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

Chapter Nine

“No one’s secret issafe.”

~ Anon

A fter a night of drinking, Peregrine knocked on Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s office door, then waited for her reply. Tension filled him as footsteps approached and the door opened, revealing the widow’s mountain of a doorman, Titan.

Titan stepped aside and motioned Peregrine in. “She’s been expecting you.”

“Lead the way,” he said, preferring not to have the doorman at his back.

He followed the hulking man through the first anteroom and into the widow’s office. There, Mrs. Dove-Lyon raised a teacup to her lips, as if she had not a care in the world. He knew that to be false. The running of the Lyon’s Den offered her no peace. No business was without its faults.

“What a coincidence,” she said, drawing his attention to the paper on her desk. “I was just reading The Morning Post . It says here that Lord and Lady Steere’s ball was a resounding success. As you were there, I thought you could verify this.”

“It appears so,” he said.

“Do you have anything else to add?” He felt her stare bore through him even through her widow’s veil. “News about my client Miss Walcot, for instance?”

“Yes.” The teacup clattered to its saucer, the only indication of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s uneasiness. The hem of her veil danced slightly as she placed her hands in her lap and waited expectantly for him to continue. “Miss Walcot’s blackmailer found a way to slip another note to her at the ball.”

“In her own home? Tell me. How exactly was this done in the viscount’s presence, without anyone being the wiser or raising a hue and cry?”

“I suspect a woman delivered the note to her in the retiring room.”

“Pfft. And exactly how would you know this?” she queried.

He didn’t appreciate what the widow implied and took his time answering, desiring to prolong the widow’s curiosity. “One minute, she was dancing and the next, incredibly shaken after visiting the retiring room. It could have been anyone, a guest, a servant, but I have my suspicions.”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon sat oddly still, hardened and transcendent, like one of Lord Elgin’s statues. “Well. Don’t delay. Out with it. What, if anything, have you learned?”

“I am many things, but I am not a fool, madam.”

“I never said you were.” She clasped her hands before her. “In fact, I hired you because you aren’t a fool. Unlike the men who frequent this place, you have a brilliant mind. I have always appreciated your sense of honor and integrity, Frost. That is why I asked you to take this case.”

He ignored her glowing praise. “You asked me to take this case because I happened to be in the room at the time of Miss Walcot’s appointment.”

“Think what you may, but I do value your services, in whatever capacity they are offered.” She lowered her head, the veil quivering softly and making him wonder where her thoughts roamed. He’d find out soon enough. “I have before me a tattler’s perception of the ball. Now that we’ve acknowledged your prowess, do you have anything specific to add? Did you, by chance, see this new note?”

“For a moment only,” he said.

“A moment has the power to change everything.” He wondered if she spoke from personal experience but wasn’t given the time to ask. “What did the note say?”

“There is nowhere to hide.”

She harumphed. “Any signature? Demands?”

“It was signed ‘Anon.’” As every note had been endorsed.

“I admit to being astounded. There are still no clues as to what this blackmailer wants. What could that mean?”

He rolled onto the balls of his feet, preparing to unravel his findings. “I have my suspicions.”

“Come. Come, Frost.” Her laughter filled the room. “You are being so vague, one might begin to think you know nothing at all.”

“You weren’t there,” he said, his frustration mounting. “You did not see how frightened Miss Walcot was.”

“And you did?”

“Yes.” He cleared his throat, pushing his feelings for Lottie aside. “You are playing a dangerous game, madam.”

“Me?” She stiffened. Titan took a step closer but stopped when she raised her palm to halt his advance. “You accuse me of playing games?”

“I wanted to believe that you had good intentions.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon was a hard woman, a shrewd businesswoman, but she had a good heart. He’d seen it firsthand in the way she agreed to help those seeking marriages of convenience, in her hiring of war veterans, and in the health and welfare of the ladies who worked for her. “I wanted to help Miss Walcot.”

“And you are helping her,” she insisted. “I distinctly recall you jumped at the chance to do so.”

“Not like this,” he said soberly. “Never like this.”

“Ah. So, the investigator has a heart. Is that it?”

“I could ask you the same . . . Anon.”

Titan took another step forward as the widow shot to her feet. “What are you implying?”

“You know exactly what I mean. The blackmail notes weren’t meant to cause Miss Walcot harm. They were meant to manipulate her.”

“And what brings you to that conclusion? Perhaps the churl is simply biding his time, drawing out the inevitable, so to speak.”

“Only a woman would venture into a retiring room during a ball without fear of being caught and ridiculed, if not dragged out and thrown off the stoop.”

“Balderdash! Any ball can be infiltrated if one is clever.” Any ball? Of course, the widow had experience slipping in and out unnoticed. “The sooner you investigate who did, the better. Unless you already have.”

He glared at Titan, taunting the man to attack. “You never told me that you and the professor had once been very close.”

She stiffened. “Why should I? That is no business of yours. My past is just that—past—and is none of your business.”

He clasped his hands behind his back as Titan scowled. “You’re forgetting something.”

“What?” she asked.

“I saw the note.”

“No. I have not forgotten,” she said smartly. “But I fail to understand what this has to do with me.”

“The envelope bore your seal.”

“Impossible!”

“Is it?” He paced the luxurious carpet. “The seal is a waning moon cradling a rose. And you, Mrs. Dove-Lyon, have modeled everything about the Lyon’s Den on Shakespeare’s A Midsummer’s Night Dream .”

“It’s a popular notion. Not proof that I wrote the notes.”

“Isn’t it? Allow me to theorize. The seal is yours. In A Midsummer’s Night Dream , the waning moon depicts the passage of time, and the rose symbolizes fertility. The handwriting is yours, which explains why you never allowed me to see Miss Walcot’s blackmail notes.”

“As I am the one in charge, I saw no need to involve you further at the time.”

“I have never known you to overlook details,” he said calmly.

“Details often mean the difference between achievement and adversity.” She paused, reaching for the glass dangling from her neck. “Sentiment has no place in business.”

He felt her studying him. “Gossips are never in short supply, and errand boys always return to their providers.” She regarded him silently, and so he went on. “What I cannot determine is why. Why threaten Professor Walcot without making demands? Then it occurred to me, either someone wanted to frighten Miss Walcot or intended to ruin her relationship with her father. That narrowed the field because a true extortionist is unshakable.” He noted the look Titan gave his employer. “This revelation sent me digging deeper for answers.” He shrugged. “Need I remind you, I am quite thorough.” He peered around the widow’s office, cautiously gathering his thoughts. “To this date, I have found no documentation of a Mr. Bertram Walcot ever marrying. In fact, he’d been in Italy for eight months before his daughter was born and learned about his parentage from his brother, Lord Steere, upon his return from Hadrian’s Villa. By then, his wife had died, and Lady Steere had given birth to Miss Steere. I suspect the viscountess was approached by the mother of Mr. Walcot’s child. Rumors still circulate that the child is a product of a liaison between a Miss Dove, a high-end courtesan, and a man of nobility.”

“You, of all people, know the rumor mill cannot be trusted.” The hard-won composure she fought to display finally cracked. “Gossips are everywhere, eager and waiting like hungry sharks to devour Society and bring it to its knees. The world doesn’t care what happens to innocents.”

“Is that the reason you handed your child over to Lady Steere?”

“You have no proof.” She laughed, the sound hollow and tragic, but he had to press on.

“Perhaps a meeting with Mr. Walcot might jar your memory.”

“Very well.” She sighed, then released the glass gripped firmly in her hand, balancing herself against the desk. “I might as well confess.” She sank into the chair as if dragged down by an unseen hand. “What choice did I have? You do not know what a courtesan suffers. We are promised security and devotion only to be discarded at whim. How could I destroy what Bertie and I had made? Though I couldn’t provide for the child in the manner she deserved, I knew Bertie could. He was—is—a good man who spoke highly of his brother and his brother’s wife. When I learned of my condition—” She stiffened and began again. “While I knew they would snub their noses at me, I also understood Lord and Lady Steere would not turn away Bertie’s child.”

A yelp burst forth behind Septimus.

He spun around to see Lottie, condemnation shooting from her shocked face. For the life of him, he would never forget the sight of her standing there in the doorway, a gloved hand pressed to her mouth, eyes wide, her face reddening with anger and humiliation. He’d been so immersed in getting Mrs. Dove- Lyon’s confession and staving off Titan’s attack that he’d failed to hear anyone approach from behind.

“Lottie!” he cried.

“Charlotta!” Mrs. Dove-Lyon shrieked.

How much had she overheard? An ache pierced his chest, and nausea gripped him. He called out to her again, feeling the connection between them severing as she fled the room. “Lottie!” He hadn’t meant for her to find out like this.

But she didn’t stop. She didn’t even look back, giving him no time to explain.

Could he blame her?