Chapter Four
Bear knew he was a condemned man as soon as he received the summons from the Lyon’s Den. Like a soldier sent to the firing squad, he also knew there was no escaping the inevitable.
The Black Widow of Whitehall was calling in his debt.
Bear dressed carefully in a double-breasted, cutaway tailcoat and black buckskin breeches.
His cravat was pristine and his boots had been freshly polished by a reluctant hall boy.
He reasoned that, having lost both solvency and dignity, he may as well start looking the part of a duke’s son.
London Society was all about appearances, after all.
As a soldier, he appreciated the importance of dressing for the occasion.
He was shown into Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s office, where he immediately regretted the tailcoat.
The air inside the small room was heavy and humid; the thick curtains and sumptuous furnishings all added to the sense of claustrophobia.
Bear tugged on his cravat, believing that he was alone and unobserved.
A leather folder lay open on a large, polished desk.
Did the paperwork relate to him? Giving into temptation, he leaned over to have a closer look.
A lady cleared her throat. “Not quite yet, Lord Benedict.”
He flushed with surprise and embarrassment at being caught. “Forgive me, Mrs. Dove-Lyon. I failed to see you there.”
She moved from the curtains to her seat behind the desk, a regal figure dressed head to toe in darkest purple. Her veil hid her expression, so he could not tell how much he had angered her. Feeling sorely at a disadvantage, Bear stood tall with his hands behind his back.
“Please take a seat.”
A single cabriolet armchair waited for him in the center of the room. Bear folded himself into it and tried to appear comfortable. He longed for a breeze from an open window, but dared not articulate this.
“You know why you are here?”
He kept his voice level. “I owe you money.”
“Indeed. And can you pay me what you owe?”
He thought of Frederick and his kind offer. An offer he could never accept. “I cannot at this time.” He thought of The Towers and the vast amount of work needed to make the house habitable again. “Most likely not in the future either, unless a miracle occurs.”
He felt rather than saw her eyes resting upon him. “Do you believe in miracles?”
He let out a short bark of laughter. “I do not.”
She nodded as if in agreement, then pulled the leather folder toward her.
“I have here dossiers on two women of marriageable age. You will marry one of them, and your debts to this house will be cleared. Some might call that a miracle, Lord Benedict.”
A muscle tightened in his jaw. He would call it exploitation.
But at the same time, he’d known what he was getting into when he signed that first agreement with Pyramus.
Buoyed by the thrill of his first win, and lubricated by a bottle of the finest wine, he’d thought it a mere administrative matter.
Trivial. Besides, he wasn’t intending to lose.
Marriage.
As a second son on a miserable allowance, it was not a state he had ever aspired to.
Not since the early days of his acquaintance with Lydia, before she threw him over for his elder brother.
But the life of a soldier did not suit matrimony.
He had told himself this so often that he had begun to truly believe it.
He took a deep breath in. “Two women?”
“I am minded to give you a choice. It is not an offer I make often.”
“I am once again in your debt, madam.” He regretted the bitterness in his voice. “Thank you,” he added, as she handed him the leather folder.
Inside, he found two pieces of foolscap, which he read rapidly.
The first page contained details of a young debutante, the daughter of a baronet.
She was twenty years old and allegedly possessed of beauty as well as wealth.
He paused over the latter description. Why should such a fortunate young woman require the assistance of the Lyon’s Den?
He pursed his lips, finding himself uncaring of the answer.
There were a hundred possible reasons. The lady herself may be quite innocent of any wrongdoing.
But no matter, he had no wish to wed a twenty-year-old debutante.
How would such a bride fair in the wild disarray of The Towers?
How would she feel in six months or six years, when she was shackled to a second son with no prospects?
Bear closed his eyes briefly. If he had a choice of wife, he would look for someone with a backbone of steel, who loved the countryside over Society, and viewed The Towers, for all its desolation, with the same love and excitement he did.
What were the chances?
He turned to the second page. There was considerably less written here. The alternative to the debutante was a young widow with a three-year-old son. Bear read that she expected a considerable inheritance by her thirtieth birthday and stipulated a number of conditions to marriage.
He turned the page over and found it blank.
He looked up at Mrs. Dove-Lyon. “What are the conditions?”
“Every client stipulates their own conditions, Lord Benedict. But this client desires to be upfront about hers. The first is that this should be a marriage in name only.”
Bear raised his eyebrows. “That is perhaps an advantage.”
“The second is that the man she marries must own a country house where she and her son will live.”
His interest was piqued. “She does not wish to reside in London?”
“She does not.”
Bear drummed his fingers on the polished mahogany of the chair arm, thinking this through. “I have a country house, inherited from my grandmother, but it cannot be considered fit for habitation.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s voice was as smooth as silk. “What are the barriers to making it so?”
“Lack of funds,” he said through gritted teeth.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon merely nodded toward the foolscap in his hands.
Bear raised his eyebrows. “This inheritance, will it be sufficient to fund a house restoration?”
“I cannot answer for the details of your situation, but the inheritance is significant.”
Bear’s heart was beginning to beat faster with the first stirrings of excitement. “And when is the lady’s thirtieth birthday?”
“August 16th.”
Bear calculated quickly. “That is less than a week away.”
“The third condition is that the marriage must take place before August 16th.”
There it was.
Bear knew it had all sounded too good to be true.
“That is preposterous. I cannot possibly marry someone I have known for such a short time.” He snapped the folder shut and dropped it onto the desk. A lamp flickered in response, making shadows jump across the bookshelves.
Bear felt as if he had been closeted in Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s office for the best part of the day, but he reflected that it must still be morning. He ran his hands through his hair and rotated his shoulders, trying to banish the air of unreality.
“Preposterous,” he repeated, shaking his head vigorously.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon was unperturbed. “Very well. I shall arrange a meeting with the debutante. You will find she is from a very good family, Lord Benedict. I would not be surprised if your father is already on first name terms with hers.”
“Stop.” He held up his hand. Society was a trap from which he was trying to escape. He had no wish to ensnare himself deeper into it. “Why must the widow marry before her thirtieth birthday?”
“To prevent her inheritance falling into the wrong hands.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon spoke as if to a child. “To be married within a week is not unprecedented, I assure you. I can have the contracts drawn up as soon as tomorrow.”
Bear rubbed at his temples. There was too much to take in.
But the main factor, surely, was that within days he could have sufficient means to do up The Towers!
His fragile dream was gaining strength. Bear thought how Clara’s face would light up when he told her the news, and he knew, deep down, that his mind was already made up.
After all, the house was big enough for the two of them to live entirely separate lives. The widow and her son could have one wing. He and Clara could reside in another. It might all work out very well.
Hope flared within his chest for the first time in many years.
But he needed to be sure. He clasped his hands together and leaned forward in the chair.
“I can have my own solicitor draw up the contracts,” he growled.
“But first, I want to be very clear that my country house is no grand estate. It is large, and there are some nice pieces of furniture. But it requires a lot of work. And that work will be dusty and messy. And the gardens are quite wild,” he added as an afterthought.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon cleared her throat and looked beyond Bear to someone standing by the curtains. “What do you say, Lady Brewood?”
Bear darted out of his chair. Lady Brewood! He glared at Mrs. Dove-Lyon, not quite daring to look behind him. “The young widow we have been discussing is here in this room?”
“You are not the only one to whom I offered a choice, Lord Benedict,” she replied frostily.
Bear realized he had been watched and judged throughout this meeting, but there was no time for him to react. Without rising from her chair, Mrs. Dove-Lyon gestured languidly toward him.
“Lady Brewood, Marianne Chawton, meet Lord Benedict Fairfield, second son of the Duke of Alton.”
Bear turned around slowly, to find a singularly beautiful woman standing beside the dark curtains.
She had long russet curls, loosely pinned at the back of her head, clear porcelain skin, and the bluest eyes he had ever seen.
For a long moment, his breath caught in his throat, robbing him of both speech and rational thought.
He had imagined the young widow to be slight and dowdy, a dull figure, easily put aside. But this was a woman of radiant beauty. How did she come to enlist the services of the Lyon’s Den?
And what would she make of him?