The Lyon and the Lass (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)

Chapter One

London, England

1814

L ady Christine Spencer sat in her dark bedroom, clutching the unlit candle in her sweating hands. Finally, after waiting hours for the London townhouse to settle down and become quiet, all she could hear was the frantic thumping of her heart.

The time had come. Either she did this, or she would spend the rest of her life in misery. She slowly rose and walked to the bundle of bed linens tied together to form a rope. Could she really drop from her window? Would the rope hold her weight? Would she break both her legs? Or worse, kill herself?

Those questions had troubled her for days.

Taking a deep breath, she lit the candle, placed it in the holder, and using that scant bit of light, tied the end of the makeshift rope to one of the sturdy bed legs. The other end, she tied around her slim waist. She reached down and tucked the small bundle she was taking with her under her arm and walked to the window.

The window made no noise as she opened it. She’d made sure to rub a bar of soap around the edges to avoid squeaks. The cooling night air swept into the room, chilling her. Slowly, she climbed onto the windowsill and dropped her bundle to the ground. The ground that seemed so very far from where she sat.

You can do this, Christine. It’s this or a lifetime of brutal unhappiness. She closed her eyes and the image of Lord Newton, the lewd look on his face as he ran his beady eyes over her body, was enough to encourage her to slide off into the night air.

She gulped as she dangled from the window, the right side of her body banging against the stone. Don’t look down, don’t look down, don’t look down.

She looked down. And almost lost her last meal.

Blowing out the breath she’d been holding, she inched her way down, praying as she’d never done so before. She made a number of promises to the Lord to do good deeds, donate money, read her much-neglected Bible, anything at all if she made it to the ground safely.

Hand over hand, she made her way to the bottom, her body continually slapping against the brick wall. Her fingers ached and tears rolled down her cheeks as her feet finally hit the ground with a thump. She promptly fell on her bottom, a smile of success bursting from her.

Rather than wait to see if she would be discovered, she quickly untied the rope, picked up her bundle and headed to the front of the house. Now for the second frightening part of her plan.

She found a hackney and quickly entered after telling the driver where to take her.

“Are you sure, my lady?” he asked.

“Yes. I am quite sure. If you hurry, I would greatly appreciate it.”

Shaking his head, he scratched his short beard and jumped up to the driver’s seat.

Now new worries flooded her. This was only the first part of her escape. Next, she had to convince Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon to help her. She’d sent a letter to the well-known club owner, but not having received any sort of response, she hoped that didn’t mean she had dismissed her request.

The only information she had managed to gather about the woman was scandalous. The owner of the notorious Lyon’s Den, Mrs. Dove-Lyon was also known to help wealthy women find husbands in dire need of funds. Since Christine had the funds—at least presently—she would certainly qualify.

Rumor had it that most of the women who came to her were or had been involved in scandalous matters. She hoped that she would not be disqualified because she was still a virtuous woman.

She patted her sweating upper lip and forehead with a handkerchief, constantly looking behind her for her uncle chasing her down. Hopefully, he’d been in his cups enough that shortly after she’d heard him enter his bedchamber, he would be sound asleep, snoring to raise the rafters.

The hackney pulled up to a very nondescript blue building. Certainly not something she would have expected. The driver jumped down and opened the door. “Are you sure this is where you want to go, my lady?”

She picked up her bundle and moved to leave the coach. “Yes. I am certain.” She held out the coins to cover the cost of the ride.

He shrugged. “If you say so. I will wait out here until you are inside.”

“That is very kind of you.” She took a deep breath and walked to the front door. The Whitehall neighborhood was new to her. She’d never stepped foot anywhere near this section of London. The smells were different, and even late at night people like she’d never seen before shuffled by.

She knocked lightly on the door. Nothing happened. She knocked once more, a bit forcefully. The door immediately opened. By a monster. The man was the tallest she’d ever seen. He had a scar from his forehead down his face to his neck. His nose had been broken more than once. He was dressed as a gentleman, but there was nothing that would make this man so.

“Yes?” His voice was gravely and curt.

“I would like to speak with Mrs. Dove-Lyon.”

He jerked his chin up. “You have an appointment?”

“No.”

He began to close the door, and she found the nerve to put her foot in the small opening, keeping it from closing. “I sent her a letter.”

He studied her from head to foot, then opened the door wider and waved her in. As the door closed, she heard the sound of the hackney rolling away from the building.

“Follow me.” The monster turned and strode through a narrow corridor and climbed small steps to the first floor. She could hear the cheers and groans of men gambling, winning, losing, and egging other men on.

They climbed one more flight to a floor that was heavily decorated. Plush carpets under their feet hid the sound of their steps. They stopped at a beautiful oak door, polished to a high sheen. He opened the door and waved her inside.

Inside was even more richly and tastefully decorated.

“If you take a seat I will see if Mrs. Dove-Lyon wishes to see you.” He glared at her. “It is difficult to see her without an appointment.”

Christine nodded “I understand. Thank you for allowing me in.”

He grunted and entered another door where she assumed the notorious Black Widow of Whitehall resided.

She pushed her bundle under the chair she sat on. She took off her gloves which were damp with sweat. She smoothed out her skirt and patted the sides of her hair.

How did she get to this point in her life? Papa died, left her a fortune, and Uncle Carl wanted the money. Short of killing her, he decided to marry her off to a friend. She had no doubt that there was an agreement somewhere that Lord Newton would split the fortune with Uncle Carl. They would get all of Papa’s money and she would get a portly, slobbering, lewd husband.

The door opened and instead of the man who had escorted her, whom she was expecting, a slim tall woman of undetermined years, wearing all black, including a fashionable hat with a veil covering her face that made it impossible to see her, glided into the room.

Christine stood, her heart in her throat. “Mrs. Dove-Lyon”?

Laird Kerrigan Lindsay glared at his steward Neil and cousin, Patrick, not ready to hear another warning from them. “Doona have anything to say. I am set on this path and ye will no’ talk me out of it.”

“What if this wife of yers turns out to be ugly? Or a shrew? A woman looking to buy a husband must have something wrong with her,” Neil said.

Kerrigan downed the rest of his ale. “’Tis no concern of yers. As ye well ken, our people will starve if I doona find a way to buy the sheep we lost during the disease that wiped out almost our entire herd. No sheep, no wool. Therefore, no making sweaters, caps, wraps, kilts and blankets that keeps coin in the clan’s pockets. As laird, ’tis my duty and responsibility to take care of the problem.”

“But to marry a stranger,” Patrick said. “A woman looking to buy a husband? And English? Dinna ye ken that the English lasses are spoiled, haughty, and expect others to take care of their every need? You might be looking at a lifetime of grief.”

Kerrigan slammed his mug down on the table. “Enough! Ye are no’ changing my mind and now that I have received an answer from that woman in London who makes matches, I will be on my way at first light.”

The direction he’d received from Mrs. Dove-Lyon, led him to a blue-painted house at the fringes of Whitehall, a section of London he’d not been to before. Granted, his visits to the city had been few and far between since he didn’t care for them, always feeling as though there wasn’t enough air to breathe. And you couldn’t walk the streets without bumping into someone.

He preferred the open country and the smell of grass, trees, and sheep to what was found in London. But that was where his only hope lay. If it hadn’t been for his longtime friend, the Earl of Devon, he’d still be home pulling his hair out as he tried to think of a way to gain the coin he needed to replace his sheep.

He and Devon had gone to school together when Kerrigan’s da had decided he should attend Cambridge. No amount of arguing that he preferred to attend the University of Edinburgh swayed the man who never changed his mind once he’d made it up. Considering the damage the English had done to the Scottish clans over the years, it seemed an odd demand, but even though he never knew why his da had insisted on it, it had given Kerrigan the opportunity to make friends in England, who most Scots hated.

After sending Devon a letter telling him of his clan’s darkness, his friend wrote back with information about a woman, referred to as the “Black Widow of Whitehall”, who matched up wealthy women, mostly with bad reputations, with men in dire straits. He sent a letter, pleading his case, asking to be considered for a woman who could solve his problem. He’d been immediately informed that he must present himself to her for an examination. Her women, she’d said, deserved the best and she would give them no less.

The next afternoon he set out for London with hope in his heart. He didn’t care if the lass was tall, short, ugly, pretty, plump, skinny as a broom, or had a face full of warts. All that mattered was that he had the coin he needed and the coffer to renew his clan’s riches. He would take care of her, show her respect, and provide a loving home for her and any bairns they might produce.

She was saving his clan when he had no other way to do it.

The Lyon’s Den, which was where he was told to present himself, was not in the best of neighborhoods in London. The building that housed the notorious gambling den was unimpressive when he approached it.

A small building, painted blue, made him chuckle. It stood out from the other buildings, making him wonder what her neighbors thought of the unusual presentation her place of business made.

He climbed from the hackney and straightened his cravat, a fashionable bit of nonsense. The man at the door merely nodded when he presented his name and the information provided by Mrs. Dove-Lyon as to when and where he was to appear at The Lyon’s Den.

He was led down a narrow corridor, where he almost had to turn sideways to walk. They climbed two flights of stairs before they stopped at a well-polished oaken door that his escort opened.

“Mrs. Dove-Lyon will meet with you momentarily. In the meantime, I can send for tea.”

“Tea?” Kerrigan almost choked out the word. “Are you telling me a club like this doesna have whisky?”

The man with the scar on his face and a squashed nose that had probably been broken a couple of times grinned. “Yes, Laird. If you wish something stronger than tea, you may help yourself.” He gestured to the bar in the corner.

“Thank ye,” Kerrigan said. If he was going to move ahead with this scheme, he needed a drink or two. Being offered one was far better than he’d expected. The escort left the room and Kerrigan poured himself a drink. He no sooner took a sip then the door opened and who he assumed was Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon entered the room.

She was dressed in all black, with a veil of the same color hiding her face. With the clothing she wore, there was no way to ascertain her face, or even her age. He placed his glass on the table next to him and stood. “Mrs. Dove-Lyon, I assume?”