Page 4 of Lyon on the Loose

They had got on—mostly by leaving home at the earliest opportunity. Would Mama have taken a gentler approach with her offspring if she’d married again after Papa’s death? He had clearly doted on her, made her happy and content, and brought joy to the household. A second husband, a handsome, happy-go-lucky fellow like Mr. Roland Chetwynd, perhaps, would have helped Mama revisit the pleasures of her youth. Such a man would have brought entertainment and warmth into the family.

Curse you, Mama! She couldn’t let the woman get the better of her, could not permit her to separate her from Oscar. Seizing the coach ticket, she was about to tear it to shreds. But this was all she had now. There was no money, no future husband, no market stall, nor the money to rent one. There was nothing left to pay for this miserable set of rooms. Even though the plaster was coming away from the walls and the wind whistled through cracks around the windows, the landlord still required his rent. Outside, a barrow rattled past on the uneven cobbles, and somewhere a woman laughed drunkenly and shouted something incomprehensible. The world went on, it seemed, indifferent to Lissy’s heartbreak.

She stared at the coach ticket again, her mind whirring with questions. If she sold it, how long would the money she got for it last? What would Dashwood have done or said if he’d caught up with her? If she’d asked Mr. Chetwynd to bring her to her door, would she have found Mama and Oscar still here? Couldn’t everyone have just had a sensible conversation? Mama might have been persuaded to facilitate a speedy marriage to avoid a scandal, and Lissy would have been spared the ignominy of Oscar’s apparent betrayal.

Lady Beatrice Ashby, compromise? When it came to family matters, that was highly unlikely. She’d far rather punish her recalcitrant daughter and teach her the error of her ways. Letting her wed the man of her choice would have been seen as weakness.

Another tear rolled down Lissy’s cheek as despair threatened to overwhelm her, but she wiped it away with fierce resolution. Was there any alternative to returning to Suffolk? She knew nobody in London except Cousin Sarah, who, being family, would feel obliged to inform Mama immediately of Lissy’s whereabouts. She knew of Mrs. Dove-Lyon, of course, the proprietress of the Lyon’s Den gambling club, whom Mama had occasionally referred to as a former friend. However, the word was that the woman never did anything without requiring a fee of one kind or another—and she’d only help the daughter of a long-lost friend if said daughter could come up with an extremely plausible lie about her presence in London. Besides, Lissy had already aired her opinions about such places in the presence of Mr. Roland Chetwynd—imagine the smirk on his handsome face if he were to catch her asking for help at the Lyon’s Den!

She pressed her fingers into her palms, relishing the pain as her nails bit into the flesh. She was going to come through this; she must come through it! There was no alternative; she must return to Suffolk, fully uncover the conspiracy against her, unravel it, and persuade Oscar to reconsider his options. She would then exact her revenge on Lady Beatrice.

For the first time that day, a faint smile touched Lissy’s lips. Mama would soon regret trying to bully and outwit her youngest daughter!

Chapter Three

A week had passed since the ugly incident with Henry Sutton. The bruising around Roland’s eye had gone down, and he now felt fit to be seen . . . more or less. His face no longer hurt, but his pride was still damaged, and knowledge of the wager about him at White’s was a festering wound.

Having tightened his resolve to be more like his brother Leo and resolve problems with guile and wisdom rather than by any other means, he had decided it was time to return to normal. But what, exactly, was he going to do with himself? He certainly wasn’t going to White’s—he wasn’t yet ready to face them and laugh off the wager as if he didn’t give a damn about it.

Downstairs, somebody knocked at the tradesman’s entrance. Roland heard the door open and close, and shortly thereafter, his footman trotted up the stairs bearing a missive.

Intrigued, Roland carried the letter across to the window to take advantage of the better light. The shutters were open, admitting the coppery sunlight of the autumn day, a great improvement on the previous week’s downpours. He unfolded the paper, then grinned from ear to ear.

The seal was that of the Lyon’s Den. This must mean another commission from Bessie Dove-Lyon—something to provide him with a distraction from his gloomy thoughts. She wished to see him in person as soon as possible. Splendid!

Rather than take the carriage, he decided to walk—it was far too easy not to exercise enough whilst sojourning in London. Although there were plenty of sports available to well-bred young gentlemen, such as fencing and pugilism, none of them presented the additional delights of a walk through the more genteel districts of Town, with their smart cobbled streets, shining lampposts, and colonnaded front doors.

Even without his lion-headed cane to swish around—he hadn’t yet got around to having it mended—he managed a jaunty walk and even broke into a whistle as a light breeze whisked the multicolored plane leaves around his feet. Shuffling through the yellows, greens, and reds, he made his way to Cleveland Row and approached the main entrance. As usual, his arrival was noted by someone discreetly watching from behind a curtain, and Theseus was there to open the door to him before he’d even reached the top step.

“Good afternoon, Theseus.” Roland removed his hat and started unbuttoning his coat. “Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s expecting me.”

The taciturn giant was a veteran of the Napoleonic wars, one of the many taken under the wing of Mrs. Dove-Lyon. He inclined his head. “This way, Mr. Chetwynd.”

Roland was ushered through the familiar warren of corridors. At this early hour, the place was comparatively quiet, lacking the usual hum from the gaming rooms and the good-natured bickering over the card tables. However, as he passed the gentlemen’s lounge, Roland spotted a familiar figure in an armchair near the fire. Excellent! He hadn’t seen Melhuish for weeks—if Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s commission wasn’t urgent, they could discuss all the latest racing news over a fine wine.

The proprietress awaited him in her private parlor at the top of the stairs. He would like to think she smiled at him as he gave her his bow, but since her face was always hidden by a dark veil, one could only imagine what expression she wore, or even what the woman looked like. Dressed always in black, she had acquired the epithet “The Black Widow of Whitehall.” He had always thought this an unkind way of referring to a woman of such obvious intelligence and great business acumen. She had created a high-class gambling hell, one of the most popular establishments in London. It accommodated ladies as well as gentlemen, provided some unusual entertainments, and offered an exceedingly discreet—and very expensive—matchmaking service. Indeed, it was Mrs. Dove-Lyon who was to be credited with bringing together his brother Leo, the Earl of Aylsham, and his new wife, the former Lady Lamb, against what appeared to be insurmountable odds. Roland prided himself on having played a small role in facilitating what had proven a most fortuitous marriage.

“Mr. Chetwynd, please sit down—I have a proposition for you.”

Roland sat. He felt her steely gaze boring into him but merely smiled—he was used to her perusals by now. Mrs. Dove-Lyon never missed a thing.

“I see your eye is much better. I’m very sorry that we haven’t yet managed to solve the problem of Mr. Henry Sutton, but I hope one day to banish him from London. His former partner, Miss Lavoisier, has settled in exceedingly well here, and although we both know she’s well protected by my crew of veterans, it would be better for everyone if Henry Sutton were behind bars, where we both know he belongs.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” Roland’s heart was beating fast in anticipation of whatever commission the lady had for him. If it involved putting Henry Sutton in prison, he’d do it for free.

“The task I have for you needs to be performed with the utmost delicacy and discretion. You are to avoid brawls, verbal disagreements, and duels—do not even raise your voice. I need you to attract no attention whatsoever. This will, I accept, be difficult in view of your height and your appearance, but I’m sure you can come up with something that will make you look like a rundown lawyer’s clerk rather than a well-heeled gentleman of the ton in the pink of fashion.”

Roland tilted his head. A disguise, eh? How very novel.

“I’m certain I can manage that.”

“I’m sending you up to Mundlingham Castle in Suffolk, to apply for the position of Lady Beatrice Ashby’s secretary. You’ll be given false papers and letters of recommendation to ensure that she will employ you, and no other. You are to perform your duties to the best of your ability and gain her trust and that of everyone else in the household. I’m sure that with your ability to make and retain friends, this will offer you no difficulty. Just remember, however, that you are supposed to be a mere clerk, not a gentleman, so be unctuous more than charming, sycophantic rather than flattering.”

Roland chuckled. “Fortunately, I’ve learned a bit about acting. After last year’s escapade with Piers Darvill, I have free admission to every play at the Old Forum Theater and regularly attend backstage gatherings. Actors and actresses love talking about themselves, as you know.”

“We’re not speaking about a theatrical performance, Mr. Chetwynd. We are speaking about damping down your personality somewhat so that you’re welcome at Mundlingham but don’t attract any notice. You’re going to be sleuthing whilst in Suffolk—there’s something I need you to find for me.”

Roland straightened, his heartbeat accelerating. “I’m entirely at your disposal.”