Chapter Four
Embleton House
Five in the afternoon
“Well. That was exhausting.”
Luke leaned heavily on his cane. “Any afternoon with Mother is draining. I have no idea how she maintains the energy and interest she has at her age. Are you truly joining her for church and a soiree tomorrow?”
“I am not entirely convinced I have an option.”
Timothy and Luke stood on the pavement in front of Embleton House, waiting for the hansom cab Timothy had sent a hall boy in search of just as their final discussion with Phyllida had come to a close. “I feel as if I should have written down a list of all she wants of me.”
Luke chuckled. “Do not worry. I am sure she will provide one if asked. You do know tomorrow is just to announce to the ton that you are back and available?”
“I am sure I will feel like a lion in a cage.”
“More like a prize stud at Tattersalls.”
“Do not remind me. All these events—I cannot believe she expects me to mete out hundreds of pounds for a wardrobe I will never wear again. It is ludicrous!”
“Women do it every season.”
“I am not a woman. And after this, I will not be in London anymore. It is all a waste.”
Luke peered at him. “Ever? What about your businesses here?”
Timothy scowled. “Well, yes. I will be around occasionally. But not to attend Society events. And certainly not to attend another coronation.”
Luke snorted. “I would not swear to that. The king is not in the best of health. I am positive we will outlive him. Plus this coronation may not come off as Mother foresees it anyway.”
Timothy crossed his arms. “All right. That is one too many hints in an afternoon. What do you know? Or think you know?”
Luke paused, a smirk on his face. “Just rumors.”
“Rumors. I am listening.”
“Everyone knows—not a rumor—that our new King George does not want his wife to serve as his queen. He has been rather vocal about that. The on dit is that she plans to return and claim the crown, and he is being foul about this. Enough that the halls of Parliament are rife with talk about a bill of divorcement.”
Timothy’s jaw dropped. “That is madness.”
“As I said, King George loves nothing better than a lot of drama and a rousing fight. As long as he comes out looking like a shining knight.”
“Then let us hope he cancels a few things before I spend a fortune on silk and satin.”
“Perhaps you should find a bride first and avoid the whole business.”
Timothy snarled. “I warned Mother that she will probably see this same kit tomorrow. I do not have a valet, and the staff Mark keeps at his house is doing what they can to clean the clothes I brought with me. The first ball is next Saturday, and I doubt the best tailor in London could work that fast.”
Luke looked him up and down. “I doubt you could wear anything of mine, since you now have about three stone on me. Matthew might be able to loan you something. Does Mark not keep anything stashed in Bloomsbury?”
Timothy paused. That possibility had not even occurred to him.
But until today’s luncheon he had not expected to need a prince’s new wardrobe.
“I will check. It would certainly save some effort.” He looked up as the cab turned the corner and headed their way, the hall boy riding up next to the driver.
“Ride with me. I will have him drop you at home.”
“Are you headed to the club . . . what was the name?”
“At Wheel’s End. No, that’s tomorrow. And I have told Mother not to plan much else this week. I do have business to tend to.” He patted his coat pocket. “I also have two more packets of letters from Ella. I thought I would drop them off before I disappear back into the wilds of Bloomsbury.”
Luke held out his hand. “Who are they to?”
“I am not sure. They were wrapped all together in oil cloth until this morning. Mother’s was on top, so I just tucked the other two away.” Timothy pulled them out, reading the first address. “Um . . . a Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon at an establishment called the Lyon’s Den—What is it?”
Luke’s smirk had become a broad grin. “You, a proprietor of At Wheel’s End, a gambling hell, are going to walk unbidden into the Lyon’s Den to talk to Mrs. Dove-Lyon?”
“To drop off the letters. Yes. Why?”
The cab stopped and the hall boy swung down as Luke reached for the door. “Forget home, my brother. This I must see.” He pulled himself up and settled in on the far side of the seat.
Timothy gave the instructions to the driver, then handed the two packets up to his brother and entered the cab. He reached for the packets, then stilled, staring at the one on top.
Lady Elspeth Westridge
Inmarsh House
Berkeley Square
London
“Brother, you have gone rather pale. What is wrong?”
Timothy blinked, barely hearing Luke. She is alive. Unmarried. This is impossible.
“Timothy?”
He shook his head and tucked the packets back into his coat. “Nothing. It is nothing. My mind drifted a moment. That is all.”
“Hm. So who is that packet addressed to?”
Timothy shook his head. “No one. And old friend of Ella’s. No consequence. I thought I recognized the name, but I did not.”
“I see. So no need to—”
“None.”
“Hm.” Luke disbelieving tone did not convince Timothy, but he did not pursue it. He had to think about this development later. At length.
Fifteen minutes later, they stood on Cleveland Row, a half block from a house painted a rather distinct blue, watching a plethora of noblemen and -women come and go.
Carriages of all sizes and expense rumbling past them, depositing some of the most elite members of Society at the front door—or the side entrance for the ladies.
“Well.” Timothy sniffed. “This seems to be a burgeoning concern.”
Luke coughed. “I take it you are not familiar with the Lyon’s Den.”
Timothy cut a glance at his brother. “Only in passing. I was not quite twenty when I left.”
“This is one of the primary competitors for At Wheel’s End.
It is run by Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon, who is also referred to as the Black Widow of Whitehall.
The house belonged to her husband’s family, but she inherited it at his death, along with a mound of debt and some unscrupulous creditors.
She fought back, organizing it into a two-fold business.
She knows the ton inside and out, what they crave, what they need.
And her business acumen is unparalleled.
It is a gambling hell, yes, but not just featuring the standard games.
She indulges, encourages even, patrons to wager on the oddest and must ludicrous things possible. ”
“Such as?”
“Who can eat or drink the most before tossing their accounts. Who can balance a bowl of goldfish ono their head the longest. Who can hold a chair at arm’s length? Who can—”
“I get the idea. What is the other side of her business?”
“Marriage.”
Timothy faced his brother. “What kind of marriage?”
“Unlikely ones. Women who are considered outside the norm can pay her to find a man willing to take a risk. Widows. Spinsters. People in debt who need an inheritance. Men sometimes approach her if they need a suitable mate from within the Beau Monde but no time to spend going to balls.” He cleared his throat.
“Or a desire to spend a fortune on a new wardrobe.”
“You are cozening me. You are not seriously suggesting I engage her services.”
Luke shrugged one shoulder. “It would be an expeditious way to handle Mother’s campaign for you. And you personally know two different couples who were matched by this woman.”
“Who?”
“Matthew and Sarah. And Gordon and Ella. Why do you think Ella sent a packet of letters to her?”
Timothy felt gobsmacked. “This is not a joke.” Ella knows this place. Does Lady Elspeth? It did not seem to be the place for such a lady.
“No. You could learn a lot from Mrs. Dove-Lyon.”
“I just wanted to drop off a packet of letters.”
“You could wait and talk to Matthew first. Did Gordon not tell you how he reconnected with Ella after almost a decade?”
“He did, but that was a long time ago. We were at sea, and I was still feeding the fish after every meal. I do not remember many of the details.” In an effort to dispel his jealousy of Gordon and Ella, he had put thoughts about their reunion out of his head, along with any consideration of her friend. Now they circled back around.
Luke gestured at the house. “Mrs. Dove-Lyon brought them together at one of her masquerade balls. Gordon did not want to marry anyone but Ella, but he thought she was lost to him forever. The Lyon made it happen.”
Timothy silently watched more arrivals—nobility of every class and rank—and tried to absorb the business model that had led so many to seek out this place.
He had purchased a gambling club from his brother Mark—At Wheel’s End—more as an investment than any real interest in the actual business of running such an establishment.
He employed two managers who staffed and ran the hell, filing reports with his London-based solicitor, who, in turn, sent Timothy a quarterly summary via one of the packet boats.
He had never considered the existence of competitors or how they operated. He knew there was a surfeit of them. Gambling remained one of the most prevalent and ubiquitous pastimes of the aristocracy, and it remained a sideline of many other types of businesses, such as pubs or men’s clubs.
Yet Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon—a woman—had found and carved out a unique place for her establishment.
“How does she do it? The matchmaking?”
“Primarily through a network of spies throughout the ton. And a bit of extortion is not out of the question. She knows everything about everyone. Do not be surprised if she knows you, when you arrived at Falmouth, and what your business is here. She also games the matches through bets and interviews.”
“So she makes them feel as if they have a choice. That they are participating. Clever.”
“She is rather gifted at appealing to a person’s sense of pride. Are we going in, or are you going to stand here, perusing and speculating as usual?”