The Lyon Loves Last (The Lyon’s Den)

Chapter One

C ravats were deuced uncomfortable. Men’s hats too tight around the head.

Trousers were surprisingly revealing. And smalls…

well, Miss Caroline Maxwell would never have guessed they could be so bunchy between the legs.

Perhaps hers were too large. She must ignore that, though, because the Black Widow of Whitehall scowled at her.

Dressed all in black, Mrs. Dove-Lyon stood out against the opulent décor of the Lyon’s Den, a formidable figure.

She blocked the entrance to her private room where a man taller and burlier than the usual butler had led Caroline.

The lilt of guitar and the chatter of guests seeped through the walls, creating the pervasive melody of risking it all to gain even more.

The widow tilted her head down then up, as if appraising Caroline’s appearance.

No telling what conclusions she came to.

She never lifted the black veil covering her face.

“You’ll not a convince a damn soul,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said finally, stepping aside to invite Caroline inside her study.

“A gentleman is comfortable in his clothes. You’re clearly out of sorts.

It is possible, of course, for a woman to pull off such a charade, but for you to pull it off… I have doubts. Heavy doubts.”

Caroline entered, knowing full well what she’d looked like in the mirror before she’d left.

Her clothes stretched awkwardly across her body.

She’d bound her breasts, but they still flared out a bit, and her coat hung too closely to hide the curve of her waist and flair of her hips. She bore a woman’s shape still.

“It will be dark,” she said with a shrug. “The attention will be on the table, not me.”

The widow’s private study was elegant and well-appointed, furnished with a large desk at the center, several chairs, and a large screen on one side of the room. The widow had promised to provide a means of changing into a gown after the game, despite her disapproval of Caroline’s ruse.

The widow paced, black skirts swishing past gleaming chairs and brushing over plush carpet. The windows that surely looked into the central gaming room of the notorious Lyon’s Den were hidden now behind thick brocade curtains trimmed in gold. The usual games would be played beyond those windows.

A most unusual one would be played in the private gaming room tonight.

“You should remain here,” the widow said, “while everything is in play. I’ll assign a dealer.”

“The game’s outcome determines my future.

I wish to see these men’s faces as they work through my riddles.

” And she needed to control the game, to see and evaluate the men themselves, then modify the variables to determine the correct winner.

On paper, the men the widow had discovered possessed what Caroline needed.

In person… she wasn’t sure which would suffice. She’d know soon.

“You could have simply bought a house, Miss Maxwell. You’ve enough blunt.”

Of course she had enough money. That was not the issue.

“Yes, but now I get a house and a husband.” Husbands were irrelevant beings, really, but they made excellent disguises when needed.

“And you win three houses tonight, no matter which gentleman wins my hand. And that on top of the exorbitant price I paid you to arrange all this. You get much out of this deal, and all I ask is to participate. Have the men arrived?”

“They are in the private gaming room. You do realize how difficult it was to come by four men who met your requirements, I hope.”

Caroline waved her hand. “Only you could do it.” Hopefully the widow could be flattered. Doubtful. Mrs. Dove-Lyon was a known manipulator with a reputation for success. She was likely immune to manipulation herself.

“I’m not sure you’ll… enjoy all of them.

Technically, they meet your requirements.

All are looking for a wife but not an heir, possess an unentailed house outside of London that they’re letting rot, and are younger than forty.

It is a rather narrowed list. If you consider dropping just one requirement, then I could fill the table with more suitable choices for a lady of your intellect. ”

“No. I need a man just as you’ve described, or none at all.

” Caroline did not bother to keep the irritation from her voice.

She’d long ago become accustomed to others questioning her decisions, her resolve.

It was, she’d learned, an unfortunate consequence of being shorter than average.

And of being a woman. Most everyone treated her like a child.

“The age restriction. It is not necessary.”

“Yes. It is.” She did not wish to marry a man as old as her father. A man her age or younger would be easier to manipulate, would hopefully question her less. “That is essential.”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s hands hit her hips. “No wonder they call you London’s Most Stubborn Lady.”

Caroline shrugged. “ Stubborn is a nasty way of saying I know what I want and refuse to settle for less. I do not care about the men’s intellect, and you want the three losers’ houses. If they’ve agreed to that wager…” She hesitated, waiting for confirmation.

“They have.”

“Then we both win tonight, whether or not I marry a man with a ham where his brain should be.”

The black widow tsked . “I think, in time, you will regret that choice.”

“Will you still speak for me during the marriage settlement?” She possessed no father to do so. Not any longer. She’d needed someone else sharp, formidable, to get her what she required. And the owner of London’s most notorious gambling hell was known for exactly those qualities.

“I am,” the black widow said with a sigh. “You want the winner’s wagered house as a wedding gift for your particular use. And you want your own money. You understand he’ll still own it. Legally.”

“Yes.” The word felt like a curse on Caroline’s tongue.

Men owned everything. She possessed more than the usual spinster—money, freedom, purpose —but it would all belong to her husband, once she wed.

Marriage offered her only one valuable thing—respectability, a front behind which she could do as she pleased with little questioning or attention from society.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon crossed her arms over her chest, seemed to be assessing Caroline behind that cursed veil.

“Stand taller, then. Legs slightly apart, shoulders back—No! Not back. Zeus, but you have a prominent bosom. Short and curvy and quite difficult to pass for a man. Did you wrap your chest up tightly?”

“I did. As tightly as I could without assistance.” Not that it helped much. She poked at her prominent bosom, frowning.

“Hunch forward, then. When we’re in the room, stay to the shadows as much as possible. Do not fuss with the hat. If it topples, the game is over. You should have cut your hair.”

Caroline shuddered. She was vain about her hair.

She shouldn’t be, but she couldn’t help it.

Her hair was long and thick and dark with a bit of a wave to it, and she’d heard the same men who called her “plain” admit they’d like to wrap it around their fists and feel its silk.

Tonight she’d braided it tightly and bound it in a crown atop her head, beneath her hat. “No hair cutting.”

“Like a mule, you are,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon grumbled. “Well then, let me hear your man’s voice. Say something salacious.”

Caroline didn’t know anything salacious to say. “Lovely stockings?” she asked in her deepest voice.

“Good God. That’s horrid. It must do, I suppose.

Only do not end your sentences with questions.

Men simply do not know what questions are.

They speak only in declarations and exclamations.

Take this.” She moved to the desk in the corner of the room and rummaged through it to pull a small, black domino from a drawer.

“Can never be too careful. Are you ready?”

“Yes.” Time to meet her husband, time to harvest the fruits of the plan she’d been working on since her father’s death. She tied on the domino and resituated her hat.

“Excellent!” Mrs. Dove-Lyon led her to the private gaming room where a group of four gentlemen already sat around a large table.

She would marry one of them.

Heavens… she would marry one of them. The pounding of her heart broke through her facade of calm control. Her mouth went desert dry, and beneath her gloves—a veritable lake of sweat.

“Worth it,” she whispered, stepping into the shadowed room.

“Worth it, worth it .” Because the house that would come with the husband meant freedom.

Not just for her. But for every woman in need of it.

The drum inside her chest quieted, her nerves steadying.

She could do anything for the women who needed her.

Caroline closed the door behind her, keeping her face turned to the plush rug beneath her booted feet. The boots, at least, were comfortable.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said. “Shall we begin?” She stepped aside and gestured to the table, to the four men waiting there.

Caroline didn’t dare meet their gazes, didn’t dare peruse their forms, as she sat at the table’s only empty chair and slipped her hand inside her jacket pocket. What they looked like didn’t matter, after all.

The men didn’t seem to notice her arrival, chatting amongst themselves.

She knew their names but did not frequent society often enough to know them personally.

Her father had been a viscount’s second son but had spent his life away from the ton, had not raised his daughters within those vaunted social circles.

“Wonder what the game’s to be,” said one man. He had a gentle voice, low and filled with mirth.

“Bound to be interesting,” said another, sounding much too young. His voice had cracked .

Caroline peeked back at the widow. She’d taken up residence in the corner of the room, seated like a queen on a large wingback chair near the fire.