“Excellent.” Edward rubbed his hands. “Now, what time is dinner?”
Chapter Four
London,
April 1819
The disapproving lookon Owens’s face said it all as he helped Lydia down from the carriage. “Are you sure this is the place, Miss Page?”
“Yes, Owens, I’m sure,” she replied, widening her eyes in surprise as she gazed up at the Lyon’s Den. She hadn’t really known what to expect, but perhaps not this. Once upon a time, the infamous establishment must have been a fine residence. Even now, if one looked past the darkened windows and somewhat gaudy blue paint, its original grandeur could still be imagined. “I’m not sure how long I’ll be, however. Not too long, I hope.”
“I’ll be right here, miss, never fear,” Owens replied.
Lydia nodded her thanks, picked up her skirts, and headed for what appeared to be the main entrance. She did not get far. A man the size of a bear seemed to appear from nowhere, hat seated firmly on his head, a scarf loosely covering his nose and mouth. Lydia slowed her stride, resisting an urge to turn and glance back at Owens for reassurance.
The man spoke, his voice muffled. “Your name, miss?”
Lydia gathered herself and lifted her chin. “May I know who is asking?”
The man paused, and Lydia imagined a look of amusement on his face. “Name’s Ulysses, miss,” he replied, folding his arms. “Do you have an appointment?”
Ulysses?
“An appointment?” Doubting the truth of the fellow’s name, Lydia glanced up at the building. “Actually, no, I don’t. I didn’t know an appointment was necessary. I was hoping to speak with Mrs. Dove-Lyon.”
The man tutted and rocked on his heels. “Need an appointment for that, miss.”
“I wasn’t aware.” Lydia frowned as her mind searched for a solution. “Can you make an exception, perhaps? I have a letter of introduction.”
Ulysses held out his hand. “I can deliver that for you.”
“Very well.” Not without some trepidation, Lydia handed the letter over. “But please sir, will you ask the lady if she might see me today? I have traveled quite a distance.”
Ulysses eyed the envelope. “I’ll ask,” he replied, with little enthusiasm. “No promises, though. Wait here.”
The man disappeared down the side of the building, glancing back at her as he opened a door and apparently spoke with someone else before handing them the letter. Then he closed the door and remained where he was, arms folded once more, watching Lydia.
Another carriage halting nearby drew her attention. It was a fine conveyance, obviously private, though lacking any kind of insignia. As she watched, a man descended, hat clasped in one hand, the other brushing the creases from his coat. Tall, with dark hair, and impeccably dressed, he practically oozed nobility. His fine, clean-shaven features came into profile as he glancedup at the Lyon’s Den. As if sensing her scrutiny, he glanced at Lydia and acknowledged her with a brief nod before heading toward the main door.
Warmth flooded Lydia’s face. What must he have thought, or assumed, seeing her standing alone outside a house of questionable repute? How much longer must she wait? Uneasy as well as impatient, Lydia shifted on her feet, and glanced at her carriage. Owens, whom she’d known most of her life, nodded as if to reassure her of his continued presence.
The sound of male voices drifted through the air, and she turned to see the Ulysses character coming toward her. Lydia crossed her fingers. “Please,” she whispered. “Please.”
In response, the man halted halfway and gestured for her to approach. Lydia sent up a quick prayer of thanks.
“Follow me, miss,” he said, leading her down the alley to the side door, which he opened. “In you go.”
“Thank you.” Lydia entered, only to be startled by another giant of a man, who stepped out of the shadows as the door closed behind her.
“Right, miss, pay attention,” the man said, his garlicky breath doing unpleasant things to Lydia’s stomach. “Go up the stairs, turn right, go as far as you can and then turn left. At the end of the hallway is a black door. Knock on the door and wait. Do not enter till you’re given permission to do so. Clear?”
Lydia nodded. “Yes, I think so. Thank you.” Grasping her skirts, she started up the dimly lit stairs, the smell of tobacco smoke tainting the air. From somewhere indeterminable came the sound of piano music and a vague hum of voices.
“Papa,” she murmured, “where on earth have you brought me?”
Following the directions, Lydia at last found herself standing in front of the black door. She inhaled, knocked three times in quick succession, and then exhaled as she took a step back.
The response, that of a woman, came almost immediately. “Come.”
