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

Chapter Two

“A dalliance of the heart is the meatiest scandal ofall.”

~ Anon

P eregrine Frost flexed his hands as he made his way through the streets to Whitehall. He’d been summoned to the Lyon’s Den, though the manner in which he’d been instructed to appear differed from his customary agreed-upon terms. He wasn’t a man to be commanded by a woman, forced to materialize and then disappear at whim, but the Black Widow of Whitehall waited for no one. When she called, those on her payroll obeyed. Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon’s name was renowned throughout Town.

Well-positioned in the underworld, she abhorred being kept waiting, especially when circumstances grew dire. With gamblers and nabobs oftentimes refusing to honor their debts and former military men and working girls under her wing dependent on the living she supplied, Peregrine’s investigatory skills balanced the scales.

He lifted his hat and wiped his muddy brow with his sleeve, deliberate in the inspection of his surroundings. A man in the East End couldn’t be caught off-guard, though he had occasionally found himself at the wrong end of a fist battling disgruntled ruffians in his career.

Such was the setting of his secret rendezvous. Before him, street vendors hawked their wares. Rusty-hinged carts trundled by to his left. Burdened pedestrians strode along to his right, determination powering their steps. Loud children capered in and out of by-streets and alleyways. And, through it all, the horrid squalor of the East End was evidence of overcrowding, the sins of excessive gin, and poverty.

He slapped his hat back on his head, frowning. A man came into the world with nothing but what the good Lord provided. How he left it was of his own making.

The mad collection of migrants pressed into the East End had led many a good man astray. And when that day came, Peregrine was the hound driven by scent. Travel to distant lands and war provided him the particular talent of differentiating the wheat from the chaff—a singular fascination of his—which helped him assist Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s endeavors. A compassionate businesswoman cloaked in bombazine, the Black Widow was secretive, renowned for her talent for commerce, her matchmaking skills, and well sought after for providing wedded bliss to those in the market for a wife.

He’d managed not to get shut up in the parson’s pound. He’d only loved and ever would love one woman, but she’d been out of his reach, too pretty and determined by far at the time, and meant for a better man.

“’Ow are ye, sir?” a voice hailed. Peregrine whipped his attention to a local merchant, a cynical fellow moving forward to step beside him.

After chasing a delinquent debtor until the wee morning and a torrid bout of fisticuffs after his quarry attempted to evade capture, Peregrine wasn’t in the mood for lengthy conversation. He glanced down at himself and patted down his mud-stained trousers and the dark shirt beneath his greatcoat, pointlessly hopeful of ridding himself of the unyielding muck and litter he’d accumulated on his person while subduing the baron in the gutter. In his line of work, one had to anticipate the actions of desperate men, and he had—rightly so—but a jot too late.

He considered his acquaintance. The barrel-chested merchant, Daniel Bates, was a hard-working citizen, a man slow to offer his last farthing to a body in need. Nevertheless, he kept a keen eye on the Den, and as such, could be counted on to alert Peregrine to any trouble that occurred in his absence.

“Fine day, eh, Mr. Frost?” Bates bellowed.

“I’ve fared better.”

“Bad eggs?” Bates said, giving him the once over.

“Satisfactory.” Peregrine nodded and flexed his fingers once more. “A bit rotten but satisfactory.”

The bad egg in question was one Lord Shelton, a slippery young monster bearing a barony who thought he could get away with cheating. After he’d disappeared without paying his debts, the widow had ordered Peregrine to take up the chase.

He reached into his coat and patted Shelton’s purse. The case was now settled, debt paid, and Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s message never to return to the Lyon’s Den had been delivered personally to its unworthy recipient. The baron’s bruises would heal, but his reputation would not. That was not Peregrine’s concern, however. A man chose and had to live with that decision before consequence caught up to him. He’d learned that the hard way.

The fresh face of an angel flashed before him, hovering so close he ached to reach out and touch it. But he didn’t. Such was the recourse of a man who’d loved and lost. Now as before, denying his feelings led to loneliness and regret.

Bates tossed him an apple. He caught it deftly mid-air, wincing slightly before shifting hands and blowing air on his bloody knuckles. He slanted his gaze to the large building looming ahead and took a bite. “Any change?”

Shaking his head, Bates mumbled, “None.”

“Nothing feels misaligned?”

Bates worked his jaw. “A woman entered the Den an ’our ago. Probably nothin’ but a sugary tart lookin’ for work.”

Peregrine sank his teeth once more into the apple, savoring its sweet and sour taste.

The Lyon’s Den was an institution. Rightly or wrongly, it attracted people of every persuasion: the ton , the merchant class, and those with enough backbone, tenacity, and grit to afford a chance at joining the widow’s game. Like the Admiralty, the Den was instrumental in offering men a secretive, pregnant allure that whispered offers of life-altering distraction. Ladies, too, were known to attend and hedge their bets. So, the woman could have been a customer instead.

He finished off the apple while Bates droned on about the weather, then tossed the core to Bates’s dog. “I best be off.”

“Mother Abbess will nag,” Bates cautioned. “There be rules to follow.” He scrunched his nose. “And ye smell like a gutter rat.”

Remembering his confrontation with Lord Shelton, Peregrine glanced down at his misused attire, lifted his sleeve, gave it a whiff, and then sneered. “Can’t be helped. Not today.”

“I don’t envy ye,” Bates said, chortling.

“I have no choice.” Peregrine pressed on, crossing the street and angling his direction to the Den.

The Dragon’s Hoard, a jewelry shop below the Lyon’s Den, profited when gamblers sold off possessions to pay their debts. Too bad the baron hadn’t decided to cough up a brooch or two before he’d dodged his debt. That would have allowed Peregrine to sleep last night.

He entered the building, providing the secret code to the sentry before taking the steps that led to the landing and Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s office. He reached into his coat and removed his pocket watch, thankful the mechanism hadn’t been damaged during his rout with Shelton.

He flicked open the engraved lid and checked the hour. Nine thirty. Fortune smiled on him after all. Snapping the case closed, he stepped toward the door and rapped softly.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon hailed him from the other side. He lifted the latch and slipped into the interior, realizing at one glance through the antechamber that the widow wasn’t alone. A soft glow illuminated two figures in her office. But before he could excuse himself, the beautiful young woman sitting on the opposite side of the desk gasped loudly.

“Madam—” She shot Peregrine a scathing stare, then quickly recovered before continuing in the finest of tones, her resonate voice a soothing balm to his weary bones, “ Better to be wise by the misfortunes of others than by your own.”

Aesop! An odd choice of words. He froze, mesmerized as the widow rallied, “ ‘The more you want, the more you stand to lose,’ Miss Walcot.”

Miss Walcot? He stiffened. Surely this was not the same... No. It couldn’t be! He’d just seen the professor nigh on a week ago and the man had said nothing about his daughter. What were the odds that he’d hear the same name mentioned in this den of lions? Moreover, why would a cultured woman like the professor’s daughter venture to Whitehall? Other than husband-hunting , he reminded himself. He frowned, suddenly alarmed and attentive to every move this Miss Walcot made. Attempting to keep from being recognized under all this mud—if she was the same Miss Walcot—he lowered the brim of his hat and avoided her gaze.

Was this the woman Bates had seen?

Surely not his Miss Walcot.

He overpowered the groan that nearly escaped him, once more cursing men who gambled everything they owned, leaving hapless victims in their wake and the need for investigators to hunt them down for recompense.

Before he could stop himself, he spoke in a cockney accent. “’E who shares the danger ought to share the prize.”

“Shut the door, Frost!” the widow ordered without missing a beat. “I am conducting private business.”

He obliged without preamble. The hinges groaned, the latch’s click leading to silence as he closed himself in with the pair. Tension filled the room.

He moved to a corner, offering them privacy with the aim of studying the interaction between the pair of ladies further.

The widow’s emotions were indecipherable, cloaked as she was in her usual black garb, but a flush rose to Miss Walcot’s cheeks. “I fear I have been here too long, madam.”

“Do not mind Frost,” the widow smoothly suggested. “I never do. I assure you, he’s harmless.”

He scoffed, rolling his shoulders to ward off her slight. As he did so, the smart but simply attired woman straightened and turned again to face him. Their gazes collided before he had time to look away, forcefully yanking his hat lower to shield his eyes. What if she recognizes me?

That wouldn’t do.

She regarded him sharply, squinting behind her spectacles as if she tried to pinpoint his identity, sending a shock of misery singing through his bones. Then, as if nonplused, she shook her head and turned her attention back to the Black Widow.

Little Lottie.

It is her! And all was not as it should be if she had come to a place like this.

She was furious, embarrassed, and yet, he sensed her compassionate nature, remembering it all too well as time closed the distance between them with invisible rigging. She hadn’t come seeking pleasure. Not his Miss Walcot. He knew that now. No. She was on a mission of importance. But what?

Indeed, the idea of being Lottie’s savior intoxicated him, stirring up all sorts of chivalrous ideas he’d shuttered since their disastrous last meeting. What had brought her to this place? He would be insane to succumb to her charms or take on whatever peril she faced, lest he want more in return. And he always had—wanted more.

“Come now, Frost,” the widow snapped. “It’s impolite to stare. You’ve been doing so long enough. You are here to possibly assist Miss Walcot.”

“I beg your pardon,” Miss Walcot exclaimed haughtily. “I have overstayed my welcome.”

“No.” The widow rounded the desk in remarkable fashion.

Why did his unshakable employer want to keep Miss Walcot from leaving? She rarely enjoyed the company of strangers, let alone the presence of gentlewomen. “What I mean to say is, arrangements need to be made for your protection.”

“You mean my father’s, do you not?”

Why would the professor need protection?

The plot thickened, and as Lottie quieted her voice so as not to be overheard, he strained to hear her say, “Here are the instructions on how to contact me. And here is the blackmailer’s note. Keep it.” She offered Mrs. Dove-Lyon a missive.

What note, and why was it so important?

“I bid you good day, Mrs. Dove-Lyon.”

Spinning on her heel, she worked her way to the door, which Peregrine hastily ventured to open for her as gallantly as he could. Lottie had not come to the Black Widow to seek work or complain about a family member’s gambling habits as other women before her had done.

She was in trouble.

Lilacs. The familiar and pleasant scent took him back to when he was seventeen—in a garden with a quick-witted, fourteen-year-old girl who’d captured his attention... and more disturbingly, his heart.

Hound’s teeth! Her scent wafted up his nostrils, filling him with longing. He had to deny the incredible yearning to reach out and touch her, to close the void between them.

He staggered, suddenly perplexed by his own behavior after all these years, earning her disapproving frown and a gasp of fright.

He glanced down at himself, then remembered. She didn’t see Septimus, Baron Grey, her father’s long-time pupil. She saw Peregrine Frost and found his appearance offensive.

“And ye smell like a gutter rat,” Bates had said.

Blister it! He reeked of the sewer! No wonder she’d pressed a handkerchief to her nostrils and was in a hurry to leave. She found him abhorrent.

“Frost!” Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s rare outburst had an immediate impact.

Lottie muttered something unintelligible, then scurried off as if the hounds of hell chased after her. The lace handkerchief forgotten, it floated haphazardly to the floor in her wake. Septimus observed it momentarily, then abandoned it for the view of Lottie’s sensually swaying, retreating skirts. Time had been good to her. And when she finally vanished down the back staircase, a flood of emotion tugged at his heart.

What whirlwind had just passed him by? Stunned, he stood silent for several seconds, a flash of amazement taking hold. He thought he’d put her out of his mind. He thought he’d moved on. How wrong he was. His lips curled into a grin. And when the world stopped spinning on its axis, he finally heard the strangest of sounds by far.

The Black Widow’s laughter. “Shut the door, Frost,” she ordered.

He rolled his eyes and immediately complied, confident a reprimand was coming. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Dove-Lyon. Had I known you were entertaining—”

“The fault is not yours, Frost.”

But she was wrong. If he hadn’t allowed Shelton to get a jump on him... He studied the widow, suspicion swirling in his mind. Mrs. Dove-Lyon had run the Lyon’s Den since the death of her husband. She expected punctuality.

He produced Shelton’s money pouch and said, “The baron—”

“Is no longer your concern.” She navigated her desk and leaned on her knuckles, immediately alerting him to a shift taking place. “I have a new job for you.”