For the Love of a Lyon (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)

Chapter One

The interior of the carriage darkened as it halted beneath the portico of Spruce Court, the Staffordshire home of Baron Grissom.

The carriage door opened immediately and Ambrose Michael Crossley, fifth Earl of Pendlewood, addressed the footman.

“Please announce Lord Pendlewood to Lady Grissom,” he said, stepping out. “I am not expected.”

The man nodded. “At once, my lord,” he replied, and scurried off.

Ambrose removed his hat, wandered into the foyer of Spruce House, and inhaled the pleasing mélange of floral and herbal aromas.

Muted sounds of chit-chat and laughter drifted out of the belly of the house, indicative of a party already in progress.

Ambrose had been invited but, due to political commitments, had initially declined.

“Lord Pendlewood!” Lady Eleanor Grissom, face lit with a smile, hurried across the floor to greet him. “Oh, what a pleasant surprise.”

“The pleasure is mine, Lady Grissom,” he replied. “And not an inconvenient surprise, I trust. My commitments were swiftly dealt with, hence my change of plan.”

“Not inconvenient at all,” she replied, gesturing to a footman to take Ambrose’s coat and hat.

“My daughter will be thrilled to see you, I’m sure.

She was quite put out when she learned you would not be joining us.

Please, come on through. We’re just finishing off a light luncheon.

Plenty left on the table, however.” She regarded the footman once more.

“Have Lord Pendlewood’s luggage taken to the Vienna Suite.

” Then, to Ambrose, “This way, my lord.”

Ambrose followed her into the great hall, his arrival acknowledged by many of the guests already there. There was no sign, however, of Miss Sylvie Grissom.

“My daughter is probably out in the gardens somewhere,” Lady Grissom said, as if reading Ambrose’s mind. “It’s such a lovely day. I’ll send someone to find her. Please, help yourself to the buffet.”

Ambrose acknowledged the remark with a smile and leaned in, lowering his voice. “Actually, if you don’t mind, I’d prefer to surprise Miss Grissom, but before I do, I’d like a private word with Lord Grissom.” He glanced about. “I don’t see him anywhere either.”

“Oh!” Lady Grissom blinked and pressed a hand to her bosom. “A private word with my… um, yes, yes, of course.” A visible flush traveled up her neck and into her cheeks. “Might it have something to do with Sylv… er, that is, my daughter?”

“It might, my lady,” Ambrose replied, his lips twitching in amusement. “It might indeed.”

“Oh, my.” Lady Grissom licked her lips and blinked several more times. “Then please follow me, my lord. I’ll put you in Grissom’s study while I send for him. He’s probably in the games room. Enjoys his card games, you know.”

A few minutes later, Ambrose found himself in Lord Grissom’s study, and went over to the window. Beyond lay a large expanse of lawn, the grass being neatly mown by an efficient flock of black-faced sheep. A pleasant, rural vista that wrought a smile.

But then, Ambrose found pleasure in many things of late. Things he might not previously have noticed. His smile remained as he acknowledged a now-familiar sense of contentment. A recent and most welcome singularity.

There had been a time, not so long ago, when he’d despaired of finding his countess. He’d met his fair share of giggling debutantes, none of whom had caught his eye. He’d also danced with many young ladies in their second or third season, but not a single one had snared his full attention.

Ambrose was keen to marry, but he could afford to be selective.

Title aside, his estates were in good order, his balance sheet robust. Yes, he wanted an heir, but more than that, he wanted the fulfillment of a happy marriage.

A genuine relationship forged from mutual love and respect.

It wasn’t too much to ask. He knew of others who had achieved it, one of them being his closest friend.

Edward Fortescue, Viscount Eskdale, had a marriage to be envied.

With the right woman at his side, he’d gone from being a lonely man tortured by his past to being a devoted husband and father.

While Mrs. Dove-Lyon, owner of the Lyon’s Den, had played a crucial part in the match, Ambrose also took some of the credit.

He now fervently hoped for a similar outcome and believed he might have found it, at last, in Miss Sylvie Grissom.

When it came to courting Miss Grissom, however, the Black Widow’s services had not been required.

He’d met the young lady not quite a month earlier at a society event in London.

She was a debutante, fresh-faced, and demure without being prudish.

Drawn by her prettiness, Ambrose had asked her to dance, and found himself breathing in a soft lavender scent and gazing into a pair of captivating brown eyes.

Not one giggle, either. Just a sweet smile and some polite, yet intelligent, conversation.

She was, Ambrose decided, absolutely lovely.

Following a second turn around the dance floor, he’d asked permission to call on her.

“Pendlewood!”

Snatched from his thoughts, Ambrose turned toward the door. “Grissom,” he replied, striding over to shake the baron’s extended hand. “Good to see you.”

“Likewise, likewise. An unexpected pleasure, indeed.” Grissom gestured to a chair. “Sit, please. I understand you wish to speak with me and, given my poor wife’s flustered state, I suspect I might know why.”

“And I suspect you might be correct,” Ambrose said, and took his seat.

A short while later, Ambrose stepped out onto the terrace and inhaled a lungful of fresh air.

This fine day in early autumn, with its blue skies and mild breeze, was guaranteed to lift the spirits.

Ambrose’s spirits were already soaring as his gaze wandered over the impressive expanse of formal gardens.

A few of the guests were strolling amongst the orderly flower beds and neat hedgerows, though he could see no sign of Sylvie.

Stepping down from the terrace, Ambrose made his way along one of the gravel paths, looking left and right as he passed the numerous hedged enclaves. Private little spaces, perfect for reading or quiet contemplation.

Or romantic interludes.

Smiling to himself, he entertained a sense of anticipation, like a child playing hide-and-seek, seeking the one who is hidden.

Then, from somewhere to his left, he heard a soft ripple of laughter, feminine and familiar.

Slowing his step, he approached one of the enclaves, peered over the hedge, and gazed upon the back of Sylvie’s head. She was seated on a bench.

And she was not alone.

“I really should go,” he heard her say, her voice clear, but hushed. “Mama will be looking for me.”

“Just one more kiss,” came the male response, equally soft. “Come on, Sylvie. One more to sustain me till tonight.”

Ambrose’s breath caught in his throat.

“You are truly wicked,” Sylvie replied, a hint of laughter in her tone. “There’ll be an awful scandal if we’re caught.”

“Then we mustn’t be caught, my sweet,” the man replied, and cradled Sylvie’s face in his hands as he pressed his mouth to hers.

Ambrose staggered back, kicking up the gravel beneath his feet as he did so.

“What the…?” The man shot to his feet, eyes widening as he peered over the hedge. “Oh, crikey.”

Sylvie also rose to her feet, her jaw dropping at the sight of Ambrose. “My lord!” Her shocked gaze flicked from him to her companion and back again. “I thought you were… I mean, this is not what you think. I swear, it isn’t.”

The man’s expression had melted into one of dismay, with perhaps a touch of fear. “Er, no, milord, it is not what you think,” he said, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Not at all.”

Anger, ice-cold and oddly placating, replaced Ambrose’s initial thrust of shock. Narrowing his eyes, he regarded the woman who, not a minute earlier, had been destined to become his countess. “You thought I was what, Miss Grissom?”

Cheeks flushed pink, Sylvie opened her mouth, closed it, and then opened it again. “I… I suppose I didn’t think you’d be here, my lord.” She cast a brief glance at the man beside her, whose face had now assumed a grayish hue. “But this is not what you’re thinking. It meant nothing.”

Ambrose furled his lip. “I can assure you, Miss Grissom, you have no idea what I’m thinking.” Bile burned the back of his throat as he raked a gaze over Sylvie’s companion. “Who are you?” he asked. “What is your name?”

“Um.” The Adam’s apple bobbed again. “Snodgrass, my lord. Edwin Snodgrass.”

“My lord, please.” Sylvie linked her fingers beneath her chin. “I swear this is not how—”

“Snodgrass,” Ambrose repeated, eyeing the man’s common apparel. “Tell me, Snodgrass, are you a guest here?”

Crabtree’s face paled even more. “No, my lord. Not a guest.”

“Then who the hell are you?”

“Please, my lord,” Sylvie said, her voice almost a squeak. “You misunderstand.”

Ambrose ignored her. “Answer my question, Snodgrass. Who are you?”

“Um, actually, my lord, I…I’m the stablemaster. Please, I meant no har—”

“The stablemaster?” Ambrose tussled with a sickening urge to laugh. “Here? At Spruce Court?”

“Aye… I mean, er, yes, my lord.”

Ambrose nodded. “I see.”

Sylvie shook her head. “No, my lord, you do not see. It was just a bit of fun. Quite innocent.”

“A bit of fun.” Ambrose gave her a cold smile. “Yes, Miss Grissom, you certainly appeared to be enjoying yourself. My apologies for the interruption. I shall leave you to get on with it.”

Fists clenching and unclenching, he turned on his heel and strode away, his mind in an escalating state of chaos. How could his judgment of her been so misplaced? So wrong?

“No, wait my lord, please,” came the female cry, followed by the sound of hurried footsteps on gravel. A moment later, a panting Miss Grissom tugged on Ambrose’s sleeve. “I was told you wouldn’t be here today.”