Chapter One
The Lyon’s Den, London
One month afterBeauty and the Lyon
Theodore Giles Bishopstood at the margins of the gambling tables of the most infamous den in all of Britain, ignoring the nauseating smells of drink and perfume. He was pretty sure both came from the men present. There were only three sorts of people who frequented this haunt. Those who sought out the thrill of vice, those who sought outherservices, and those who disposed of problems without asking questions.
He was none of those.
The only reason he set foot in this place now was because his employer, the newly andhappilywed Duke of Crane, had charged him to deliver a gift to the widow. A gesture to ensure there would be no unwelcome backlash after their debacle a month ago. He happened to also have some matters to confirm in London, such as his murderous uncle’s foothold, a small task really, so he hadn’t griped about this one too much.
“Mr. Bishop.” A voice, both honeyed and sharp, slid over his shoulder. “Or should I call youYour Grace?”
His lips pulled up in a sneer as he turned to the infamous veiledwidow herself, Mrs. Dove-Lyon, who stood before him in a gown of midnight, her face hidden behind equally black lace. “So you know?”
“I know many things, Your Grace, and you are the lost Duke of Winterbourne.”
“I have never been lost.”
She inclined her head. “Just in hiding.”
A chill ran down his spine, but Bishop merely shrugged, refusing to rise to the taunt. However, the wordloststill stung. He’d had no choice back then. Besides, there was wisdom in biding one’s time. “I trust the discretion of your suspicion can be counted upon.”
“Of course,” she murmured.
He nodded. “And Crane’s matter?”
“All in the past.”
Good.
The widow gestured toward the tables. “Care to join the fun?”
“I only see trouble.”
She chuckled. “What is life without a touch of that?”
It depended on the trouble. Bishop turned to go, but an invisible force hooked its talons deep into him, and he halted. Hefelther before he saw her, his gaze lifting as though possessed.
A woman stepped up to the rail of the gallery above, her back straight, chin tilted, every line of her familiar frame declaring purpose.
His blood turned to ice.
She was older. Sharper. Poised.
But it was her.
Alyssia Whitcombe.
Twelve years had done nothing to prepare him for this moment.
Bloody everlasting hell. When last had he set eyes on her? Not since the winter everything he’d known had gone to ruin and she’d been wrenched beyond his reach. Time should have dulled the vision of her, but it hadn’t. If anything, standing here now, the sight of her cut deeper.Still as beautiful as ever.More beautiful than memoryallowed. Even from this distance, he swore he still remembered the scent of her—like home, if home had ever smelled that good.
His betrothed.
No.
Former betrothed. The woman he’d once been meant to marry.
