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

Chapter Ten

“Who will marry younow?”

~ Anon

W eeks passed, dawn and dusk rising and setting seemingly without end. Lottie concealed her sorrow as best as she could, engaging in balls, musicales, and dinner parties with her cousins, the loss of all she’d held dear weighting her shoulders. At night, as she’d done years before, she smothered her tears in her pillow. Each day she pasted a smile on her face and played her part, unwilling to reveal what she’d overheard that night at the Lyon’s Den. It was too far-fetched. Mrs. Dove-Lyon was her mother? She almost couldn’t believe it herself. And to speak of it... Well, saying that she was a courtesan’s daughter would swiftly put an end to Papa’s illustrious career.

And it would also mean admitting that she’d been at the infamous gambling hell, not once but twice. Doing so jeopardized what little social grace she had left, if that was possible.

Who would marry her now? She was a by-blow, the product of a liaison between a courtesan and a gentleman, her parents’ marriage never taking place. She’d been lied to by Papa, deceived by her aunt and uncle. There was no one to trust, nowhere to turn.

It was too much to be borne.

She went through the motions, hardly tasting the food she ate or caring what book she read. Trips to the British Museum failed to soothe her spirits. She couldn’t even find solace in her memories because they did not hold up to reality. In fact, Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s confession made her question everything that had happened in her life, including the depths of her own intelligence. She who’d given so much credence to logic and reason now felt deserted by both.

There was nothing left to do but stumble through life and go through the motions, knowing the two things she’d always wanted—a mother and Lord Grey’s love—were forever out of reach. Numb and despairing, she counted time in weeks, hours, and minutes, praying for the moment the Season ended, and she could return to Cambridge and her self-imposed isolation.

What would she do there? No doubt waste away.

She couldn’t go on without making herself sick. What little food she could hold down kept her barely nourished.

Oh, why had life dealt her one terrible blow after another? Surely even Fate couldn’t be this cruel.

She should have known Lord Grey could not be trusted, that he would disappoint her again. Had Lord Grey and her mother been working together all along or had Lord Grey stumbled upon the information surrounding her birth and confronted her mother on his own?

In either case, that wasn’t love. Love did no harm. It healed and nurtured. What kind of woman gave away her own flesh and blood? How could a man’s grief be so convincing? Was Papa unaware that his courtesan still lived? Or had her parents artfully dodged the ton , content in their secrecy and lies?

The answer hit her squarely in the face. She would soon find out.

She unfolded the note her mother had sent, requesting they meet at Vauxhall Gardens.

Meet me at Vauxhall. Allow me to put things right.

Mother

She stuffed the note back inside her reticule, curious as to what her mother would say. What more could she say? Nothing made up for the years lost between them. Still, Lottie wasn’t a fool. She understood the Rules of Society and how the unforgiving and unrelenting ton would never have allowed a romance between her father and mother to continue. Loving someone outside your class constituted a crime.

Her breath caught, a sob threatening to burst forth. How could she believe a single word that came out of her mother’s mouth? Or Lord Grey for that matter. How could he look her in the eyes and beg her to trust him again after everything he had done? She’d caught him confronting her mother, hardly knowing his real motivations. And the way he’d appeared. Why, he’d been dressed just like the poor beggar she’d seen in her mother’s office the first time she’d gone there, although cleaner. Saints preserve her! Nothing explained Lord Grey’s disguise, the feelings he stirred within her even now, or why she agreed to meet the woman who’d never wanted her.

She sank back in the squabs, certain she’d lost her mind as the carriage traveled on. She placed her hand over her heart. Anger had blinded her for weeks, the shocking news about her mother still being alive and living as a madam coiling around her like an undertow. If Lord Grey had confronted her mother about her duplicity and schemes, no fault lay with him, did it? Was it possible that he had uncovered the truth, that he did care about her underneath the disguise?

A spark of hope ignited in her breast.

No. No. No! She couldn’t allow it. Her aunt and uncle had done their best, trying to protect her, loving her, and treating her like one of their own daughters. She had beautiful cousins, as dear as any sisters could ever be. Her father had taken responsibility for his actions and raised her alone, providing her with an education she would never have received had Mrs. Dove-Lyon kept her. She was not poor and destitute, dependent on a man’s income and charity—like a courtesan. No matter her origins, her complaints were few. She’d been given a good life, a life any mother would want for her child.

She opened the curtain and gazed out the window, the differences between the life she lived and the one that she could have had evident in the faces of those they passed in the East End. The Thames came into view, flowing toward the sea, as she made her way to Vauxhall.

In Cambridge, she’d dreamed of exploration, unable to perceive that her formidable adventure had begun the day she’d been born. She was a courtesan’s daughter, the daughter of the Black Widow of Whitehall. What could be more scandalous than that?

The threat of being exposed haunted her. Even if she chose to marry in haste to gain protection, who would want her now? And if she did marry, how long could she pretend to be something she wasn’t before her husband discovered the truth? She would not destroy a man’s reputation to save her own.

She let the curtain drop. What was to become of her?

By the time the carriage rolled to a stop at the long drive on Westminster Bridge, Lottie wondered if she’d gone mad. Certainly, she must be out of her mind if she’d agreed to meet her mother in such a public and risqué place. She wanted— no, she needed—closure. She needed to hear from her mother’s own lips why she’d abandoned her, and this invitation to parlay provided her a means to get that resolution.

The coachman lowered the steps and opened the carriage door for her. “Vauxhall, Miss.”

“Thank you, Dobbs, I shan’t be long. I do not intend to stay.”

“Very well, Miss,” he answered.

Straightening her spine, she made her way through the coach entrance to the rendezvous point, adding another scandalous notch to her quiver. She was dressed in a cloak to hide her features, and she’d come without a chaperone. One advantage did not necessarily profit the other.

She didn’t know why her mother had chosen Vauxhall as the place for their first meeting. Perhaps more opportunities for anonymity were available in the temples, crosswalks, and rotundas scattered throughout the buildings and groves. The crush, glass lamp display, and concerts gave Vauxhall its allure.

Her nerves sharpened and expecting disaster at every turn, she pushed on, making her way to the curb, where a large man she recognized from the Lyon’s Den approached. He was accompanied by a woman. “Miss Walcot,” he quietly said. “She predicted you’d come alone and arranged for us to see to your safety.”

How did her mother know that she’d come alone? Her pounding heart skipped a beat. It was almost as if her mother cared about propriety and her safety. Surely, she was mistaken. Her mother ran the Lyon’s Den. During a recent conversation with Lady Steere, her aunt had confessed that her mother had longed to provide Lottie with a better life. But hearsay alone could not restore the loss Lottie had endured or the guilt she’d borne for the past twenty-four years, thinking that she had caused her mother’s death.

“Thank you,” she said, quickly shelving her inhibitions. Titan and the other woman who worked for her mother were not to blame for her parentage.

“Follow me,” Titan said.

She did as he bade her, following her two chaperons through the long walk and then detouring into a thick maze of shrubbery that led to a secluded pergola.

Titan motioned for her to step underneath it. “Wait here.”

Like a lamb led to slaughter, she obeyed. “Are you certain this is where—”

When she turned around to question the Den’s guardian further, she saw that her two chaperones had vanished, leaving her standing awkwardly alone. Fear gripped her, a cold dread tightening around her throat as footsteps approached. She stepped back into the shadows and waited, not knowing if she was about to come face to face with her mother or a stranger out to do her harm. Ruffians were known to take advantage of those unawares at Vauxhall.

“Mrs. Dove-Lyon?” a voice called out. Shadows crossed her eyes. She recognized that voice. It was Lord Grey. “I know you are there. Come out.”

Immediately, she was seized by a different emotion—anger. She was supposed to be meeting her mother and getting the answers she sought. So why was Lord Grey there? Why now? Had he been following her again? The gall! His presence would ruin any chance she had of conversing with her mother. No. She didn’t have time for this. He had to go.

She stepped out of the gloom and into the light before Lord Grey ruined everything. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

Lord Grey whipped around to face her. His furrowed brow and deep frown implied he was just as unhappy about being near her as she was about him. “What are you doing here?” He glanced around, searching the darkness. “Are you alone? Where is your chaperone?”

She lifted her chin, hoping to appear stronger than she felt. “I am waiting for my mother, though that is no concern of yours.”

“But it is. I am supposed to be meeting the widow. Here. Now.”

What did he mean by that? Surely, his information was wrong. “I do not believe you,” she said coldly. Why would her mother arrange to meet Lord Grey at the same time she was supposed to meet Lottie?

“See for yourself,” he said, producing a note with the same seal and handwriting as she had received.

Meet me at Vauxhall. Allow me to put things right.

“I don’t understand.” Shocked, she reached into her reticule and produced her note. “I received one just like yours.”

She stared at the paper, her longing and frustration mounting. Her mother had never had any intention of coming to Vauxhall. The Black Widow of Whitehall had played with her heart yet again, denying her the clarification she needed, lifting her hopes on a tide of flotsam and jetsam and dashing them against the rocks.

“She never meant to meet either of us,” she admitted forlornly. A sob tore from her throat. She made a dash to the ivy-covered rotunda column, desperate to hide her shame.

“Stay,” Lord Grey said, gently taking her by the upper arm to stop her. He pried the note from her clenched hand. “If it is any consolation, I had no idea why she wanted to meet me after I told her I would never work for her again.”

“What?” Her gaze tilted to his, her thoughts spiraling. “Why did you ever work for her?”

He removed his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. “I suppose I needed something to call my own, a method of helping my fellows.”

“Helping?” She sniffled. “Is that what you call it?”

“I’d set my sights on aiding the war effort, but the sudden death of my father and then my brother prevented that. The barony fell to me,” he said so decidedly. “When I returned from Egypt to take my brother’s place, I knew I would not be content managing an estate. I wanted more excitement, more intellectual stimulation, more—”

“Adventure,” she finished for him, feeling connected to him unlike ever before.

“Exactly. And the only way to achieve my desires was to disguise myself and use my mind, skills, and methods of deduction. Previously, no amount of cajoling convinced boyhood friends to stop gambling their fortunes away. I had no choice but to purposefully intervene. To plead their cases with Mrs. Dove-Lyon, making deals on their behalf, hunting them down when they refused to settle their debts, and in some cases, convince them to agree to the widow’s matchmaking ventures. I suppose at some point, the thrill of playing cat and mouse and the mystery involved became an elixir I couldn’t resist.”

His confession touched her deeply, and yet, it did not explain why he’d broken her heart—again. “But I do not understand. Are you saying you’ve been leading two separate lives?”

“Yes. And I did not realize how depraved I had become until the first time I saw you in your mother’s office.” He reached into his coat. She observed him inquisitively, feeling more connected to him than ever before, even though she didn’t trust him. “I couldn’t believe my eyes, my luck. I convinced myself you were not real. That it couldn’t be true. Then I heard the Black Widow of Whitehall say your name, and there was no doubt in my mind that you were my Little Lottie.” He sighed heavily as if the weight of the world sat upon his shoulders as he placed a piece of fabric into her palm—her handkerchief. “You dropped this.”

“How could I have been so blind?” She blinked, feeling a surge of tenderness for him as the final pieces of this entire fiasco fell into place. “I should have recognized you.” She swallowed thickly, a mixture of agitation and enthrallment taking hold as she unwrapped the lace handkerchief.

“Not being recognized is preferable in my line of work. It takes some doing, but a bit of fake hair, method of dress, and a change in posture tricks the eye, making it almost impossible to spot someone you know as long as they don’t look you in the eyes.”

She’d been mortified that day to be caught in the Lyon’s Den. It had taken her weeks to get up the nerve to approach the Black Widow of Whitehall. And when the beaten and filthy beggar had entered her office, stealing Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s attention, prolonging her agony, and increasing the risk to her reputation, she feared the encounter would be the end of her.

But what caring soul ignored a poor man’s plight?

She’d gazed deeply into Lord Grey’s eyes, searching for the boy she’d once known and loved, the untouchable scholar, the youth who’d grown into a beast of a lord, conquering her heart once more.

Memories flooded her, tremulous and dizzying, heating her inside and out.

“I have kept your handkerchief with me ever since you dropped it, Little Lottie.”

Light infiltrated the caverns of her lonely soul. “Why didn’t you tell me who you were then? Or at the ball? You had plenty of opportunities.” Nothing could make up for his deceit, but she yearned for an explanation that made sense, one that would soften the blow to her pride. “You never once—”

“How could I?” he asked, his voice a husky caress. “I understand the courage it had taken for you to go to the Lyon’s Den, and I knew I had to do everything in my power to help you. No matter the case or danger.”

Her heart clenched cruelly. “I suppose the inferiority of my birth, the suggestion of impropriety—”

“Never!” He grabbed both of her hands and drew them to his chest. “I did not know who your mother was then. My agony lay in the past, on that day in the garden when I broke my vow to a haughty girl who gave as good as she got.”

Tears welled in her eyes, sadness and elation warring within her and leaving her breathless.

“Don’t look at me that way. It isn’t what you think.” He smiled a hypnotizing smile, the carefree reaction not reaching his eyes. “Life is never simple. Sometimes hard choices have to be made.” He paused and swallowed, his throat bobbing curiously as if a gale of indecision stormed inside him. What had come over him? “You were my professor’s daughter, and we were very young. How could I, in good conscience, destroy your father’s opinion of me by encouraging his daughter’s affections? How could I take you away without destroying the man who introduced me to Rome, Egypt, and Aesop?”

“Aesop?”

He nodded. The air fizzled and crackled with tension as thousands of gas lamps illuminated the area with sudden profusion, and musicians played Hayden in the distance, turning what used to be a wasteland into a dreamy paradise. Lord Grey’s nearness and the cheerful scented air awakened Lottie’s senses. Light danced off beautiful crimson and yellow flowers blooming in profusion. The aromas of food and drink teased her nostrils. “All these years,” she said entertained, “I thought you had rejected me.”

“You thought I didn’t care?” His astonishment was unmistakable.

“No,” she said, the lie abhorrent to her own ears. “What I mean to say is... I...”

“I never forgot you,” he professed. “I saw you every time I looked into your father’s eyes. When I entered a library, I had to fight the urge to search it top to bottom for you. I saw you in every garden. Thought about you throughout my studies. When I took the tour, I imagined myself seeing Rome, Spain, and France through your eyes. You haunted me in Egypt and the halls of the Admiralty, and I threw myself into the war effort and counterintelligence to diminish the guilt that shook my bones.”

“Why?” she asked.

He shrugged. “We were at war.”

His straightforward answer made the turmoil she’d experienced seem absurd.

“You could have written to me.” She shook her head. “Explained all of this.”

“Five years had come and gone since I’d last seen you, and my life was not my own. I imagined you were happily married with several children in tow. Out of respect for your father, I truly believed you deserved a loftier position in life than I could provide as a second son with no prospects. A woman needs a stable home, Little Lottie, not a wayfaring existence.”

“My lord, you do not know me at all,” she confided. “If you did, you would know that I do not want to live in an ivory tower. I long to travel and experience life, to explore, to see the things you have seen. That is all I have ever wanted since I began reading Papa’s journals.” She raised her hand and cupped his face, saddened to know that in trying to protect her and Papa, he’d denied himself the love she could have given him. And yet, here he was, looking down at her as if no time had passed at all, all their misery forgotten. “You are the only man I have ever loved.”

“I don’t understand,” he said, his voice gruff and uneven. “I thought you hated me.”

“I was humiliated that day,” she admitted. “You had caught me reading again. Except this time, I was reading Diana. I’d only borrowed the novel from Miss Henry to understand my emotions. And... and you teased me for it.”

“Yes. I remember,” he said. “But I thought you were angry with me because I called you Little Lottie.”

“I was angry and jealous.” She shook her head, sadly, fearing they would always be at sixes and sevens if she admitted everything that plagued her heart. “I was angry that you’d caught me reading pastoral romance and jealous that you were going to live the life I could never have. I lashed out at you, never meaning to push you away.”

“None of it makes sense to me even now.” He laid his hand over hers, drawing it down his cheek. “I still love you, Lottie. Or would you prefer me to call you Charlotta?”

He still loves me! She lifted her face to his, her mouth but a hairsbreadth away. “Little Lottie is quite acceptable,” she said, hoping he would kiss her. “But only when you are intensely happy.”

“I am happy,” he said, brushing his mouth over hers and crushing her to him. He tasted like whisky and wine as he coaxed her into opening her mouth. She quivered in his arms as their tongues waltzed a dance as old as time. He was solid and large like the oaks in Cambridge, hot to the touch like plants on a sunny day, and like moisture nourishing hungry roots, his kisses brought her to life.

“Little Lottie,” he drew back to say, allowing her to catch her breath. “What kind of fool am I? Why have I wasted so much time?”

“We both told ourselves lies.” Powerful relief filled her, and her voice shook as she confessed the longings of her heart. “You are here. Now. The past is gone, but the future looms before us.”

“I love you.” He caressed her cheeks, his touch, his kiss, tapping into the well of passion she’d suppressed far too long. Blood surged from the tips of her fingers to her toes. His mouth was firm, demanding, and a heady sensation swept over her, persuading her to beg for more as he raised his mouth from hers and looked into her eyes. “I have always loved you, Little Lottie.”

She quivered with ecstasy, teary-eyed and grateful to her mother for arranging this interlude with the man she thought lost to her forever. His lips brushed her brow, and her heart fluttered wildly in her breast. She passionately confessed, “I love you, too, my lord.”

“Perhaps it’s time you call me, Septimus. Unless you prefer Peregrine or Frost.”

“Neither,” she said, her soul melting into his. “Frost sounds cold, though I understand the reason for picking it for your line of work. And Peregrine should be saved for the chase.”

He kissed the tip of her nose. “Does this mean—”

“I am yours—always. And I give you permission to continue working with my mother.” She molded her body to his, feeling as if she could take on the world. “She needs someone like you to bring her clients happy endings like ours. I have much to begrudge my mother for, but not this. Not you. Not us. She is a real matchmaker. After all,” she confided, “she did manage to bring us back together.”

His gaze traveled over her. He pulled her closer, then whispered in her hair as happy tears slid down her face. “You are a wise woman.”

She gloried in the feel of him, absorbing his heat, her heart taking a perilous leap with each breath. All reluctance to trust Septimus gone, she circled her arms around him, feeling disturbingly vulnerable but more alive than ever before. “When I am with you, Septimus, I believe I can do anything, be anyone.”

“I will not ask you to change for me.” Her pulse quickened. “You are perfect the way you are,” he said. “My lady. My adventurer. My clever, kind, sharp-witted lioness.”

A delightful shiver of desire coursed through her. “What are you suggesting?”

“I want it all, Little Lottie. You. Marriage. Children. I am ready. Are you?”

His lips touched hers, and a delicious sensation pooled in her belly. Drugged by his kisses and the burning desire awakening inside her, she kissed him back, savoring this moment, one of the firsts she knew she would cherish for the rest of her life.