Page 4 of The Lyon Rampant

Belinda managed a swift kick at Roland’s ankle. He hid his gasp behind a napkin.

“Yes. Of course. Well, there is that. She’ll keep me busy, no doubt.” Belinda kicked him again, to make sure he said nothing further. Fortunately, he appeared to understand and busied himself with his ratafia cake.

Struggling to navigate dangerous waters, Belinda asked, “I presume you still have some friends in town who can keep you entertained. I mean, us. And there’s always the opera. Or the theater.”

“Of course! “Araminta clapped her hands. “I haven’t taken you to the theater nearly enough since I started increasing. If Roland can escort you, you must take in a performance before you return to Forty Court. I understand The Old Forum is an excellent venue for both operas and plays—I’ve heard that they’ll be putting on A Midsummer Night’s Dream in the next couple of months. They sometimes have ballet, too, although I’ve never really understood ballet.”

Roland’s chin went up. “The Old Forum? Piers Darvill’s place? Oh—I don’t think we should go there. There are other far jollier venues I can take your sister to.”

“Why not the Forum? It looks splendid on the outside. I’d love to see what it’s like inside.”

Roland shot Belinda a warning look, which she failed to understand.

“Don’t be fooled by outward appearances. Anyway, I have no desire to put any money into the pockets of the top-lofty Piers Darvill.”

Araminta helped herself to another cake. “I’ve never heard you call anyone that before, Roland. You’re normally so accepting of people. Has this Mr. Darvill done you some disservice? Has he beaten you too often at the gaming tables?”

Belinda saw a dark flush steal across Roland’s cheeks.

“I don’t think him the sort of person with whom one should associate. I particularly wouldn’t want to take an impressionable and stunningly beautiful young woman like Belinda to a place where one was likely to meet him. He frequents the Lyon’s Den, is an absolute stickler for the rules, and no fun at all. I’ve also heard that he has French origins, and is therefore not to be trusted. And he’s never seen at the theater without some fancy piece displayed on one arm—sometimes on both.”

Araminta’s eyes twinkled. “If I didn’t know better, Roland, I’d say you were jealous of the fellow. What do you think, Belinda?”

Her heart was thundering again, and she could feel a rosy flush spreading over her face and onto her chest. She hoped her sister would put this down to the fact that Roland had just referred to her as ‘beautiful,’ and not to the fact that she’d just realized to whom Roland was referring. This Piers Darvill, owner of the Old Forum Theater, must be the card-playing Lyon who’d unmasked her and landed her in Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s pocket. This was the only reason she could think of for Roland’s vehemence.

Suddenly, it was all too much. The traumatic turn her life had taken, the falsehoods with which she was bamboozling her sister, and the risk in which she’d involved Roland—to his detriment—were overwhelming. The old stir of panic snaked through her veins and she knew if she didn’t leave now, she’d be shamed in front of everyone.

Her cup rattled against its saucer as she shot up from her chair and headed for the door.

“Apologies, but I’m afraid I’ve a megrim coming on and must seek my bed. Immediately.”

Without waiting for any response, she fled the room.