Chapter Four
Captain Fitzwilliam Carlyon, late of five years in the Cornish Militia, leaned back from the table with a sigh.
Whilst in Cornwall, native county of his long-deceased father, he’d been involved in a frustrating attempt at the prevention of smuggling, and was now on a long overdue leave, hoping to never have to return.
However, it was looking more and more likely that he would shortly have to find some way to earn money as he’d gambled most of his away over the last few nights.
Why on earth, for example, had he decided snail racing would be a suitable way to restore his already precarious fortune?
The snails in question, each one gaudily painted with the colors of its “owner” rested on the board which Peaseblossom, one of the Lyon’s Den’s eleven dealers, had set out some time ago on the table in the private gaming room.
Some time ago being the operative phrase, as snails are not known for their speed.
Nor, it seemed, for their capability of following a lure.
Bits of discarded lettuce lay scattered across the board, all of which the snails, which must surely have been previously overfed, had ignored.
His own snail, in lurid red and white stripes, seemed to have packed in slithering altogether and retreated inside its shell, as had one or two others.
Only three snails had so far crossed the finishing line, even though it lay a scant two feet from the start, their circuitous routes marked by shiny trails of snail slime across the board.
The winner, and thus the man who was the executor of Fitz’s downfall, was the man who’d lured him into this bet in the first place, Lord William Dugdale.
Of course, he wouldn’t have taken the bet had he not been three sheets to the wind.
And he would not have been three sheets to the wind had his luck not been so absent for the entirety of the evening.
Again. Had he not been already practically cleaned out with pockets to let.
And if he hadn’t been so foxed, he might have realised that staking the last of his blunt on the back of such a creature as a snail was tantamount to committing himself to the Fleet for the foreseeable future.
With little chance of his widowed mother’s help, mainly because his gambling reminded her too much of his late lamented papa, and none whatsoever of his titled uncle’s, his prospects for the future were at an all-time low.
Even his horse had gone now, and, if he wasn’t careful, the clothes off his back.
All in all, the somewhat sobering thought that he was in a pretty pickle, began to dawn upon him.
Why, oh why, had he allowed Dugdale to persuade him through the portals of the infamous Lyon’s Den while he was on leave?
If he was honest, he’d agreed because he’d long nurtured a desire to see inside its hallowed walls, to meet the ingeniously named staff and perhaps to steal a glimpse of the legendary Black Widow of Whitehall herself.
But not, alas, to leave it without a penny to his name and having issued a stack of vowels to his fellow gamblers. Vowels he feared he could never fulfil.
Because on each and every night he’d been here, his luck had been conspicuous by its absence, and he’d tipped further and further into insolvency.
He picked up the almost empty bottle of brandy from beside the table and poured himself a generous measure. He might just as well drown his sorrows now, because tomorrow he wouldn’t be able to afford to.
He was just putting the glass to his lips when someone tapped his shoulder.
Nearly spilling the brandy, he looked around to find another of the dealers by his side.
This time it was the one female dealer, masked, of course, as they all were.
Oberon was her name. Might she be concealing a face too ravaged to reveal or beauty too astonishing for the eyes of mortal man behind that mask? No one knew.
“Captain Carlyon.” Her voice was low and husky in a way that suggested to him the latter. Influenced by the brandy, he had half a mind to try and snatch that mask off, but she had the look of someone who could deal with such curiosity with the flick of her wrist.
She moved back a step, as though she’d divined his thought. “Mrs. Dove-Lyon requests your presence in her private room.”
Uh oh. Fitz couldn’t help a glance in the direction of that room.
He’d heard she was all-seeing, but couldn’t quite work out how she knew what was going on in the private gaming room, which, as far as he could see, had no windows through which she could be spying.
If they’d been on the main gambling floor, which her room overlooked, then he could have understood it.
How she knew he’d overstretched his welcome also eluded him, but that might have had something to do with the quantity of brandy he’d imbibed.
A lot of things were eluding him right now.
He pushed back his chair and rose to his feet, annoyed at how unsteady he felt.
One hand shot out involuntarily to rest on the tabletop.
“Lead on,” was all he managed to say, as all other words had abandoned him.
A wave of anxiety cascaded through his body, which was almost but not quite enough to sober him, as he followed Oberon towards the central hallway.
Oberon knocked lightly on the door into Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s private room, pushed the door open and stood back.
Swallowing down unaccustomed nerves, for he was after all a soldier and an officer and considered himself a rake of the first order, Fitz stepped into the room and heard the door close behind him.
The room was gloomy, but he could see a figure seated behind a large oak desk.
So this was the fabled Black Widow of Whitehall.
She was indeed, as legend said, clad all in black, and even had a veil covering more than half of her face.
He had time to wonder if that veil covered some horrible scar or birthmark before the lady indicated a seat on his side of the desk.
“Please, Captain Carlyon, be seated.” Her voice was cool with a hint of steel.
Fitz remembered himself with a start, sketched a hasty and hopefully elegant bow and sat. Best under the circumstances to do as he was told. He was in no position to bargain, and he had a feeling that his monetary problems were to do with this summons.
She regarded him from the far side of the desk.
Through somewhat myopic and drink-addled eyes, he regarded her back, aware of unaccustomed heat in his cheeks. How was it he felt as though he were back at school in front of his old Headmaster, the Reverend George Heath?
He resisted the impulse to physically shake off that feeling.
How old was she? Difficult to tell with that veil covering her face, but she had a trim, girlish figure, and her hands possessed long, slender fingers any young lady might be happy to possess.
If he wasn’t in such a pickle he might have made a play for her as he was fond of older women.
He pushed that thought back where it belonged and took a better look at her.
In one hand, she held a pen, as he seemed to have come upon her in the act of writing.
“I hear you are somewhat financially embarrassed,” she said, at last. That was all. Nothing else. Just the simple statement.
No good denying it. He nodded. “You hear correctly.”
“Betting on snails is not to be advised. At least, not if your financial reputation depends upon it.”
Was that a twitch of a smile on her lips?
He forbore from saying he knew that now and would have known it earlier had he not been so foxed and led into it by the nose by Dugdale. That would have been a feeble excuse, and he had his reputation to think of.
She made the sort of sound his mother had been wont to do when she discovered one of his misdemeanors as a child, which made him want to squirm, as he’d done back then. It was only with great self-control that he didn’t.
She set down the pen. “My information is that you are unable to fulfil your promissory notes and are at risk of being sent forthwith to the Fleet.”
Fitz briefly considered brazening it out and assuring her he could find the wherewithal somewhere and that she need not concern herself in his affairs, but then, sensing rather than seeing her penetrating gaze, thought better of such foolhardiness.
“You are unfortunately right. The only excuse I can give is that I am somewhat in my cups and, alas, have rather gone astray.” Blaming Dugdale would not have done, even though he was sure his friend should shoulder at least some of the responsibility.
He’d keep that thought to himself. Mrs. Dove Lyon exuded the aura of one who would not like to hear excuses.
She folded her hands on the desk in front of her.
“You could still be classed as a young man, Captain, and young men must kick over the traces from time to time.” She paused.
“And you are from an excellent family.” She smiled, but he had a feeling that smile did not reach her hidden eyes.
“Although your mother contracted a marriage which her father did not approve of and ran away with a penniless young officer. A somewhat inauspicious start for you and your sister.”
“That’s true,” Fitz said, itching to make excuses for his mother, of whom he was very fond.
“Although you must also know that my father was himself a younger son from a good family. One not quite so exalted as my mother’s, but with a title to their name.
A Cornish family.” Although he was none too fond of the Cornish right now.
A sight too protective of their criminals.
Catching smugglers had been almost impossible during his five-year stint down there.
Being half Cornish himself had not helped him at all.