Chapter Fifteen
R osilee jerked every time the cobbles cracked beneath her footfalls as she approached the establishment that would determine her future.
The Lyon’s Den.
And Mrs. Dove-Lyon.
She had heard the whispers of this name from Evangeline’s lips as though it could not be said out loud. So long as she could pay, Evangeline had told her, Mrs. Dove-Lyon could help. Rosilee would rather not marry at all, but with Baston hot on her heels, she didn’t have any choice. And if she could not marry a man she loved, she would marry a rogue she could never love. Her position, her heart, and her brother would be safe.
Simple as that.
She cursed Baston again. How dare he trick her brother and put them in such a horrid situation, all because he wished to marry her? When this was over, she truly wanted to pummel the man.
Don’t think about it, Rosilee.
Evangeline had told her some terrifying tales about these matchups Mrs. Dove-Lyon created—though they were mostly terrifying for the men. But if Rosilee didn’t receive her aid, her future would be even more terrifying than any of those tales. It was already terrifying.
She stopped in front of the side door of the address she’d been given. This was the door Evangeline had told her to enter. This was it. This was the moment.
You can do this, Rosilee.
She squared her shoulders.
When life offered a woman no other resource, she had to be resourceful. Rosilee didn’t have much. The coin she could offer Mrs. Dove-Lyon was everything she had at her disposal. Hopefully, it would be enough.
From within the building, she could hear peals of laughter as well as some curses. The street wasn’t abandoned by any means, since it was the afternoon, but Rosilee paid no mind to anything but her focus point. She had delayed long enough. Had been delayed long enough. The journey from Wiltshire had been fraught with one delay after another.
Her driver had disappeared.
Her horse had been stolen.
And her carriage wheel had broken.
Then Blake.
He’d been the biggest delay of them all. The most painful one.
But no matter the challenge, she had made it this far, and she couldn’t back down now. A tremor passed through her fingers. This was not how she would have wanted her future to be decided. Not that she had hoped for much to begin with. A simple life with her books had always been the most appealing picture she could conjure for herself. After their night together, she had begun to hope that Blake would also enter this little image.
Unfortunately, life had different plans.
She stepped up to the door and reached out for the knocker.
“Lady Rosilee.”
Rosilee paused, turning to the man who had called her name, though called wasn’t right either. It was an announcement in a low, grim tone that was infused with a certain familiarity that shouldn’t exist. It piqued her interest but also sent a shiver down her spine. Their eyes met, and that one shiver turned into two.
She didn’t recognize the man at all, and yet he looked awfully familiar. He stood tall and large, with black hair and even blacker eyes, if that were at all possible. It must be the light, she thought. His face was chiseled with hard, cold lines, and his jaw cleanly shaven. A scar crossed one of his brows.
She looked a bit like... Blake. But also positively menacing.
“Do I know you, sir?”
He stared at her without blinking, and no answer to her question showed on his face. “I suppose you do not.”
“Then...” Her mind raced. “Do you know me?”
“I . . . know of you.”
Well, that wasn’t reassuring in the least. “And you are, sir?”
The corner of his lips curled up. “Those who know me call me Reaper.”
“And what about people who don’t know you? What do they call you?”
“They don’t.”
What an arrogantly ominous reply! Rosilee almost rolled her eyes. “Reaper who?”
“Just Reaper.”
Rosilee scrunched her nose. “Is that supposed to mean anything to me?”
He shrugged. “No, I suppose not. What matters is that I’m here to help you.”
“Help me,” Rosilee said slowly. “With what?”
“For one, making the mistake of getting the black widow to set up a match for you.”
“How—”
“Secondly,” his voice lowered, black eyes blazing, “your problem with a certain mercenary.”
“You know about Baston? No, wait,” that was not the point. “Why would you help me?”
“A favor for a . . . friend.”
Her brows furrowed. “What friend?” Although, she already had a suspicion as to who that friend could be.
“A family friend.”
The man really didn’t like to reveal his cards. “Blake sent you?”
A brow arched, but he simply said, “No.”
The door cracked open and two women in uniform stepped outside, flanking the entrance. Behind them, a third figure appeared, dressed in black, a veil covering her face, filling the doorway. Even through the veil, Rosilee could sense the woman’s shrewd eyes studying them with interest.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon.
“She won’t be needing your services, madam,” the man, Reaper, spoke up.
“Is that so?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon murmured softly. “Are you certain?”
“Yes.” Decisive. Curt.
The woman’s head turned to Rosilee, waiting.
“I do,” Rosilee said, just as decisive, just as curt. Who was this man to decide for her anyway? She’d had enough of people deciding for her. She would decide for herself. “I do require your services.”
The woman nodded and in the blink of an eye, men circled the mysteriously familiar man, causing Rosilee to tense beneath her cloak. “I cannot allow you to leave,” said Mrs. Dove-Lyon.
“Why not?” Reaper asked darkly.
“Do you truly believe you can waltz into my territory, and just waltz back out without any consequences?”
“I haven’t stepped foot in your house.”
“Oh, but you still entered my territory,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said.
A curse. “What do you want?”
Rosilee’s gaze flicked between the man who had intercepted her and the widow who was meant to be her savior. One reminded her of a lone, growling wolf while the other reminded her of a poised snake ready to strike. And she was the oblivious deer who had found herself in a bind she wished she could silently retract from.
“Shall we retire upstairs?”
“I think not.”
“Are you in any position to refuse?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon asked the man.
“I am more than happy to join you upstairs,” Rosilee said, because she had to say something . It had taken all her courage to approach Mrs. Dove-Lyon to begin with, and she had to speak before all the courage left her limbs.
The woman, and her female guards as well as male guards, looked exceedingly intimidating. She was desperate, Rosilee could not deny it. But a woman also still had her pride. She could speak for herself, but more than that, she could decide for herself. Between these two, she might just be a deer, but she was one that still could nip! And if they wanted to see just how sharp her nipping could be, she was more than willing to show them.
She had approached the Lyon’s Den alone with some optimism, as well as a little bit of terror, and she stepped over the threshold the same way, though it was possible the ratio had shifted a bit.
She hoped she would step out of here with more of the former than the latter. In fact, given the entire situation, she hoped she’d step out of here at all.
Blake leaned low over the neck of his horse, urging the animal to greater speed as its hooves thundered over the narrow lanes of London, which were packed with vendors, carts, and townspeople, all going about their business. His breath came in short, sharp bursts, the air cold and biting against his skin, but he barely noticed. His eyes were locked on the scene ahead of him—forward.
He had to go forward.
And he needed to reach her, to stop her before she made a decision that would ruin them both. All due to him. His mistake—his damn stubbornness—had driven her to this.
And now, she was heading straight for the Lyon’s Den.
The veiled widow lived for women like Rosilee. Women desperate enough to allow themselves to be bartered into marriages with reckless men who had no regard for others’ lives and or even their own.
Gamblers.
Hell-seekers.
Men who wagered on ridiculous challenges for the thrill of it.
Rosilee didn’t belong in such a place. She belonged with him, and he had been too damn blind to see it until now.
His grip tightened on the reins as his horse sped across the cobblestones. He had to find her before it was too late. He couldn’t lose her—not now, not when the truth had finally dawned on him.
“Faster, Beast!” He shouted to his horse, urging it with the flick of his reins, cursing when as they flew around a sharp corner, Blake nearly trampled a man crossing the road. The man jumped back with a startled yell, shaking his fist after Blake.
“Watch where you’re going, you rotten blackguard!” the man shouted after Blake, his voice trembling.
Blake didn’t have time to apologize. He swerved his horse, narrowly avoiding another disastrous collision, this time with a vendor and his fruit cart. In his haste, however, the movement was too abrupt, and his horse clipped the front edge of the wagon.
The vendor’s fruits spilled into the street like marbles, scattering beneath the hooves of Blake’s horse. The horse reared, neighing in panic, as fruit rolled in all directions, and the vendor shouted something about his ruined livelihood. Blake barely held on, struggling to calm the animal.
“Hell and damnation!” Blake cursed, casting a quick glance back at the overturned cart and the angry vendor still waving his arms. “My apologies.”
“You think apologies will make this right?” the man roared.
Blake didn’t have time to argue with him. He fished out a few coins from his pocket and tossed them to the man before digging his heels into the horse’s sides and coaxing the animal back into a gallop. His heart pounded even harder in his chest than the deuced hooves on the ground.
I can’t lose her.
If Rosilee made a deal with the veiled widow, it would be over. Some wealthy lord would claim her hand, bind her to a life she didn’t want, and Blake would lose her forever. All because he had been too much of a coward to admit that he loved her.
How the devil had it come to this?
How had he, a man who prided himself on self-control, let things get so out of hand? He had pushed her away because he thought it was for her own good, convinced that his dark past—his father’s legacy—would only ruin her life.
But he had been wrong. So horribly wrong.
Without her, he wasn’t whole.
Without her, he was nothing.
Almost there.
He jerked to a stop in front of a blue building with a lion’s head carved into the stone above the door.
The Lyon’s Den .
Blake dismounted in one fluid motion, his boots hitting the ground with a thud. He tossed the reins to a stunned stable boy and sprinted up the steps to the infamous establishment. His heart pounded, the blood roaring in his ears, drowning out the sound of everything else except his harsh breathing.
Rosilee was already inside, about to make the worst mistake of both their lives.
The moment he entered, the doormen eyed him, their arms crossed over their chests, but Blake ignored them. The place was quieter than he expected—but then, his heart still pounded in his ears, blocking out most sound. He glanced about the entrance room, his eyes falling on several doors.
“Sir?” one of the doormen said calmly.
He must look a bit unhinged. He was. He also didn’t hesitate, he strode straight for the door to his left and threw it open, shouting, “Rosilee!”
“Hold!” the man shouted, rushing after him.
Blake didn’t dare stop. He tore through the room—a gentleman’s lounge—and a smoking room before finally slamming open a door that brought him to the entrance of the gambling hall. She was here. Somewhere. Perhaps even making a deal as he was trying to find her.
“Rosilee!” His bellow cut through the chatter of the room, drawing the attention of everyone present. Women in the gallery above looked up from their conversations, and even the men negotiating at the tables paused, eyebrows raised at his intrusion. But Blake didn’t care about their reactions—only hers.
“Where the devil is she?” Blake shouted to no one in particular and everyone at the same time. “If you do not tell me now, I shall make it so that you are never able to speak again!”
No one answered. They all looked at him as though he had lost his mind. A hand clamped down on his shoulder—the doorman—but he shrugged him off. “Do not bloody touch me,” he growled.
Something formidable must have shown on his face because the man instantly backed off.
Blake cursed, and panic clawed at him. Where was she?
Please, don’t let me be too late.
His pulse quickened, and he took a step forward, about to shout her name again when a soft gasp met his ears, and he swore he heard his name on her lips.
He looked up to the second floor.
There.
She appeared at the balustrade of the gallery, looking down at him with wide, startled eyes. Their gazes locked across the distance. For a moment, everything stilled. Time stretched, and all the noise, all the urgency of his pursuit, fell away. It was just him and her.
Just like it was meant to be.
His heart clenched painfully in his chest.
But then her expression cleared, the fleeting shock gone as quickly as it had appeared. “Why did you come here?”
He deserved that tone. “For you.”
She shook her head. “You are too late, Blake. Go home.” Then she turned, walking swiftly toward an inner chamber, determined to continue on this destructive path.
“ No! ” He rushed to the stairs. He didn’t care if every lord and lady in London was watching. He didn’t care if the entire city knew what a fool he was being. To hell with everyone and everything.
Before he could reach the stairs, two burly guards blocked his path.
“Step aside,” he bit out.
“Leave,” the first guard ordered.
“I’m not leaving without her.”
The second guard, a big man with a scar running down his cheek, sneered. “The lady is not your business anymore. She’s here of her own free will, and we cannot allow you to barge in and disrupt our business.”
The hell I can’t.
“Try and bloody stop me.” The first man reached for him but he blocked the guard before he could lay a hand on him, his temper dangerously close to snapping. Only she got to touch him. “Get out of my way.”
“That’s not happening,” the man muttered darkly.
Very well. Then there was nothing for it. Blake took a step back, his hands curling into fists. His muscles coiled, ready to deal with the men blocking him.
“Enough.”
The single word sliced through the charged air. Blake’s head snapped up toward the source of interruption. A woman stepped out of the shadows of the floor above them, her presence causing whispers to erupt around him.
The veiled widow herself—Mrs. Dove-Lyon.
Though her face remained partially hidden beneath a thick veil, her posture was straight, regal, and unflinching.
“Let him pass.”
Blake straightened his coat and glared at the two men. As if they could have stopped him from getting to Rosilee anyway.
Nothing could stop him.
Not even the veiled widow herself.
Just let them try.