Doyle’s eyebrows at first lifted and then dropped into a frown. “Um, yes, miss. I’ve heard of it. A gambling house, I believe. Among other things.”
“Other things?” Lydia regarded her. “Such as?”
“Wouldn’t like to say, miss, I’m sure,” Doyle replied, her cheeks turning pink. “Nothing decent, I should imagine.”
“I see.”Do not be deterred by her business dealings.“Thank you, Doyle. That’ll be all.”
After the maid left, Lydia rose and went to her father’s desk, where she tucked Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon’s letter at the back of a drawer. Not that she intended to defy her father, but any thoughts of marriage could wait for now. Despite her father’s plea, she was not yet able to put her sorrow aside. Still in the early throes of mourning, she needed to find her feet before setting them squarely on a future path. Hardly a year had passed since her mother’s death, and now she’d lost her father as well. If comfort was to be found, it came from believing her parents were finally reunited, for they had shared a great love. Indeed, she felt certain her father’s demise had been due to a broken heart.
But, even as she closed the desk drawer, she couldn’t help but wonder about the mysterious owner of the Lyon’s Den. How would one even begin to search for a suitable husband? A notice in the newspaper? Posters scattered around town? Nothing so distasteful, surely. Whatever the process, her father’s endorsement gave Mrs. Dove-Lyon credibility. It also granted Lydia an odd measure of peace to know someone was out there. Someone she could turn to if and when the time came. That she was not, after all, entirely alone in the world.
Chapter Three
April 1819
The sound ofan approaching carriage sneaked its way into Elgin Park’s study. Flint, Ambrose’s spaniel, sat up in his bed and let out a soft growl. Ambrose, lounging in his favorite armchair, lifted his gaze from the newspaper to glance out of the window. Not that he could see the portico from where he sat, but he wondered, vaguely, who the unannounced visitor was. Not that it really mattered, either. Ambrose had no intention of speaking to him, her, or them.
“Down, Flint,” he said. Then, with a frown and a sniff, he shook out an unwanted crease in his newspaper, and went back to reading about Napoleon’s ongoing machinations in Europe. A few minutes later, a tap came to the door and it opened partway.
“You have a visitor, my—”
“I amnotaccepting visitors, Crabtree.” Ambrose kept his gaze on the newspaper. “I thought I made that patently clear.”
The butler cleared his throat. “You did, my lord, but I’m afraid—”
“Pendlewood, there you are!” The door opened fully and Ambrose looked up as Edward Fortescue, Viscount Eskdale,sauntered into the room like he owned the place. “Gads, it’s nippy out there today,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “Harriet sends her love and the twins are doing well, thank you for asking. Right, that’s the niceties out of the way. I’ll take a coffee, Crabtree, if you please, and bring one for Lord Pendlewood as well. He looks like he needs one. And good day to you, too, Flint.” He bent to pet the spaniel, who’d approached, tail wagging.
Crabtree, looking vaguely amused, glanced at Ambrose seeking approval, which came in the form of a nonchalant hand wave. The butler nodded and left. Edward, meanwhile, settled into an adjacent chair and leaned forward, his gaze critical. “You look dreadful, Pen. Like death warmed over, in fact. Not sure if it’s the wrinkled clothes, or what you haven’t done to your hair, or the fact that you’re in dire need of a shave.” Nose in the air, he sniffed. “And when did you last bathe? Or is that the dog I smell?”
Ambrose heaved an exaggerated sigh, set his newspaper aside, and scratched his jaw. “What are you doing here, Eskdale?”
Edward sat back. “Checking on you, my friend. Believe it or not, your absence these past few months has been noted. Rumor has it you’ve never been the same since you were jilted by a certain Miss Grissom and that you’ve hidden yourself away to lick your wounds. I don’t believe a word of it, however, so I came here to find out what, exactly, is going on.”
Ambrose heaved another sigh, got to his feet, and pushed out the kink in his back. “Well, I suppose the rumors are partly true. Except for the jilted and the licking my wounds part.”
Edward raised both brows. “What’s left?”
“The truth.” Ambrose went over to the sideboard. “Drink?”
“I just ordered coffee.”
“Is that a ‘no’?”
“Yes. No.”
Ambrose muttered a curse under his breath. “This really isn’t helpful, Eskdale,” he said, pouring himself some brandy.
“Give me time,” Edward replied. “I’m not leaving here till you sort yourself out and leave with me.”
Ambrose scoffed and went back to his seat. “Then I hope you brought a change of clothes.”
“Several.” Edward leaned forward again. “Come on. Out with it. What’s going on? You’re not ailing, are you?”
“No, not ailing. Not licking any wounds, either.”
“So whatdidhappen with Miss Grissom?”
Ambrose took a sip of brandy and rolled it around his tongue. “If you must know, I caught the chit kissing the stablemaster behind a hedge in the garden.”
