The Lyon Returns (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)

Chapter One

When, at age twenty-nine, a widow of three years and a grieving daughter of eight weeks, Gwendolyn Barnes packed up all her worldly belongings and departed the small town of Little Giddingford, she imagined herself embarking on a quest to claim a new and exciting life.

She had not foreseen exactly how that new life might look, except that it would certainly involve expanding her editing career and include her friends from the Ladies’ Literary Society of London, none of whom she had met in person—until two days ago.

The meeting was devoted entirely to helping Gwen.

In retrospect, the lively discussion may have gotten out of hand.

Nothing else could explain the situation in which she currently found herself: emerging from a rented hackney at twilight, ensconced in her hooded cloak, sandwiched between Lady Amelia Culver and Lady Harriet, preparing to visit a gambling hell in search of a husband.

She didn’t even want a husband.

They did not speak as they made their way down an alley toward a side entrance—the ladies’ entrance, her two compatriots had previously explained.

Gwen slanted a long look at the stately, pale-blue mansion. It boasted several floors, a manicured lawn, and sedate, wrought iron fencing. If not for the presence of the forbidding looking man stationed at the front door, the property might resemble any other in the upscale neighborhood.

Trepidation tightened her stomach. She searched over her shoulder for the hackney to assure herself the driver waited. “I’m not sure this is—”

“Hush now, Mrs. Barnes,” Lady Amelia interrupted. “You’ve nothing to lose by speaking with the proprietress.”

Other than social ruin, Gwen thought, stifling a sudden urge to giggle. Her new life was off to an exciting start.

Lady Harriet, the matriarch of their club, gave her arm a little squeeze. Gwen took heart from the small encouragement and the three marched on.

They were ushered inside by a tall woman dressed in men’s garments, from her top hat to her gleaming hessians. Gwen was not surprised by the spectacle; Amelia and Harriet had forewarned her.

Once inside, another female servant, also garbed in a man’s suit, guided them along a narrow corridor to a small drawing room.

She divested them of their cloaks, informing them Mrs. Dove-Lyon would be with them shortly.

Then, casting Gwen what seemed to her a knowing smile, she withdrew and closed the door softly behind her.

Amelia grasped both of Gwen’s hands. Her blue, nearly violet, eyes sparkled. “I have a good feeling about this, Mrs. Barnes.”

Gwen sent her a wry grin. “As we are embarking upon the most illicit adventure of my life to date, I think you may as well call me Gwen.”

“And you must call me Amelia.”

The door opened. A woman dressed in widow’s weeds, the better part of her face concealed under a black netted cap, glided into the chamber.

The proprietress of the Lyon’s Den, the infamous Mrs. Dove-Lyon and so-called Black Widow of Whitehall, Gwen presumed.

She angled her face toward Harriet, then Amelia. “Good evening, ladies. I confess, I had not expected to see either of you again quite so soon. And who is this you’ve brought me?”

Lady Harriet answered. “This is our very good friend, Mrs. Gwendolyn Barnes of Northumberland, who’s recently decided to relocate to London.”

The black cap angled in Gwen’s direction. “And she would like to avail herself of my services?”

Gwen opted to speak for herself. “That remains to be seen.”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon was silent a moment, as if considering Gwen’s words. Finally, she gestured toward the sitting area, comprised of a plush red-striped, satin sofa, two red, velvet-covered armchairs and accompanying tables. “Please, have a seat. We shall drink tea and discuss possibilities.”

As if on cue, the door swung open, and a woman dressed in one of the most ornate evening gowns Gwen had ever seen pushed a cart laden with a silver tea service for four into the chamber.

The ladies settled, with Harriet taking one of the armchairs, and Mrs. Dove-Lyon the other. Amelia sat on the sofa and patted the seat beside her, smiling encouragingly at Gwen.

Gwen sat, her fingers icy in her gloves. This is a mistake. “I don’t want a husband,” she blurted out.

“But you need one if you are to pursue your dream,” Amelia countered, unruffled. “And Mrs. Dove-Lyon is so very good at choosing. Isn’t that so, Lady Harriet?”

The Black Widow, occupied with pouring tea, issued a soft snort. “In your case, Lady Culver, I more vetted the candidates than choosing them.” She handed Harriet a cup of steaming black tea, seemingly sure of how the woman took it.

“Sugar, milk?” She asked Amelia and Gwen.

They both took milk.

She poured a last cup for herself.

A comforting, earthy aroma scented the air. Gwen took a bracing sip of the piping hot beverage and felt herself settle. No one would force her to do anything. There really was no harm in listening to what Mrs. Dove-Lyon had to say.

“Now, then,” the Den’s proprietress began. “Tell me about this husband you need but do not wish to have, Mrs. Barnes. I assume you are no longer married?”

Gwen took another sip, then set her cup in its saucer. “I am a widow.”

“How recent?” The woman asked as if interviewing her for a post.

“Three years ago, last May.”

“I see. Was yours a love match, or an arrangement more along the normal course of things?”

Gwen blinked at her, uncertain what she meant.

“Most marriages are business transactions at heart.” She flicked a brief glance at Harriet, who made no comment.

Harriet was a widow of some years, Gwen knew. A wealthy one, at that, like Gwen.

Gwen answered, “I lived my entire life in the small town of Little Giddingford. I knew my husband from childhood. It was understood for as long as I can recall the two of us would marry.”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon gave a humorless smile. “That does not answer my question.”

“We were close. It was not a business arrangement.”

“How long were you married?”

Gwen shifted in her seat. She did not wish to discuss her previous marriage. “Six years. What has this to do with—”

“Six years?” The woman tapped her chin with one black-gloved finger. “How old are you?”

“I am twenty-nine years old, madam. Practically in my dotage. Is that a problem?” Just as well. If Mrs. Dove-Lyon deemed her un-weddable, she could put this nonsense behind her. On the other hand, she would depart with the problem which had led her here, unsolved.

The widow’s mouth curved in the slightest of smiles. “Not necessarily. Married at twenty?”

Gwen cast a quick glance at Harriet and Amelia. “Just.”

It was time to take charge of the conversation, insofar as Gwen’s past was concerned.

“My mother died several years after we married, leaving my father on his own. We moved him into my husband’s family home with us, and that’s really where this story begins.

” She clasped her hands before her and went on.

“My father was an esteemed editor for J. Stern Publishing.”

“Was? He passed?”

With all the activity surrounding her move, the ever-present grief had ebbed, but at the thought of her beloved father, it washed over her in a torrent. She swallowed down a sudden, hard lump. “Eight weeks ago.”

Gwen had stayed in Little Giddingford long enough to see him properly buried and his estate settled, then off she’d gone.

“I’m sorry. You have suffered more than your share of loss.” Sincerity etched her words.

“Thank you,” Gwen murmured. She did miss Reggie and her mother, but she felt her father’s absence most keenly. The two of them had been birds of a feather.

Amelia rubbed her shoulder in a comforting gesture, and she sent the raven-haired beauty a grateful smile.

Forcing her tender feelings aside, she went on. “As I was saying, Father was an esteemed editor. Highly sought after by the most prestigious publishers in England.

“His eyesight began to fade many years back, however, and I stepped in to assist him. Eventually, I took over his workload. I developed an abiding passion for the business.”

“Was the publishing house that employed him aware?”

Gwen was surprised by the woman’s insight. In a matter of seconds, she’d homed in on one of the factors that led Gwen to this juncture in her life. “Yes and no. Both our names went on the final works, so they were aware I contributed, certainly.”

“And then he died,” the woman said. “Did they terminate your employment?”

“No.” She pursed her lips. “I accomplished that on my own.”

The widow’s red lips twitched. “Go on.”

“J. Stern often called upon father and me to read submissions and make our recommendations as to whether they ought to accept a work for publication. They tended to honor our determinations, as our predictions of profitability proved reliable time and again. On occasion, however, the stakeholders balked.”

The widow sipped her tea and cocked her head with evident interest. “And did they explain their reasons on these occasions?”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon was very sharp. Gwen was impressed. She warmed to her subject. “Yes, if they deemed the work potentially scandalous or too provocative, for instance. Are you familiar with the wildly popular romantic novel author, G.T. Arlington?”

“Of course.”

“The author is one of mine. I had to push for…” she hesitated, choosing her words with care, “the first book’s acceptance. After the immense success it heralded, no further convincing was necessary.”

“Understandable.”

“I recently found another author, extremely talented, whose work, some would say, challenges the patriarchy.”

Amelia spoke up. “The Ladies’ Literary Club read it in draft form. Very thought-provoking.”

“I consider it socially relevant, and potentially an important seminal work,” Gwen added.

“Shortly after my father’s death, I received word the stakeholders had spurned my recommendation to publish it, however.

” A rush of anger ignited in her. “They also offered their condolences concerning my father’s demise and made a formal offer to keep me on—at a fraction of my previous salary. ”

“Your father’s salary,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon corrected.

“The last four years I did most of the work. The last two, all of the work. I’m quite good.”

“I’m sure you are. But you are a woman.”

Gwen inclined her head, and made a concerted effort to tamp down her annoyance. She had no business holding the way of the world against the widow, who, Harriet informed her, was no stranger to the difficulties many a woman on her own faced.

According to Harriet, when Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s upper crust husband died unexpectedly, she found herself buried under a staggering debt of which she had no previous knowledge. Instead of crumpling, she remade herself and turned her fashionable home into the most notorious gambling den in all of London.

Gwen could not imagine making a similar choice, but she had to respect the woman’s tenacity.

“May I ask how this situation lends itself to you needing a husband?” she now asked.

“I told J. Stern and the stakeholders to go hang, and summarily hired Lady Harriet’s man-of-affairs to search out any competitors in need of editorial help. He did not find a position for me, but he did discover a publishing house available for purchase.

“The majority stakeholder wishes to sell, and is happy to take my money, of which I have an ample supply. My inheritances from both my husband and my father add up to a sizable fortune,” she explained, then lifted her tea and sipped, soothed by the warm liquid as it slid down her throat.

“Unfortunately, the remaining stakeholders must approve the sale, and therein lies the problem.”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon folded her gloved hands in her lap, all business.

“The buyer must have the available funds, which I do. He or she must have publishing experience, which I have.” Gwen couldn’t hold back a heavy sigh.

“They made it clear they would prefer a male buyer of some standing, and that an unknown widow would never do, but a wife of a well-to-do Englishman, preferably a peer, would be acceptable.”

Gwen stared at the cap’s black netting, imagining she looked into the woman’s eyes. “My friends told me you could provide me a husband, however—”

“For a price,” the Black Widow interjected.

“Of course. But even if we could agree on terms, I have no wish to be married.”

“I am curious to know what it is you have against marriage.”

“As you stated earlier, most marriages are basically business transactions. As I have my own money, and goals I would not like to see circumvented, I see no reason to complicate matters.”

The widow nodded. “You will marry for love or not at all.”

Gwen blinked, flustered, and resisted the urge to fan her cheeks to cool the instant, thrumming heat.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon, evidently, did not require her assent. She tapped her chin, as if working out a conundrum. After an interminable silence, the gambling den proprietress angled her face toward Gwen.

“As it happens, I believe I have the perfect husband for you, madam. Well-to-do, well established, and while not a peer, related to a very powerful one, and…”

Gearing herself up to argue, Gwen nearly missed the woman’s next words.

“…almost certainly dead.”