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

Chapter One

London 1814

Miss Charlotta Walcot,

It has come to my attention that several Seasons have passed without you securing a husband when presented with the chance. And you call yourself a loving daughter. This cannot be borne. If you do not marry by Season’s end, I shall expose the seedy side of your father’s past, thereby damaging his reputation—and yours by proxy—condemning you both to a life of destitution and despair.

Take time to digest my letter, but do not tarry long. You can anticipate another missive each week that passes without news of your betrothal in The Morning Post . If you care for your father as much as you say you do and wish to prevent a scandal from darkening his door, especially when his work on the Rosetta Stone is made public, heed my words. Meanwhile, speak of this to no one, especially your cousins, the Misses Steeres. I am confident you do not wish to jeopardize their standing in Society.

I am watching. I am determined. Pray, do not doubt my intentions or dismiss this note as a mere threat. For if you do, you will experience misery and ruin the likes of which you have never known.

Let the games begin.

Anon

Miss Charlotta “Lottie” Walcot closed the note and tucked it back inside her reticule, cinching the ribbon tight. There’d been no need to re-read the threatening letter. She’d memorized each word by heart after being shaken and cast down for weeks. Oh, why had she behaved so impulsively? “I should not be here. I should not have come.” She worried the edge of her kid gloves, another round of disgust and shame overwhelming her senses.

But she had come to Whitehall’s notorious gambling hell, the Lyon’s Den, a place no self-respecting woman ventured into of her own volition. It was a den of iniquity. No one had forced her hand. How could she preserve her virtue now? The ton —unsympathetic wardens of Society—ruled the peerage and upper class, but people who frequented the Black Widow of Whitehall’s lair dared not bother about the natural order of things.

Lottie might be the only exception. Opinion and virtue meant everything to her, as her aunt had made sure she’d been taught proper decorum. Why, even a simpleton could comprehend this whole affair did not bode well. And so, she trembled with sinking anguish as a door shut behind her, the startling thwack threatening the tight rein of her self-control.

“Oh!” Spinning on her heel, she faced the anteroom door, behind which lay Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon’s private office. The center of the spider’s web.

Above her, she heard male and female laughter. Then footsteps. Floorboards creaking. And—she fanned herself, her mind running amok with apprehension and dread—were bedsprings creating that ruckus?

Her heart skipped a beat, and she bit her lower lip to keep from revealing her distress. Dear God, what if I am discovered by someone other than the widow and owner, Mrs. Dove-Lyon? What if my campaign to help save Papa is misunderstood? What then?

Fear sprinted through her, heightening her anxiety to a maddening pitch but, adhering to decorum, she inhaled deeply and refused to allow her emotions to govern her mind. Even so, a racehorse’s hooves could not pound any louder than her heart did in her ears at this moment.

Tales she’d heard about the Lyon’s Den troubled her, increasing her apprehension. The gambling hell catered to corrupt clientele, employing folk from every echelon of London. She’d been told wounded veterans served as its gatekeepers—a saving grace for men who’d returned from war, unable to find work. Ladies , a term she used loosely to describe the women who found employment here, were probably no different, she supposed, fleeing abuse or the poor house. At this very moment, they prepared for the evening’s recreation, entertaining winners and losers and making sure clients returned with additional blunt in hand. Card dealers sharpened their skills to prevent players from outfoxing the abacas woman in her cage.

Great heavens! Lottie had dressed simply in a wool frock to avoid being identified, but her posture and disdain for the place made it abundantly clear that she did not belong—nor did she desire to.

But what if she failed in her endeavors? What if someone recognized her, negating all she’d striven so hard to achieve? Though she longed for the freedom to come and go at will, as a young woman, her experiences had been limited to Cambridge and her aunt’s personal requests. Nothing had prepared her for this... mortification.

And yet she had come.

The deed was done. She could not fail now.

Forcing a swallow, she adjusted the brim of her hat to reorient herself to her purpose. Prim and proper routine stimulated self-confidence, methods which had helped her bluster her way out of numerous muddles before. Surely a visit to a gambling den under cover of darkness could do no more harm than the note inhabiting her reticule.

But that was just it! The missive in her reticule was calamitous. Have I erred in my thinking? Perhaps in attempting to halt Papa’s blackmailer, I’ve condemned myself to a life of shameful misfortune. Why, I know nothing at all about a pleasure house or how to avoid discovery!

Little good her misgivings did her now. She’d decided on this course—seeking the madam’s help, come what may—praying the news never reached well-connected gossipmongers’ ears.

She sighed nervously. Perhaps more weight needed to be given her intelligence, rather than her frazzled nerves. Papa had taught her shrewdness ruled the day. And her beloved father, though rooted in historically important work and raising her to be clever, had provided her with an education afforded few females. Strutting off to the ends of the earth—in this case, Whitehall—was the least she could do to protect his honor, even if it came at the expense of her own reputation.

Particularly because Papa was all she had in this world. He needed her, and she wasn’t keen on marrying because of it. Even more obstructive, the men she’d met refused to understand or accept a scholarly woman’s intellect, preferring a silky tongue, a toss of curls, and beauty to an interesting conversation.

Only one man had surpassed Papa’s greatness in her eyes. But that introduction and first lesson of love had happened so long ago, it did her no favors to preoccupy her mind with stolen chances.

When had she become so jaded? Never mind that marriage simply didn’t appeal. She had grander aspirations than bending the knee to a man. When would women come to understand their lives had meaning with or without the marriage bed?

That was a falsehood, according to her aunt, Lady Mary Steere. A woman’s true power came into being when she yielded her heart to another and nourished her body and soul with unwavering support for a lover’s welfare. Only, how was Lottie to know? Lord Everard Walcot, fifth Viscount Steere—her father’s brother—and Lady Mary had been the only true examples of happily wedded bliss she’d personally witnessed.

Her mother had died during childbirth, and her father had, in his own words, “ lost all desire to love again. ” He’d never remarried, proving his love for her mother had been so profound and unyielding that he refused to invest his emotions in another woman. Lottie knew him to be completely preoccupied with research and archeology. Therefore, she’d never questioned her lot. Instead, she’d skillfully mastered the art of splitting her time between her father, her aunt and uncle, and her three adorable cousins, without dwelling on the past.

She bit her bottom lip. Well, that wasn’t necessarily true. An experience had followed her from childhood, a love lost, and the lingering effects of that relationship had the power to blacken her mood like salt on a fresh wound, a tide of longing and regret plucking at her spirit.

She tugged the lace edging along the leather at her wrist, speechless, suffering, and shaken. Oh, what a sad and perilous situation she’d been forced into. She would be shunned by Society if caught! Anticipation of her unknown future chaffed like the old wool that adorned her, prickling her skin like a thousand barbs.

Simply put, Lottie was in a bind, caught and duly trapped. There was no help to be had for it. With nowhere else to turn, she’d decided to gamble on the one place she’d heard miracles could be found, even in the midst of sordid circumstances—the Lyon’s Den.

Truthfully, it was unlike her to be careless. Rules were in place to control the masses and prevent hysteria. Nothing good ever came from breaking societal guidelines. Rules must be followed if one desired to live without scorn in Society. Etiquette preserved civilization, the upper classes. Although males dominated her known world—a world where women learned to embroider cushions, dance, smile, tease, marry, manage households, birth, and raise children, never truly owning anything of consequence, while men traveled and discovered and performed acts of daring-do—she committed to recasting herself in her mother’s mold. At least the one Papa had fashioned for her, that of a compassionate, considerate, and candid lady, who put her child’s well-being ahead of her own.

To that end, Lottie had chosen to remain unwed. She’d been denied a mother’s love, and she had no inkling what it took to bear and raise a child. Children deserved a mother’s unwavering attention. An awareness she did not know how to supply. And sorry to say, she did not intend to sit idly by while discoveries were made and inventions astonished crowds. A good mind should not be wasted. Thanks to her father’s guidance, the cornerstones of knowledge had already gripped her hard and fast. She was meant for incredible adventures, needed to enhance her mind with images and encounters that defied convention. But she could not break away while danger dogged her footsteps.

She glanced around the anteroom, trying to develop a mental image of the widow Dove-Lyon in her mind. What she’d previously imagined appalled her—an uneducated, dull, tawdry life draining the unfortunate female dry. For what other reason would a woman run a den of iniquity?

Raucous laughter burst from the hallway, making Lottie flinch. Suddenly vulnerable and helpless, she moved through the anteroom into the widow’s office. There, she was astounded to find an enormous nutcracker dominating the decor. Bookshelves filled with ledgers lined the wall behind a neat, orderly desk, and a clock gonged the hour, reminding her time waited for no one and how imperative it was that her mission succeeded before anyone suspected her presence.

She tapped her foot nervously—no, impatiently—peering intently at the elegant teacart stationed near a large mahogany desk. A pink rose-patterned teapot and porcelainware lined the cart. Dishes were filled with fresh-baked cakes, biscuits, and sweet-smelling tarts, aromas that dueled with the scent of cigar smoke hugging the furniture and walls. This space, she was sure, had once been a man’s habitat, undoubtedly Colonel Sandstrom Lyons, the widow’s late husband.

Yes, she’d done due diligence in discovering everything there was to know about the Black Widow of Whitehall before she arrived. This meeting was risky enough, and preparation was the key to success.

Was becoming a madam and running a brothel the only opportunity left for a widow? Lottie braced the chill that swept through her, mentally renewing her vow never to marry. Better to tackle life head-on than cope with hopeless poverty. Though, as she inspected the room, she could see that Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon wanted for nothing other than respect.

A riptide tugged at her feet, panic swelling inside her as her lungs refused to fill with air. The longer she remained, the more substantial the risk to her being, her soul. At four and twenty, it had taken all her cunning and stealth to seek out Mrs. Dove-Lyon, the renowned Whitehall matchmaker.

Let no one mistake her purpose, however. She hadn’t come to enlist the woman’s notorious matchmaking skills. Heavens no! She’d come for another type of backing, which might or might not gain the widow’s assistance. For one, the Black Widow did not know her or Papa. Another strike against her? She had nothing to offer in exchange for what she was about to ask. Still, desperate as she was, she clung to the belief that nothing was impossible if you continued to believe in miracles. And she needed a big one.

She’d do almost anything to save Papa, including abandoning her principles and marrying a man she didn’t love if the opportunity availed itself.

More bedsprings jiggled, the squeaking creaks and human moans unsettling her mood.

She cringed.

She glanced at the mantel clock, its timely beat dwindling her expectations. She silently vowed not to lose hope, and instead, to continue to dream of a life where knowledge and advantages were shared by man and woman alike. Blast Society and its dictates. A life where Papa achieves greatness.

Was that an impossible dream? Too much to hope for?

She steered clear of the window and paced the room. Someone out there watched and waited, threatening to ruin her father’s life. Their livelihoods. Oh, to be her own woman, to break free of her reliance on others! To walk the streets of Town without the fripperies and demands on her sex. To come and go at will, to investigate her own case. Perhaps then—

Her heart sank as the illusory possibilities weighted her shoulders. Members of her sex weren’t trained for subterfuge, and the reality smarted, vexing her to no end, giving way to greater alarm. If Mrs. Dove-Lyon refused to help her—what then? Papa would lose his professorship at Cambridge and all credibility with the British Museum. His good name, his deeds, his contributions at Hadrian’s Villa, and connection to the discovery of Lansdowne’s Herakles, would be forever tainted, and all who’d studied under him, shamed.

And what of her future? After five fruitless Seasons, she couldn’t dodge disgrace. Not when she’d already refused numerous proposals. Plainly speaking, she had yet to meet her match and did not expect to in the foreseeable future. She’d accepted that as fact, and somehow the loss grieved her less and less as the years wore on. Why marry when she never intended to have children? Men needed heirs, according to Society and Fordyce’s Sermons , which had much to say on the topic, ad nauseum.

She was constantly reminded by her aunt and uncle that she needed a protector. And to his credit, Papa never failed to intervene with assurances that finding and losing love was far worse than never acquiring it.

“She is still young,” he said.

“There is still time to experience life.”

“And if you’ve truly felt slighted by five failed Seasons, I could enlist the aid of the Black Widow of Whitehall. Her endeavors are said to produce successful matches for clients, young and old, destitute and wealthy. But I was under the impression you prefer not to marry, Charlotta. Though,” he’d continued while adjusting his spectacles over the bridge of his nose, “I have been told the widow has connections in every area of Society—including former sailors and militiamen who track down runaways or couples who dash off to places unknown like Gretna Green. At worst case, should you desire it, we could take my friend’s advice and seek her help.”

“I would never!”

Her stomach knotted, twisting cruelly as she waited to meet the madam face-to-face. Mrs. Dove-Lyon controlled every aspect of the gaming hell, a place that attracted folk and manipulated them into gambling and drinking and risking every farthing. How many wealthy, bright-eyed men had come here only to skulk away, penniless and devoid of dignity?

She harrumphed, then glanced around her once more at the simple but elegant, pristine room until her gaze settled again on the tea service, the realization that she’d miss supper fully upon her. What kind of woman dealt with the elite and drank and cavorted, participating in all sorts of debauchery, and managed to live in this unique style?

Men lost fortunes in the Lyon’s Den, threatening household subsistence. Land and titles could not protect those who gambled their livelihoods away. Chance was a mercenary evil, an inescapable temptation. The possibility of winning, of obtaining more affluence, opportune marriages, and solutions to the mysteries of the heart were all carefully considered and monitored through the widow’s eyes. Which brought Lottie to the reason why she had come.

“Mrs. Dove-Lyon”—Papa had told her—“is the type of woman who casts golden rays of hope, turning faults into assets and petitions into good fortune.”

Suddenly chilled, Lottie rubbed her arms, warding off a cowardly impulse to claw her way out of the Black Widow’s web, avoiding anything the madam conspired and the deadly sting of humiliation. Speculation about the widow’s character ran rampant. No one had seen her face. Rather, an air of mystery shrouded her beneath her weeds and screening veil. The once-celebrated beauty ran her business firmly, permitting gossipmongers to tittle-tattle, knowing the chatter boosted the popularity of her establishment and heightened expectation.

Lottie bristled. What if the madam was under the mistaken impression that she’d come seeking a husband to prevent a scandal, or worse, some form of work?

She wasn’t that desperate.

The clock chimed, its pendulum’s rhythm an uncanny reminder that the night wore on. Where was Mrs. Dove-Lyon? Punctuality was a matter of pride, and a prompt woman was seen as self-controlled and dependable. Could she depend on the madam, whose skills and connections to people, places, and things were forbidden to the average lady? Lottie did not hold a ladyship, or indeed, an honorable title of any sort. Though she was a gentleman’s daughter, her cousins were the offspring of a viscount. Her father was a prestigious Cambridge professor of antiquities, a man who’d educated and continued to educate future lords, a position targeted by nabobs and dandies.

The second son of a nobleman, Papa’s living hinged upon a show of decency and character. His placid temperament made him amiable to his contemporaries, especially the crusty guard at St. John’s. Fortunately, Papa had found his calling at the British Museum, a place that allowed the lowly to aspire to greatness. There, in the presence of his peers and decaying parchment, marble busts, and ageless fossils, Papa and Thomas Young laboriously examined the Rosetta Stone. The monolith would soon be fully decrypted, thanks to Young’s understanding of languages and Papa’s innumerable hours of research.

Absolutely nothing must jeopardize that moment for Mr. Young and her father. Nothing! She wouldn’t allow it. She couldn’t!

She stomped her kid boot on the Axminster carpet and wrung her hands, mocked by the clock as the complexities of her decision to enter the Lyon’s Den flitted through her brain.

“Do you not like what you see?” A soft but firm voice startled her from somewhere inside the office.

“Ooh!” Lottie was unable to conceal her surprise, her heartbeat taking on a dangerous cadence. She’d been in the room for nigh on twenty minutes alone; at least, she’d supposed she was alone. She’d never heard anyone enter the chamber. So how had the woman suddenly appeared without her knowing? Suspicion assailed her. Was the Black Widow of Whitehall a predatory creature, a merciless spider testing the flexibility of her web by observing Lottie unawares from hidden entrances or modes of escape? “You’ve given me quite a start,” she finally admitted when her blood stopped racing.

“Do forgive me,” the darkly clad and veiled widow said. “I’ve adopted the habit of studying my clients before I engage in conversation.”

“I am”—Lottie waved her hand dismissively—“not your client.”

“Yet,” the woman commented dryly.

Lottie shook her head emphatically, bristling at the idea that the widow could possibly understand her reasons for requesting an audience. Mortal shame infused her. Had she been mistaken for one of the scared misses who frequented the den? Heat crept up her neck, flushing her face.

The woman in black bombazine, complete with hat and veil, clicked her tongue. “Understand, you are not the first troubled female to venture to this place. No doubt you will be astonished to learn I have heard a lifetime of deprivations and denials.” Her stare penetrated the veil, oddly distressing Lottie as she felt its potent glower. “I have heard it all. Nothing you can do or say will surprise me,” she added softly.

“If you read timidity in my voice, Mrs. Dove-Lyon,” Lottie said, certain that was whom she addressed, “you are mistaken.” The breath she took sounded loud to her own ears. “I assume that is who you are, the Black Widow of Whitehall. If you are she, please note that I am not here to—”

“Aren’t you?”

“I beg your pardon.” Lottie planted her feet firmly on the carpet to keep from stamping her foot again and declared, “I do not need a husband.”

“Everyone needs something—to slake thirst, or satiate desire, feel young and alive and on top of the world.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon chortled, and Lottie’s mouth went dry because she’d spoken her own thoughts aloud. “Do not be so hard on yourself. You aren’t the first to utter those six words, nor the last, I dare say.”

Lottie struggled not to cower before the secretive widow’s stiff bearing. She had the distinct feeling that she was under the woman’s inspection, her figure, clothing, and comportment analyzed and found wanting. “Women desire to marry well, and... coincidentally, men need heirs and spares. The numbers do not lie. It is the order of things.”

Good gracious! How many people had solicited her help in the marriage mart?

“I believe we have started on the wrong foot. You are—”

“Not here to solicit work,” Lottie said, bristling and mortified as she interrupted the widow, then questioned why it was so important for this woman, among all others, not to suspect her motives. If anyone saw her in this place of all places—Oh! She fought to stay unflustered and narrowed her eyes, unsure why the woman’s chatter had a strange, convicting effect on her. “I can also assure you, I am not like every other young woman you have dealt with.”

“That remains to be seen. Convince me.”

“What I mean to say is, I am here of my own accord, most assuredly.”

“They usually are.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon crossed to her desk, then caressed the gold-leafed edges of a book with gloved fingers, seemingly unimpressed.

“Surely you understand my desire to forge my own destiny. I do not wish to marry because I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. And I have plans to do that very thing, I swear it.”

“Plans.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s hand hovered over a leaflet. “Am I mistaken? Are you looking for work? If that is the case, I—”

“Good heavens, no!” Lottie quickly rallied. “I’ve come seeking your help in an urgent matter that involves neither wedded bliss nor encountering the unrestrained natures of men.” She stopped for a breath and cleared her throat. “That is to say, I am on an errand of the utmost urgency and am asking for your assistance.”

“What could possibly be so important that you’d risk disgrace venturing here, of all places, and make a request of me?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon asked bluntly, the tone of her voice deepening with a hint of emotion Lottie couldn’t quite place and sounding very familiar.

Had she insulted the woman? That was not her intent.

“Forgive me.” Lottie wrung her hands. “I am not in a position to judge, but I am in a terrible pickle. Rather,” she said quickly, “my father is, or will be if I cannot prevent someone from ruining his reputation.”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s back straightened, and she perked to attention. “Ah, you hope to circumvent a scandal. The most salacious reason of all to come knocking at my door. So, the urgency you refer to involves the ton .” It wasn’t a question but a statement of fact, making Lottie wonder what kind of scandals Mrs. Dove-Lyon had seen, experienced, or averted in her lifetime. The woman moved from behind the desk and crept closer, her elongated movements reminding Lottie of a lithe dark angel sweeping in for— Heavens! She knew not what.

“Do sit down,” the widow suggested in a silky-smooth voice.

Weary and desperate to win the woman’s acceptance, Lottie obeyed, taking the seat opposite the desk. The madam retraced her steps and sat down on the chair on the opposite side.

“Tell me everything.” She motioned with a black-gloved finger. “Start from the beginning, and do not leave anything out, no matter how insignificant. Details make or break scandals.”

Lottie cringed inwardly, feeling suddenly apprehensive. “This situation has taken me by storm. I honestly do not know where to begin, madam,” she admitted.

“I have found a straightforward approach always serves.” The widow raised a quizzing glass attached to a long chain around her neck and gazed at Lottie. “There are times in life when a woman must lean on someone else, an objective party, so to speak. Allow me to consider your situation.” She pointed to her hat and veil. “I am all ears.”

And anticipating every move and word from my mouth . Though Lottie couldn’t see the madam’s eyes through the netted veil, it was the predatory feeling emanating from the creature before her that she couldn’t shake.

“Oh dear!” Mrs. Dove-Lyon leaned forward and lowered the jewel-handled glass. “Forgive my oversight. I have just realized we haven’t been formally introduced. I am Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon, as you are well aware. And you are?”

At the widow’s subtle nod, Lottie released a pent-up breath. Introductions were beginnings. And her actions determined how all of this would end. “I am Charlotta Walcot, here on behalf of my father, Mr. Bertram Walcot.”

“I see.”

She tried to read the woman’s deepening tone. “Something terrible has occurred that requires a cleverness of hand that I do not own and cannot champion. My father is very dear to me, you see. Dearer than life itself.”

“Commendable.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon sat back in her chair. “Now we are getting somewhere. Do go on. Tell me more about... your father,” she said with a wave of her hand. “What does your presence here have to do with him?”

How much should I divulge?

“My father is a professor at Cambridge,” she began proudly. “He is respectable and well liked. Numerous lords under his charge have gone on to serve in the House of Commons or taken the tour or traveled abroad to acquire antiquities for the British Museum.”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s veil fluttered almost imperceptibly.

“Have I said something to cause offense?” Lottie asked, flummoxed.

“A chill, nothing more.” The Black Widow’s veil danced again, this time with a delicate whisper as she spoke. “Do go on.”

“If you are sure, madam.” At the widow’s nod, she continued. “You see, Papa has a long association with the British Museum. He and Mr. Young have worked tirelessly to decode the hieroglyphics of the Rosetta Stone.”

“I have heard of it,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said. “A mysterious wonder snatched right out from under Napoleon’s nose.”

The widow knew of the Rosetta Stone. That made everything so much easier. Lottie leaned closer, conspiratorially. “Did you know there are three distinct languages on the stone? At the bottom, Greek was carved there after the arrival of Alexander the Great in 332 B.C. The middle of the rock is inscribed with the Demotic language, a principal form of writing I shan’t ever understand. But it has helped them to decipher the hieroglyphic style of writing used by ancient Egyptians at the top of the stone.” She sat back, quite pleased with her description. “Papa says the discovery will revolutionize how we view the ancient world.”

“I sense a but coming,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said, leaning in coldly. “There always is.”

“In this case, you are correct.” Lottie lifted her gloved finger. “Someone is threatening to expose Papa and jeopardize his life’s work.”

Her throat constricted. It was unthinkable what Papa’s anonymous extortionist proposed. Nevertheless, she girded herself for the happy news that the widow would agree to help her. She simply had no other choice but to speak in earnest. She retrieved the blackmailer’s note from her reticule. “I received this only yesterday. Forgive me, I dare not read it aloud.”

She handed the note to Mrs. Dove-Lyon. The madam took it, parted the broken seal, and skimmed the message while Lottie nervously waited. “I know what your father has done, and I will expose the truth.” Aghast that Mrs. Dove-Lyon had read that part of the note aloud, Lottie watched speechlessly as the woman cleared her throat, then folded the corners back into place and lowered the missive to her desk. “Do you have any idea what this letter refers to?”

“No.” Lottie shook her head, raking her mind for answers that refused to come. She’d dared not question Papa. “My father spends most of his time at St. John’s and the British Museum. He’s dedicated his life to furthering academic understanding of ancient times, traveling for months on end to retrieve some antiquity or another.” Suddenly uncomfortable speaking about intensely personal matters, she made a show of adjusting the folds of her gown and her glasses upon her nose. The activity kept her from looking at the widow’s impenetrable veil.

“You must understand,” she continued. “I cannot allow a stranger to come along and destroy everything Papa has worked so hard to achieve.” Else, Papa’s lengthy absences and her quest to be just like him would amount to naught. She paused, struggling to maintain her poise. Neither would it do to reveal too much too soon. Normally, she was a very private person. “My mission is an urgent matter. The transcription of the Rosetta Stone is to be unveiled in a month. If—”

“That should provide enough time for us to discover the source of these letters,” the woman advised staunchly. “You did say there were others?”

A strange unnatural feeling of unease settled over Lottie. “I didn’t say—”

“There always are. Do not fret. The particulars are irrelevant right now,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon quipped. “But do me the honor of answering several more questions.”

“With pleasure.” Or until the widow gets too personal.

“Have you—or your father—angered anyone of late?” The hat tilted, revealing the pale skin of the woman underneath for a second before she righted her head.

“No.”

“Could jealousy be at play here? This man, Mr. Young. Is he vain? Many men are, and duels have been fought over more trivial things than this. Perhaps he jealously seeks to triumph over your father.”

“Mr. Young, jealous? Whatever for?” she asked aghast. “He has worked nearly two years on this endeavor. He deciphered the code and oversaw the syntax.”

“Men rarely desire to share their accomplishments with others.”

Lottie cringed inwardly, wondering what theories waylaid Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s mind. To be sure, the woman dealt with the seedier side of life, and the East End wasn’t the safest place in Town. But surely, she wasn’t suggesting Mr. Young meant her father ill?

She pondered the widow for several silent moments, her heart beating restlessly. The thought had never occurred to her. Was Mr. Young responsible for the threatening letters? “I confess, the possibility is there. Nevertheless, Mr. Young has always been professional. He earned first-class honors. He is a generous man, intelligent, hard-working.” This last, she said sadly, “His reputation proceeds him.”

“Ah.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon spun the quizzing glass between her fingers. “But he is a man, and men have been known to do stranger things.”

“Not Mr. Young,” Lottie declared. “He rises above suspicion, in my opinion.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon pushed the note back to her, and Lottie crumpled it in her hand, feeling unsophisticated and foolhardy for having ever considered seeking the widow’s help. “No. I refuse to believe Mr. Young would do something like this. The villain must be someone else. But who?” She locked eyes with the madam, secretly imploring her to investigate elsewhere. “If I do not find out who is blackmailing my father soon, Papa will be ruined.”

“And so will you. Is that your greatest fear?”

Lottie shot to her feet. “If you think for one moment, I am trying to protect myself, you are mistaken. I would never—”

“Calm yourself.” The Black Widow chuckled, her joviality shocking Lottie to her kid leather boots. Before she could release an objection, the woman said, “There are Lord and Lady Steere to consider, and your cousins, who are all in bloom.”

Heat rose to Lottie’s face. “I would die before scandalizing my uncle’s family.”

“Is that so?”

The clock ticked, the quiet unsettling Lottie. The walls and ceiling felt as if they were pressing in on her. “I am an educated woman. I am not blinded by my circumstances—”

“What circumstances?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon snapped, then stood abruptly, her bombazine skirts issuing a soft hush that penetrated the uncomfortable space.

Lottie’s cheeks heated, every inch of her skin burning with indignation. She wasn’t quite sure what she needed to explain to a woman who dallied with particular amusements. “Mrs. Dove-Lyon, I am as foreign to you as you are to me, neither of us understanding the other. I apologize for taking up so much of your time. I will take my leave of you. Good day.”

“Wait!” The widow’s cry was more disturbing than her inflexibility, her mysterious manner putting Lottie on guard. “We have much to discuss. Do stay for tea,” she offered suspiciously before going on, “I understand your situation perfectly, my dear. You were wise to come here. I have means...sources who can get to the bottom of this for you, and quickly. It will only require a few days to explore the matter further. If Mr. Young is involved, we will know soon enough. If he isn’t, the true culprit will be brought to light.” Her air, seemingly softer and more polished, she tented her fingers before her. “Leave the particulars to me.”

“I cannot express—” Lottie stepped forward and, placing her hands on Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s desk, leaned across it—“how important this is to Papa, to Mr. Young, to the British Museum, to—”

“You?” the widow finished for her, her veil dipping slightly at Lottie’s responding nod. “Rest assured, I am always discrete. On that, you can count.” She leaned closer until their faces were mere inches apart, and from behind the netted veil, a surprising mouth and elegant-cut chin materialized. Before Lottie could seek out the eyes, which she knew regarded her steadily, the widow inched cunningly backward, preventing further identification to be made. “Saving reputations,” she said confidently, “is my expertise.” Silence swelled between them as Lottie wondered at the widow’s frankness and the strange sense of familiarity that engulfed her. “You were brave to come here.”

“Brave?” Lottie nearly choked on the word. She would have never come to the Lyon’s Den if it weren’t for blackmail. She wasn’t brave. Not at all. She’d rather be sitting in Papa’s library reading. But if she hadn’t taken matters into her own hands, there would be no library, no living, no future. That wasn’t to be borne. Papa’s life’s work gone! She couldn’t depend on constables or darken her aunt and uncle’s door with the rantings about a depraved, crooked wretch. Neither could she go back to the way things were. Had her father scandalized the family? Dear heaven, she was desperate to know the truth, and yet—A case of the vapors assailed her. She struggled for a breath.

“Are you unwell?”

Lottie wasn’t sure. She watched numbly as Mrs. Dove-Lyon poured steamy liquid into a teacup, then swiftly circumnavigated the desk with the sophistication of a true lady of the peerage. “Drink this. It will help you regain your stamina.”

She did as the widow bid her, sipping the brew and allowing it to smooth away all manner of ills.

“Better?” the madam asked.

“Yes. Thank you,” she said, desiring to fade into the chair’s stylish upholstery. “Better to be wise by the misfortunes of others than by your own. ”

For goodness sakes! Did I just quote Aesop at a time like this?

“‘ The more you want, the more you stand to lose,’ Miss Walcot.”

Lottie sprang to her feet, her mouth hanging agape. The Black Widow of Whitehall was not what she had anticipated—a destitute, uneducated woman forced to fend for herself by methods as old as time. She couldn’t decide if this information buoyed her or annoyed her. All she could wonder was how much farther she would have to go to save her beloved Papa.