“So soon?” Kate gave a little jump, reminding Bessie of a skittish pony.
“Who is he?” Mrs. Seaton stood up and placed the banknotes on Bessie’s desk.
Bessie smiled under her veil as she reached for the banknotes and secured them in her desk drawer. Then she picked up a silver bell and gave it a quick shake.
Almost immediately, her wolf Hermia appeared.
“Locate Lord Knox and ask him to join me in my office.”
“Certainly,” Hermia said before disappearing again.
“Am I to meet with the gentleman right away?” Kate half rose out of her seat as though she wished to escape. “I’m not prepared.”
“No, you are to go downstairs with your aunt and mingle, while I have a private word with the earl.”
“An earl!” Mrs. Seaton and Kate exclaimed together.
“I’m amazed,” Mrs. Seaton said. “I knew we were right to come to you, but I never imagined—an earl—you say?”
“Don’t get too excited. There’s no guarantee he will accept my proposal, but I am known to be quite persuasive.”
“No!” Kate’s eyes grew wider than they already were. “I couldn’t possibly—not an earl—not in my condition!”
“Let me worry about those details. That’s what your aunt paid me for.” Bessie removed the small gold key from her neck and locked her desk drawer. “As I said, there’s no guarantee that the earl will be interested in my proposition, but if not him then we’ll find another solution. I’m a woman of my word. Your aunt paid dearly for a service, and I shall deliver.” She put a gentle hand on Kate’s back as she escorted the two women to the door, “Now, the earl is on his way up, so you’d best get downstairs and familiarize yourself with my wonderful establishment.”
Mrs. Seaton thanked Bessie once again before the widow closed her office door and smiled to herself. If Hermia had managed to locate the earl in a timely manner, Bessie’s two potential lovers would pass each other in the passageway as he made his way upstairs and she made her way downstairs.That will set the stage for what’s to unfold, she thought with satisfaction.A glimpse of potential love is a glimpse into a future ripe with hope and that is what dreams are made of. What could be more enticing or powerful?
The statuesque, broad-shoulderedHermia looked more like a Greek Amazonian warrior than a hostess at a gaming club, Oliver thought as he followed her up the red-carpeted staircase. She was taking him to see Mrs. Dove-Lyon, who’d asked for a word in private with him.
Oliver wasn’t surprised. All the men who frequented the Lyon’s Den knew that the Black Widow arranged marriages on the side. A woman in some sort of trouble or even just trying to avoid spinsterhood would pay a hefty sum to marry an earl like himself and restore her reputation in society. But he’d have to disappoint Mrs. Dove-Lyon because he had no intention ofever remarrying. Nonetheless, he’d listen to what she had to say out of politeness before letting her know where he stood on the matter.
He followed Hermia down a long corridor illuminated by multiple candelabras affixed to the walls. Two women walking in the opposite direction passed them, greeting Hermia with light nods. There was nothing unusual about this, as both women and men moved freely throughout the Lyon’s Den. There was even a women’s gaming hall located on the second floor. The Lyon’s Den was a kingdom unto its own, with its own rules quite different from those in the outside world—set by its very own queen—Bessie Dove-Lyon.
As the women passed, the younger of the two—or more specifically her eyes, large, dark, and doleful—caught Oliver’s attention. Those eyes, soulful like his wife’s, told a story of love and loss—a story Oliver knew only too well. The momentary connection was fleeting as they passed each other, but it seemed to stop time and buried itself in Oliver’s heart.
He mused on this as the wolf led him to the widow’s office and opened the door for him after a knock and a murmured “enter” from within. He stepped into the room. “Lord Knox,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon, dressed in her signature black veiled ensemble, stood to greet him. “Thank you for coming. May I offer you a drink?” she asked.
“Brandy, thank you,” he said.
She poured his drink and invited him to sit on a plush scarlet armchair, seating herself across from him on a matching sofa. A table laden with a silver tea tray stood between them, and she leaned forward to fill her cup. “I am always happy to meet new patrons. How are you enjoying the Lyon’s Den?”
“Very much,” he said.
She leaned back onto the sofa, leaving her tea untouched. “I am pleased. You have been here every night for over a month now.”
“Is that a problem?” he asked.
“Not at all. But I’m curious to know what draws you here. I’ve been in business for many years, and you’ve never been a patron before.”
He nodded and sipped his brandy, not wanting to dredge up the old pain but not seeing a way out of this conversation. “I was a happily married man for eight years, but my wife died quite unexpectedly two years ago, and I—” his throat seemed to close on his words.
“You come here to assuage the loneliness,” the widow said.
He stared into his glass, then lifted it to his mouth and drained the golden liquid. It slid down his throat and warmed his chest. “Something like that,” he said, turning his eyes back onto her. He didn’t need to say more. He supposed she understood since she’d lost her husband, though he knew nothing of her past or her married life. Not everyone’s marriage was as blissful as his had been.
“But you could do that at any gaming establishment. What I want to know is why you have chosen mine?”
He shrugged. “It’s no secret that you serve the finest wine and brandy,” he saluted her with his glass, “as well as many other discrete services.”
