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A reprieve. At last. Sarah could relax a few days before returning to the Lyon’s Den in an effort to raise more funds for the house she had purchased in Whitehall, not far from the Den itself. Not the most elegant part of town, but she could afford the down payment with the paltry sum her husband had left her in his will—and a loan from Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon, the owner of the Lyon’s Den—which gave Sarah the ability to step out from under the new Crewood earl and his side-eyed examination of her and her staff during the weeks following her husband’s death.
Sarah had struggled in the few months, but she had finally paid off most of her debts incurred during the move. Now she just had to find a way to persevere with the mortgage as well as the payments on the loan. For now, gambling the Lyon’s Den continued to answer that quandary, but she knew she’d have to find other income soon. Mrs. Dove-Lyon had given her the loan as a friend of her fatherandhad given Sarah two years to pay it off before putting her name on a list of eligible women to be wagered for in one of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s marital traps. But Sarah knew the Lyon could call in the loan at any time.
Especially if she missed a payment.
But for now, Sarah had settled into the home and set about making the best of her skills at cards. She had enough worries without borrowing some from tomorrow.
As the dealer slid the pot to Sarah, a firm tap on her shoulder got her attention. She twisted in her chair to look up at one of the wolf pack, the team of people who kept the patrons of the Lyon’s Den safe—and under control. Sarah’s veil shifted, making the large woman’s face blurry. “Yes, Helena?”
“Mrs. Dove-Lyon would like to see you.”
Sarah straightened and scraped the pot into her reticule, wondering if she could risk another game or be content with these earnings. “Now?”
“Now.”
So much for another game. She tightened the string on her reticule and stood. “Lead on.”
Sarah followed Helena down the spiral staircase that led from the ladies’ gaming room down to the main floor. They skirted along one wall as Sarah avoided looking at the few men gambling this time of day. They all reminded her too much of Owen—red-faced and loud, lost in the passion of the games and the blur of alcohol—and she fought the urge to check behind her, an urge that had plagued her most of the last ten years.
As they turned, following the wall leading to Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s private office, one of the men stumbled into Sarah, shoving her against the plaster and grabbing her arm. Sarah yelped and tried to jerk away.
“Easy, darlin’.” His words slurred. “I din’ mean an-thin’ by it.”
“Get away from me,” Sarah hissed.
Before the man could react, Helena stepped between them, her low voice urging the man to go back to the tables. Helena, who stood a foot taller than the diminutive Sarah, almost completely blocked her from the man’s view.
He waved a hand at Sarah, trying to reach around Helena. “Din’ know your upstairs girls were so persnickety.”
Sarah stiffened and stepped from behind the larger woman. “Upstairs girls? Do many of the upstairs girls wear widow’s garb?”
The man froze, then looked up at Helena and down to Sarah. His gaze traveled over her, from the black lace veil, over the black-on-black embroidered silk that hugged her bodice and down the ebony skirt that flowed over her hips to rest on the tops of her leather day boots. He stepped backward and touched his forehead. “Sorry.” He turned, his steps jagged and halted as he headed for a whist table.
“Bet he will lose a king’s ransom,” Sarah muttered.
“He usually does,” Helena said. “Last week he lost one hundred quid on who could stand on one foot the longest after six pints.”
Sarah shook her head. “Men are so peculiar.”
A smile crossed Helena’s face as she held her arm wide. “She is waiting.”
A tinge of worry tightened Sarah’s stomach. The Lyon did not call people into her inner sanctum casually or without reason. Surely she would not call in the loan yet. But with Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon, one never knew. And one certainly did not second guess.
The lady sat behind her desk in the well-appointed room, the usual cup of tea near her right hand. As always, her face was shielded by a veil, one not unlike Sarah’s, and in the dimly lit room, shadows consumed the edges, moving in from the walls. The sole light was a lamp on the Lyon’s desk. Helena left, closing the door, and Mrs. Dove-Lyon motioned for Sarah to sit.
Sarah did so in one of the two cabriolet armchairs in front of the desk. She took a deep breath as she spread and settled her skirt, tucking her feet beneath the chair. “You wished to see me?”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon sat a little straighter, which Sarah had not believed possible. “I did. I wish to discuss your future here at the Den.”
Sarah blinked. “My... future?”
“Lady Crewood—”
Sarah flinched, and Mrs. Dove-Lyon paused before continuing. “I know you would like to leave your past behind you, would very much like to be Sarah Montague again. Not Ainsworth. Not Lady Crewood. But you also know the aristocracy is forever, and even though the new earl is married, you will be the dowager countess until you die or remarry into a more significant title.”
“Which I do not wish to do.”
“Which is why I wish to speak to you.”
