Chapter One
“M r. Stein?” A tall man who looked like a statue of Goliath tapped Alfred on the shoulder.
“ Dr . Stein,” he corrected him.
“Very well, Dr. Stein. Follow me.” The man, who was called Titan and looked the part, led the way. Alfred swallowed hard. He’d been summoned to the master suite of The Lyon’s Den, and he had no choice but to enter the Black Widow’s cave feeling a bit like prey. When men lost their fortunes, she’d find wives with dowries for them. Legend said—and she was a legend among the Ton—that Mrs. Dove-Lyon was notorious for making love matches. The aristocratic mothers of his little patients had told him enough about her to instill a healthy dose of fear.
Titan, the leader of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s wolf pack opened the door to what looked like a richly endowed lady’s parlor.
“Wait here,” said the ex-military man, chief bouncer, and manager of the gambling hall. When he spoke, one obeyed. He was Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s right hand and feared by all who had debts to pay. Titan shut the door and left Alfred alone to wonder why he’d been summoned to Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s private room. He’d been on a winning streak and had never lost more than two shillings.
He didn’t even owe her any debts, so what did she want?
Dr. Alfred Stein had graduated with honors in medicine from Edinburgh University and returned to London knowing that his parents expected him to marry. So far, he’d artfully avoided their efforts of introducing him to chaste and proper Jewish girls, especially since he and his younger brother Seth had rented their own bachelor lodgings near Regent’s Park. Most of the “good Jewish girls” his parents paraded were pretty enough, but altogether too docile for his taste. He wanted a woman who’d inspire him, in life and in bed.
During his studies, he’d enjoyed various exploits with the more experienced ladies in Edinburgh, but nobody had ever truly captured his interest beyond the pleasures of the flesh. Jews couldn’t study in England, and it was known that graduates usually returned from Scotland with an altogether rounded education, in the classroom, and in the bedroom.
Of course, he knew his way around the female anatomy. Not only because he’d studied under some of the most renowned surgeons at the best school of medicine in all the English-speaking world, but also because he’d explored what brought women pleasure. He could make them quiver and scream his name in a matter of minutes—less, if he wanted to. But none had ever given him the reason to break out in goosebumps at a mere touch. How could anyone be so lucky? Alfred wanted it, too. A girl to call his own, to give his heart to. He wanted it all: love, sex, and a career. To his general annoyance, he’d experienced none of the tingles that genuine affection allegedly entailed.
And because Alfred wanted it all, he gambled at The Lyon’s Den. He risked being found out, for Jews were usually not welcome at such establishments. But he hadn’t been turned away at the doors. And if he was to have an office like Felix, Alfie, and Nick, the doctors at 87 Harley Street, it was a risk he needed to take. The high-stakes games could bring him the fortune he sought. Careful not to have any debts that could hinder his plans for a pediatric practice on Harley Street, he only gambled for profit. Enough of feeling like a peddler, or making house calls for patients with various ailments. He dreamed of an office with a waiting room. A nurse who’d say, “Yes, doctor. No, doctor.” And announce the waiting patients upon his arrival in the morning, “The doctor is in. He’ll see you next.” Possibly, someday, an addition to the building to make a hospital of sorts, and maybe even a practice where other doctors worked with and for him.
The door clicked open and Alfred saw her. The Black Widow.
“Thank you, Titan. You may leave us,” a strong female voice said from under the infamous black veil.
“Dr. Stein, take a seat,” she commanded. Alfred complied. Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s tone did not invite back talk. Her reputation as the black widow because she was so much like the deadly spider that paralyzed its prey before killing it, sent a shiver down his spine. She was a queen among men, feared by many but respected by all. Her story was one of power, mystery, and a web of carefully-plotted matches that threatened to entangle any man who dared to cross her path—and fail to pay. Alfred, however, expected her threats to make matches between men who owed money and wealthy young ladies who could pay their debts didn’t extend to Jews.
“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He bowed as he unbuttoned his evening coat and sat. It was already hot in the room and a fire roared in the grate. Either side of the mantel had carved legs, a man on one side, a woman on the other. Was that a cupid? The hearth was raised and detailed depictions of two young lovers connected them. They were nude and looked longingly at each other. Was this to intimidate or entice? Two statutes carved of wood, trying to unite but separated by fire. They’d burn if they ever tried to reach the other, not that they would, of course. But art told stories and this one, Alfred thought, was a tragedy.
“Let’s cut to the chase, shall we?” An enterprising ring to the Black Widow’s voice unsettled Alfred. “Tell me what you are doing in my house.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Dr. Stein. Alfred, if I may. I knew you were Jewish the day I laid eyes on you. You gave us no reason to refuse your entry, but you’ve been coming back, and I’ve begun to wonder why. Your kind is not usually found at gambling houses.”
“I wasn’t aware that Jews were not welcome to gamble,” he said with a quirked brow. This was easy. He’d played this game of Jews-are-not-truly-equal-citizens a million times. Gentiles never quite acknowledged them as full-fledged humans, even though the law was different these days. And when the ladies of the Ton needed his services, they could be quite sweet-tongued. Alfred was not one to buy into flattery. His parents had taught him the ways of the world and he wasn’t so na?ve as to consider Jews on the same footing as Gentiles, legally or socially, particularly with the aristocrats at The Lyon’s Den.
“I’m gambling for the money,” he admitted. Lying to Mrs. Dove-Lyon was no use. He was good at many things, but not at masking falsehoods. Besides, in her business, she’d probably detect even an innocent half-truth before he could finish speaking it.
“Why do you need money? My contacts state you are rather well-respected among your peers.” Who were her contacts? And which peers did he mean? The doctors at 87 Harley Street were surely not speaking to Mrs. Dove-Lyon. And they had a practice. They weren’t exactly his peers; just his friends.
“A practice, Madam. I am saving for the down payment of a building on Harley Street.”
“Ah!” She leaned back and folded her hands. “Which one?” He couldn’t make out her face exactly behind the veil, but he read her posture. He knew the human body. She was stiff, and moved carefully and slowly, probably because her joints ached. That, too, explained the heat in the room. It allowed the blood vessels to dilate, and her muscles to relax.
“Ninety-one Harley,” he told her.
“The entire building is for sale, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but if I’m quick, I can get the lower level at a fair price.”
“Why not the high level?” She made a good point. It was a better set of rooms, but it would make the building unattainable because it cost more, and yet he wanted it all.
“Because my patients may be injured or may not feel well enough to climb stairs to my office… once I have one there, of course… if ever.”
“Greed, Dr. Stein, I can work with. But you seem to have ambition.” She sat back and steepled her gnarled, wrinkled fingers. She must be so uncomfortable, he thought. But before he could muse more on her condition, her words made him pay attention. “Yours is a fresh problem altogether.”
“How are my professional ambitions a problem?” He pulled at his cravat. Though she might require the heat, it was stifling. He could barely breathe.
“You won’t give up until you have the money you need, am I right?” She tilted her head under the veil.
“That is my intention.” He nodded.
“And if someone snatched number 91 away before you have enough money?”
He shrugged. “There will be others for sale. Maybe I can rent a room and start smaller. But for now—well. I guess I’m a gambling man, Mrs. Dove-Lyon. I am willing to take risks because I won’t settle for less than my heart’s desire.”
“You have grit.” She crossed her legs at the ankle, carefully. “Men don’t come here to make money, Dr. Stein. I don’t like the precedent you are setting.”
“What do men come here for?”
“Wealthy matches. To pay off their debts. To make debts, too, of course—not that they ever plan on that.” She blew on the skin that had formed on the surface of her hot chocolate, then took another sip. How could she drink a hot beverage in such a blazing room? “I’ll give you two weeks.”
His heart jumped in his chest. “For what?”
“To make the money you need. If you don’t manage it until the masquerade ball in honor of my birthday—I will match you. You’d be a blemish on my reputation if you walk out of here with pockets full of money, but not a wife. I won’t tolerate it. You have two weeks.”
Alfred choked on the stuffy air. “ Match me?”
She nodded, the folds of her veil bending softly. Alfred gave a nervous laugh. “Mrs. Dove-Lyon, Madam, with all due respect. I cannot be matched.”
“And why is that?” Skepticism pierced her voice. She sounded as if she enjoyed the challenge but mocked his resilience.
“I’m Jewish. We’re not matched like the Ton.”
“And how are you matched?” She raised the pitch of her tone and set the cup aside on its matching saucer. “My understanding is that Jews are humans, aren’t they? I have known enough in my lifetime to know that they can be quite passionate lovers and devoted to their families. That should make you easy enough to match.” Consternation pierced her words. “Plus, you are a doctor. And , rather easy on the eye.”
He quirked a brow. “We are matched by shadchan , Jewish matchmakers, among—” He cleared his throat—“like-minded–”
“Nonsense, Alfred. I know what your meaning is. You can only marry a Jew, of course. I would not match you with a lady of the Ton. That would never work. Society would be ablaze!” She hissed an unnerving laugh.
“And what makes you think I will agree to be matched with a woman at your hand?”
“Easy. Either you make enough money in two weeks to buy your practice yourself, or you’ll marry a woman of my choice—a Jewish woman—who can supply the funds you need.”
“And what do you get out of this?”
“A promise that you won’t come back here and continue to win against the house.”
Alfred nodded. But the arrangement didn’t sit quite right with him.
“Do you have any other criteria besides the religious requirements and money?” She assumed a businesslike air, a seasoned matchmaker indeed.
“Yes. She can’t bore me. I want a partner who is my equal intellectually and an inspiration in life.”
“Men usually ask for a fertile womb, virgins, or pretty hair. Your requirements are more specific. That makes it harder, but I’m taking the challenge and raising you one. She’ll have to match your good looks.”
“You make it sound like a game.”
“It is rather, the most interesting game of all, and I think you’ve taught me a new variation.”
“What is that?”
“Matching Jews. It’s a higher art with centuries of tradition. I seem to have the unique opportunity to test my skill at it–”
“And put your reputation as a matchmaker at stake, Mrs. Dove-Lyon.” He wanted to flee but to maintain etiquette wouldn’t rise from his chair before she did. “May I propose we forget the whole thing? I’m sure I can find a wife myself in the future. I promise not to come back after the next two weeks.”
“You may not. I’m afraid, Dr. Stein, that you forced my hand by winning against the house. The terms are thus: Two weeks to get out with enough money for your down payment, or you marry the woman I present to you. Your cards have been dealt.”
She reached for a cane on the side of her chair and banged it on the floor. Titan came in.
“Two weeks,” she said, and Titan nodded. “And don’t tell anyone your Jewish name, Dr. Stein. You’ll be The Cavalier .” She waved grandly. “I like your manners and backbone, boy. It suits you.”
When Alfred followed the leader of the wolf pack to the gaming floor, he had an uncomfortable pit in his stomach. The corridor seemed narrower, the light brighter, and the air stuffier. In two weeks, he’d have enough for the down payment, but would he still have his freedom? Somehow, he feared he’d gambled his life away without even touching a deck of cards. True, Mrs. Dove-Lyon had given him a chance to get the money he needed for the future he wanted. A practice on Harley Street had been his and his brother’s dream for so long. But with the persona he’d assume as The Cavalier, would his destiny change?
“You woke the sleeping lion, Doctor,” Titan said as he handed Alfred an envelope. “This is your ticket to the masquerade ball.” He tapped his shoulder. “You’ll need all the luck in the world.”
“What do you mean?”
“Once she sets her sights on someone, she won’t relinquish–”
“She set her sights on me, didn’t she?”
“Not just on you, Doctor. You’re only the first of many Jews she’ll want to match. I heard everything. You accused her of not working with Jews. She won’t stand for bias and bigots, you know.”
“I cannot say that I do.” Alfred’s head hurt. Had he gotten all the Jews in Town into the matchmaker’s line of fire?