5. No Blunt, Two Options
Chapter Five
No Blunt, Two Options
Meanwhile, in Cleveland Row, St. James’s, Westminster
The pale-periwinkle house, its quoins painted white, stood at least five stories tall and featured a black wrought iron balcony off the second floor. The front entrance, cut wider as if to accommodate a sedan chair, featured a black door adorned with a brass lion’s head knocker.
Matthew’s attention went from the building to the black-clad guard standing in front of the area, his feet planted in line with his shoulders and his arms behind his back.
“A military man,” Matthew murmured, wincing when he realized his coachman had overheard his comment. “Cummings, are you sure this is the right address?” he asked, lifting the letter to search for the address that had been included.
“Number nine, my lord. The Lyon’s Den.”
Matthew gave a start. “This is the Lyon’s Den?” He glanced back down to the letter, absently tugging on his earlobe.
“Yes, my lord. I brought your father here once or twice,” the coachman admitted.
“What the hell is a matchmaker doing with her offices in a gambling den?” he asked rhetorically.
“I… I couldn’t say, my lord.”
Scoffing, Matthew took a deep breath and said, “I don’t know how long I’ll be.
” He glanced up and down the lanes leading to the house, immediately understanding why it had seemed as if they had taken a circuitous route to arrive at the address.
The street in front of the house was entirely too thin to accommodate more than the width of a single coach.
He tried to imagine how traffic moved—or didn’t—on a typical night, given the popularity of the gaming hell and was glad he wasn’t a gambler.
“Very good, my lord.”
Noting how the guard seemed to be watching him, Matthew stiffened as he approached the front door.
“Welcome, Lord Wingfield,” the man said, bowing before he reached for the handle.
For a moment, Matthew wondered how the guard knew him and then remembered the earldom’s crest was painted on the door of the town coach.
“How might I gain an audience with Mrs. Dove-Lyon?” he asked, waving the letter he still held in his gloved hand.
“Follow me, my lord. Titan can escort you to the proprietress.”
“Titan?” Matthew repeated.
“Yes, my lord.”
Before he could ask any more questions, the guard was leading him through a vestibule, past open doors to a gentlemen’s lounge and a smoking room.
The unmistakable sound of a roulette wheel filtered from somewhere beyond, and suddenly another black-clad employee appeared.
“Egeus?” the taller man said. From his bearing, it was apparent he was the man in charge.
“Ah, Titan. Lord Wingfield would like a word with Mrs. Dove-Lyon.”
“I’ll see to it,” the newcomer said.
Matthew nodded to Titan, but he suddenly stilled. A second glance had him furrowing his brows. “You… you look terribly familiar. Have we met?”
The man straightened and finally nodded. “At school, but if you could refrain from mentioning my real name, I would appreciate it. Here, I am known as ‘Titan’ by Mrs. Dove Lyon’s directive.”
Matthew’s attention was briefly caught by a movement below, and he noticed how the escort’s gloved left hand flexed before his kid-leather-clad fingers clenched into a fist.
“Since I can’t remember your real name at the moment, your secret is obviously safe with me,” Matthew assured him.
He wondered if the escort intended to punch him should he say his name out loud.
“Matthew Higby. I inherited the Wingfield earldom two years ago,” he said, shaking Titan’s hand.
“I received a letter.” He held up the missive.
“Seems my father’s gambling extended to this establishment, although this was the first I learned of it. ”
For a moment, Titan’s features suggested he was attempting to remember something. “Must have been before my time,” he murmured. “I don’t recall seeing your father here.”
“Until this letter arrived, I had no knowledge of it. No notice of any vowels, either,” Matthew said, referring to an I.O.U. document. He followed Titan up a flight of stairs.
Titan glanced over and nodded. “Is that a letter from Mrs. Dove-Lyon?”
“It is.”
“Did you by chance have a bad harvest this year?”
The query caught Matthew by surprise. “Didn’t everyone?” he countered.
Titan arched a dark brow. “My employer’s ploy seems to have worked,” he murmured quietly.
They had reached a landing on the stairs, and Matthew was about to ascend the next flight when he stopped. “Ploy?” he repeated.
Glancing around to ensure no one else was within earshot, Titan leaned in and said, “I know it does not feel like it, but you are in good company this season. I believe Mrs. Dove-Lyon sent similar letters to all the unmarried aristocrats who might have suffered economically due to the weather.”
“For what purpose?” Though he tried to hide it, Matthew knew the annoyance in his voice was unmistakable.
“She’s a matchmaker, my lord. Charged with finding titled men in need of wealthy wives, and… vice-versa.”
Matthew scoffed. “You’re saying this letter is merely an… an advertisement for her services?”
Titan resumed the climb up the next flight of stairs. “Partially,” he replied. “But if there’s a mention of existing debt to the Lyon’s Den, then that would have been her impetus to write to you.”
Matthew huffed as they topped the stairs and stopped in front of a closed door. The short corridor continued, apparently to meet another set of stairs. Two women briefly paused in their ascent to glance down the hall in their direction before they continued upward and disappeared from view.
“They came in through the side door,” Titan explained, before he knocked. “The ladies’ entrance.”
“So the women don’t have to enter where the men do for the gaming hell?” Matthew guessed.
“That’s correct. They have their own gaming room and observation gallery. Even their own dining room,” Titan explained.
Matthew was about to say he was surprised to learn women gambled—he was sure his mother had never done so—but then a feminine voice called out, “Come,” from the other side of the door.
Titan turned the handle to reveal a small office featuring several windows at the back, apparently overlooking the main gaming hall.
There was a fireplace flanked by several wingback chairs and a low table in the center.
But the widow was at the desk to the side of the room and his attention moved there to see her.
Like her employees, the proprietress was clad in black, the crepe gown typical of widow’s weeds.
She also wore a black hat with black netting that draped down to hide most of her face, making it nearly impossible to guess her age.
“Mrs. Dove-Lyon,” Titan said, “Matthew, Earl of Wingfield, is here about a letter you sent him.”
“Ah, Lord Wingfield,” the matchmaker said brightly. She didn’t stand to curtsy but merely waved to a chair in front of her desk. “Please, have a seat.” She turned her attention to Titan. “Bring tea,” she ordered. “And if cook has them ready, do bring some fresh biscuits, too.”
“Right away,” Titan said before he left the office, closing the door behind him.
Matthew’s first thought was the desk lacked space for a tea service.
In addition to an ink pot and pen, the surface was nearly covered with papers neatly stacked in several piles.
One such pile was suddenly in the matchmaker’s hands, and she rifled through the pages until she pulled out one and set the rest at an angle atop another pile.
“I appreciate your timely response in this matter, my lord,” she commented, finally glancing up to regard him with what he discerned was a slight smile.
“As I mentioned to Titan, I wasn’t aware my father owed you any money. I have no record of it,” Matthew said without preamble.
“Lord Wingfield’s vowels were hardly worth pursuing,” she commented. “Five pounds lost in a game of hazard back in…” she paused to glance at the paper she held, “February eighteen-thirteen,” she stated.
Matthew winced. “I suppose there’s interest on top of that?” he asked, not hiding his annoyance.
The widow settled back in her chair and sighed. “I’m willing to overlook a few pounds in exchange for the real reason you’re here.”
Blinking, Matthew sounded a scoff. “The real reason?” he repeated. “I assure you, I am—”
“In need of wife,” she finished for him.
Matthew shook his head. “No, ma’am.”
She angled her head to one side, the move exaggerated by the wide-brimmed hat she wore.
“You are in debt, my lord. Other than the vegetables you grow in your greenhouse, your crops failed. Your debt will continue to worsen until you might possibly be saved by the harvest in not one, but two years,” she went on.
Furrowing his brows, Matthew felt heat rising to color his face, both from embarrassment and from anger. How did a woman he had never met know his financial situation? “Has my foreman contacted you?” he asked in dismay.
Although he couldn’t see her eyes directly, he was fairly sure she rolled them. “My lord, it is my business to know my clients’ situations,” she replied, waving to the papers.
Matthew drew in a breath, alarmed. “I’m not one of your clients.” His gaze darted to the top sheet on one of the piles. Even upside down, he could read it was about a baron in Derbyshire. Atop another pile, a sheet seemed to include information about the Marquess of Hawke.
“Of course you are. You are in need of a wife with some means,” she stated.
“You’re past the age a man in your position is usually married, and you need to begin your nursery.
You need an heir,” she added. “The good news is, your debt is not so large that you must take just any woman who wishes to be a countess.”
“That’s the good news?” he asked rhetorically.
“Yes, because for those in need of larger dowries, I require a commitment I can already tell you would not be willing to make.”
Curiosity had him asking, “What sort of… commitment?”