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

Chapter Eleven

“Those who cry the loudest are not always the ones who are hurt themost.”

~ Aesop

A fortnight later, they were married in a lovely morning ceremony. Lottie was so happy, she could cry. All was in harmony on this blessed day. Everyone important to them attended. Thenie and Lord Boothe. Augusta and Delphi. Lord and Lady Steere. And Papa, his reputation no longer threatened by blackmailers. Only one thing could make the day more complete—the presence of her mother. She had no idea how a meeting between them would go, but she vowed that one day she would come face to face with Mrs. Dove-Lyon and learn more about herself. After all, without her mother’s matchmaking skills, she might never have found happiness with Septimus.

She slipped into Lady’s Steere’s parlor to catch her breath and come to grips with how much her life had changed in so short a time. How much it would shift when she and Septimus finally traveled together. The thought of being alone with Septimus for the first time, of him making her his, thrilled her exceedingly. Love conquered all things, didn’t it?

“I never wanted the past to taint the direction of your life, Charlotta,” Lady Steere said, the swish of her skirts announcing her presence as she entered the room. “No matter what we face in life, we must always move forward, continue living for another day. What we count as loss is most often what strengthens us most.”

Lottie smiled, her gaze steadily encountering her aunt’s. “I am beginning to see that now.”

“And are you happy?” her aunt asked with a slight tinge of wonder.

She glanced down at her embroidered white gown. A sprig of green ribbon decorated her bosom, and another was pinned around her bodice. She raised her hand to watch her gold wedding band flicker in the window’s morning light. “Yes,” she said, chuckling and feeling as light as a feather. “More than I ever dreamed possible.”

A wedding , her mother had said, was for the bride and groom, not someone whose presence would create a spectacle, drawing attention away from the happy couple, and not for the right reasons.

She swallowed back her disappointment that her mother had not made an appearance, suddenly aware that Lady Steere held something in her hands. It was an extravagantly decorated box with various patterns of inlaid wood and ivory. Her aunt glided forward, ever graceful and grand as Lottie had ever seen her. “This gift was delivered for you.”

“What is it?” she asked, her eyes widening. “Lord Grey has already given me—”

“Open it and find out.” Lady Steere handed her the box and then the key.

Lottie unlocked the box and slowly opened the lid. Inside, a bundle of letters were stacked neatly together and tied with ribbon. “I have had more than enough notes from strangers to last a lifetime.”

“These are not what you think. They are your mother’s letters. She sent them several times a year from the day she delivered you to us to last Christmas—and today.”

“I cannot.” Slowly, she closed the lid. “Not today.”

Her aunt reached for her hand and led her to the settee. They sat down together, Lottie cradling the box in her lap. “You do not understand.”

“But I do. And so will you.” She reached into the box and retrieved a letter postmarked several days ago. “This is a day of new beginnings. What better way to start your new life than to understand the one you’re leaving behind?” Her aunt unfolded the foolscap and urged her to take it from her hands.

Lottie began to read the handsome script, swallowing hard to control the glut of emotions surging through her.

Whitehall, 1814

My darling girl,

Today marks the beginning of a new life for you, one I’ve always dreamed of for you, and a better one than I ever imagined. Lord Grey will be a good husband, just as your father would have been. To understand this comparison, let me tell you a story.

I was a young woman from a gentle family and immediately drawn to your father. He shared his plans, dreams, and hopes with me. I do not remember when they became mine, but we fell deeply and madly in love. Me, hoping to be more than I was, and your father, the charismatic scholar, the both of us foolishly believing in happy endings. I will not go into the reasons I chose such a life. I knew what I was—am—a courtesan, forced to make that choice when I arrived in London. I expect no sympathy from you. I chose my path and yet...I loved your father with every fiber of my being. And out of that love came you. I did not know I was pregnant until your father had sailed to Italy to begin work on Hadrian’s Villa. I had no way of knowing when he would return, and so, I kept the child from our coupling, refusing to end my pregnancy as advised by my fellow courtesans who knew various methods of preventing such disruptions in their lives. I dearly missed your father and longed for him to come back and make things right. And still, he didn’t return. You were the purest form of our love, a part of us that I could not destroy any more than I could deny military veterans or women in trouble.

Time passed. When I could no longer hide my inconvenience, a friend took me in, providing me the opportunity to thrive, to know and love you first, as I had no other. Your father, Bertie, is a good man. He always has been. But therein lay the problem. Bertie is a gentleman, a viscount’s second son. I was a courtesan, unmarriageable, scandalized.

Your father had ambitions, dreams I could not steal from him. Yes, I could have written to him while he was in Rome and explained your existence, but word had just reached me that they’d unearthed Herakles . How could I rob him of the connections this archeological dig created and the prestige that followed? That would have been entirely selfish on my part.

And so, I devised a plan to provide you with a gentle life and saw it through until the end. I was determined. I do not regret handing you over to Lady Steere. She had just had her own child, and I knew she could provide for you until your father returned. Little did I know how hard it would be to let you go, however.

But I digress. Bertie returned from Rome, then tried to see me for years. It was I who turned him away, and for his own good. I’d moved on, made a life with Lord Lyon, permanently severing any connection between us. For Bertie’s sake. For your sake. This way, no one could ever question your lineage. But that does not mean I ever stopped loving you. I watched. Waited. Wondered. Every second spent apart from you, costlier than the last, was a pressing wound that never healed.

When you refused to marry, I worried you would be forced to make a decision that would ruin any future with prospective suitors. Someone had to step in to make sure the past did not repeat itself. I could not bear the thought of it.

Then I met Lord Grey, or rather Peregrine Frost. I do not do business with anyone without knowing every detail about them first. Frost had talents, useful skills, honor, desire, and determination. He was like your father in so many ways, craving adventure, but through events beyond his control, he was forced to return to England. Social conventions and hereditary expectations prevented him from finishing his naval commission. With nothing else to occupy his time, he began investigatory work with his primary focus being the poor souls in the overcrowded East End.

Disguised, of course.

I lured him to the Den, providing him with a safer method of pursuing his goals. One night, I got him drunk, and he finally admitted his one regret. He wasn’t married, had never been, because of a young girl named Lottie. He’d inherited a barony, served our country with distinction, as several of my employees have. As I said, I make it my business to know everything about everyone, especially you, my darling girl.

Lady Steere and I, as unlikely as it may seem, have become confidantes over the years. Good and trustworthy woman that she is, she’s kept me abreast of the happenings in your life, for which I am eternally grateful. She has shared everything about you out of the kindness of her heart. Her last letter revealed her worry that you would never marry and that you might face a life like mine, fighting to survive in a man’s world. She then repeated a comment from your cousin about one Lord Grey. It became clear that the two of you were destined for each other. And so, together, we devised a plan, a timely one, I admit, dastardly and vile. I resorted to unnatural tactics to lead you to my den and into the arms of the very man you’ve pined for nearly half your lifetime. I spun an intricate web and placed the two of you at the center of it, spending hours and days planning and scheming until my spinning paid off.

You are the brightest light in my sky, Lottie. To that end, I offer you these letters, mere tokens really, but written over the past twenty-four years. It is all I have to give, my darling daughter. One does not recover from a sacrifice such as this. Nothing will or can ever absolve me from the choices I’ve made. I cannot turn back time, but I can do everything in my power to ensure history does not repeat itself.

I have learned to be content in my circumstances, but I’ll die before seeing you forced to do the same. As long as there is breath left in my body, I will always watch over you. And I hope, in time, you will accept me for who I am, secrecy, scandals, et al.

Yours sincerely,

Mother

Lottie glanced at her aunt, unable to separate Lady Steere’s devotion from that of the woman who’d given birth to her. As the Black Widow of Whitehall, Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon wielded significant influence—astounding power. But so did the emotional tug on her heart for the woman who’d taught her how to live—her aunt.

“I beg you, take the letters and read them,” her aunt pleaded. “Give Bessie a chance.”

“No.”

“Is the idea so abhorrent to you?” her aunt asked, dumbfounded. “Have I not raised you to be more compassionate than that?”

“I do not want the letters. I want—” She choked on the words, unable to finish.

“Tell me what you want, and I shall make it appear,” Septimus said, entering the room with swashbuckling speed. He rounded the settee, coming to a stop before her, and tilted her face upward to wipe away a tear. He pointed to the box. “What’s this?”

“My aunt gave it to me.” A pleasant heat brought on by the love and mystery of the Black Widow of Whitehall infused her cheeks. “It’s a gift from... my mother.”

He opened the box and sifted through the forty plus notes. “Letters need not be threatening. Their function is to inform and entertain.”

“That is the standard as I am aware of it, yes.” A familiar shiver rippled through her at his nearness. “But these are not ordinary letters.”

“Aren’t they?” He placed the box into Lady Steere’s hands. “Lady Steere, would you do us the honor of protecting these correspondences until she is ready to read them?”

“Perhaps... I could take the time to read another one now.” Moving to her aunt, Lottie opened the box and picked out the first envelope she found in the stack. “I am curious. A part of me would like the opportunity to know my mother better. It is just that—”

“And you shall.” His hand covered hers, and a tingle of excitement brought the pit of her belly to life as he casually slipped the letter back into the box. “But first, a very important guest is waiting for us in the other room,” he said, his voice low and smooth and filled with compassion. “I promised to bring you straight away and introduce you. You do not want to miss this opportunity.”

“Who is it?” she asked, perplexed, wondering what could be more important than settling matters with her aunt. “I thought I had greeted all of our guests?”

“Patience, Little Lottie,” he said, giving Lady Steere a gentlemanly bow, then quickly escorting her from the room. “It is a surprise. Now, close your eyes.”

She did as he asked, allowing him to guide her, feeling awkward and silly as he led her to another room. There, the heat of a fire warmed her face, and she sensed a presence.

“You can open your eyes now,” he said in a broken whisper.

She blinked, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the light. There, not five feet away, stood a black-clad widow. All at once, she recognized Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon, her mother. She reached for her mother’s outstretched hands. The gloves were gone, and the skin she touched was warm and soft.

“Let me see your face,” she requested. “If only this once.”

With a hesitant nod, her mother lifted the veil.

Warmth flooded Lottie, emotion and elation surprising her. “Mama.”

Tears streamed down her cheeks. The similarities between them were astounding. The Black Widow of Whitehall was an older version of herself!

“You cannot know how astonished I was,” her mother said, “when Lady Steere sent me one of her daughter’s drawings, and I saw myself in your eyes. Though there are differences between us—you have your father’s temperament and easy smile—I feared someone from my past might recognize you and that the truth would come out. Fearing for you and the futures of Lady Steere’s own daughters made it imperative that I found you a husband posthaste. But not just any husband. I longed for you to be happy, Lottie.”

Hearing her mother speak her name filled her with blissful happiness. And for the first time, she felt as if she truly belonged, that she was fully alive. “I will be.”

“I’ll see to it,” Septimus promised, taking her hand and drawing her close.

When Septimus promised something, he saw it through. She knew they would be happy. He’d encourage her reading, and she’d accompany him on his adventures. They’d have many children. There were plenty of other Greek names to bestow on hapless babes.

“Lottie.” Her mother clutched her throat and swallowed as if that one word strained her voice.

Now that her mother was here, not imagined, but in the flesh, she didn’t intend to disappoint her. “You cannot know how long I have waited to hear my name from your lips. Say it again. Please.”

“Lottie,” she said, her silvery voice firmer and more controlled. “My darling daughter.”

Lottie smiled broadly, feeling as if every fiber of her soul had been set to rights. There was much to settle between them, old wounds to salve and heal, boundaries to cross, but her mother was alive and well and settled, and that was all that mattered. There was no blackmailer. She needn’t fear for Papa or her cousins’ reputations. The rest, well, it would follow in time.

“If I have learned anything, it is this,” she gripped Septimus’s hand and then her mother’s, her heart light and merry on this her wedding day, “‘a person’s true nature will reveal itself despite disguise.’”

“Aesop,” he said, drinking her in. “Every truth has two sides ; it is best we look at both, before we commit ourselves to either .”

Emotions played across her mother’s stunning face, making Lottie wonder what was so funny until the Black Widow of Whitehall quoted Aesop, too. “A doubtful friend is worse than a certain enemy. Let a man be one thing or the other, and we then know how to meet him.” Their gazes locked before her mother lowered the veil once more and moved to step around them. “No more disguises, no more games. It is time to live.”

“Does that mean you plan to give up the Lyon’s Den?” Lottie asked.

“Someday, my girl, the Den will be yours, and you will appreciate its power. So, prepare yourself, Frost.” She pointed to Septimus as she donned her gloves. “There are more people like you who desire to be loved.”

“And we are just the ones to make it so,” Lottie said. “Aren’t we, husband?”

He gazed down at her, the devotion in his eyes lifting her on wispy clouds of delight. “Indeed,” he said huskily. “After you’ve taken the tour and walked in your father’s footsteps.”

She gasped in utter astonishment.

“Explore the world with me.” He molded her to him, his breath hot against her ear. “Nothing would give me more pleasure than watching you read the National Antiquarian Society’s third volume, but since that won’t be out until next year, I’ll have to settle for watching you explore Hadrian’s Villa.”

Here was a man who cherished intellect and curiosity more than beauty. And he willingly encouraged her to seek knowledge and adventure, promising to give her all that she’d longed for. But—“Do you mean it, Septimus?”

“It is in vain to expect our prayers to be heard if we do not strive as well as pray.”

“Aesop also said, ‘persuasion is better than force,’ ” she said. “Persuade me, husband.”

“I shall, wife.”