Page 1 of 21 Days with the Lyon

S he was being abducted.

Again.

Bianca Featherswallow had done everything she’d been told. She had not gone out in public in weeks. She had not visited her mother’s grave in months. She’d turned down all her friends’ invitations to balls, the theater, and country house parties. She locked and barred her door at night and kept clear of open windows. Her life had been reduced to the three floors of her father’s London townhouse and the company of her dog (welcome), her sister (challenging), and her father (tiresome). At this point, Bianca saw no reason to stay in London for the Season. Yes, Kitty was supposed to be securing a husband, but every man who met Bianca’s sister was scared to death of her. Her reputation as a termagant hellcat was well known by now.

Bianca had begged her father to send her back to Godwin Priory, but he had so far refused. Then, not wanting to spend the evening confronted by Bianca’s tear-stained face, he’d gone to his club, leaving her alone with Kitty, who had stomped around and blown out annoyed breaths all evening.

Finally, Bianca had fled to the garden with Astra. Usually, a footman took the dog for her nightly stroll about the garden, but Bianca needed some air not perfumed by her sister’s malice.

Astra visited her favorite set of bushes then returned, looking up at Bianca with large, brown, adoring eyes. The black Labrador had a single white spot on her forehead that looked like a star to Bianca, which was why she’d named her Astra. She stroked the star and said, “It’s not my fault no one likes Kitty. She could try to be agreeable, but she argues about everything. Why, if I said the day was sunny, she’d argue that was the moon in the sky.”

Astra lifted her head and looked about.

“She’ll never find a husband, and I’ll be locked away forever.”

Astra barked, and Bianca jumped. Astra rarely barked, and the sound startled Bianca. “Shh. Sit, Astra.”

But the normally obedient dog raced into the garden, barking furiously. Bianca stood, peering into the darkness to see what Astra was chasing. A hedgehog or a fox, perhaps? Suddenly, she was hauled back by an arm around her neck, a gloved hand pressed over her mouth.

“Good evening, Miss Featherswallow. I hate that we must meet like this, but there’s no time for introductions.” He dragged her away from the bench where she’d been sitting and toward the garden gate. The gate led to the alley behind the townhouses, where the mews were located. Presumably, this man had a carriage waiting.

Bianca struggled, but the man held firmly. “Come willingly, miss, and we won’t hurt your dog.”

Bianca ceased struggling now. Astra’s staccato barks echoed in her ears. Did one of this man’s accomplices have the dog? She couldn’t allow anything to happen to Astra.

The gate was coming nearer and nearer, and Bianca was torn. Should she fight or go willingly? She’d fought the last two kidnapping attempts, and it hadn’t seemed to matter. The men were always stronger and unmoved by her attempts at defense. Her abductor reached out his free hand and unlatched the gate. It should have swung out and open, but it opened only a fraction before it slammed closed again.

Kitty stepped in front of it. “Just what do you think you are doing?” she asked. Her voice was cold and angry. The man holding Bianca began to quake. Bianca didn’t blame him. She was a little afraid of her sister in that moment. Kitty was a tall woman at five feet, ten inches. She had thick, honey-blonde hair in a severe knot at the nape of her neck and ice-blue eyes. She was full-figured and what most men would call a handsome woman, if they were brave enough to refer to her at all.

Bianca, in contrast, was five feet, two inches on tiptoes, had dark brown hair, brown eyes, was thin and delicate, and was often called pretty. The sisters looked nothing alike, and most would have assumed they were not blood relatives—until one noted they had the same nose, the same mouth, and the same wrinkle between their brows when they were annoyed (Kitty) or confused (Bianca).

“M-Miss Katherine,” Bianca’s captor stuttered. “This needn’t involve you.”

“You are abducting my sister. Of course it involves me.”

“Just allow us to pass, and—Ahh! Not so close.”

Kitty opened the gate, stepped inside, and slammed it closed. Bianca’s abductor was pulling her back toward the bench now.

“I know you,” Kitty said. “You are Lord Danvers’s youngest son. He has six others, yes? No wonder you need to marry an heiress.”

“S-step back, Miss Featherswallow,” he said.

“If you need an heiress, you could always marry me,” Kitty said. “I am an heiress too, you know.”

“I’d prefer to marry Miss Bianca Featherswallow,” Danvers’s son said.

“Well, you can’t!” Kitty yelled. “You marry me or no one.”

“No one, then!” The young man released Bianca so suddenly that she stumbled and almost fell backward. She righted herself just as he raced past her, swerving to avoid Kitty and crashing through a pair of hedges to climb over the fence. His accomplice must have followed, because a moment later Astra raced back to Bianca’s side, sniffed her, and issued one last yip at the escaping men.

Kitty looked at her sister and heaved out a sigh. “Can you not go even one week without a kidnapping attempt?”

“It’s not my fault.”

“ It’s not my fault, ” Kitty said in a mocking tone. “Just wait until Papa hears about this.”

Bianca opened her mouth to argue that perhaps Papa shouldn’t be informed of this latest attempt. Then she realized perhaps it would be the catalyst she needed for him to allow her to return to the countryside.

“Come inside before some other impoverished lord tries to steal you away,” Kitty ordered her.

Bianca obeyed, calling for Astra to follow. She had the beginnings of a megrim. Once inside, she turned to her sister. “I don’t want to be here any more than you want me here, Kitty.”

“That’s doubtful.”

“I’ve asked Papa a dozen times to send me back to Godwin Priory,” she said to Kitty’s back as her sister stalked away. “I’d do anything to go home,” she said to herself. “Anything.”

In less than twenty-four hours, she would regret those words.

The carriage turned onto Cleveland Row, passed a building painted a bright blue, and continued around to the back. Papa had said it would not do for anyone to see Bianca exit the coach and enter the Lyon’s Den—that was the name of the gambling hell. The day was still new, and the establishment was not yet open for business, which meant Bianca would not see the gamblers or anything else usually forbidden to her. She stared out the window and tried to still her thundering heart.

The day was a steely gray, and a fine mist coated the city. Bianca never minded a bit of rain in the countryside, but in Town it made the drab buildings drabber and the dark interior of their town house darker. The Lyon’s Den seemed impervious to the low-hanging clouds and the drizzle. Even the back of the building was blue, and the color looked almost cheery—at least to Bianca. Then she looked at her father, and the grim press of his lips reminded her that their mission here was not pleasant at all.

He’d called this visit to Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon a “last resort,” telling Bianca she must do whatever Mrs. Dove-Lyon said. Bianca had nodded obediently, secretly intrigued at the prospect of meeting a woman of dubious character. Not only a woman with a questionable background, but a business owner. Bianca had been told Mrs. Dove-Lyon owned the gambling den and hoped she would at least catch a glimpse of the gambling rooms where all sorts of nefarious men wagered with sons of peers for family fortunes.

Their footman came to open the carriage door, but her father held up a hand. The servant stepped to the side.

“Bianca,” Papa said.

She tore her gaze from the window and glanced at him. Was it her imagination, or had his dark hair, so much like hers, turned more silver overnight? His face was drawn, the pale skin under his eyes puffy, as though he had not slept the night before. Bianca, on the other hand, had slept better than any night since they’d arrived in London. She was finally returning to Godwin Priory.

“Do not look so worried, Papa.” She put her hand over her father’s. “Everything will be well.”

“This was not what I imagined for you. What I wanted for you.”

Bianca patted his hand. “I was always destined to marry, Papa. At least this way I will have some say in the husband.” She frowned. “I will have some say, yes?”

“We must leave the choice of a groom to Mrs. Dove-Lyon, but her reputation for matchmaking is exemplary. I would not put you in her hands otherwise. Bianca, you must know, if there was any other way—”

She could not stand seeing her father so distraught. “Papa, all will be well,” she said again. Truth be told, his behavior had begun to make her more nervous.

“I worry what your mother would say were she still alive.”

“She would say she prefers me to marry a man of my choice rather than be abducted and forced to marry a fortune hunter.”

“I suppose you are correct. Very well, then. Let’s finish this.” He tapped on the window, and the footman opened the carriage door. “Is there anyone about?” Papa asked.

“All clear, my lord,” the footman said. He put the steps down and helped Bianca out of the coach. Her father led her to the door of the blue building, and she wished she had been allowed to wear her yellow sprigged muslin. The color was bright and cheery. But both Kitty and her father had insisted she wear gray to look as inconspicuous as possible.

She wore a gray pelisse over her gray dress and was glad of her wide-brimmed hat, which kept the drizzle off her face. Her father rapped on the door of the den, and for a long moment nothing happened. Bianca listened closely, but she heard no sounds inside. “Perhaps they are not at home.”

“We are expected,” he said, knocking on the door again. “No doubt most of the staff is asleep. They keep late hours.”

Just as he lifted a hand to knock again, the door was yanked open by a large man with a surly expression. He looked as though he had just climbed out of bed. “We’re closed,” he said, and began to shut the door again.

“I have an appointment,” her father interjected. “With Mrs. Dove-Lyon.”

The door creaked and shuddered as it was thrown open again. “Come in, my lord,” the man said with a bit more deference. Papa indicated Bianca should go first. She stepped inside a small, wood-paneled vestibule, followed by her father.

“Wait here, my lord.” The man turned and climbed a narrow set of back stairs, leaving Bianca and her father alone in the dark. Had the day been sunny, Bianca doubted she would have seen much more than the vague outline of shapes and shadows she did now. No candles lit the area, and she did not see any windows. Her eyes began to adjust to the gloom, and she noted a door or two just as the sound of footfalls on the stairs drew her attention.

The man who’d opened the door appeared again. “This way, Viscount Featherswallow. Miss Featherswallow.”

Bianca looked at her father, who nodded. She lifted her skirts and followed the man up the stairs. She paused on the first floor, but the servant gestured for them to follow him to the second floor. There he led them to a wood-paneled door. This opened into an antechamber with several chairs where, Bianca supposed, people might wait for an audience with the notorious Black Widow of Whitehall. But the den’s footman did not indicate they should wait. Instead, he opened another door with a flourish. “May I present Viscount Featherswallow and Miss Featherswallow.”

Papa put his hand on Bianca’s back and ushered her inside the room, which was lit little better than the rest of the establishment. Still, she could feel the plush carpet under her slippers as she moved forward, and the chamber was comfortably warm and smelled faintly of yeast and cinnamon. Her mouth watered.

The door closed behind them, and Bianca caught her breath as a figure dressed in black bombazine rose from an armchair in the corner. The woman was of medium height, but little else about her could be known, as she wore a black veil over her face, obscuring her features. Papa had said Mrs. Dove-Lyon was still in mourning over the loss of her husband, which accounted for the black. At breakfast, Kitty had mentioned the Black Widow of Whitehall was always seen with a veil. Some speculated it was because she had been hideously disfigured. Others said it was because she was really a man. Bianca suspected that anyone who said that was a man didn’t want to believe a woman could run a successful business. The person who faced them was obviously female.

“Won’t you sit, my lord and Miss Featherswallow?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon held a black-gloved hand out to indicate a settee across from her chair.

“Thank you, madam.” Papa waited for Bianca to sit before he followed. The settee was quite comfortable, and she noticed a tray of biscuits on the table in the center of the grouping of chairs with the tea service. That must have been the source of the wonderful scent when she entered.

“Thank you for seeing us on such short notice,” her father said.

“Of course. Would you care for tea, Miss Featherswallow?”

“Yes, thank you.” Bianca’s voice sounded young to her ears. She cleared her throat. She was two and twenty, not a child.

“Milk and sugar?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon asked.

“Please.” Bianca looked about as Mrs. Dove-Lyon served the tea. The room was well appointed with paintings on the walls and vases of fresh flowers. One painting in particular, that of a man in uniform, caught her eye. This must have been Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s late husband. Bianca took the tea and a biscuit from the widow and tried to keep her hands from shaking.

“And for you, my lord? Tea or perhaps something stronger? I have the finest brandy in London.”

“Nothing for me, Mrs. Dove-Lyon. Thank you.”

“Shall we discuss the matter at hand, then, my lord? You need a husband for Miss Featherswallow, yes?”

Bianca blinked. Most women were not so direct. She rather admired Mrs. Dove-Lyon for being so straightforward.

“That is correct, madam.”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon turned to Bianca, who had the impression she was being scrutinized, although it was difficult to know what the widow might be looking at under that veil. “In your letter, you mentioned several attempts by fortune hunters to abduct Miss Featherswallow. Do I understand correctly that you hope by marrying her to keep her safe from these fortune hunters?”

“Yes, madam.”

“She’s pretty enough. Can you not find a husband for her yourself?”

Bianca felt her cheeks heat.

Her father cleared his throat. “I have an older daughter, Mrs. Dove-Lyon. I am occupied finding her a husband. I did prefer to marry off my eldest daughter first, but I see now that may not be possible. After three abduction attempts against Bianca, I must move to secure her safety and her future. If she were not in danger and I had more time, I would find a husband for her. Marriage negotiations take time, and I cannot risk my daughter’s safety.”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon said nothing for a long moment. Bianca counted the ticking of the clock until it reached twenty-seven. Then the widow said, “My lord, would you excuse us for a moment?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Leave your daughter alone with me for a few minutes. I wish to speak to her in private.” Her words had not been a request.

“I—”

The door to the chamber opened and the footman who had escorted them inside was there again. His broad shoulders all but filled the doorway. “This way, my lord.”

“But I—”

Bianca was terrified of being left alone with Mrs. Dove-Lyon, but somehow she found the courage to grasp her father’s hand. She had to be strong now and reassure him. “Just for a moment, Papa. I will be fine.” She glanced at the veiled woman, who nodded in agreement.

“Five minutes,” he said. “No more.” He rose and followed the servant out of the room.

When the door closed behind them, leaving Bianca alone with Mrs. Dove-Lyon, she took a shaky breath.

“Now then, Miss Featherswallow, let us speak frankly. I am not in the business of forcing young women to marry. If your father is coercing you into this scheme, I am more than capable of helping you to escape him.”

Bianca blinked. Was that what this looked like? Coercion? “Mrs. Dove-Lyon, I fear you have misunderstood. My father is not forcing me to marry. He is trying to protect me.”

“And doing a poor job of it, from what I hear. You needn’t widen your eyes so. Nothing has appeared in the papers about the abduction attempts. But I have my methods of keeping a finger on the pulse of the city. Your father needs to hire more security. I can provide that—for a price, of course. You needn’t marry if you do not wish to do so. You might enjoy the rest of the Season, go to balls and soirees, be courted by many men, and marry one of your own choosing.”

“No!” Bianca’s voice was louder than she had intended.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon said nothing, but Bianca imagined she raised her brows in question.

“What I mean to say, Mrs. Dove-Lyon, is that I do not wish to stay in London and go to balls or soirees or anywhere else. I do not like London. I want to go home.”

“I see. Where is home?”

“Our country estate is Godwin Priory in Hampshire. It’s quiet there, and peaceful. I-I do not like being around so many people. Crowds make my”—she put a hand to her heart—“my chest feel tight. I feel as though I cannot breathe. Do not tell my father, please. He would never want me to feel any discomfort or unhappiness, but all I want is to go back to the countryside. If I must marry to do so, then so be it.”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon sat back and said nothing for a long time. Bianca began to worry that the five minutes her father had allotted them would pass, and he would burst back through the door. Her hands were restless, and she took a bite of the biscuit to give them something to do. Her eyes widened at the flavor. She’d never had such a delicious biscuit before.

“Is that your only requirement in a husband, then?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon asked. “He must be willing to live in the countryside?”

“Yes, madam.”

“You do not care what he looks like? If he is the son of a peer? If he is wealthy?”

“If he was wealthy, madam, he would not need you to find him a wife. As for the other criteria, they matter not. I would like a man who is kind and even-tempered. I wouldn’t like a violent man.” She glanced up at the proprietress of the gambling den to see if she understood.

“I would never tolerate any man who hurt a woman, nor would I saddle you with one. I promise you the man I choose will not ever raise a hand to you. You may bring the viscount back now,” she called.

Bianca frowned. It hadn’t escaped her notice that Mrs. Dove-Lyon had not promised her a kind man.

Papa returned quickly, and she gave him what she hoped was a reassuring smile. She wished that she could feel reassured, but the reality that she was about to be married to a man she had never met was sinking in. Bianca felt slightly nauseated at the idea.

“Would you like that brandy now, Viscount Featherswallow?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon asked.

“Will I need it?” he asked, taking a seat beside Bianca again.

“I don’t think so. I have the perfect man to marry your daughter.”

Bianca blinked, rather surprised at how quickly the widow had made her decision. Should she not consult some file of eligible bachelors? Bianca had assumed she would have a list to choose from. To her embarrassment, she had imagined a line of men before her, where she might point to the one she fancied.

But it was not to be like that at all. As it turned out, she’d have little choice.

“Go on,” her Papa said.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon smiled, folding her hands in her lap. “He is the younger son of an earl, which should please you, my lord. He is handsome, which should please you, miss.”

Bianca felt her cheeks heat.

“He was a soldier in the war, was wounded, and returned about a year ago.”

“How badly was he wounded?” Papa asked. “I need a man who can protect Bianca.”

“Oh, he is more than capable. I believe he sustained an injury to his shoulder and a broken arm. He has recovered fully.”

“If the injury was so slight, why did he not return to the army?”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s fingers tightened slightly. Bianca wouldn’t have noticed, except she was watching the other woman’s clasped hands. “That is not my story to tell, my lord. He had his reasons, and those reasons are part of what led him to my establishment and his current predicament.”

“Go on,” Papa said, voice icy.

“He owes me a great deal of money, my lord. If he marries your daughter, I expect you to cover his debts—that is, in addition to my matchmaking fee, of course.”

“ If he marries my daughter? I was given to understand that you would arrange the marriage. Bianca is not safe here in Town. We cannot afford to delay her departure for a courtship period.”

“That is not what I am proposing at all, viscount. I believe your daughter and Mr. Filliol—Theophile Filliol is his name—should leave posthaste.”

Filliol . Bianca made a mental note to check her Debrett’s to see which earldom was held by the Filliol family.

The widow continued, “I propose Mr. Filliol act as her bodyguard for a brief period of time.”

“Why her bodyguard and not her husband? You can hardly expect me to send my daughter away with a man to whom she is not married.”

“Then send her with a chaperone. Mr. Filliol is—how to say this? Stubborn? Obstinate?” She tapped her fingers on her armchair. “Let us say, proud . He is a proud man who does not like being told what to do.”

“It’s no wonder he wanted out of the army,” Papa said drily.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon waved a hand, dismissing the question. “I can make him marry you, Miss Featherswallow, but knowing Mr. Filliol as I do, I rather think coercion is a last resort. Here is what I propose. Mr. Filliol will act as Miss Featherswallow’s bodyguard for three weeks—twenty-one days exactly. If at the end of that time she wants him for a husband, she may propose to him. I cannot imagine after meeting you, he would not accept your offer, Miss Featherswallow.”

“And if he does not accept?” Papa asked.

“He will.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s voice was steel. “And then you will pay his debts in full, my lord.”

“How much does he owe?”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon produced a slip of paper from her skirts and passed it to Papa. He unfolded it, angled the paper so that Bianca couldn’t see, glanced at the number, then whistled. He passed the paper back. “This in addition to your matchmaking fee?”

“That is correct. However, since the couple is not marrying today, I will accept half my fee now and the other half in twenty-one days. Are we agreed?”

Papa looked at Bianca. She tried to look brave.

“We are agreed, Mrs. Dove-Lyon.”

“What about you, Miss Featherswallow?”

Bianca gulped. She was not used to people asking her opinion.

“Do you agree?”

“I—” She pressed her lips together.

“What is it?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon asked, her voice softer now. “Is my proposal not agreeable?”

“Of course it is,” Papa said.

“I am speaking to Miss Featherswallow.”

Bianca glanced at her father then the widow. “There was one aspect of the proposal I did not like.”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon nodded. “The part where I suggested you propose to him.”

Bianca nodded, surprised the woman knew.

“It is customary for the man to propose to the woman,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said, “but in this case, it is important that you propose, Miss Featherswallow.”

“Why?”

“Because you have been stripped of agency and freedom. The fortune hunters who have attempted to abduct you have not only forced you to become a prisoner in your own house but taken away your ability to choose a husband for yourself. I want to give you some of that power back.”

“That is kind, Mrs. Dove-Lyon, but I do not think I could ever propose to a man.”

Again, Bianca had the sensation that the Black Widow of Whitehall was looking at her hard, assessing her. “If you want something badly enough, Miss Featherswallow, you can do anything.”

Papa cleared his throat. “Where is this Mr. Filliol? Might we meet him now?”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon sat back. “I think it would be better if you met him tomorrow. That will be day one of the twenty-one. I will have him call on you first thing in the morning. Shall I tell him to be ready to travel?”

“Yes,” he said. “They will need to leave immediately.”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon stood, and Papa rose to his feet as well. The woman held out her black-gloved hand. “Then we have an agreement, my lord?”

Papa looked at her hand. “I give you my word.”

“I am eccentric, Viscount Featherswallow. I prefer to shake hands.”

“Fine.” Papa took her hand and shook it.

“Miss Featherswallow?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon extended her hand to Bianca.

“Oh!” Bianca jumped to her feet and extended her own hand. “Of course.” She would have shaken the widow’s hand quickly, but Mrs. Dove-Lyon closed her fingers around Bianca’s hand, squeezing it for a long moment. Bianca looked into the widow’s face, obscured behind the veil. But she imagined if she’d been able to see the other woman’s face, she’d see kind eyes and know she could come to Mrs. Dove-Lyon for help, if she needed it. “Thank you,” she said.

“Oh, don’t thank me yet,” the widow replied. “Save your gratitude for after you see him. You won’t be disappointed.”