Chapter Five
Sinclair Robertson, Master of Armytage, set off back the way he had come.
He was barely aware of making allowances for other traffic on the road or in which direction he was heading.
His thoughts consumed him. They were mostly a jumble of questions.
He was cursing himself for drinking too much and staying too late at the Lyon’s Den.
If he had gone to bed at a reasonable time he would not have run into Christopher and then been persuaded to remain, and none of this would have happened.
And yet at the same time, he felt glad he had been walking home when he came upon the three ladies with their broken carriage.
Especially one of those ladies. One look, and he felt as if he had been struck by a bolt of lightning.
Breathless and shaky and floating a mile above his phaeton. Sinclair was well and truly smitten.
He could ask himself why he hadn’t spoken up and told Lady Catriona MacKenzie the truth, but he knew why.
Because if he had told her who he was, then she would not have smiled at him as she did, or flashed those warm, blue eyes toward him while her auburn hair gleamed beneath her pretty bonnet.
Yes, she was beautiful, but so were many London ladies. It was more than that.
Lady Catriona seemed to have cast a spell on him with her modulated Scots-accented voice and engaging smiles.
He desperately wanted her good opinion. Which made the withholding of the truth even more foolish.
How could she ever forgive him for it when she learned who he really was?
And how could he carry on a friendship with her without her discovering it?
That his grandfather had made enemies of the MacKenzies was no surprise to Sinclair.
He made enemies with everyone. Sinclair already knew he could no more stop whatever nefarious plan the old man had in mind than he could stop the tide from turning.
Lord Armytage had not listened to his grandson when he was a boy, and he certainly would not listen to him now that he was a man.
All the same, Sinclair wanted to stop him.
Yes, it sounded as if Lord Armytage’s quest to take the MacKenzie’s castle and land was legal. But it wasn’t fair or just.
In fact, it was very wrong indeed.
And now Lady Catriona was planning to go to the Lyon’s Den and speak to Bessie Dove-Lyon about Sinclair. About him!
He wondered if Bessie would come up with a plan?
That was when he remembered their conversation from the other night, and how she had promised to find him the sort of wife who would make him happy.
Sinclair thought that Lady Catriona would make him happy.
Very happy indeed. But how was that to be now he had lied to her?
Mr. Robert Sutherland, really! Where had that even come from? He suspected his addled brain had taken Robert from his surname and then added Sutherland as it was where his grandfather’s home was in northern Scotland.
With a groan, he pulled up at the front of his house and, while his tiger took the horses’ bits, jumped down. He needed to restore himself before tonight. He needed to go to the Lyon’s Den and speak to Bessie. Explain what was happening. He needed . . . he needed . . .
The memory of Catriona MacKenzie appeared in his head, smiling and holding out her hand.
In that moment Sinclair had felt as if he had been run over by the mail coach.
Perhaps he was ill? Had he caught some sort of malaise, and that was why he was all akilter?
But he knew what the problem was. He could remember his mother speaking of the day she had met his father, Sergeant Robertson, and how her voice had turned soft and warm while her eyes were misty with memories.
How she had met him that first day in his red uniform, with his dark hair and smiling eyes, and how she had known immediately that he was the one. It had been love at first sight.
And now the same thing had happened to Sinclair.
It took some days for Cat to receive a reply to the message she sent to Mrs. Dove-Lyon at the infamous gambling house known as the Lyon’s Den. As promised, Harriet had discovered the direction, and the two sisters had sat down with Cat to secretly write the note.
Dear Mrs. Dove-Lyon,
I need your help. I am currently staying in London with my aunt, the Countess of Strathmore.
This may be my only chance to speak to you.
It has come to my attention that you have helped others who find themselves in wretched circumstances.
Perhaps you are busy or not inclined, but all the same I beg you will give me five minutes to explain my dilemma.
If you send me the time for an appointment, I will endeavor to be there.
Hopefully yours,
Lady Catriona MacKenzie
When the reply arrived it was stark. A date and time, but that was all. Not very encouraging, but Cat was ready and determined to be prompt.
The night was a foggy one, the lights of the gaming club barely penetrating the yellowy fingers of smoky fog.
It looked dangerous and not at all the place someone like herself, a lone woman, should be visiting.
Prudence and Harriet had wanted to come with her, but after the carriage incident, Cat thought it best to go alone.
She did not want to cause any more trouble for the sisters.
Hugo had complained about the cost, and now he was reminding Prudence that it was time she married.
Cat’s aunt and uncle were out again at another engagement, and she led them to believe she would be staying safely home.
Cat felt guilty about lying, but what choice did she have? If Aunt Jennie knew what she was up to, she would refuse to allow her niece anywhere near the Lyon’s Den and then pack her off back to Bonnyrigg. Cat told herself she had no choice, because giving up and slinking back home was unthinkable.
The hackney had dropped her off at the door, and although she had asked the driver to wait, he had refused. “’Tisn’t safe,” he had declared gruffly before he drove away.
Cat had looked after him longingly, and then told herself not to be a coward. She straightened her shoulders, drew her cloak about her, and settled the hood over her hair, before she stepped toward the light that guided the way into the den.
At once, a very tall man in a top hat stepped in front of her, making her gasp. His face was wreathed in shadows as he looked down at her. “Lady Catriona MacKenzie?” he asked in a deep, raspy voice.
“I . . . Yes. I wish to speak to Mrs. Dove-Lyon,” she went on imperiously, as if she weren’t scared to death and was used to strange men accosting her.
The man barely paused to consider her request before he nodded and turned to call out. Cat could see the entrance to the hell, despite it being shrouded by shadows, and a stirring of movement inside. A moment later, a slim young girl appeared.
The tall man spoke to her. “Show Lady Catriona the way to Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s private rooms,” he said. “She is expected.”
The girl nodded and set off without a word, leaving Cat scrambling to follow.
Her cloak rippled about her as the girl moved quickly through corridors and up a staircase.
Cat had to try hard not to lose her, suddenly aware of the din emanating from the depths of the club.
Male voices mingled with the occasional female shriek of laughter.
Tonight, the Lyon’s Den sounded as if it were full, and Cat was glad she had not had to walk through that melee.
Over the past days, while she had waited for a reply to her pleading message, Cat had made some casual enquiries of her aunt.
She wanted to glean more information about the Lyon’s Den and the woman who owned it.
Jennie had said she was known as the Black Widow of Whitehall and had a shadowy past. Jennie had concurred with Harriet that she was well known for facilitating matches for those who wanted them for whatever reason.
“Mostly she helps spinsters with a scandal in their past but plenty of money to marry cash-strapped aristocratic gentlemen. Then both are happy. The lady has her reputation restored, and the gentleman can pay off his debts. Whatever her own past, Mrs. Dove-Lyon has given many a desperate couple a happy ending.” Jennie had admitted it somewhat grudgingly.
“And sometimes those are the couples one would think the least likely to be happy.” She had widened her eyes comically.
“How mysterious,” Cat had said. “Is it a dangerous place? The Lyon’s Den, I mean.”
“Of course. But I have heard there is a separate entrance for females only, which is used by the women who require the Black Widow’s services.
” Suddenly, Jennie’s gray eyes had narrowed.
“Cat, you are not thinking of going there, are you?” Bothwell, who had been washing himself by the fireplace, stopped and looked up.
His yellow eyes had fixed on Cat as if he were trying to read her mind, and uneasily, she had looked quickly away.
“Harriet spoke of it,” she had said dismissively. “I was curious, that was all.”
Which hadn’t exactly answered her aunt’s question, but Jennie did not seem to notice. “As much as I enjoy Harriet’s company, she has always been far too coming for a girl of her age. She will get herself into mischief one day, you mark my words.”
“I’m sure Prudence will keep an eye on her,” Cat had said mildly.
Her aunt had laughed. “As nice as they are, I’m not sure either of them has much sense. And what is this I hear of Hugo sending out feelers for a possible husband for Prudence?”
As they had expressed their mutual dismay on Prudence’s behalf, the subject of the Lyon’s Den had been dropped.
And now here Cat was, inside that dangerous place and about to step into the presence of the Black Widow of Whitehall, the infamous Mrs. Dove-Lyon herself.