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Mark stood and replaced his cup. “No reason. Breakfast is still out. Go eat before your mood turns even more sour.” He sauntered out.
“I am not sour!”
His brother’s response sounded from the hall. “No more than usual.”
Matthew growled but stood and went to the window. The rain had grown heavier, a deluge that overran the curbs and thundered on the passing carriages and nearby roofs. Lightning flashed, filling the air, a reminder that the storm would not be over soon. His stomach snarled but not from hunger. A different kind of craving had consumed him, and he needed answers.
“I am not sour!” Matthew pivoted and strode out of the room.
Thursday, 28 July 1814
Lady Crewood’s home
Half past eleven
Sarah stared outthe window of her bedchamber, watching the rain pummel the narrow lane. Few people traversed the pavement, an occasional servant, huddling under a cloak and scurrying on some errand. Londoners might be used to the rain, but the preferred way of dealing with it remained nestling next to a cozy fire under a solid roof.
She tried desperately to understand her foul mood, and it seemed to have nothing to do with the weather. She had not slept. Her mind would not rest, turning the events of the evening over and over until she was lightheaded. When she smelled bread baking around seven, she had gone downstairs, where Mrs. Gilpin had plied her with yesterday’s bread, cold gammon, apples, and tea. All of it tastier and more filling than anything she had consumed at Almack’s. After a second helping of all of it, she had dozed until ten. Now her mind spun again, one thought recurring.
He had once been in love. And it had changed him. Matthew Rydell’s heart had been shattered. He had then played the role of rakehell and misbehaved until his father’s ultimatum had sent him into the military. His brother Mark, who had actuallybeena rakehell, followed him.
The more she had danced with men who had known him since school, the men now his peers in the aristocracy and in Parliament, the more she learned. The one thing she had not been able to find out: who the woman was.
Why did it matter?
All night, Sarah had repeated the same thoughts, trying to convince herself.It does not matter. You are not jealous. There is no reason to be jealous. You are not in love. This is a business arrangement, to secure your future. It does not matter.
It had not worked. Because it did matter. Because, like it or not, she was falling in love with Matthew Rydell. Sometime, just after breakfast, she had finally admitted it. So, of course, that was when she fell asleep.
But now those thoughts were back, those relentless, unconvincing thoughts, spinning through her head like a child’s top, unwavering and never tilting over.
This way lay madness.
Sarah rang for Reid. She knew one place where she could bury these thoughts—and possibly find out the answer to the most annoying question in her life.
Shortly after noon, Sarah passed through the women’s entrance to the Lyon’s Den. Helena met her at the door with raised eyebrows, and only after Sarah shed her soaked cloak did she realize she was without both her veil and her usual black day gown. She gave the tall woman a slight smile, then passed through the ladies’ dining room and observation gallery into the ladies’ gaming room, her reticule dangling from her wrist. She wandered a bit among the tables, watching the few games at play that time of day, greeting familiar players, all who looked surprised but pleased to see her face.
One even suggested that “Now you will not be so quick to bluff!” which brought laughter from the entire table.
Yet, Sarah did not feel inclined to play today. Instead, she wandered back to the observation gallery, which overlooked the main floor. That arena never lacked for players, and Sarah watched the men play. She knew many of them—she had been coming to the Lyon’s Den long enough to know who the major players were. She often targeted the richer men’s wives in games, knowing they had more money to lose.
Sarah watched two complete hands of whist, several of vingt-et-un, one of commerce. Against the far wall, near the entrance to the gardens, two clusters of men were acting out some of the odd betting challenges that happened at the Lyon’s Den, which told her the adjacent rooms where such nonsense usually took place were already crowded. Sarah had long ago decided men would bet on anything if the money were enticing enough. One man had a beer stein balanced on his head. Another seemed determined to swallow a plate full of—she peered closer—was that oysters?
Men are such odd creatures.
Helena stepped in beside her. “She’s waiting.”
Sarah took a deep breath. “Lead on.”
Shortly after she had rung for Reid, Sarah had sent Meg out into the rain with a message for Mrs. Dove-Lyon. Sarah had not waited for a response. If Mrs. Dove-Lyon would see her, Sarah could ask her questions. If not, a few hands of commerce or whist would ease her mind, even if she lost.
But she would not lose. Not today. She knew that as surely as she knew her own name.
The private office of Mrs. Dove-Lyon was brightly lit today, without the dim shadows of subterfuge. A quill scratched across a piece of foolscap as she finished something without looking at Sarah. “Please sit, Lady Crewood.”
Sarah did, her reticule resting in her lap.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon set aside her quill and reached for her ever-present cup of tea. She sipped, then let it rest in its saucer. “I thought I would hear from you sooner than this.”
