Chapter Three
“Her name is Mrs. Dove-Lyon,” Gideon stated. Not that he was in any doubt, but Gwen’s shocked gasp was all the confirmation he needed.
Bessie Dove-Lyon, the Black Widow of Whitehall, the proprietress of the Lyon’s Den, and one of four members—including his brother, Grayson, his ship captain, Dirk Kennedy, and a family friend, Brice Tyrell—of the exclusive consortium he’d founded, which funded rifle production.
It was an intentionally small group of investors who all stood to make a killing.
Gideon had long amassed a fortune and did not particularly need the money.
For that matter, neither did Grayson, but chafing at the duke’s restrictions and resenting the implication he needed to be managed “like an irresponsible youth,” as he phrased it, he begged a seat on the consortium when Brice let the investment opportunity slip.
A large influx of cash would have greatly enhanced the lives of the remaining three.
Dirk planned to use the money to retire from his life at sea, to spend more time with his young wife and their infant daughter.
Brice wished to pay down his debts, owing to his lavish lifestyle.
He lived like a man born to wealth, not the son of a rural magistrate he was.
Through hard work and ambition, he’d pulled himself up by his own bootstraps to reach the rank of MP, and had become a powerful one, at that.
His spending, however, outpaced his rise in stature by a long shot, despite his having married into wealth.
As for Mrs. Dove-Lyon, she was always looking to increase her solvency. But now Bessie had procured him a wife—on paper at any rate. Why? What did she stand to gain by this farce?
Of a certainty, Bessie had a motive other than aiding Mrs. Barnes in securing an absentee husband. Whether her choice of Gideon as Gwen’s husband owed to the events of five months ago, events that had turned him into a virtual fugitive, however, he did not yet know.
He eyed the woman whose existence had unwittingly made it possible for him to return home. His wife of some seven months, according to the papers. Of medium height, slender, with a full head of gleaming flaxen hair, and large, sky-blue eyes set in a fine-boned face.
In short, Mrs. Gwendolyn Barnes, aside from being an obvious dyed-in-the-wool bluestocking, appeared to be a perfect English rose—the latter quality making her the exact opposite type of woman with whom he would choose to cavort, much less marry.
Nobody who knew him well would believe her tale. Bessie would know that.
“My brother, Lord Ashwood. Has he had occasion to call on you?”
She threw her hands in the air with such obvious vexation, she nearly coaxed a smile out of him.
“Lord Ashwood? The bane of my existence, sir. I do not mind telling you I will not miss his daily interrogations. Indeed, I assumed it was he who had arrived moments ago, intent on plaguing me yet again with his calculated questions meant to trip me up. I had quite made up my mind to send him away.” The flash of blue steel in her eyes heralded by the mention of Grayson abruptly faded.
“Then, you walked through the door,” she said, a soft smile curving her lips.
He could almost believe her claim of gladness at learning he lived sincere. “In that case, you’re welcome.”
Her smile broadened briefly and the dimple he thought he’d noted earlier on her right cheek winked in and out of view.
“Are you acquainted with Mrs. Dove-Lyon, then, Mr. Devereux?”
“You don’t know?”
She arched wispy blond brows. “She said nothing to indicate a relationship existed between you.” Standing in the center of the chamber, she cast a longing look at her abandoned brandy snifter, still atop his desk.
Meanwhile Gideon blocked her straight shot. He could read her like a book. Like she’d spoken her thoughts aloud. She had no intention of coming into close range with him again if she could help it. Did he intimidate her, or had she felt the odd charge of attraction sizzling in the air between them?
Perhaps that had been all one-sided. It hardly signified, in any case.
Taking pity on her, he reached the desk in one stride, swiped up the glass, and returned to hand it to her.
Their fingers brushed. Hers were cool and silky smooth, long and graceful.
“Thank you,” she murmured and sipped, eyeing him over the rim unabashed, though it was not half past two in the afternoon.
He found her lack of restraint refreshing, not that he intended to share his observations. Nor, by God, would he continue to allow this slip of a woman, this bluestocking, to distract him. He needed answers, and quickly.
“Shall we sit? Or should we continue facing off like two chessmen on a board?”
Her dimple winked into view. “As you wish.”
He gestured toward the seating area before the hearth, stepping back so she could precede him without fear of brushing against him.
Even so, she gave him a wide berth.
She took one armchair, he took the one adjacent.
“What, exactly, did she tell you, Mrs. Barnes?” Hearing her married name—her former married name—on his lips, he cursed.
So many pitfalls to navigate to avoid disaster.
“I should probably use your Christian name if we are to be believed. Do you prefer Gwendolyn? Or Gwen?”
She blinked. “Friends call me Gwen.”
“As your husband, I imagine I am your closest friend, Gwen.”
Her fine brows puckered, as if she did not quite know how to take his comment.
“Tell me what transpired when you visited the Lyon’s Den. You did venture into the Den, did you not?”
“I gained admittance through the ladies’ entrance,” she said as if that fact mitigated her action. “Before she would agree to take my money—and the fee was exorbitant—she put me through a brutal course instructing me on the things I should know about you.”
Her story grew more fascinating by the minute. “Such as?”
Gwen began ticking items off with her fingers. “She described where we met and when—thirteen months ago, aboard your ship, by the by, when my father and I begged passage on your private brig en route to Calcutta.”
He stretched out his legs, getting comfortable. “For what purpose?”
“Father was commissioned to verify the authenticity of an old manuscript housed there.”
Intriguing. “Feasible?” he asked.
“Extremely so.”
“I see. Go on.”
“Before we docked in India, you invited my father and me to stay with you at your residence as your guests.”
“Oh. Very generous of me.”
She slid him an amused look. “Quite. Mrs. Dove-Lyon described the city, places where I may have ventured with you or my father, and gave me a detailed description of the interior of your home in Calcutta, right down to the servants.”
His home? He had not been aware Bessie had such details.
Gwen diverted her eyes before continuing. “We…fell in love on the ship and married within a month of our arrival. The hasty ceremony was partially due to our strong feelings for one another…”
A vivid fuchsia stain rose up her neck and flooded her alabaster cheeks. Even the tips of her ears turned pink. “…and partially owed to my father becoming ill. It became obvious that he and I would need to return home to England where he could consult with his own physician.”
He could not resist goading her. “Naturally, we did not wish to part without making things official and consummating our relationship.” He expected to shock her.
Instead, when her eyes met his, challenge glinted in their blue depths. “Sir, do you wish to tell this tale, or shall I go on?”
Amusement flickered through him. “My apologies.”
“I agree the notion was far-fetched, especially as I’ve gotten to know a bit about you over the last few weeks, staying in your home.
But the documentation is impeccable—indecipherable from the real thing.
Indeed, I almost believe she somehow acquired an actual sealed marriage certificate from Calcutta and had it on hand for such an occasion. ”
Very astute of the lady. Bessie had the wits and foresight to do just that.
“The date. Who chose that?”
“She did. She was very specific about it.” She fixed him with an unblinking stare, her expression wary but resolved.
Anticipation the likes of which he had not known in a very long time gripped him. He had no notion what she might say next. He could not look away from her if his life depended on it—which, in a sense, it did.
“Mr. Devereux—”
“Gideon,” he corrected.
“Very well, Gideon. I don’t mind telling you I’m quite vexed. Other than my honest pleasure at finding you hale and hardy, this whole endeavor has cost me a great deal of time, money, and patience.” She gestured toward his desk. “The contract negotiation with the devil’s spawn stakeholders…”
He barked out a laugh. He could not remember the last time he’d had occasion to laugh, and within the span of less than a half hour, he seemed unable to quell the urge.
“…and all for naught. They’ll never sell to me now that I’m not only not wed, but not wed to the man I claimed was my husband.”
She sprang to her feet and began to pace. “Poor Georgin—I mean George—put her—his—trust in me, and now I must let…er…George down.” Blond tendrils of hair had escaped her chignon, as if the silky tresses could not be contained. He wondered if they would feel as silky as he imagined.
Wait. What was she going on about? George? Who the hell was George?
She went on, oblivious to his confusion. “Then there was your brother who made it clear he could not imagine his larger-than-life older sibling falling for an inconsequential plebeian like me.”
He started at that. She might not be his usual sort, but she was hardly fodder for the fire—quite the opposite.
Fined-boned face, lithe, willowy frame, utterly feminine.
The worst thing he could say about her was that she did not have the best taste in clothing.
Her navy dress seemed to go out of its way to mute her obvious charms.