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

Chapter Four

Meeting a Matchmaker

An hour later…

Lyon’s Den, Cleveland Row, Westminster

W hen Amy stepped down from the Sinclair traveling coach, she took a moment to gain her bearings and inhaled softly. To the west and between a row of five-story townhomes, she could spot Green Park. To the north, Cleveland Row met up with Little St. James. To the east was the end of St. James Street.

Well, at least it wasn’t a sketchy neighborhood.

She glanced down at the scarlet carriage gown she wore. She had dressed for the trip to Havenhurst rather than for this appointment, and now she doubted her reasoning. Given her weight loss, the gown didn’t fit as well as it had when the modiste had completed it the year before.

“Come, we must use the ladies’ entrance at Number Eight,” Margaret said as she urged her daughter forward.

Noticing the severe look of the man who stood next to the black doors directly ahead of them, Amy was glad they weren’t going to attempt entry there. From his stance and the way he kept stretching his hand and then balling it into a fist, she was sure he was looking for a fight.

When he suddenly left his station and preceded them to the side door, Amy held her breath.

“I’m Mrs. Sinclair. We’ve an appointment,” Margaret announced, not the least bit intimidated by the guard. Apparently, her years as a colonel’s wife had her assuming her husband’s rank.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said as he bowed and opened the door for them.

Realizing her mother had been to the house before—she knew to climb the stairs to the first floor and make her way into a parlor off a small entry—Amy wondered if all the arrangements had already been made. Perhaps the matchmaker had already found her a husband, and there was nothing she could do to change the outcome.

A young woman dressed in livery entered the parlor with a silver tea set, dipped a curtsy, and went about pouring tea.

Meanwhile, Amy studied the furnishings on her way to glancing out one of the east-facing windows. The shroud of fog that had blanketed the city earlier that morning had dissipated. Sunlight streamed into the parlor, highlighting the dust motes that danced about in the air.

Definitely feminine in both color and style, the parlor looked as if it had seen better days. No upholstery was so worn that it was threadbare, but both it and the carpet were a bit faded. A fire was lit in the fireplace, a marble monstrosity that looked as if it had been moved from a much larger home.

“Mrs. Dove-Lyon will be with you shortly,” the maid said before she dipped another curtsy and took her leave.

Margaret had already taken a seat in a floral upholstered chair, a saucer held in one hand as she sipped tea from a cup held in the other. Amy took the other cup the maid had filled, her eyes rounding when she saw how many lumps of sugar there were in the sugar pot. “Matchmaking must be rather lucrative,” she whispered, using the silver tongs to drop a few lumps into her tea.

“Only if it gets results,” Margaret countered.

“Does she already have someone in mind for me?”

Margaret scoffed. “Of course not. That’s why we’re here today. So we can give her our requirements.”

Relief settled over Amy, and she sipped her overly sweetened tea. Before she could ask her mother more about the matchmaker, the woman in question appeared on the threshold, a teacup already held in one hand.

“Ah, Mrs. Sinclair. It’s so good to see you again.”

Amy’s eyes once again rounded. Her mother hadn’t mentioned that the matchmaker was a widow. The woman was dressed entirely in black, and a black net covered most of her face. What little wasn’t covered gave no hint as to her age.

“And you, Mrs. Dove-Lyon. May I present my daughter, Amy Sinclair?”

Still standing, Amy dipped a curtsy and said, “It’s very good to meet you, ma’am.”

“You as well,” the widow replied. She set her teacup on the low table in front of the settee and then directed her attention entirely on Amy. “Let’s get a good look at you,” she said as Amy stood in place.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon walked around her, examining Amy as if she were a leg of mutton hanging in a butcher’s shop. “I’d prefer a military man,” Amy stated. “Someone kind, and—”

“Nonsense, darling,” her mother interrupted. “Let Mrs. Dove-Lyon do her job.”

“Oh, but part of my job is to learn what a woman wants in a husband,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said after she had completed her circuit around Amy. “You appear a bit on the thin side, but I understand you’ve just returned from the Continent. A battlefield nurse, were you not?”

“I was. I mostly worked in a field hospital. Especially after the battle at Waterloo.” Despite the netting that covered the widow’s face, Amy sensed the woman winced at hearing her reply.

“My late husband was a colonel. I once followed the drum, too,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said as she motioned for Amy to take a seat. She moved to the settee, perching on the front edge before she added, “War is always hardest on the women, I should think, but the lessons we learn from it are invaluable.”

“Lessons?” Margaret repeated with a sniff.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon lifted one shoulder. “I gained a good deal of medical knowledge in my day,” she explained. “Miss Sinclair has no doubt as well.”

“I have,” Amy agreed. “If I wasn’t to be married, I would consider attending a medical college. Become a doctor, if that’s even possible, and if not, then I could be a nurse in one of the hospitals here in London.”

“Amy!” her mother scolded. “From where do you get your fanciful ideas?”

Knowing the question was rhetorical, Amy didn’t bother answering, but she did allow her look of frustration to show.

Apparently, Mrs. Dove-Lyon understood, for she said, “Now, Mrs. Sinclair, you must allow your daughter to tell me everything. I cannot make a successful match if I cannot find someone who meets her requirements. Someone who shares her interests.”

Margaret sniffed again and helped herself to a biscuit. “Oh, all right.”

“Do you want a husband, Miss Sinclair?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon asked gently.

Amy blinked. “Uh, I suppose.”

“Do you want children?”

Amy’s straightened. “Oh, yes. Very much. Should I be blessed with any.”

“Then we shall find you a husband because we don’t want you having any children without one,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said, mischief apparent in her voice.

“Of course not, ma’am.”

“Now, you mentioned wanting a military man.”

Amy took heart that the matchmaker was at least considering her request. “Yes. Like my father. I find those who have served tend to be more…respectful,” she stammered. “Not so high on their horse, so to speak.”

“I suppose you would prefer a gentleman who isn’t too terribly old?” The widow angled her head to one side as if she were still trying to decide something.

Amy considered the query a moment. “I shouldn’t think ten years’ difference in age is too much.”

“Not at all,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon agreed. “And your virtue? How long has it been since it was forfeit?”

Nearly spilling her tea, Amy stared at the matchmaker and then shook her head. “It…it’s not,” she said. “It hasn’t. I am still a virgin.” She directed a glare to her mother, realizing she must have said something to leave the widow with the impression she was ruined.

For the first time since she had begun asking questions of Amy, Mrs. Dove-Lyon glanced over at Margaret. “I’m afraid I don’t understand, Mrs. Sinclair. The young ladies who utilize my services do so because they are…ruined. Tainted. Given the cut direct by Society. They require husbands for protection and for social standing as a means to overcome the taint. Pray tell, why are you here?”

Margaret straightened in her chair, her shoulders pulled back as her chin lifted. “Mrs. Dove-Lyon, Amy has been working in a field hospital. You said you followed the drum. Surely you know what that means,” she accused.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon cleared her throat, her already straight posture stiffening more “Pretend I didn’t, and then tell me what you believe it means.”

Scoffing, Margaret turned her stare onto her daughter. “Go ahead. Tell her what you told me you did.”

Amy furrowed her brows. “You mean, when I had to hold a beating heart in my hands whilst a surgeon removed a bullet from a man’s chest?” she asked, her manner all innocence.

Rolling her eyes, Margaret turned back to the widow. “You heard her. If she assisted in surgeries, then she…” Here she paused, hoping she wouldn’t have to explain further.

When Mrs. Dove-Lyon merely continued to stare at her, Margaret scoffed again. “She will have seen men in various states of undress. She probably had to give them sponge baths .” This last was said in a hoarse whisper as if she thought she might be overheard by someone outside the room.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon seemed to take a deep breath and hold it for a time before she reached over and refilled her teacup. “Did you, Miss Sinclair? Do all that your mother has described? See what she claims you saw?”

“Yes, ma’am. Many times,” Amy admitted. Then she shrugged. “All in a day’s work for a nurse. Nothing shocks me any longer, although I will admit that I was the first few days.”

“But at no point did any of these wounded soldiers take advantage of you,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon stated, not making it a question.

“Oh, no, ma’am. They were very polite when they were conscious. Most were in too much pain to do anything but moan in agony.” Amy’s gaze dropped to the tea set. “I felt terrible having to cause them more pain when I was redressing their wounds.”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon took a long sip of her tea before she placed the cup in a saucer on the table. “Well, I’m quite certain I can make a match for you, young lady. Your dowry, although not exceptional, is certainly worthy of a colonel’s daughter. Why, with the peers of the realm suffering financial setbacks due to this awful weather we’ve been having, I might even be able to make a match with an aristocrat.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Amy replied, not particularly excited about becoming a lady. What lady of the ton was allowed to be a nurse? “What must I do now?”

Settling her back against the settee cushion, Mrs. Dove-Lyon regarded her newest client a moment before giving her head a shake. “Have patience, my dear. I will give this situation some thought. Come up with a suitable challenge—something that will have the very best men competing for your hand. The winner will be your champion, Miss Sinclair, and with any luck, your husband.”

Amy blinked at the mention of a champion. Other than her father, she had never had someone act as a champion on her behalf.

As for a challenge, she had no idea what the widow had in mind, and she wasn’t quite sure she wanted to know. In the short time she’d been under the matchmaker’s roof, she had determined there was something else going on within the walls of Lyon’s Gate Manor. Why else would there be a guard on duty?

“Now, it’s my understanding you’ll be heading to your country house in Kent to see to your father’s burial,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon commented. “Obviously you’ll want to wait until tomorrow to have the graveside service—”

“I insisted there not be a funeral,” Margaret huffed.

“But there will be one,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon countered, her attention on Amy. “Soldiers from his regiment will expect it, and it will take the rest of today for word to make it to all who will want to attend,” she went on. “Those in London can travel in the morning and be there in time for a mid-afternoon service tomorrow.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Amy agreed, her opinion of the matchmaker rising another notch. “I’ll be sure a notice appears in the London Times .”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon gave her an expression of sympathy. “I am sorry for your loss. Given you’ll require time to mourn—”

“She doesn’t have to wait six months to marry,” Margaret interrupted. “She’ll be that much older and that much more difficult to match,” she added when both Mrs. Dove-Lyon and Amy turned to stare at her.

Stunned by her mother’s crass comment, Amy was about to protest, but Mrs. Dove-Lyon held up a staying hand. “I’ll be sure a match takes your father’s passing into account,” the matchmaker murmured. “Now, you need to use these next few days to rest and recuperate from your travels. Catch up on your correspondence. And do send a note if you should think of anything you might have forgotten to tell me.”

Amy blinked, stunned at hearing the slight rebuke in the woman’s voice.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon knew she had withheld information, but Amy had done so to keep her mother from learning the name of the captain she so desperately wanted to see again.

“Yes, ma’am,” Amy replied, realizing she and her mother were being dismissed. She stood and dipped a curtsy, wishing she could see the matchmaker’s face more clearly.

She couldn’t tell if Mrs. Dove-Lyon was disappointed or angry with her.

Or perhaps the widow’s annoyance was directed entirely at her mother.