Chapter Six
Ralston stood in the center of a small salon. Waiting. Impatiently.
After spending an inordinate amount of time arguing with the bouncer in the gaming hall, he’d finally been shown to this small salon. Jarret had not accompanied him. His presence was unnecessary anyway, since the fool had no way to cover his ridiculous debt.
Stunned at how deep his cousin had managed to dig himself in such a short time, Ralston briefly considered leaving the man to his fate. But he knew his duty to the family. His father had made sure of it. He had no choice but to rescue Jarret from his mischief yet again.
Finally, the salon door opened and Mrs. Dove-Lyon entered. He’d heard enough about the Lyon’s Den owner to know it was her even though he’d never met her. Dressed in black from head to toe, a veil carefully concealing her face, she approached him in a purposeful stride.
“Good evening, Lord Redington. I’ve had the young Lord Balcomb ejected from the club,” she continued without further preamble. “A reliable escort will ensure your cousin’s safe return home, but he shall no longer be welcome at the Lyon’s Den.”
Ralston frowned. He would’ve preferred to see to Jarret himself. The subtle tilt of the woman’s head suggested that he was expected to be grateful for the interference. Instead of uttering a thank you, he asked, “Exactly how much was he indebted to you?”
There was a stretched moment of silence as Mrs. Dove-Lyon stared back at him. Then she issued a soft sound that may have been a sigh and slowly walked past him to take a seat in one of the four chairs set around a small gaming table.
Turning to face her more squarely, Ralston was about to repeat the question when she spoke first. “You are frequently required to intervene and manage the concerns of your family,” she stated simply. “Not only for Lord Balcomb, but for your many other cousins, as well.”
Ralston frowned. How did she know that? He was also careful to handle family issues discreetly. The whole point was to keep such things from becoming common knowledge. He’d have to do better.
Since her words had not been offered as a question, he did not feel obliged to answer, though he was unclear why she’d brought up the issue.
“It must be…tiresome,” the lady continued gently, “to be the one they all rely on. To be forced into such a role where you must always be the one in control. The responsible one always at the mercy of your obligations to others. The one with the answers. The one everyone expects to take action on their behalf.”
Her words held an odd, soothing intonation and he felt himself becoming mesmerized by the flow of her voice. With a sharp clearing of his throat, he broke free.
“It is my responsibility,” he replied stiffly, wishing to move the conversation along so he could pay the woman and be gone.
“Yes, of course,” she agreed with a wave of her hand. “Your loyalty and respect for your family is clearly inexhaustible, my lord. But I wonder if you offer yourself the same freedom you provide your family.”
Ralston cleared his throat. The conversation was not making any sense. “I don’t—”
“I’m talking about the freedom to let go. The freedom to simply hand over their troubles. To offer complete trust in someone else’s ability to take care of matters.”
Though her comments triggered a discomfiting resonance inside him, he shook his head. It was late and he was tired. The lady was clearly having trouble staying focused on the matter at hand. “Mrs. Dove-Lyon, I’d like to see this matter concluded, if you don’t mind. How much do I owe?”
Though he couldn’t see it, he got the distinct impression that the lady smiled. Then she rose to her feet. “I have decided not to accept a monetary payment. Instead, you shall settle your cousin’s debt by giving me an hour of your time.”
“That is not—”
“That is exactly what you agreed to, my lord,” she interrupted as she started for the door.
“The contract you signed upon entering this club gave me sole authority to decide how debts incurred within these walls are settled.” She stopped with her hand in the door and turned back to him, as if waiting for an acknowledgment of his compliance.
Unfortunately, he did sign the contract she mentioned.
In truth, an hour did not seem like such a grand forfeit considering Jarret’s tendency to lose far, far beyond his means.
With no other choice, Ralston gave a nod, agreeing to the terms. When he asked what he’d be expected to do during this hour, Mrs. Dove-Lyon noted, “Do not worry. You will not be threatened or injured, my lord. This is not that sort of club,” she added with a smile in her voice. “Wait here. All will be made clear.”
Then she left.
A long ten minutes passed before her emissary arrived—another great burly fellow who made a gesture indicating Ralston was to go with him.
Though annoyed by the lack of explanation, Ralston’s determination to finally get the matter settled so he could get home to his bed had him following the man up two flights of stairs, then down a darkened hallway.
Stopping at the end, the bouncer stepped to the side, gave a nod, then walked away, leaving Ralston alone before a closed door.
Apparently, he was to enter.
A quick spear of trepidation arced through him.
What would he find in the room beyond? The Lyon’s Den was renowned for its pleasures and entertainments, but he’d heard of some wild things happening within the walls of the elite club. And he suddenly recalled that Mrs. Dove-Lyon was also known as the Black Widow of Whitehall. A foreboding title.
But the debt had to be paid. She’d demanded an hour. With everything he’d been forced to do in his life to keep his family’s interests and reputation secure, surely, he could endure an hour of whatever Mrs. Dove-Lyon had planned for him.
If he were being completely honest with himself, he had to admit to being curious. Hadn’t Jarret taunted him earlier in the night, saying he’d become too stiff and proper and could benefit from the kind of pleasures offered at the Lyon’s Den. He’d scoffed at the idea then. But perhaps…
His nerves buzzed with a subtle but poignant anticipation.
It had been ages since he could recall a time when he hadn’t felt a need to overthink every word or deed or action he committed. Ages since he hadn’t been the one to know exactly what needed to be done and how and when and why.
Standing now, before a closed door with no idea what he might be stepping into put him at an extreme disadvantage. He should feel wary and resistant.
Instead, he was invigorated by the prospect of walking into something utterly unknown. The recklessness of that thought alone should have had him turning on his heel to leave the club, repayment bedamned.
But his duty was too deeply ingrained, even when it contradicted the role he’d been raised to play.
It occurred to him that Mrs. Dove-Lyon was certainly crafty enough to corral him into a compromising situation to use against him later.
Despite her assurances of discretion and privacy, she could easily be setting him up for blackmail.
But if this was the only way to settle Jarret’s debt, he’d go through with it.
Though he couldn’t bring himself to completely trust Mrs. Dove-Lyon, he trusted himself enough to know that whatever came out of the next hour, he’d find a way to ensure no negative consequences fell upon his family.
Before he reconsidered, he stepped forward and opened the door.
Crossing the threshold, he entered a surprisingly large room lit by a chandelier hanging from the center of the ceiling.
The wood floor was painted a gleaming black while the walls were covered in gold brocade.
Heavy gold drapes concealed windows and shielded at least one semi-private alcove that he could see across the room.
The furniture was sparse; a long table against one wall, a single throne-like chair, a chaise set in the shadows of the alcove.
Despite the frequent glint of gold and the light overhead, the room retained an unsettling darkness in its farther reaches.
A soft whisper of sound reached him from the depth of those shadows, then a single word.
“Arrête.”
The command to stop—spoken in sultry French—surprised Ralston enough that he instantly obeyed.
He hadn’t even realized there was someone else in the room.
A delicate hum ignited throughout his body as a figure slowly emerged from the darkness across the room.
A female figure with dark, upswept hair and deep curves, dressed in black with a mask that covered all but her rich red lips.
Instead of approaching him, the masked woman kept a certain distance as she started to circle around him.
Slowly. Keeping half in shadow and half in the soft glow of the chandelier.
As he followed her silky movements with his gaze, Ralston noted how her eyes caught occasional glints of light, making them flicker with golden fire.
When she disappeared around behind him, he tensed, thinking he should turn to keep her in sight.
But for some reason a deeper instinct urged him to remain unmoving instead while tension tightened his muscles and his senses clamored for information.
He could hear the click of her boots on the hard floor and the soft slide of silk on skin with each step she took. He caught the faintest whiff of some light perfume reminiscent of night-blooming jasmine. Her presence behind him was not unlike a predator assessing prey. Stalking him.
It was not a new experience for him to be the object of others’ focused attention. But this felt different. Intimate. Charged.
He forced himself to remain composed despite how the fine hairs at his nape lifted in awareness. The silence had gone on long enough.
“Who are you?”
She clicked her tongue, as if in admonishment.
Frustration stirred.