Chapter 1
Love, like gambling, was a loser’s game. David cursed his brother under his breath as he climbed the stairs of Whitehall’s most infamous gambling hell for his three-o’clock appointment.
If only he didn’t love his brother, Charles, he could have simply walked away. But his heart was a fool and always had been, despite his best efforts to harden it.
The Lyon’s Den blended in seamlessly with the stately and respectable neighboring structures, the only hint at what the building held being the menacing giant who guarded the heavy, blue door. This ominous sentry grinned as David approached. “Come right in, Lord Whitcomb. Mrs. Dove-Lyon is expecting you.”
“Quite.” David clenched his jaw and squared his shoulders as the man ushered him into the plush, dimly lit interior. While the Aubusson rugs and antique vases filled with exotic, fresh-cut flowers granted an air of respectability to the place, the denizens of the club were exactly what he expected.
On his left, the wild-eyed Duke of Hawthorn was arm-wrestling a lady whose appreciable bosom almost hid a bicep thick as a brandy keg. A ring with a sapphire the size of a pigeon egg lay on the table beside their straining arms. So the duke had resorted to gambling his wife’s jewels, had he? It was hardly surprising, given what David knew of the wretch.
To his right, three young men he vaguely recognized as the Middleton brothers were taking turns drinking something that smelled like sulfur from a steaming, silver trophy bowl. A gimlet-eyed temptress in ruby silk looked on, laughing and goading them to drink more.
In front of him, the Viscount of Gainsborough wept and begged for mercy from a stone-faced card dealer who was beckoning for the guards.
It was all so sad and tawdry. Even standing here made him despondent.Oh, Charles. What stupidity have you gotten yourself into now?
A dark eminence covered in a veil, visible only in silhouette, appeared at the top of the grand staircase in the center of the room. But David knew at once who this shadowy apparition must be: the Black Widow of Whitehall, Mrs. Dove-Lyon herself.
As she descended the stairs, David’s heart raced, and a trickle of perspiration dripped down his back. For God’s sake, he’d kept a cooler head facing down Napoleon’s army. Why was a mere widow making him sweat?
Mrs. Dove-Lyon stepped into the light in front of him, and her knee-length black veil hid every feature from view. It was unnerving not to see her face. He liked to be able to look his adversaries in the eyes. Was he really going to have to negotiate payment for his brother’s gambling debts through a black curtain?
“Lord Whitcomb, welcome to The Lyon’s Den. I’m delighted you came.” Her voice was filled with smoke and secrets, offering no hint at her age. “Follow me.”
She crooked her finger beneath her veil and turned, leading him up the stairs to an office decorated in shades of red and gold and dominated by a mahogany desk that wouldn’t have looked amiss in the prime minister’s office. The paintings of ladies in diaphanous, clinging garments that left little to the imagination were exactly what he would have expected from the proprietress of a gambling hell, though the bookmarked copy of a popular romance by a lady novelist lying on the desk took him by surprise.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon headed for a small sideboard. “Tea?”
“No, thank you.” He wanted to get this business over with as quickly as possible.
“Something stronger?” She gestured at a decanter of brandy.
Tempting, but no. “I’d prefer to keep a clear head for this discussion.”
“As you wish.” The widow took a seat in a blood-red wingback, a black blot in the midst of opulent excess. The dark fabric in which she was swathed moved in a gesture toward the seat across from her.
David cleared his throat and looked at where he guessed her eyes to be. “Thank you for seeing me, Mrs. Dove-Lyon. I won’t waste your time. I know that my brother has accrued substantial gambling debts at your establishment. Please tell me what he owes, and I’ll make arrangements for payment.”
His money wasn’t infinite, but he would find a way. While he’d never frequented The Lyon’s Den himself, he knew the rules of the house. Everyone in the ton did. Charles had a week to pay up, or he’d be turned over to the authorities and sent to debtor’s prison…unless he’d made some kind of unscrupulous deal with Mrs. Dove-Lyon, which was just as worrisome. Much as David wanted to teach his spendthrift brother a lesson, he couldn’t let the Black Widow do it.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s veil rustled as she tilted her head. “Straight to business. I like it. I prefer a man who is to the point.”
Once again, he wished he could see her face. Was she in earnest, or was she teasing? “How much does he owe?”
The sooner he could get out of this place, the better. He had promised his son a game of hide and seek after he finished his afternoon business. Time with Timothy always cheered him up. But after that, he had to dress down his wretched brother forbeing a sodding idiot.What are you going to cost me this time, Charles?
“More than you can pay.” The widow’s black fabric moved as if she was folding her hands in her lap.
His stomach twisted, but he kept his face impassive. She couldn’t possibly know the state of his finances. “How much?”
She let out a little sigh, and there was a rustling noise as she shifted in her chair, and then a black-gloved hand emerged from beneath the veil, handing him a promissory note.
The amount listed made his head spin. She was right. He couldn’t pay it, not without selling either Rose Hill Manor or their London townhouse and squandering Timothy’s future inheritance on Charles’ folly. And even if he could bring himself to sell, it would take more than the week Charles was allowed by the widow. How had his brother dug himself into a hole so deep? “This is absurd. You knew he wasn’t good for such a sum. Why would you let him gamble if you knew he couldn’t make good on his bets?”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon settled back in her chair. “On the contrary, I never let a man gamble more than he can pay.” He could hear a hint of treacly sweetness in her voice as she spoke.Bloody hell.She was enjoying watching him squirm.
“If you think my brother has this kind of money, you are sorely mistaken.” And neither did he. What was he going to do?
