Chapter Eleven #2
Clem’s expression of complete trust in him and her belief in the imminence of an unwanted proposal spurred Rufus to visit a certain establishment of which he’d heard mention.
In the dusk of the summer evening, his carriage delivered him to a blue building on Cleveland Row in Whitehall.
The blue facade provided an innocent front to what had become a well-known, upmarket gambling den.
Services provided by the owner, Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon, included matchmaking for those men and women who failed to secure a suitable match in traditional ways.
Or so Rufus had heard. He prayed the rumor was true.
He also recalled the man who had owned Lyon’s Gate Manor before it became the Lyon’s Den.
Colonel Sandstrom T. Lyons had been an important part of Sir Arthur Wellesley’s campaign in Spain.
Rufus had liked the man, and regardless of where he now found himself, was prepared to give his widow the benefit of that regard unless he learned otherwise.
He was shown up a double staircase into a private parlor to await the arrival of Mrs. Dove-Lyon and offered brandy while he waited.
The room was expensively furnished, with several exotic and beautiful decorations, most likely brought back by the colonel from his postings abroad.
Two large aspidistras were positioned behind and on either side of the sofa opposite him.
A footman delivered a tray holding both brandy and coffee and set them on the table. “Will there be anything else, sir?”
“Thank you, but no.” When the servant left, Rufus poured himself a small brandy and then sat back to wait.
A door opened behind him, and the owner of the Lyon’s Den stepped into the room.
Rufus set his glass down and rose, turning to greet her.
Dressed in black from head to toe and heavily veiled, the woman stood with her hand on the doorknob, and Rufus had the uncomfortable feeling he was being assessed. This was a woman who observed others, who made her living by reading what most people didn’t know they revealed of themselves.
He bowed. “Madam, your servant—”
“Lord Rufus Marsden, how do you do?” She appeared to glide across the thick carpet before sitting on the sofa facing him. “How may I help you?”
“I understand you make matches for those who have difficulty doing so for themselves. I wish to discuss using your services to engage the affections of a certain nobleman.”
“Ah, an affair of the heart that the Ton would frown upon. I understand.”
Rufus paused in the middle of raising his brandy glass. Seldom did anyone strip him of the ability to speak, but Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s easy acceptance of his request—erroneous as her misunderstanding was—had surprised him.
“Not for me. I am not looking for that kind of relationship. What I seek is a way to prevent this gentleman from pursuing a certain young lady whose heart has been given to another. Her parents are on the verge of compelling her to accept his suit, and I would . . .” Rufus paused, searching for the right words to say. “Divert his attention elsewhere.”
“You would—pay to make a match for another?” The bare pause suggested he had surprised her, and Rufus suspected that rarely happened.
Tit for tat.
“Yes. Or to discredit him if it should be found he has predilections that can be used to stop him making an offer to this particular young lady.”
“An interesting proposition you make, though not usually within the range of services I offer. Do you know if the gentleman in question is a client of the Lyon’s Den?”
“I do not, but I am prepared to draw him here if he has not yet visited.” How much easier it would be if Hetherington were already an established client. That would suggest he was a gambler, and that was a vulnerability Rufus—and the widow—could exploit.
“What is his name?”
“Before I name him, is this a case you will consider accepting?”
“One should never miss an opportunity, be it for a new experience or an extension of one’s business. And I enjoy a challenge, so, yes, I am considering accepting your request.”
The tension that had gripped him all afternoon eased.
Rufus’s plan was odd and depended on ceding a measure of control to someone other than himself.
It was not a comfortable feeling. Some might call his idea far-fetched, like the stuff of a Drury Lane play, but the woman before him hadn’t sent him off with a flea in his ear.
“Colonel Lyon said much the same thing about his philosophy of living when I met him at Rolica.”
A soft gasp was quickly cut off, but Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s hand rose to her chest as though she was in pain. “You knew him?”
“Briefly, yes. I admired his skill and leadership of his men and wish I’d had the opportunity to spend more than an evening in his company.
He was well regarded by all, including Sir Arthur Wellesley, to whom I was attached as an aide.
” Rufus paused before adding, “My sincere condolences on your loss. He was a good man.”
A soft inhalation, then Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s hand returned to her lap. “Thank you, my lord. Tell me whose affections you wish to redirect, and we can commence our campaign.”
“Lord Hetherington.”
His hostess nodded her head once and rose. “Would you care to wait while I check my books?”
“I’ll wait, and my thanks for accepting this task.”
The widow left him alone with the brandy decanter, and Rufus poured a second glass and reflected on their encounter.
He’d heard she was called ‘the Black Widow’ and, while she was not what he had expected, she was more than he had imagined.
He searched his memory of the colonel, trying to recall the face of a man he had known for one evening six years earlier.
The image was of a man much older than his widow, if her voice was anything to go by.
A desire rose to see the face beneath the veil.
He understood she might feel a need to keep a barrier between herself and her clients, but much of his work as a spy included reading people’s expressions and seeing the truth within their eyes.
With Mrs. Dove-Lyon, he could read nothing through her veil and yet, going with his gut instinct, he had a strong sense he could trust her.
He savored her excellent brandy, of a quality that suggested her supply came through smuggling.
He wouldn’t fault her for that. The reputation of the Lyon’s Den had been built around offering the best food and drink to be found anywhere in London, and the widow’s business appeared to be thriving, in large part because of that assurance of quality.
When at last the widow returned, she carried a paper and led him to a narrow table discreetly hidden behind one of the aspidistras. A tray containing several quills and a bottle of ink rested beside a blotter. She set the paper down there and stepped back.
“Your quarry is a member of my establishment. All that I require now is your signature on a contract and a deposit of fifty pounds.”
Rufus picked up the contract and scanned its clauses, nodding when he finished.
“Most thorough, but with sufficient leeway to change tack according to what our man decides at each step.” He dipped a quill into the ink and signed his name, and then withdrew some notes from his inside pocket.
“Please keep me apprised of your progress at each stage.”
“Naturally, my lord. One more question—What is the name of the young lady I am to help keep Lord Hetherington away from?”
“Her name is of no import.” Rufus frowned, reluctant to offer any information that might reflect badly on Clem.
“I assure you, my inquiry is not prurient curiosity. Knowing who she is, is a precaution only. I will not divulge her name save to my most trusted staff, and no one but me will know more than that, but should I hear mention of her from other patrons, I can let you know.”
“That—” Why hadn’t he thought of that? Mrs. Dove-Lyon could be an extra set of eyes and ears to keep Clem safe.
With her help, he might nip other would-be suitors’ aspirations in the bud.
His new ally was proving to be an intelligent woman, and Rufus felt the weight of his promise to both Will and Clem lighten.
“Thank you, that would be useful. She is Lady Clementine Basingthwaite, and she is secretly promised to another.”
“Secrets are our stock in trade, my lord. I believe you also know how to keep them close. Trust me to listen and watch. My staff bring me reports of such conversations from their tables. It assists me to make better matches if I know what clients are looking for. If anyone speaks of this lady, I will let you know.”
Rufus bowed and took his leave, confident in the plan he had set in motion. With him watching over her and Mrs. Dove-Lyon at the Lyon’s Den on her side, Clem would remain safe and unattached until Will returned.
But concern for his friends and a desire to see them achieve their happy-ever-after ending gnawed at Rufus, who long ago had learned to control his impatience in order to survive as a spy.
This time, he could not wait and do nothing.
Until he heard from his new source, he would do some digging of his own.
Everyone had secrets, and he was very good at discovering them.