Eight Hunting Lyons (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)

Chapter Five

“S top chewing your nails, Harri, and put your gloves back on,” Joanna said. “And please stop fidgeting. Anyone would think you were nervous.”

Harriet dropped her hand to her lap, threw her friend a scowl, and peeked through the curtains of the carriage. The streets of London, on this late February evening, were at their cold and foggy finest.

“I don’t know how this driver knows which way to go,” she said. “I have no idea where we are at all.”

“It’s his job, dearest,” Joanna replied. “Don’t worry, we’ll be there presently.”

No sooner said than the carriage drew to a halt, and moments later the door opened.

“This is it, miss,” the driver said. “The Lyon’s Den, Cleveland Row.”

“I told you so,” Joanna announced with a flourish.

Harriet tugged on her gloves and took a deep breath. “Right. Wish me luck.”

“You won’t need it. And don’t forget your lists.”

“I have them,” Harriet replied, wafting the leather folder at her. “Are you sure you’ll be all right waiting here by your—?”

“I’ll be perfectly fine.” Joanna gave her a dismissive wave and snuggled into her blanket. “Off with you now. I’m sure it doesn’t do to keep the Black Widow waiting.”

Clutching her reticule and folder, Harriet stepped down from the carriage, adjusted her spectacles, and gazed up at the building before her. A few lanterns flickered feebly on what appeared to be shop fronts. Not that she could make out the names, or any other detail, really. As if her eyesight didn’t struggle enough, the shroud of fog, combined with the night, made everything appear gray. In any case, the building was not at all what she’d expected. Certainly nothing outside indicated what went on inside. She took a few steps and then stifled a cry as a shape stepped out of the murk.

A man of impressive height and width loomed up in front of her, a wide-brimmed hat pulled down over his brow. That and the scarf loosely covering his nose and mouth brought to mind a masked highwayman. Harriet clutched her reticule and her portfolio tighter.

“Miss Hurst?” the man asked, his voice muffled.

“Y…yes,” she replied. “I’m Miss Hurst.”

He nodded. “You are expected. Come this way, miss. Guests such as yourself must use the ladies’ entrance.”

Without the man’s guidance, Harriet doubted she’d even have found the front entrance, let alone the one tucked down the side of the building. The door, unmarked, opened to a corridor that led to a flight of stairs.

“Up to the top, turn right, then go as far as you can and turn left,” the man said. “It’s the black door at the end of the hallway. Knock and wait. Do not enter until you are given permission to do so.”

Harriet nodded her understanding and started up the stairs. The air within smelled vaguely of perfume and tobacco, with perhaps a hint of cuisine as well. Not enough to provoke a sneezing attack, fortunately. The faint sound of piano music drifted from some unidentifiable direction. But apart from those vague, tantalizing hints at human presence, there was no sign of life.

Her feet sank into lush carpet as she followed the directions, her way dimly lit by candlelight. She came to the black door at last and, with only a slight hesitation, knocked and waited as instructed. Several long moments later, the permission came.

“Enter.”

Harriet drew breath, pulled her shoulders back, and opened the door to an opulent world of red and gold. She squinted at one of the portraits on the wall, averting her eyes as soon as she realized that the lady depicted wore a diaphanous robe that left little to the imagination.

The veiled lady seated behind the enormous desk could surely be no other than the notorious Bessie Dove-Lyon. Her black taffeta robe rustled as she half rose from her throne-like chair.

“Miss Hurst, welcome to the Lyon’s Den.” The lady gestured to a chair. “Please, have a seat. Would you care for a drink? Tea, perhaps? Or something a little stronger?”

“Neither, but thank you.” Harriet sank into the chair, willing the slight tickle in her nose to stop. The woman’s perfume was subtle, fortunately. “I appreciate you agreeing to see me, ma’am.”

“My pleasure.” She sat down again. “I remember meeting your parents at a society function some years ago.”

Harriet blinked. “Really?”

She inclined her head. “You would have been but a child at the time. I recall Lord and Lady Hurst as being a charming couple who appeared to be very much in love.”

The remark caught Harriet off guard. “They adored each other,” she said, blinking a telltale prickle away from her eyes. “Mama was never the same after Papa died. She passed not quite a year after he did. I miss them every day.”

“I’m sure you do.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s voice softened. “You recently lost your brother as well, I heard. A hunting accident, correct?”

“Yes.” Harriet’s lip quivered, and she lifted her chin. “It seems you know much about me, Mrs. Dove-Lyon.”

“I make it my business to learn about those who cross this threshold, Miss Hurst. What I have yet to learn is what has brought you to my establishment this evening, though I suspect it is not a desire to gamble.”

“No, it isn’t. Actually, I’m in search of a husband.” That doesn’t sound right. “I mean, I haven’t lost a husband. I’m simply hoping to find a suitable match for myself. Or rather, I’ve been told that you might find a match for me. That you have a talent for such things.”

“I have had some success but make no guarantees. What is your story, Miss Hurst?”

Her brows lifted. “My story?”

“Yes. You must have one, or you would not be here. Have you been compromised in some way?”

The Black Widow’s forthrightness sent a blush to Harriet’s cheeks. “Oh, no, nothing like that,” she replied. “It is simply that I’m still unwed and time is…well, um, I would dearly like to have a family, and I’m not getting any younger.”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon appeared to scrutinize her. “You are gently bred and not without means, Miss Hurst. I find it difficult, therefore, to understand why you remain unwed.”

“I believe I can explain.” Harriet straightened her spectacles. “First of all, I do not possess the kind of face that turns heads. As well, my sight is impaired, which seems to affect my balance. I become dizzy if I turn suddenly. In addition, I have an aversion to perfume or any strong scent. It makes me sneeze. Dancing, as I’m sure you can imagine, is not something I enjoy, since sneezing and toppling over in the middle of a quadrille does not a good impression make. So in order to avoid embarrassment, I tend to stay away from the dance floor. Also…”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon tilted her head slightly. “Also?”

“I confess I have expectations when it comes to the kind of husband I seek. I am not a particularly docile woman, Mrs. Dove-Lyon. I have a brain, and I like to use it.”

Harriet thought she saw a smile behind the veil. “There are men who enjoy the company of intelligent women, Miss Hurst.”

“Yes, I know.” Harriet released a sigh. “But I have yet to meet a decent one who wants to marry me. Do you think you can help?”

“I’m sure I can,” she replied. “It would be useful to know what kind of husband you hope to find. Is a title important to you, for example?”

Harriet repeated, more or less, what she had described to Joanna. “My friend thinks I am asking too much,” she said finally. “Do you agree with her?”

“I confess, it might prove to be a bit of a challenge,” the lady replied. “But I already have one or two possibilities in mind. I notice you have a folder with you. Was there something you wanted to show me?”

“Oh, goodness, yes, I almost forgot!” Harriet handed the folder over. “I took the liberty of creating these, which might help to narrow down the choices, assuming there’ll be more than one. I hope you don’t think me presumptuous.”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon removed one of the lists and perused it. “It is unorthodox, I must admit,” she said, sounding somewhat amused. “I’m not sure how this approach might be received by potential matches. Please allow me to use my judgment in that regard, Miss Hurst.”

“Of course, though I don’t believe I’m asking too much. It’s just a few basic questions, after all.” Harriet fussed with an earbob. “I’m not foolish enough to expect a love match, Mrs. Dove-Lyon, but I would hope to at least have a partner with whom I might share some mutual interests.”

“That is always advantageous, certainly,” the lady replied. “Then again, my dear, they do say opposites attract.”

Harriet shook her head. “I have integrity and morals and expect any husband of mine to have them as well.”

The veiled chin lifted slightly. “Which prompts me to ask why you’ve entered a gaming house with the intent of finding a man to father your children.”

Heat rose up Harriet’s throat. “If you think the candlelit ballrooms and fashionable parlors of London are exempt from deceit and dishonor, Mrs. Dove-Lyon, I can assure you they are not. There’s many a devil hiding behind a mask of gentility. I have been told you choose well and wisely for your clients. I trust you to choose well and wisely for me.”

“I shall endeavor to do so,” the woman replied, sounding amused once again, “but not without compensation.”

“Oh yes, of course.” Harriet pulled a banknote from her reticule and handed it over. “I believe this will cover your expenses.”

“It will indeed.” The lady rose to her feet, prompting Harriet to do the same. “I’ll be in touch when I have news for you, Miss Hurst. Please be sure to leave the same way you came in.”

Harriet nodded her understanding. “Thank you. I shall look forward to hearing from you.”

After stepping out into the hallway, Harriet paused to take a breath. There. You’ve done it, Harriet. You’ve all but put yourself up for auction. Mama would be horrified. Papa would likely be amused. And Oliver would be…

What would he be? He would think her mad, insist she was putting herself in harm’s way. And she would disagree. She had nothing to fear, after all. There was no obligation. She didn’t have to accept any potential suitors. She only hoped Mrs. Dove-Lyon would find someone who would meet most, if not all, of the requirements, none of which were unreasonable. Certainly, the lady hadn’t voiced any real doubts.

Absorbed in thought, Harriet set off along the dimly lit corridor, her mind going over what had been said during the meeting. She hadn’t really known what to expect, but things had gone smoothly enough. Mrs. Dove-Lyon had been very gracious and seemed confident that she would find a suitable match. Anticipation bubbled up inside. It was just a matter of waiting, which would not be easy.

Speaking of waiting…

She thought of Joanna shivering in the carriage and hurried her step. Where was the stairwell? Had she passed it? She slowed as the sounds of voices and laughter could be heard nearby. This wasn’t right. She’d noticed no such noises on the way in. She halted and looked back along the corridor, which looked decidedly unfamiliar. “Harriet, you goose,” she muttered. Obviously she’d sailed past the stairwell and ended up somewhere in the heart of the building.

A muffled roar of men’s laughter startled Harriet into a mild panic. Her business at London’s most notorious gambling house had been concluded. She now needed to leave this place, and the sooner, the better. She picked up her skirts and all but ran back along the corridor. She didn’t see the man till she made the turn and cannoned into him full force, which was not unlike colliding with a stone statue. The impact almost knocked her off her feet, and she clutched at his coat to stop herself from toppling over backward.

“Good lord, madam, what’s the hurry?” the statue said, his irritation evident. “Is the building on fire?”

“I do beg your pardon.” She let go of the statue’s coat and set her crooked spectacles to rights. He smelled vaguely of citrus and spice, a nice combination that posed no threat to her nose. “I wasn’t watching where I was going, and I…”

Her voice died beneath a wave of utter shock as her gaze settled on the man’s face. A familiar face. A face she hadn’t seen since the summer of 1800. The year came instantly and easily to her. Though she’d been but a child at the time, she had never forgotten it. Nor would she ever forget it. The subsequent span of fifteen years had, of course, matured his features, but she’d have known him anywhere. There’d been a time when he’d had full tenancy of her young mind.

Rent free.

“Edward,” she whispered, the name falling unbidden from her lips.

Frowning, he stared at her for a moment, showing no sign of recognition. “Do I know you?” he asked at last, his frown deepening. “If so, I’m afraid I can’t place you. Please enlighten me.”

His voice had matured as well yet still possessed the confident, arrogant tone she remembered. Something knotted beneath Harriet’s ribs. Disappointment, perhaps, that he didn’t remember her the way she remembered him. But then, why would he? He’d never taken much notice of her.

The image from fifteen years ago, tucked away in her memory, no longer applied. The boy was now fully a man, tall and broad-shouldered, his hair still as black as night and groomed to near perfection. He stared at her through the same gray eyes, their expression unreadable in the shadows.

Then her nose twitched as it encountered a whiff of floral scent. Someone was with him, she realized. A woman who looped her arm through Edward’s in a blatantly possessive manner. Though her overall appearance suggested she was a fixture of the Lyon’s Den, she was, nonetheless, undeniably beautiful. The sapphire blue of her dress contrasted well with her hair, which was as dark as Edward’s and artfully arranged. A single large pearl, dangling from a fine gold chain, graced the small indentation at the base of her throat. Beneath that, her neckline plunged scandalously low, exposing generous cleavage. Harriet wondered, vaguely, if Edward had purchased the pearl as a gift, and immediately tossed the thought aside. So what if he did?

“My name is Harriet Hurst,” she said, silently cursing the itch in her nose and the damnable heat that now arose in her cheeks. “You attended Harrow with my brother, Oliver, and once stayed with us in Cheshire when your father was ill.”

Edward blinked, and the frown disappeared. Yet he said nothing, only continued to stare. Despite his apparent confusion, a slight air of arrogance emanated from him, familiar, irritating, and oddly magnetic.

Harriet fidgeted. “Perhaps you don’t remember us,” she continued. Me, especially . “It has been fifteen years, after all.” She realized her error immediately, that being the telltale certainty of her reply, and endeavored to correct herself. “Or was it sixteen? Actually, I’m not quite sure. And please accept my apologies for the familiarity of my initial address, my lord. It’s just that your name came to mind when first I saw…um, when I realized who you were. I mean, who you are .”

Pull yourself together, Harriet!

“The summer of 1800, Huxley Manor.” Still staring at her, he said it softly, as if conjuring up the memory. “Yes, of course. I remember it very well, actually. I was sorry to hear of Oliver’s death.”

Then why did you not come to his funeral? Why did you not even send your condolences?

“I miss him greatly,” she replied. “He was taken too soon.”

“Indeed.” The frown returned as he glanced about. “And I’m curious to know why his little sister is frequenting the Lyon’s Den.”

Little sister?

The remark, which seemed to imply he still saw her as a child, set Harriet’s befuddled wits firmly on their feet. “I do not frequent the Lyon’s Den, my lord,” she said, her nose now twitching like a rabbit’s as it tussled with the woman’s flowery perfume. Oh no . Do not. Please, do not.

A corner of Edward’s mouth lifted. “Yet here you are, which begs the question why that might be.”

Harriet firmed her chin. “With respect, my lord, it is, ah…ah…” Her eyes watered, and a gloved hand flew to cover her mouth. “Ahchoo! Excuse me. With respect, it is none of your business.”

“You are excused,” he said impassively, straightening his shoulders. “And you are also quite correct. Your reason for being here is, indeed, none of my business. Please forgive my impertinence. It has been a pleasure to see you again, Miss Hurst. I bid you a good evening.”

He gave a cursory bow and moved past her, taking his female companion with him.

“What a strange, little mouse,” the woman said, her voice purposely loud enough, Harriet suspected, to be overheard.

Edward gave a short response of some sort, but Harriet didn’t catch it. Her cheeks flared anew, this time with irritation. “My lord?” she called.

He paused and turned. “Miss Hurst?”

Harriet squared herself to face him fully. “May I ask why the Viscount Eskdale is frequenting the Lyon’s Den?”

Edward’s brows lifted, and his female companion released a soft gasp.

“Well, since you ask,” he replied. “I enjoy fine wine, I enjoy gambling, and I enjoy sharing mutual pleasures with beautiful women. The Lyon’s Den provides all these things in abundance, but you may already be aware of that.” He inclined his head. “I trust that answers your question, Miss Hurst.”

His companion smirked and moved closer to him.

Harriet had steeled herself against what she knew would be an indelicate response. Thus prepared, she held Edward’s gaze and conjured up a sympathetic smile. “It does, but I consider it a pity, my lord. I was but a child when I first knew you and undoubtedly na?ve, but you made an impression on me. A good impression, as it happens. I remember believing you were bound to do great things. So it is disappointing, even after all these years, to learn I was mistaken.”

At first, he said nothing, and Harriet couldn’t quite make out his expression, but she heard him draw a breath. “Yet here you are, Miss Hurst, wandering the same disreputable hallways as myself,” he said, his voice menacingly quiet. “And I at least answered your question. But then, I have nothing to hide. You may also be surprised to learn that your dismal opinion of my lifestyle is of no account to me. Once again, I bid you a good evening.” He graced her with another bow and went on his way, his escort releasing an audible giggle.

There had been few times in Harriet’s life where her actions had birthed instant regret. This was such a time. She felt like she’d been punched. What, by all the saints, had possessed her to behave in such an unrefined manner? Where had it come from? To display such condemnation toward someone she had not seen for years made no sense, especially since what she felt for him was quite the opposite. She took a step, meaning to go after him and apologize, but he’d already gone. Trembling and close to tears, she wandered back along the corridor, stunned by her own discourtesy.

One thing seemed clear. Despite the passing of the years, Edward’s ability to unravel her wits had not waned. And her childish infatuation had not disappeared. It had evolved into some kind of impossible desire. At the core of her, she still wanted someone she should not want, someone she could never have.

God, help me.

It had been June of 1800 when Oliver had arrived on the doorstep of Huxley Manor with a friend from school.

Edward Alexander Fortescue, the fifteen-year-old son of Viscount Eskdale, was an unexpected visitor. The reason for his visit was due to the viscount’s sudden and grave illness, which was feared to be contagious. Edward, being the only direct heir, was advised to stay away for his own safety.

He was made welcome at Huxley. And Harriet, at the tender age of ten years, was introduced to her first—and only—infatuation with someone of the opposite sex. It proved to be an unsettling experience. She didn’t like the butterflies that arose in her stomach whenever he was near. And she hated how she blushed whenever he gave her a mere glance. Or, more rarely, acknowledged her with a word.

At the time, fifteen-year-old Edward seemed much older to Harriet’s young mind. Not a boy at all but a man, as arrogant as he was charming. He didn’t have a twinkle in his dark eyes—he had a constant devilish gleam—and possessed a careless knack for mocking propriety. He simultaneously fascinated and irritated her.

He haunted her dreams, night and day.

Busy with their pursuits of summer, the boys paid her little mind. They wanted nothing to do with an awkward ten-year-old girl who couldn’t see anything without her spectacles.

Her infatuation with Edward had remained a guarded secret, one she had shared with no one, then or since.

He’d stayed at Huxley for a little over six weeks before he’d learned that death had handed him a title. Within the space of an hour, he’d gone, summoned back to the family seat. He’d never returned to school. And he’d never returned to Huxley.

Harriet had heard about him over the years. His devilish ways—outrageous rather than malicious—had resulted in a less than stellar reputation. The Fallen Angel of Mayfair, they called him.

Then had come the scandal, the marriage, and the tragedy.

She’d last thought of him at Oliver’s funeral. Given the friendship the two men had once shared, she’d expected him to be there. Or, at least, secretly hoped he would be. But he’d never come. There had been no contact at all, in fact. Not even a letter of condolence. Her utopian opinion of him, carefully preserved for so long, had deteriorated somewhat at that point. In her mind, he’d drifted out of reach.

She’d assumed he’d vacated her heart as well.

Obviously not.

“Well?” Joanna demanded as Harriet clambered back into the carriage. “How did it go? Did you come to an arrangement?”

Harriet settled herself, and the carriage moved off. “I think it went well,” she replied, smiling over the turmoil in her head. “Mrs. Dove-Lyon was very gracious.”

“What did she think about your list of questions?”

“Um, she said she would consider using them.”

“And that’s it?”

“For now, yes. I just have to wait.” Harriet fiddled with the catch on her reticule. “She said she already had a couple of likely candidates in mind.”

Joanna’s brows lifted. “Goodness, that’s encouraging.”

“I think so too.”

Conversation ceased, the only sounds being the clip of the horses’ hooves and the rattle of wheels over the cobbles.

Then Joanna spoke. “What’s wrong, Harriet?”

“Nothing.” Her smile returned but wavered a little. “It all went well.”

Joanna tut-tutted. “You really are a hopeless liar, dearest. You’re upset about something, I can tell. Did someone in that snake pit proposition you? Or bother you in some way?”

Harriet gave her head a firm shake. “Goodness, no, nothing like that.”

“What, then? Tell me.”

Harriet adjusted her spectacles. “It’s nothing of concern, really.”

Joanna heaved a sigh. “Did you know that you fiddle with your spectacles whenever you’re nervous or hiding something? Come on. I’m waiting.”

Harriet echoed Joanna’s sigh. “I bumped into someone I knew,” she said, “and it gave me a bit of a shock, that’s all.”

“Who?” Joanna asked. “Anyone I know?”

“I’m not sure if you know him, but you’ve probably heard of him. His name is Edward Fortescue, better known as Lord Eskdale.”

Joanna gasped. “The viscount? Oh my goodness, I had no idea you knew him. He has quite the reputation. Rumor has it he drove his poor wife to suicide.”

“I’ve heard the stories too, though I’m not sure I believe them,” Harriet said. “And I wouldn’t say I knew him exactly. I remember him as being somewhat arrogant. Perhaps a little devilish in his ways as well but not harmful. Certainly not evil.”

“Well, he certainly seems to have left an impression on you. I assume you spoke with him?”

“We exchanged a few words, yes. Nothing of note.” An image of the woman arose in Harriet’s mind. “He was with someone. A lady.”

“Ah, I see.” Joanna appeared to mull. “Were you introduced?”

“No.”

“Then she was no lady.”

Harriet shrugged. “It is of no consequence. He didn’t even remember me.”

Joanna cocked her head. “How did you meet? Originally, I mean.”

“He was a friend of Oliver’s,” Harriet replied and told Joanna the story. “So you see, it’s hardly surprising he didn’t remember me,” she said finally. “It all happened a long time ago. I haven’t seen him since, and after tonight I’ll probably never see him again.”