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

Chapter Four

“There is more than one path toruin.”

~ Anon

A fter making his way to the ground floor of Lord Steere’s townhouse, past Greek statues and a profusion of potted plants, Lord Septimus Grey maneuvered the receiving line and entered the ballroom, his senses alert. The large room had been done up well and paid indefatigable attention. Several drawing rooms appeared to have been thrown open, helping to create the extra space, though it wouldn’t be enough for the two hundred souls milling about in the crush.

Still, he’d managed, in the span of a few minutes, to memorize every entrance and exit, and acknowledge members of Parliament, two dukes, a marchioness, several earls, and a baron of his acquaintance. A select circle of nobility and leading socialites would be celebrated in The Morning Post when the happenings of the Steeres’ ball was spread to the public.

Musicians played in a corner of the room—Gow’s band. He recognized their fashionable rendition of the Marquis of Queensberry Medley as a sea of bobbing heads and swaying skirts performed the waltz. John Gow and Edward Pane’s bands were in high demand during the Season.

Lord and Lady Steere had been busy indeed. But to his knowledge, the viscount and his viscountess had never hosted a ball before. The man preferred country living, though he paraded his three daughters about in Society at every opportunity. He didn’t blame Steere. If he had three daughters over the age of eighteen to marry off, he’d be in a hurry, too.

Surveying his surroundings through Peregrine’s eyes, he stealthily took measure of the house in all its glowing splendor and was forced to admit Steere had outdone himself. The place beamed from floor to plastered ceiling with chandeliers, lusters, and cut glass. The floor, what he could see of it, had been chalked with elegant scenes of dancing couples, and the young, privileged mob performed the waltz without having to seek out permission from the keepers of Almack’s: boorish Lady Jersey, Lord Palmerston’s mistress, Lady Cowper, and that wicked gossip, Countess Lieven.

Flowers from hothouses and beeswax candles fragranced the room, giving it a sweet, otherworldly atmosphere. He wouldn’t call the ornamentation romantic, necessarily. Unlike the Greys in his ancestry, Septimus didn’t have a romantic bone in his body. Nevertheless, as he watched several of the young men he’d gone to Eton and Cambridge with mingle in the crush, he was afforded a very pleasant view of spectacle, color, and sound, a worthy attack on the senses.

Yes , he reasoned, the standards set by the ton had been met tonight, and tomorrow, everyone in London would be reading about it.

“Lord Grey,” a fellow called, making him turn.

He caught sight of the man who hailed him in the crush and soon found himself face-to-face with his old professor. “Walcot,” he bellowed happily at the man’s humble bow. “I had hoped to find you here.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes, quite. Lord Steere is your brother, so it would make sense to find you here, though I assumed you might still be hard at work in the museum.”

“Ah, it just so happens Young and I needed a respite. I also wanted to check on my daughter, Charlotta. You do remember her, don’t you?” How could he forget? The professor squinted and adjusted his glasses before Septimus had time to answer. “Gadzooks! I just realized it’s been years since you last saw her. But then a well-traveled man like you has more important matters to attend to than remember our hospitality at Cambridge. I should not expect you to recollect.”

“I do.” Septimus clasped the humble professor’s hands and rolled onto the backs of his heels, trying to hide the smile he felt curling his lips. “Vaguely, of course,” he added to rise above suspicion. “One would be hard-pressed to dismiss the sight of your daughter hovering over your library desk or haunting the bookshelves.” He leaned forward to confide, “I have a confession to make. I had hoped to see her every time I visited your library.”

Walcot chortled. “I still find her in my library most days. I daresay you will not find her much altered.” He looked past Septimus’s shoulder, his expression shifting. “How fortuitous! I’ve spotted her. By Jove, there she is now.”

Septimus followed the direction of the professor’s stare and felt his insides twist with expectancy. There. A group of ladies danced, nimbly forming a circle like Druids concocting a spell and plotting schemes. And in that group twirled a bewitching dark-haired nymph, shining like a refined gem. Her figure was fashioned to perfection as if sculpted for his hands alone. Unlike the moment he’d seen her in the Lyon’s Den, her features weren’t concealed beneath a hat. Pearls adorned her hair, her ears, and neck, accentuating the silver shimmer of her gown. Her slender arms, what he could see of them above her gloves and below her decorative sleeves, aroused further interest. His gaze wandered to her hands, gracefully moving to the beat of Gow’s composition. And involuntarily, he flexed his fingers, wondering if her touch would still be as electric as it had been whenever their fingers brushed.

Would her long legs be as slender beneath her gossamer skirts? He couldn’t help but stare as she sashayed to and fro, her slippers peeking gracefully from beneath her swishing gown. He forced himself to concentrate. Deliberating over Lottie’s attributes wasn’t why he’d come to the Steeres’ ball. There were more timely matters that concerned him—like her safety.

“My lord?”

He blinked back surprise, realizing he’d been caught drifting into a daze. “Did you say something, Professor?”

“Indeed, my lord. I asked if you recognized my daughter.”

Nothing could ever make him forget her. “No.” Damn him, he was lying through his teeth and hated every minute of it. Walcot had been a good friend to him, a father figure, an intellect who’d sharpened his awareness. A man who didn’t deserve his deception, a man who deserved to know that his daughter was in trouble, that she’d visited the Black Widow of Whitehall. “Which of the four is she?” he asked, hoping not to give himself away.

“The one in silver.”

The only treasure in a sea of white. He cleared his throat as if truly seeing her for the first time. “I find her quite altered.” Stunning, in fact. No painter could depict a better likeness. He no longer saw the professor’s daughter, but a woman grown, and the only woman he would ever love.

“I suppose it is only fitting that you do not recognize my daughter,” Walcot said. “Five years is a long time. Admittedly, you have traveled and studied abroad, doing and seeing many worthwhile things since then.”

None as glorious as Miss Charlotta Walcot. My Little Lottie.

Walcot’s features sank, making Septimus wonder what plagued the professor’s gifted mind. “So much has happened since.”

Septimus cleared his throat, feeling suddenly uncomfortable. The guilt of his actions surprised him even now. The promises he’d given Lottie, to take her to the places she’d read about, to treat her as his equal, to love her, cherish her, and provide for her attacking his heart with relentless fervor. He had been focused, determined to prove to his father that he would amount to something even if he wasn’t the firstborn. He’d worked harder than his brother, Matthew. Traveled to Italy and Egypt, studied languages and script with the intent to help the British government reveal Napoleon’s mysterious codes. Then Matthew had died unexpectedly, a crushing blow, for Septimus had loved his older brother dearly. The line of succession fell to him, and he’d returned to London and shackled himself to Society. He might only be a baron, but he shouldered the burden with the intent of making his deceased father proud.

“Five years is a long time,” he agreed. “Right, you are. I was merely a quizzical pup then. Barely weaned.” Only a lunatic left the love of his life to protect his relationship with his professor and prove himself to a dead man.

“More than barely weaned, I’d say.” Walcot snickered. “You were seventeen when we first met, one of my brightest pups.” He raised his finger heavenward. “A teacher never forgets. Pups become steadfast foxhounds.”

Walcot’s praise jarred Septimus, filling the void both his own father and brother had vacated by dying before him. “You are good and just,” he said fondly. “I owe who I am today to you, good sir.” Which was the truth.

Walcot seemed not to have heard his glowing speech, however. His face grew incredibly animated, and he stretched out his arm and waved, motioning for someone to join them. Before Septimus rallied, a feminine voice broke through his haze.

“Papa!”

“My dear, how I have missed you,” Walcot said as he clasped his daughter’s hands, and Septimus closed his eyes to ward off another bout of guilt.

“And I, you.” When she paused, Septimus opened his eyes. Their gazes met, and her cheeks reddened, her eyes blazing with unspoken regret. “But I thought you did not plan on joining us this evening. Has something happened?” she asked her father.

Her immediate alarm stirred something deep inside Septimus. First, had she recognized him from the Lyon’s Den? Secondly, he had obviously earned her hatred.

“No. No,” the professor said, shaking his head. “Why would you suggest such a thing? Young and I are progressing in a timely fashion. No need to concern yourself.” He smiled lovingly at his daughter, and a knot twinged in Septimius’s belly at their affectionate bond, a different sort of bond than he could have had with Lottie had he stayed in Cambridge.

“I am in haste to introduce you to one of my former students.” He and Lottie turned their attention on Septimus. His breath caught as the sheer power of her full, undivided attention was bestowed to him. “Lord Grey. My daughter, Charlotta.”

“The pleasure is mine, Miss Walcot,” he said, bowing his head over her hand. He deliberated whether to kiss her gloved fingers as he enjoyed doing once, then stood abruptly, hardly knowing why he felt so awkward around her.

Lottie curtsied gracefully, her long neck curving, and the white feather in her hair dipping like the wing of an elegant swan. “How do you do.”

So formal, proving she hadn’t forgiven him. Her sweet voice warmed his heart, however, making his legs weaken. He shifted to regain his balance.

“But this is extraordinary. We’ve already met,” he teased, testing her memory.

Her smile faltered, and his chest tightened as she studied him. How far would her anger and jealousy take her? “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, my lord.”

“Nonsense, my dear,” her father said jovially. “Surely you haven’t forgotten that Lord Grey came to dinner the first year he attended Cambridge, and for several years afterward. He was ten and seven, I believe, and you were—”

“Fourteen years old,” Septimus said matter-of-factly before he could stop himself. The memory would never fade. They’d been in the library, she on the ladder, and he, looking up at her like a love-sick hound. Her silhouette as she reached for the top shelf and passed him a book, was sealed in his memory. Her glorious smile set his limbs aquiver. And the moment their hands had brushed and their gazes locked, haunted him with regularity. He cleared his throat abruptly to say, “And quite absorbed in Volume II of the 1796 Vetusta Monumenta from the National Antiquarian Society, if I recall.”

“How can you—”

“Your father is an excellent teacher, Miss Walcot.” He smiled triumphantly. “First and foremost, he taught me to be observant.” She raised her brow as if disbelieving him. “There are some things a man never forgets.”

She disengaged, craning her neck to admire her father. “Papa is an exceptional man. I am always telling him so.”

“Then it is so,” Walcot parroted.

What he wouldn’t give to have Lottie look at him with that same twinkle in her eyes once more. How he yearned to make amends.

“And—” her father cut in as if uncomfortable being the center of attention “—I am joyfully aware that my darling daughter is a very good dancer.”

Lottie gasped. “Papa!”

“I concur.” Septimus jumped in with a wink, then glanced at the ballroom floor. “As it happens, I spied you dancing the Marquis of Queensberry Medley.” He smiled reassuringly. “If your next dance is not taken, Miss Walcot, would you do me the honor?” Her hesitation to respond didn’t deter him. “Or if you prefer refreshment—”

“No,” she said suddenly.

“No?” He feigned hurt, fighting back his disappointment. It was obvious she didn’t want to be alone with him.

“Charlotta,” Walcot said, grimacing.

“You do not wish to dance?” Septimus asked, hope stirring in his chest that she’d change her mind.

“No.” His gaze riveted itself to her face, and that heated flush colored her cheeks once again. “I mean to say, my next dance is not taken.”

“Capital.” He looked to the professor for his approval. “Provided you give your permission, sir, of course.”

“Certainly,” Walcot decreed. “There’s nothing I would like to see more.”

Septimus offered his arm and waited for Lottie to accept it. “Shall we?” he asked, peering at her intensely. His invitation was a challenge. Would she accept it? Confound him, he was daring her to resist before all and sundry.

Proving she knew they were being observed, she moved gracefully, slipping her arm into his. The instant connection he felt at her touch filled him with buoyancy as he led her into the fray, and the musicians began another waltz.

He swept her into a closed position with an energy and power he didn’t know he possessed as they moved into the flow of the dance. Her expertise had improved tremendously. She matched him step for step, her skirts swirling about their feet, enlivening the spark of excitement that flowed through him at her nearness. Gone was the youthful girl who teased with abandon. Before him stood an intriguing goddess, one he would dearly love to know.

Had it been five years since they’d argued in the garden? “You are a wonderful dancer, Little Lottie.”

“Don’t call me that,” she said, turning her head away.

I am not little anymore. You can’t leave. You promised to take me with you.

He would never forget what she told him the last time they’d spoken. Her anger had cut deep, and yet he had left her. He’d had no choice. He couldn’t take from the professor the only person who mattered to him. And at the time, he’d realized he couldn’t make promises he couldn’t keep when he’d experienced an insufficient amount of the world. His gaze fell to the base of her long neck. Her pulse quickened there. “Why not?”

“Why not what?” she asked curtly.

“Why can’t I call you Little Lottie?”

“My name is Charlotta.”

“Lottie suits you better.” It was the only name he’d ever used when he’d thought of her, and he’d thought of her more than he cared to admit. Out of respect, and perhaps a bit of shame, however, he’d purposefully stayed away from her. At least that had been his plan, until now. He’d taken the tour and dabbled in antiquities, languages, cultures, and counterintelligence before disaster struck his family. His heart thudded in his ears. Excuses did not justify his behavior. He’d been cruel. She would never forgive him for deserting her, and part of him did not blame her. “I will always think of you as my Little Lottie.”

A hot ache grew in his throat as he mourned what could have been. Their gazes locked, and he prayed she couldn’t read his mind as she lifted her chin defiantly. “I told you once, and I will tell you again. I am not your Little Lottie, my lord.”

“Then whose?” he teased, fighting back jealousy.

She glanced away. “I am no one’s Lottie.”

“Yet,” he added.

She stiffened as he twirled her in a faster, lighter rhythm, making him consciously aware of her warmth, the sweetness of her breath, and the facets of light reflecting in her dark eyes. A flicker of apprehension flitted through him as he sensed something beyond their tête-a-tête controlled her. He could see the anxiety in her eyes as she glanced around the ballroom, worrying her lower lip, her stare fastening on doorways and people. What was she afraid of? Or rather, who? Did she suspect her blackmailer would be in attendance? He was determined to find out.

“Have I overstepped my bounds?” he asked, clasping his hand tighter around her waist and molding his fingers to the soft contours of her body.

Her gaze shot to his, and her lips parted, drugging him with their fullness. Her eyelashes fluttered against her cheeks like the wings of a frightened butterfly. “No, I...” The waltz ended. Whatever she was going to say was silenced by their instant parting. “Thank you for the dance, my lord.”

And then she was gone.