girl.”

  Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s face was unreadable as she sat back in her chair, regarding him in silence for several moments.

  Their wager stemmed from last week and a light-hearted conversation between them and several of his friends about marriage.

  “What about you, Garvie?” his old friend Brooke drawled. “Did you not come all the way to London in search of a bride?”

  “No, I believe I came to renew my acquaintance with you fellows,” Bill replied. “Though I can’t now remember why.”

  “You’ll have to marry one day,” someone else chipped in. “Need an heir to your vast earldom.”

  “Of mountains, bogs, and sheep,” Brooke interjected.

  “As you both say,” Bill agreed tranquilly. “Except I do have an heir—my cousin.”

  “Meaning, you’ll never marry?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon marveled.

  Bill shrugged. “I expect so, in time. But I am not ready yet for a wife. I have other things I wish to do first.”

  “With that attitude, I don’t believe anyone would ever marry.” She regarded him assessingly. “You are young, strong, and handsome, with a noble lineage and a wealthy estate. Any number of caps must have been set at you.”

  “Meaning I could have my pick?” he asked distastefully. “Thank you, I shall marry on my own terms and on my own time. Or perhaps not at all,” he finished.

  She sat back, still watching him, he was sure, behind that veil. “Why, my lord, that sounds just a little like a challenge. You simply need to meet the right young lady, and all your plans and calculations will fly out of the window. In fact, I’ll wager you now that you will be married—or at least engaged—before a month is up.”

  “You would lose,” he said, amused.

  But the book was brought out, and he saw no harm in letting her enter the wager in the ledger. He knew she would lose.

  And yet, here he was, offering to marry Diana Wade on the strength of one bizarre evening.

  “Actually, you won’t,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said at last, with just a shade of regret. “She has vetoed you.”

  Bill blinked. Behind surprise and a hint of irritation was some deeper emotion he refused to think about. Instead, he concentrated on the widow. “You really did give her the right of veto?”

  “I am not a monster. As for our wager, I still have until the end of the month to win.”

  “You’ve won,” he said impatiently. “I don’t need your permission to marry her.”

  “No, but you do need hers.”

  Bill frowned. “I will get it. She is being chivalrous because she imagines I am being compelled.”

  The widow shrugged. “Aren’t you? By your own chivalry, if nothing else.”

  Was he? Perhaps. But if so, he shouldn’t be so annoyed by Diana’s veto.

  “In any case, it doesn’t matter,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said. “Her veto stands. She will marry another.”

  “Who?” he demanded, annoyed. “What if she doesn’t like him?”

  A breath of laughter moved the gauze of her black veil. “What has that to say to anything? She likes you, and where did that get her? If I don’t see you again, I shall understand. But I do hope you’ll give me a chance to win our wager.”

  He regarded her thoughtfully. Inside, he seethed. “I won’t take that veto lying down.”

  “I hope not. Good afternoon, my lord.”

  After an instant, Bill let out a short laugh and rose to his feet. “Good afternoon, ma’am.”

  She likes you. He had hidden the effect of the widow’s words on him, but they had only intensified his determination to see Diana before he left. Emerging from the office, he looked around for a friendly servant to carry a message. A figure in black silk with a gold embroidered coat and a familiar powdered wig beckoned to him from the door of the lounge.

  His heart seemed to surge as he walked down the hall, trying not to hurry too obviously.

  Diana seemed to have no such pretense. She actually caught him by the sleeve, hauled him into the empty room, and closed the door.

  “You don’t need to worry,” she said in a rush. “I have vetoed you as she allowed, and you are off the hook.”

  “With unseemly haste, it would appear. Good morning.”

  She blinked, and color seeped into her cheeks. “Good morning, of course. I thought you would want to know.”

  He regarded her thoughtfully. “I’m beginning to know how you must feel, thrust into this situation, without any say, let alone control, over the matter.”

  Her eyes widened. “Does she have some hold over you?”

  “Lord, no, but she imagines she does. So do you, apparently.”

  She frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, Mrs. Dove-Lyon doesn’t much care what I want. You seem to imagine you know what I want. And neither of you will give me a say.”

  “But, of course, you have a say,” she protested. “I have assured that.”

  “You vetoed me as your husband.”

  “From gratitude,” she assured him anxiously.

  He sat down on the harp stool and idly plucked one of the strings. “Very well. Now that I am free to speak, I ask you for the honor of becoming my wife.”

  “Don’t,” she pleaded.

  “Don’t offer you marriage?” he said, strumming gently with one hand. “Why not? Would it not solve everything?”

  “Not for you!” She swung away from him, muttering, “Or me.”

  He stilled his hands. “I like being with you. I was coxcomb enough to imagine you liked my company, too.”

  “It was fun,” she said. She drew in her breath audibly. “But it doesn’t matter.”

  “In what world doesn’t it matter?”

  She waved her hand in an all-encompassing gesture. “This world. The Lyon’s Den. And in polite society where I am ruined.”

  “I have offered you a way out of that,” he reminded her.

  “And that is why I cannot accept you.”

  “Di. Come here.”

  Reluctantly, she turned and took a few steps nearer. He rose from the stool and took her hand. She allowed it.

  “You don’t know me very well,” he said gently, “b
ut I believe we have the beginnings of a friendship. Is that not the basis for something more? For marriage?”

  She swallowed. “Perhaps. If you did not feel compelled.”

  “I’m not compelled,” he pointed out again. “You vetoed me.”

  Her gaze fluttered up to his and away. “Still, you would not offer for me had last night not happened. I won’t…” She lifted her chin. “I won’t allow it, Bill.”

  “Because we aren’t yet well acquainted? Life is taking chances, Diana. And…forgive me—have you considered the alternative?”

  “Yes.” There was a rather touching, conscious bravery in her eyes. “I may not like it, but it will be better than hurting a friend.”

  “If I am that friend, I shall only be hurt by your refusal.”

  She smiled. “No, you won’t. I do thank you for trying to help me, Bill, but this sorry mess is of my making, and I must sort it out.”

  He frowned, anger rising with frustration at her stubbornness. “By marrying some stranger you neither like nor respect? Don’t we have a better chance than that?”

  He caught the pain in her eyes before she closed them. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “And neither do you.”

  “Diana.” Impulsively, meaning only to comfort, he dragged her hand to his lips and kissed her palm. The scent, the taste of her skin, suddenly filled his senses, arousing all the desire he had fought last night as they hid behind the broken door. And for an instant, he was sure her fingers clung to his mouth.

  Then she tugged free and all but ran from the room, leaving the door open as she hurried across the hall to the stairs.

  Chapter Six

  Although a lot of money changed hands in the Lyon’s Den—the majority in her direction—Bess Dove-Lyon was not a wealthy woman. The vast majority of her earnings went to the upkeep of her establishment and on her late husband’s tremendous debts, which she was still paying off after more years than she cared to remember.

  To keep the clients coming back, she had to maintain the best standards of food and wine, and preserve the luxurious furnishings in every public room. She also had to ensure fair play at all her tables and in the less traditional games, which made the Den so unique. None of these things, least of all her small army of excellent staff, came cheaply.