Lose and he set the Home Office’s investigation back six months.
Lose and he’d owe the Widow of Whitehall a favor.
But... he was a duke. He owned six properties. Had royal connections. Mrs. Dove-Lyon could have asked for a kingdom. Which begged the question... “Why marriage?” Aside from what was said to be a matchmaking fee the size of the palace grocer’s bill paid by rich women with poor reputations.
There was a curl of those red lips through the black lace. “You are a duke.”
And that was that. What wouldn’t a lady marred by scandal do to become a duchess?
What couldn’t be bought?
Another favor.
Just his luck.
He’d known the risks. What hedidn’tknow was how the spider had rigged the game.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said.
That you’re catering to a local counterfeit ring to undermine British authorities?
“I highly doubt that,” Jackson said. He’d cleared Mrs. Dove-Lyon and all those working under the proprietress in the gaming hell of being in bed with the criminals, but that didn’t change the fact that the ring was funneling their moneysomewhere. What better place than a gaming hell with a dubious reputation for poison drinks and underhanded matchmaking?
The few bits of evidence the Home Office had uncovered—receipts, common criminal acquaintances, city location where the fake pounds had been spent—had all led back here. The Lyon’s Den.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon lifted her teacup to her veil but did not drink. A trick to distract and unconsciously lead a mark tofollowing your lead.Ask what I know, that look said.Be at my mercy.
A trick Jackson had used countless times.
He wouldn’t take the bait.
At last, the woman set down her cup, though something in the set of her shoulders told Jackson she was amused at his unwillingness to play her game.
“You could always forfeit your membership,” she said.
Not what he’d expected.
“There is no membership at the Lyon’s Den,” he said, controlling his tone.
A small laugh. “Believe that at your own risk, Your Grace.”
It was a threat. A well-placed one.
The woman was suspicious. Of him or his subtle inquiries into the Den’s clientele, it didn’t matter. Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s guard was up. Rightly so and within her profile. A widow didn’t singlehandedly run the most notorious gaming hell in London by being insouciant.
Jackson’s fist clenched in his lap, but he made himself sit back and cross one ankle over his knee. A man at ease with his power. “You would make an enemy of a duke?”
The spider didn’t flinch. “You would ruin your family’s long-standing reputation over a simple wager?”
‘Simple.’
“Matrimony to a stranger hardly fits the bill,” he said dryly.
Dragging some poor, unfortunate woman into his life of light and shadow was too morally gray for even his blackened heart. Whatever scandal that had led the women to this entanglement wasn’t worth the duchy. He’d get out of this ridiculous bet if he had to dive through the window and meet the cobblestones face first.
“Hardly a stranger,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said. “By all accounts, the young woman made it sound as if you were well acquainted.”
Jackson’s attention snapped to the veil, searching for any hint of the woman’s true expression. His acquaintances were vast, crossing international waters. Mostly men, all older. If a woman was claiming such familiarity, it must have been a plant, some foreign agent looking to get closer.
