Page 2 of A Lyon’s Promise (The Lyon’s Den)
“G avin King to see you, Mrs. Dove-Lyon.”
Bessie looked up from the contract she had just signed.
Sanding it, she set it on top of the others she’d carefully reviewed before adding her signature.
It would be a busy next few days. The plans she put into place, offers she’d rejected, and the ones she accepted would see to it that a number of not-so-socially acceptable, but otherwise inestimably eligible, women would receive offers of marriage.
Her instincts were never wrong. Bessie’s habit of choosing at least three men—not always titled gentlemen—as potential suitors for one woman had been working in everyone’s favor.
A surprising number of men either failed to meet the challenges or wagers she arranged.
Just part of the way she amused herself—the challenges and wagers.
A number of the men met the challenges head-on, while others either complained, or did not bother to exert themselves.
Pity, though it did help weed out undesirables.
Then there were the men who, after having a chance to see the woman they would be competing for on display in the ladies’ observatory, declined to compete.
Bessie’s goal was to arrange a suitable match for the women who, through no fault of their own, had been unable to secure an offer.
The gentlemen were allowed to decline once— sometimes twice—but never a third time.
They would be barred from competing. It helped that Bessie’s reputation preceded her.
The Black Widow of Whitehall knew how to navigate the upper, middle, and lower levels of Society with an ease and familiarity that not everyone could manage.
She was pleased King had come, and rose to greet the Bow Street Runner as he stepped into her private office.
The first thing she noted was the taut line of his jaw.
King had a strong jaw, firm lips, and stormy-gray eyes that iced over at the least bit of provocation.
Bessie fought against the urge to smile and took a jab at his pride, and his mood.
“Ah, I see you found my missive worthy of an impromptu meeting.”
“How did you learn of the wager at White’s before my men?”
Bessie stared at the tall, broad, and unsmiling Mr. King.
The man’s tone of voice had her hackles rising.
Thankfully, her black veil hid her expressions from him.
She had been wearing widow’s weeds since her dear colonel had passed on.
At first she wore them to honor his memory, but when the period of mourning had passed, she could not bring herself to throw them off.
Over the years it had become her uniform—her shield.
Her life had forever changed when Colonel Sandstrom T.
Lyon had offered for her hand, despite the rumors of her questionable reputation.
“I have my sources.”
Faced with a mountain of debt, and the deed to Lyon’s Gate Manor, she had fallen back on what she knew and turned their home into a gambling den, renaming it the Lyon’s Den—the most lucrative enterprise of its kind in London.
At first it was enough, but she began to hear rumors of other young women in Society who, for various reasons, would never have the opportunity to marry.
Bluestockings and hoydens…others who’d been caught in a compromising situation not always of their own making.
She’d decided to do something to help them.
Thus, she’d added another facet to the gambling—her rather notorious matchmaking service.
There were plenty of wealthy men seeking a wife. Titled gentlemen, rogues, rakes, and fortune hunters who were not above wagering for the hand of a rich woman in feats of strength and skill, and other dubious challenges.
Bessie Dove-Lyon had spent an inordinate amount of time studying people, eventually discerning their hidden strengths and weaknesses. The information her loyal employees—mostly injured military men forced to retire—collected had connections that Bessie relied on.
“Still unwilling to divulge any names?” The deep rumble of his voice soothed, though she would rather have held on to her irritation. It gave her the edge in negotiating.
She had a reputation to uphold: the Black Widow of Whitehall, a maker of matches that no one else would think to attempt.
Most unions started off on the acrimonious side, but the passion kindled by their disagreements soon smoothed out those wrinkles.
As it had in her marriage to the colonel.
She tilted her head to one side and wondered what Gavin could see through her veil—nothing clearly, that was for certain.
Turnabout was fair play—and she played to win!
“Are you willing to share the names of your deepest sources within the stews or on the docks?” she asked.
The timbre of his chuckle caught her off guard. She hadn’t expected him to find the idea of sharing contacts amusing. “I enjoy our sporadic meetings, Bessie. Now then, to the reason I am here. Won’t you sit down and tell me what else you know? Then I shall share what information I have.”
King’s reputation for ferreting out those who thought to escape justice was admirable.
While his techniques were sometimes questionable, his dedication to tracking down criminals and bringing them to justice was unimpeachable.
He was dedicated to following in the footsteps of the those who came before him—during the time of Henry Fielding and, after his death, his half-brother John Fielding, the blind magistrate of Bow Street.
King and his men currently held the record for most awards received for Runners catching their suspects.
Bessie had no intention of letting King take over the conversation. “Have you forgotten that this my establishment?” When he arched a brow, waiting for her to sit, she finally acquiesced and returned to the chair behind her desk. “Sit down, Gavin.”
“How could I refuse?”
“You have before,” she murmured softly.
“Have I?”
“You were not meant to hear that,” she grumbled.
He laughed. “Then you should not have said it.”
“I am pressed for time and have three meetings before noon. I shall get right to the point. Lady Montfort is no longer in possession of her fortune.”
King’s face lost all expression, though his eyes darkened. “She has a sizeable fortune.”
“Had,” the widow corrected him.
King frowned. “Tell me the rest.”
“There is scuttlebutt that Bancroft and Sons have been bilking their clients for years.”
“Who did you get your infor—”
“If you do not cease trying to take over the conversation, I shall not tell you the rest…and it is criminal!”
That got his attention, as she knew it would. “Forgive me. Do continue.”
“An anonymous client has discovered Bancroft falsified legal documents. Reports have come to light of clients being informed of letters previously not mentioned and held back until a certain date passed. At which time Bancroft and Sons told of additional stipulations and services rendered that clients were required to foot the bill for.”
Gavin’s eyes darkened to the color of summer thunderclouds. “What specifically have you heard about Lucretia—er, Lady Montfort?”
Bessie fought the urge to smile, though it didn’t really matter—he could not see her expression. Her tone of voice had a tendency to fluctuate when she smiled, so she took care to control it. “Bancroft and Sons have been syphoning off her inheritance for a decade, but that is not the worst of it.”
“Bloody hell! What could be worse than stealing the woman’s entire fortune?”
Bessie felt genuine compassion for the lady’s situation, but with as little emotion as possible, she confided, “Her late husband’s solicitors have been handling the fortune—as they repeatedly told her had been in Lord Montfort’s codicil to his will.”
“And?” King prompted her.
“They also informed Lady Montfort that before his death, her husband made a last-minute addition to the codicil, giving Bancroft and Sons full control over who her ladyship could marry. All offers for her hand would be carefully scrutinized by them before approval could be granted.”
King’s face turned ashen before he blinked and a bit of his normal ruddy color returned. “But she never married.”
Bessie’s heart ached for Lady Montfort and for the man she had slowly come to consider a friend. “I know.”
King shot to his feet. “I will ferret out the truth from those bloody bastards. Before I do, I need you to understand the entirety of her situation. You remember a particular murder case from a few months ago involving Lady Montfort.”
“Of course.” Bessie had been shocked by the grisly way Lord Hughes was discovered, stuffed into that sea chest. “I do recall that Lady Montfort and Lord Hughes were to be married.”
“And?” he asked, obviously testing her memory.
“I believe she sought you out to deliver a private missive from Lord Hughes—the contents of which Hughes insisted you not reveal to her.”
King inclined his head. “I’m impressed, Bessie, though I should not be, as your reputation for being informed is well known.
” He paced from the desk to the door, stopping to study the contents of her bookshelves, then turned to her.
“Given that there were never any rumors or suggestion that she and Hughes not marry, I gather Bancroft and Sons gave their permission. The question is why.”
“I expect to have that information within the hour.”
King put his hands behind his back and walked over to the bookcase. He slowly turned around and met her gaze. “I would ask that you refuse Lady Montfort’s request to find her a husband.”