Reclaiming the Lyon (The Lyon’s Den)

Chapter One

Lady Georgiana Hawthorne gripped the railing of the ladies’ gallery, careful to stay in the relative safety of the shadows.

Of course, this was the Lyon’s Den, one of London’s most infamous gaming halls, and what went on in the shadowy corners of this storied establishment, Georgie could hardly imagine.

She’d overheard her brothers speak of it, once upon a time, with both equal parts fascination and disdain.

Little Georgiana, who never set a foot wrong…if they only knew where she’d set her feet now.

She looked down over a sea of men, and more than a few ladies.

As the daughter of one of England’s oldest families, Georgie had been party to most of the regular amusements of the ton at one time or another.

But this? This was something else entirely.

Beneath the glittering light of wax candles, the elegant furnishings, and the rarified company, there was an undercurrent so tangible she could taste it in the expensive French brandy sitting in her cut crystal glass.

Desperation.

Georgie took the smallest of sips of that brandy, allowing the expensive liquor to warm her blood and bolster her nerves while she waited for her appointment with the infamous Black Widow of Whitehall.

According to legend, the proprietor had made her fortune giving members of the ton reprieve from the complex rules of “polite society” that bound them.

By the look of the place, the cost of that reprieve must have been astronomical.

If Georgie was discovered here, the scandal, and the damage it would create, would be incalculable.

Her family’s standing was already teetering, regardless of what her father might say.

It was the only reason he’d been willing to sell her happiness to a wizened baron who’d survived two of his wives, both of whom failed to give him an heir.

Her brothers were of little help to her.

Marcus, her eldest brother, was too preoccupied with his marital pursuits, and Gabriel, the spare, bought himself a commission and fled to Spain years ago, no doubt to escape their father’s nonstop hounding over his youthful debauchery.

She’d put off the marriage for as long as was possible, but she was twenty-one now—not quite on the shelf but teetering dangerously close to it.

When her father, the Earl of Ashcombe, had suggested it was time to invite the baron to dine with him on their next visit to London, desperation forced her hand… and straight into the Lyon’s Den.

Georgie sat alone, waiting on her appointment with Mrs. Dove-Lyon, her only company the imposing man at the door who’d been tasked to ensure she remained that way.

Dressed in the club’s livery, he wore an appliance where his right arm should have been.

With his broad shoulders and barrel chest, he looked to be in little need of two hands to dispatch any threat that might come his way.

Indeed, from the moment Georgie had walked through the discreet ladies’ entrance of the Lyon’s Den, she’d been struck by the sense of personal security she felt.

It was far greater than she had at home, where her father ruled with the ever-tightening grip of a man on the verge of losing everything.

The fact she was sitting here at all was a miracle orchestrated by Mrs. Dove-Lyon.

For a small fee, which was, in fact, not small, the Lyon’s Den had arranged for Georgie to stay with the Baroness D’Anville.

The baroness was an elderly social doyenne who had an elegant Mayfair townhouse and more connections than the Lyon’s Den had decks of cards.

Somehow, she’d pulled on those strings and her father, encouraged by the fact his daughter seemed eager to prepare for her wedding, allowed Georgie to stay with her, and even provided her a companion for her stay.

Georgie had spent a lifetime being a careful, dutiful daughter.

She’d rarely gone to balls or social events, and only if she was accompanied by Marcus, who was far too preoccupied with his clubs to bother with her.

If Papa knew she was here…Georgie eyed her brandy, tempted to gulp it down to stay her nerves. It was better not to dwell on it.

A raucous cheer erupted from below, pulling her attention to the lively crowd below.

Despite the fact it was a Tuesday afternoon, few of the tables were empty.

She searched for the Black Widow of Whitehall, whom she had not yet met, but was known to oversee everything happening under the roof of this otherwise respectable-looking town house on Cleveland Row.

As if the very thought had summoned her, Georgie looked over her shoulder, sensing movement.

The guard was bowing in deference to the figure who’d entered the gallery.

Indeed, he bowed so deeply, one might have thought it was Queen Charlotte herself.

But despite the king’s illness that had led to the Prince of Wales acting as Regent, the queen was not a widow.

The figure before Georgie was clothed in the black crepe of widowhood, her face obscured by a heavy black veil, akin to a macabre sort of bride.

Georgie swallowed the trepidation rising in her throat as the woman approached.

Setting down her glass on a nearby table, Georgie fought the urge to fiddle with her hands.

She’d once been named a diamond of the season, for all the good that had done her in the matchmaking department.

Still, she felt more nervous now than when she’d been presented at St. James years ago, only a short distance from where she now stood.

Though she had no idea of this woman’s rank, Georgie dipped into a pretty curtsey.

“Good afternoon,” Georgie said, “I am Lady Georgiana Hawthorne.”

The lady did not speak. Indeed, the pause stretched for so long, Georgie wondered if she’d been heard.

“Of course you are,” came the reply at last. The voice was calm, and almost warm, like the temptation of the sun at noon on a January day. Almost immediately, Georgie felt foolish. Of course the Mrs. Dove-Lyon would know who Georgie was. She was the one who’d written for her help after all.

Her hostess pointed to two sumptuous chairs upholstered in rich blue velvet set in a spot that allowed for private conversation while still providing a view of the gaming tables below.

“I trust your arrival here was without issue?” the Black Widow of Whitehall asked.

“Yes, thank you, ma’am,” Georgie replied.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon had made arrangements for Georgie to visit with the Baroness D’Anville, an old acquaintance of Georgie’s mother.

The baroness was an elderly displaced French aristocrat who seemed to have a soft spot for women in need of assistance.

The arrangement made it far easier for Georgie to come and go from the Lyon’s Den without notice.

“Shall we discuss your requirements?”

Though it was said in the form of a question, the tone suggested otherwise. Most of the women Georgie heard speak like that were of the highest echelons of society. It was pure power. Was Mrs. Dove-Lyon a member of the ton?

“Requirements?” Georgie asked.

“For a husband,” came the reply. Despite the heavy veil, Georgie was certain she sensed an amused smile. “That is why you are here, is it not?”

Georgie was certain she was blushing. It felt so odd to speak so plainly about something like this. Once upon a time, she’d had quite romantic notions about her future. Those notions were little more than memories now, and painful ones at that.

“Do not be shy about your needs, my lady,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said, signaling to the doorman to leave them as they sat down. “I have built a reputation on providing what the ton cannot.”

What couldn’t the ton provide?

She pressed her lips together as she tried to compose herself. She’d spent too long outside polite society and was already feeling out of her depths. “I don’t know, I suppose.”

“Choice,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon answered. “Specifically, a woman’s choice.”

Georgie was certain her hostess must have thought her daft.

She sat for a moment, turning the words over in her head as if it was a new shiny bauble.

Choice? What was that? Of course she had choices about her gowns and what she might eat for dinner.

And she understood that was a privilege denied so many. But real choice?

The last time she could remember having a choice was years ago, when Tom Blakey, the steward’s son and her brother Gabe’s best friend, asked to court her.

He was going into the army, and he was going to get rich, and then he was going to come back and ask her father for her hand in marriage.

All she had to do was promise to wait for him.

The memory intruded like an unwelcome rush, like a rainstorm in July, clouds rushing on unsettled air. Georgie could still see the hope shining in his beautiful blue eyes. The earnestness of his promise. Until she’d said no.

It hadn’t been a choice at all, had it? She’d been only seventeen, after all, and the daughter of an earl. She couldn’t have married someone like Tom, no matter how much she loved how his laugh made her light up on the inside. She’d already been promised to Lord Sharpe.

Another roar from below brought Georgie back to the present. Four long years had passed, and she was no longer the child she’d been then. She sucked in a deep breath, burying those feelings where they belonged—in the past. She needed to focus on her future.

Choice. Her choice. Her father had driven off every suitor that had even dared look in her direction. And Georgie had been so focused on finding someone other than Lord Sharpe, that she might be able to dictate her preferences hadn’t occurred to her.

“I hadn’t considered it,” she said plainly. “I have no idea what I might want.”

“Handsome? Plain? Tall? Short?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon asked. “Everyone has their preferences, and there is no point in being coy about it. Perhaps it would be easier for you to tell me what you don’t want?”