Page 20 of Lyon of Least Resistance

Cordelia glanced at her assailant, who glowered at her through red-rimmed eyes. Then she nodded and retreated to her bedchamber on the topmost floor. She shuddered as she glanced at the wig and torn mask in her hands, recalling Sir Iain’s taunts.

It had been a long time since she’d felt so dirty—not the businesswoman selling a commodity to fund her future, but a whore debasing herself in sordid encounters with sweaty men wanting to indulge in every depravity.

Catching her breath, she approached the fireplace where the fire had already been prepared. Taking the tinderbox from the mantelshelf, she crouched beside the fire and lit it, watching as the tiny sparks sprang into life before blossoming into flames that curled around the kindling, growing in size and engulfing the logs.

Then she stood back and tossed the wig and mask onto the flames.

The fire hissed, emitting thick gray smoke, and she watched until it settled into the steady rhythm of crackling flames, the wig and mask now turned to ash.

Then she approached her washstand, dipped a cloth into the water, and pressed it against her cheek. Though her face would sport a mark in the morning, it would fade in a day or so.

That was a skill she’d learned as a doxy: the ability to predict, with some accuracy, how long bruises, welts, and cuts would take to heal. It was a hazard of her career, for which she, and others, were handsomely paid.

As she rinsed out the cloth, a knock came on the door and Hermia entered.

“Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s asking to see you.”

Cordelia nodded and exited her bedchamber, her stomach fluttering as she made her way to her employer’s study. When she knocked, a low voice bade her enter and she slipped inside. Mrs. Dove-Lyon sat at her desk, shrouded, as usual. Two sharp eyes regarded Cordelia from behind the black lace veil.

Two chairs had been placed in front of the desk. One bore a woman in a bright-green gown, her iron-gray hair fashioned in an elaborate array of curls, dotted with tiny flowers. The other was unoccupied.

“Isidore—” Cordelia began, then she broke off as Mrs. Dove-Lyon gestured to the empty seat.

Isidore frowned, her gaze settling on Cordelia’s cheek, which still burned from where Sir Iain had struck her.

Cordelia sat and placed her hands together on her lap.

Her employer tilted her head to one side.

“Does your cheek give you pain?”

“Only a little,” Cordelia replied, “and it will fade with time.”

“So it should be gone by next Saturday?”

Knowing better than to ask about the significance of next Saturday, Cordelia nodded.

“Good. Then we can proceed with your retirement from my establishment.”

“My…?”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon leaned forward, her eyes gleaming from behind her veil.

“For what purpose did you think I asked you to see me, Miss Flowers?”

Cordelia winced at the use of her name.

“I-I thought…” Cordelia gestured to her cheek.

“You thought I would blame you when a visitor takes liberties?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon shook her head and tutted. “I might be known for valuing a profit, but consent always takes precedence. Do I not value consent above all, Isidore?”

Isidore nodded. “Of course.”

“Sir Iain Leaney has committed transgressions in the past,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon continued. “It’s plain to see that in your case, he tried to take that which he had not paid for—and, more to the point, that which you were not prepared to give.”

She placed her elbows on the desk and leaned forward. “Miss Flowers…Cordelia…it has given me great pleasure to evict Sir Iain from my premises. At least now that he’s barred from ever returning, I do not have to bother myself with him. Not that he poses a danger to the women who come here seeking a husband. He’s been partaking of our games for over five years, yet has not once asked himself why he has never emerged as the victor.”

Cordelia raised her eyebrows.