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

Chapter Five

“One slip of the tongue is all it will take to seal yourfate.”

~Anon

L ottie deserted the ballroom in haste, shaken and perplexed by Lord Grey. After many boring Seasons and hundreds of dances with eligible gentlemen, her fingers dared to tingle now. Again. Only one man, more of a boy really, had ever conquered her heart: Lord Septimus Grey. What was this hold he had over her? She truly wished to know. After all these years, she’d imagined herself immune to a man’s charms. Yet from the moment she’d put her arm through his and allowed him to escort her to the dance floor, she’d felt like mist floating over a tranquil sea.

He deserted her, but he hadn’t forgotten her. Annoyingly, he’d easily remembered every nuance of their previous lives like it were yesterday, shattering the battlements she’d erected around her heart and denying her the scorn she’d heaped on him over the years. She blamed him for refusing to honor his promise to take her to Egypt and Italy. And she’d been jealous that as a man, he’d had the opportunity to venture to a world she was denied. She’d fancied herself in love with him—until he’d broken her heart.

And yet, here he was, striking a note within her that only his talented touch could ever strum. Nothing persuaded her more than a man who paid attention to details. Lord Grey was such a man.

Needing a moment to gather herself, particularly to calm the slumbering sensations Lord Grey brought to life inside her, she worked her way to the retiring room. Reprehensible! She’d resigned herself to spinsterhood, years dedicated to Papa’s caregiving. Lord Grey’s re-emergence, this fascination with him did not fit into her carefully laid plans.

Oh, why couldn’t he have turned into a toad, or stayed in Egypt, the navy, married, and had children? He was just as available and handsome as he’d been years ago, except now he possessed a manly air as attractive as the promise of adventure and discovering ancient civilizations. His smile and his steady, charismatic stare still affected her, making her feel dizzy, only more so. His voice caressed her spirit like a whispering wind.

Wanton! It was beyond the pale that he should arrive and assault her senses so recklessly when she’d managed to strike him from her mind. And irritatingly inconvenient. She had a scandal to prevent and didn’t have time to repel a courter who awakened her senses.

She eased the door to the retiring room open, delighted to discover that she had the entire chamber to herself. The last thing she needed was to be confronted by a member of the ton whose claim to fame amounted to gossipmongering, matronly topics, matchmaking schemes, or the depth of one’s pockets. None of which mattered to her in the slightest. Knowledge and freedom were the only pleasures she sought.

Moments later, feeling refreshed, she emerged from behind the screen and approached the looking glass to stare at her reflection, vainly wondering if Lord Grey found her advancing maturity appealing. Her face was no longer round but oval. Her cheekbones more defined. The dimple in her chin drew attention to her mouth. She knew this because she caught men staring. And her eyes, they’d had the greatest alteration, turning almost black to fit her mood.

“Oh, what am I doing?” she asked herself, bewildered. Every hair was in place, which wasn’t a surprise. She always looked impeccable no matter how fast or hard her heart raced.

Order out of chaos must always be maintained.

Frustrated by Lord Grey’s lasting influence and her reasons for succumbing to him again, she turned to go, but a flash of white and red on the marble tabletop instantly riveted her attention.

A note!

She froze.

The table had been clear when she’d first entered the room. Curious. Someone must have come into the retiring room after her and placed it there while she was addressing her needs. But why! She gasped with mortification, suddenly realizing she’d not heard the door open and close, the thought of being caught in so vulnerable a position by a messenger rattling her nerves.

Somebody had secretly and purposefully entered the room while she was indisposed and laid the note on the table! Good heavens! Who could it have been? No man would dare—

Ah, but her extortionist would. He or she dared much!

Perhaps her suspicions hadn’t been baseless. She’d had the feeling that she was being followed for weeks. But —she thought, taking heart— perhaps this provided a much-needed clue. Was her blackmailer on her aunt and uncle’s guest list? If so, she would review it later.

She raised the envelope to the candlelight, examining the wax seal. It bore the mark of a waning moon cradling a rose, ruling out the thought that it could be meant for anyone else but her. Paling, she dropped the note, trying to comprehend what was happening. Was her father’s accuser an imbittered woman or a former lover? The alternative couldn’t be borne. What kind of gentleman penetrated the lady’s retiring room?

Her stomach began to churn, and the heat of righteous anger stained her cheeks.

The door opened suddenly, interrupting her musings. She drew herself up to her full height, slipped the note into her bosom, and checked her face before Lady Fielding strode in chatting to her companion. She returned a nod of greeting and exited the room, breathlessly relieved once the door closed behind her. She sank against it, her heart beating at a frantic pace. What was in this note? Another threat? A command? She needed to read it, but she couldn’t risk being seen. Women talked. Notes slipped to ladies at balls suggested a tryst in the making. An event no proper woman dared expose herself to in such a manner, least of all Lottie.

She should retire to her bedchamber, the only safe place to read the note. But before she could do that, she’d have to seek out Thenie’s help and get her cousin to provide excuses to her aunt and uncle, so they needn’t worry about her. Yes. That was the wisest course of action, though it grieved her to involve Thenie. She’d been warned against it, and she was trying her utmost to protect her cousins, preferring they remained ignorant of her suffering.

Stepping away from the door, it finally dawned on her that the once darkened corridor now blazed with glittering light. Did this mean that whoever had waited to deliver the note knew where she was going and when? How was such a thing possible?

She borrowed the wall for support as her knees began to quake, unable to fathom the scope of her blackmailer’s abilities. Her mouth was parched, her stomach in upheaval, her head pained with a thousand thoughts.

“May I be of service, Miss Walcot? You do not look well.”

It was him. Lord Grey! His figure filled the hallway, the safe harbor of his broad shoulders and strong arms an enticement to her battered soul. His soothing voice and the promise of protection turned her legs to pudding. “I am quite well,” she managed to say before her legs crumpled beneath her. “Oh dear!”

He caught her, sweeping her close to his torso and surrounding her with his unyielding embrace, the sudden impact stealing her breath. “What has happened?”

“Put me down,” she demanded, looking down the hallway to make sure no one had witnessed his actions. “This is most improper.”

“Is it?” He stood her upright, then glanced up and down the hall before taking her by the arm and steering her into Lord Steere’s library. He ushered her inside, closing the door behind them, and locked it. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, when only moments ago, you flourished in my arms like spring flowers.”

He had to remind her of the garden, the place they’d last argued. Unbeknownst to him, she felt like a withering plant now, denied oxygen. Nevertheless, she could not confess that to Lord Grey. He wasn’t the sort of man a woman confided in. He heard heartfelt desires, pledged to make them come true, and then crushed them. If he discovered what was happening to her father, his opinion of Papa—and of her, as much as she wished otherwise—would be altered forever.

It didn’t matter what happened to her. But Lord Grey respected her father, and she couldn’t allow Papa’s image to be tarnished, especially by a man with enough influence to sever her father’s ties to the British Museum once and for all. Whatever her father had embroiled himself in, she couldn’t—wouldn’t—involve one of his former students.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon was the answer. She had to be. She had generously offered her services. So whatever Lottie did from this moment on, she mustn’t be rash. She had to be patient. She had to trust the Black Widow of Whitehall. Nevertheless, it felt like her life and the promise of what was to come sifted from her grasp like sand in an hourglass.

“It is nothing.” She lied, humbling herself in the hope he wouldn’t see past her ruse. She abhorred liars and disarming gossips. Nevertheless, burdened by the depths to which she’d sunk since receiving the first of many blackmail letters, her shoulders sagged under the strain.

“Something is definitely afoot,” he said with great care. “I can see it in your eyes.”

Prodded by his comforting tone, she looked down at the slippers poking out from her hem, remembering that first time they’d met in a library quite like this. “Perhaps, I am merely exhausted. I am not used to dancing.”

“You are no simpering wallflower. The astonishing creature I once knew feared nothing and no one, not even me.” He reached out to touch her chin, but she backed away. He wasn’t discouraged. He crept closer, a smile turning up the corners of his mouth. “By the by, you dance well. I always knew you’d be a wonderful dancer. Your sensual movements—”

“My—” She gasped. “My lord.” Blinking back surprise, she glanced around the library to make sure no one had overheard him. She lowered her voice, eager to rid herself of the emotions he stirred within her. “You shouldn’t speak in such a way.” The particular words he chose made her toes curl in her slippers. How was she to stand or walk? She adjusted the hem of her gown to hide her feet. “This conversation isn’t proper.”

And yet his endearments meant the world to her damaged pride, opening the door to her battered heart.

“I am only being truthful. I thought...since we have known each other many years—”

“Whatever you thought, you are wrong in daring to think it, my lord.” She fought to keep sound judgment in her tone and disillusionment out of it. What right did she have to begrudge Lord Grey’s exploration of the world? “The passage of time changes people and places.”

And now they were basically strangers, standing face-to-face in an empty room at a ball, unchaperoned. Oh, she was all too aware of how that intimacy could be construed by anyone who might happen upon them.

Something had to be done to prevent any future misunderstanding.

“In fact, I don’t understand how you can claim to know me at all,” she argued. “Least of all to allege we were once friends. If memory serves, you wanted to take advantage of your freedom, to have nothing to do with me.” Her heartbeat thundered, and her breathing grew difficult as he held her stare, and the tension between them mounted. His very essence enticed her, and she fought the urge to throw herself into his embrace, to tell him she’d dreamed of this moment over the years. “I must go,” she said sharply.

Truth be told, she was frightened. Petrified of what the future held for Papa, considering the threatening notes she received. And her life was tied to his. When this nightmare finally came to an end and humiliating scandal quaked the ground beneath their feet, Lord Grey’s endearments and kindnesses would fade as quickly as the vows he’d once made her. He would be forced to admit to never having made their acquaintance because of the system he and other members of Society doggedly followed.

“You do not have to go,” he said softly, his tone a satisfying plea that called to her heart. The battle raging within her became harder to fight as he went on. “You can confide in me. If you are in any sort of trouble, I can help.”

But he couldn’t. She knew that now. She’d cast aside every prejudice and put her trust in the Black Widow of Whitehall. Mrs. Dove-Lyon was the only person Lottie could afford to let into her isolated world.

“You are too kind,” she said, “but there really is no need to be so amiable. As I said, we barely know each other. I am well. Truly. Pray, do not concern yourself.”

She moved to pass him, but he gently caught her by the upper arm. He leaned in, his voice thick and unsteady. “I would never do anything to disparage your character or that of your father. My debt to him cannot be repaid, and my heart aches for what you and I have lost. If ever you need a friend, I offer my services with the very best of intentions, and humbly so.” He released her, and she made her way to the door, flustered and breathless, her body and mind awhirl with questions that brokered no answers. “Remember what I said, Little Lottie.”

“My name,” she said, trying to rein in the beat of her heart—every effort to separate herself from the remembrances of his boyish charm, the nickname he’d given her, and his ultimate rejection weighing her down like an anvil—“is Charlotta.”

But she couldn’t enforce the disconnection as memories flooded her.

Miss Henry, once her governess, had quit for the day, so she’d sought fresh air outdoors, venturing to her usual spot in the shade of their functional garden to wait for Lord Grey’s return. He found her there on his way to examine Papa’s antiquity collection. Whistling jovially up the walk, he came to a stop before her, then tipped his hat, looking like he’d swallowed a frog. She quickly shut Diana , the book she’d borrowed from Miss Henry, feeling quite guilty and unlike herself and suddenly unsure what to say. One emotion—fear—plagued her like no other. The sense he’d come to say goodbye.

“Aren’t you too young to be reading pastoral romance, Little Lottie?” he asked, making light of a situation that seemed dark and despairing. No one had ever shortened her name before, not even Papa! And she liked it. Oh, how she liked it but dared not admit it even though it infuriated her to be reminded that she was not Lord Grey’s equal. Size should not matter when she was just as intelligent as him.

“I may be three years younger than you are, Lord Septimus Grey, and a foot shorter,” she hastened to add, “but I am just as strong-willed and capable as you or any other man, and you know it.”

“Are you?” He lowered his hand to her. She stared at it, unsure what to do, desiring to throw herself into his arms and beg him to stay or to take her with him. The mixed signals he provided—avoiding her gaze, his feet braced for battle as he waited for her to act—called for all the bravado she could summon. “I don’t want you to be like me or any other man,” he said softly, his voice stroking her fractured pride, his stare locking with hers. “You are perfect the way you are.”

Butterflies labored inside her as a hailstorm began to rage. She rose to her feet, unaided, every muscle in her body ready to pounce. “If I am as perfect as you say, then honor your promise and take me with you.”

“I cannot.” His eyes misted before he quickly looked away. Why, he couldn’t even look her in the eyes when he said it. Blast him! “But I will take you with me in my heart. I will always remember you as the sweet young woman, head down in a book, who taught me the meaning of sacrifice. For it is a good and caring nature you have. And I want you to keep it. I would only crush it.”

“How dare you!” she shouted. If he never meant to keep his vow, why had he promised to take her with him in the first place? He had allowed her to dream, to imagine, to desire a life she’d never known, and by Society’s standards would now never know. One of equality, freedom, and adventure. He’d stolen her one chance like a grave robber breaking into an unearthed tomb. “I know my own heart.”

“Little Lottie.”

Nothing he said or did could charm her now. “Charlotta,” she’d said defensively What right did he have to change her name after choosing to take the tour without her? “My name is Charlotta.”

“Little Lottie suits you better.” He reached for her, pulling her into his arms, kissing her lips with an urgency that nearly made her swoon. “And that is how I shall always remember you,” he said, grinning ear to ear. “Unpredictable. Passionate. Loyal to a fault.” He kissed her again, and then, when she least expected it, left her standing in the garden alone, her lips anguishing over his absence.

She had not forgotten how he’d trespassed over her heart and left deep ruts in the landscape of her emotions. She was not little or insignificant. She’d wanted to be his equal. And blast her, when she’d repeated the scene to her cousin and her cousin’s younger sisters, they’d insisted on using the name Lottie ever since.

Oh, why had he come back? Why was he making promises she knew he wouldn’t keep? And why, for all that was holy, did she want to believe him with every fiber of her being? Reaching for the library latch, she glanced over her shoulder, hoping this time Lord Grey wouldn’t dissolve into the woodwork.

“If you ever need me—”

“Where were you when I needed you most?” she asked.

“I can explain,” he said. “When you are ready to listen.” He grinned that same stylish smile she remembered all too well but feared she might never witness again. “I won’t be far, Little Lottie.”

Against her wishes, warmth flooded her soul. Oh, how she’d dreamed of Lord Grey coming back into her life and what she would say, think, and do in that instance. He’d far exceeded her expectations in gentlemanly behavior, wit, and looks. His devil-may-care attitude gave her hope that her censure didn’t repulse him. Unlike the gentlemen in past balls that she’d sparred with before, he gave as good as he got.

Why? Had Papa put him up to this?

Seething with anger, if that were the case, and something else that pulsed in her blood, she fought the temptation to stay with him there. With a sigh of regret, she unlocked the door and opened it, slipping quietly into the corridor, praying no one saw her skulk about as if she was guilty of participating in a secret dalliance.

Fortunately, she found herself quickly engulfed by a crowd making their way to supper. Thenie was among them and caught hold of her, smiling sweetly.

“Where have you been?” Thenie asked, linking arms.

“I...” The note branded her breast, reminding her that every frivolity and cherished moment with her cousins could not hold back the tide. “I—”

“It doesn’t matter. Only that you missed my dance with Lord Boothe.” Thenie’s face lit up brilliantly, her broad smile assuring Lottie that their interaction had been extremely pleasant.

She squeezed Thenie’s hand excitedly. “And?”

“He’s such a gentleman.” Her cousin sighed contentedly. “And a delightful dancer.”

“Yes. He is very light of foot,” she added comically. One could not fault the man for trying not to step on a lady’s toes.

“Please, don’t tease. I am very fond of him, Lottie.”

She tried again to disguise her annoyance, glancing over her shoulder to see whether Lord Grey had emerged from the library. The crush around her, however, prevented her from making such an observation. “I would never make light of any of your obsessions,” she said lovingly. “Indeed, I am thrilled to hear that Lord Boothe asked you to dance.”

“And what of you?” Thenie implored. “You seem quite enamored with Lord Grey. I’ve never seen your face light up the way it does in his presence.”

She fought back a frown. Thank goodness her cousin didn’t know about the library. “Don’t be nonsensical. What you noted was a flush of exertion. The candlelight from the chandeliers and lusters radiating heat in the crush.”

“You are mocking me again,” Thenie complained. “You forget that I know you better than anyone. To date, I have never seen you react to any other gentleman the same way.”

She stiffened, unwilling to allow herself to spend another five years nursing her wounded pride. “And I dare say you never shall.”