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One of the maids added some rose oil to the bath just as Maggie slipped off her chemise and stepped into the warm water. The smell of the rose oil enveloped her, and once again she gave silent thanks to Mrs. Dove-Lyon.

She was permitted to soak in the tub until the rose oil seeped into her skin and permeated her hair, which one of the maids arranged in a becoming chignon. She was helped into her corset and red gown, one of four she’d taken from the many Lord Tidworth had given her over the years. As she gazed at her reflection in the looking glass, the storm in her stomach increased. By the end of the evening, she may well be someone’s wife. But who had Mrs. Dove-Lyon found for her? What man was willing to marry a mistress? Or was he as ignorant of the impending situation as she?

Jude had been pleasantly surprised when he’d received the letter from Mrs. Dove-Lyon inviting him to return to the Lyon’s Den.

Lord Cadwell,

After further investigation into the incident that resulted in your banishment from the Lyon’s Den, I have concluded that Lord Tidworth was primarily at fault. Therefore, his ban remains in place, and yours has been lifted. As such, I would be honored to welcome you back to my club this evening.

Yours,

Bessie Dove-Lyon, Proprietor of the Lyon’s Den

The note was simple and to the point. Jude appreciated the widow’s style. That is how she dealt with most problems—swiftly and without fuss or indecisiveness. He harbored no ill feelings toward her for banishing him. She had done what she thought was right at the time, and it hadn’t taken her long to realize that Tidworth was the true villain. He respected her for that.

As such, he accepted her invitation and returned to the Lyon’s Den that very evening. Puck greeted him at the door with a “Welcome back, my lord.” The greeting almost felt like an apology for having thrown him out two nights earlier, but Jude knew better than that. Mrs. Dove-Lyon might correct her wrongs, but she never apologized, and that behavior extended to all her wolves.

The air inside the Lyon’s Den was one of excitement, and Jude could hear the joyous shouts of drunken men long before he reached the gaming room. Something was always happening at the Lyon’s Den, but he was not prepared for what he saw when he stepped into the vast gaming area. A large portion of the floor had been cleared of tables, and men were scrabbling about on their hands and knees gathering…Jude blinked…are those rose petals?

They were picking them up by the handfuls and throwing them into little baskets, shouting, and scrambling after the things like starving dogs. What on earth is going on?

Just them, a sprinkling of rose petals rained down on him, and he looked up to see three masked women—two tall and one petite—standing on a little balcony just above the gaming room floor, scattering handfuls of petals to the men below.

What sort of madness is this? Intrigued, Jude stepped in for a closer look, dodging the men who clambered about on the floor. He stood under the balcony, the gold iron gate of which had been left open, allowing the women to lean forward as they tossed their flowers. His gaze fell on the woman in the middle, dressed in red, flanked by two taller women dressed in green. She was petite with a tiny waist, an ample bust, and chestnut hair arranged in a chignon, as was the fashion for ladies. He became quite mesmerized as she leaned forward and let go of a handful of petals that floated toward him. She smiled, and he could have sworn it was directed at him. The noise in the gambling room faded into the background as he gazed up at her, feeling as though he were in a dream.

And then…suddenly, she was flying toward him.

Good God! She’s falling! He raised his arms and moved closer to break her fall. But before he knew what was happening, her body slammed into his, knocking him to the floor. He lay there dazed and winded for a few seconds before opening his eyes. The most exquisite pair of green eyes gazed down at him from behind a red mask. She smelled intoxicatingly sweet, like fresh roses. The warmth and weight of her body on top of his made him forget where he was. When she moved, he held her fast, not wanting her to go.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, and his gaze fell to her full pink lips. “I don’t know what…”

She didn’t finish her apology. Two of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s female wolves were at her side, helping her to her feet. And then someone was pulling him to his feet and shoving a drink in his hand.

“Good heavens, Lord Cadwell.” The widow appeared next to her wolf, Titan, who guided him into a chair. “That was very gallant of you. I think you saved that young woman’s life.”

“I…don’t quite know what happened.” He suddenly felt exposed, as though an intimate moment had been witnessed and disrupted.

“What happened? You saved her, that’s what. You are a true hero—a gallant knight in shining armor,” Dove-Lyon said.

A fire suddenly ignited in Jude’s chest. Was the widow mocking him? She knew as well as everyone in London that he was no knight. He was a killer, and he deserved the gallows, not accolades. He swallowed the brandy Titan had given him and stood up. “I am no such thing, madam. In the future, I urge you to take better precautions lest someone gets hurt.” Then he bid her good evening and left the club.

Chapter Eight

How did it happen? Maggie’s heart was still racing from the ordeal. One minute she’d been standing with Hermia and Helena by her side, sprinkling flowers, and the next…had she lost her footing? She tried to recall. Helena had urged her to lean forward and throw the flowers further afield. And then, Maggie could have sworn she felt…had Helena pushed her? She looked to Mrs. Dove-Lyon, who sat across from her. As always, the widow’s countenance was infuriatingly hidden behind her black veil. Did I make a mistake in trusting this woman?

“Look at you, you’re shaking.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon stood, picked up a crystal decanter of brandy, opened it, and poured some into Maggie’s tea. “Drink,” she said. “It will settle your nerves.”

Since disobeying the Black Widow wasn’t advisable, Maggie picked up the cup and took a tiny sip.

“More,” the widow said.

Maggie sighed and, trying not to gag, took a larger sip. Then she put her cup down and said, “I don’t understand what happened. If that gentleman hadn’t caught me then—”

“Then Titan would have.” The widow returned to her chair and poured a spot of brandy into her own teacup.

“How do you know that?” Maggie asked, pushing her cup away. Mrs. Dove-Lyon would have done well to leave her tea untouched. The brandy had spoiled it yet had done little to settle her nerves. She waited as the widow slipped her teacup under her veil and sipped her tea. Then she repeated her question, “How do you know Titan would have caught me?”

“Because I positioned him there in case my plan failed,” she said. Her teacup clicked onto its saucer as she calmly replaced it.