Page 5 of A Lyon’s Promise (The Lyon’s Den)

L ady Lucretia Montfort stared at her reflection in the looking glass.

The face staring back at her wore a resigned expression.

No matter who won the right to her hand this evening, she’d resolved to accept whomever it was.

Titled gentleman, rake, or fortune hunter, it mattered not.

She needed to marry immediately before what was left of her reputation was completely in tatters.

“Did Randall have to die to pay for the sins he committed aiding Stillman with his illegal smuggling trade?” Lucretia had turned the thought over and over in her head countless times as she lay awake nights instead of sleeping.

“He was honest with me from the start, and though his involvement was to pass the word along when shipments were expected, he never resorted to violence.” Her tears came suddenly, silently.

Frustrated by how quickly she fell into the same pattern of dark, hopeless thoughts, she reached for her handkerchief, dried her tears, and blew her nose.

Lucretia looked at her reflection again and sighed.

“It is a very good thing that I have a few hours before I leave. Hopefully my nose won’t be red by then.

” She knew there was nothing she could do about her eyes—it always took more than a few hours for the redness to fade after a bout of tears.

She had lost count of the ones she’d shed since the night Mr. King came to her with the news about Randall.

How in the world had she come to be in such dire straits?

A few months ago, she had been in high alt, giddy even, when Randall proposed.

They had planned to marry at the chapel in the village near his estate, Blackwood Hall—an estate that was currently vacant while her late fiancé’s solicitors searched for a distant cousin who, when found, would inherit the title and estate.

While she was left with the memory of the kind and solicitous man she’d willingly convinced herself that she could love.

But it was not meant to be, leaving her to wonder if it would be her fate to remain a widow who had been wed for her inheritance during her first Season.

A veritable fortune that, thanks to the cunning of her maternal grandmother, would never have become her husband’s upon their marriage.

Yet, somehow, her inheritance had become part of Lord Montfort’s vast fortune.

Legally, she had no claim to it, except for the one-third she was entitled to as his widow.

A fortnight ago, startling rumors had begun to abound regarding her reputation.

Just this morning, she’d received a missive from Bancroft and Sons advising they had once again begun searching in earnest for his heir—a distant cousin rumored to be living in America.

As her only recourse, she was dressed in the rose-colored gown she had been saving to wear when she married the only man her late husband’s solicitors approved of.

The realization that the man she had been married to for two interminable years had left strict instructions in a codicil that, should he predecease her, his widow could only marry a man his solicitors approved of had nearly stolen her breath.

Had the codicil been to protect his peers, so no other gentleman would be saddled with a barren wife?

Bancroft and Sons diligently guarding the Montfort coffers reminded her of a dragon with its hoard.

Lately she’d begun to wonder if the solicitors were holding back vital information from her.

Had her deceased husband truly expressed such a wish?

Had he despised her so much for her failure to give him an heir?

Lucretia had been receiving an allowance while married to Montfort.

To her shame, he’d decreased the amount as time went on and it became clear that she would not do her duty and bear him a son.

If she remained a widow, she would of course still receive her monthly stipend.

If she chose to marry without the consent of her late husband’s solicitors, she would do so with the clothes on her back—and nothing more.

What she did not understand was how her inheritance, which had been a gift from her grandmother on her mother’s side and not entailed, could be kept from her when and if she remarried.

Her future looked bleak. The only certainty in her life was that with Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s help, she would be married and thence be under the protection of her second husband—whoever that may be.

She was past caring whom she wed. Surviving the last decade widowed, without a single proposal, had been a bitter pill to swallow.

Splashing cool water on her face, she wondered if there had been proposals and offers that she was unaware of. When she married with Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s help, she fully intended to have her husband pry that information out of those solicitors’ tightly clamped jaws!

Feeling better having sorted through her troubled, jumbled thoughts, she walked over to the bellpull in the corner. Giving it a slight tug, she waited for her lady’s maid to appear.

“Yes, your ladyship?”

“Thank you for guarding the door, Lizzy, and keeping the other servants away. I do not know what I would do if Weston found out where I am headed tonight. He is so protective of me, and has been since Lord Hughes—” She broke off.

No use bemoaning what she had no control over. “I trust you to keep my confidence.”

“Of course, your ladyship. You can count on me.” Studying Lucretia’s coiffure, her maid frowned.

“Let me add another hairpin, your ladyship. This one’s come loose.

” She added two more before she was satisfied and stepped back.

Clasping her hands together, Lizzy smiled.

“You look so lovey, your ladyship. Try not to fret about tonight. I have a good feeling in my bones.”

For a moment, Lucretia panicked before regaining her composure. “You said that about Lord Hughes, too.”

Her maid’s eyes widened. “Forgive me—I did not mean to put a damper on your evening.”

“You haven’t,” Lucretia replied. “I had better not tarry. Would you please hand me my wrap and reticule? I do not want to be late for my meeting tonight.”

Lizzy did as she was asked. “Are you certain you do not want me to accompany you this evening? Other ladies will no doubt be accompanied by their maids.”

“I was told to come alone. Otherwise, I would have asked you to accompany me.”

“I understand. Weston had the carriage brought around.”

“And he believes I am having a late dinner with Lady Andrews?”

“He does, though I was surprised that he did not ask when the invitation was delivered.”

It was a mystery why her butler had not, but Lucretia did not have the luxury of time to sort it out. She had to leave now or risk arriving late. “Let us be grateful he did not question you.”

Lucretia thanked her maid and descended the stairs. Her butler was waiting to open the front door for her. “You look lovely, your ladyship.” He motioned for her to precede him, then rushed to open the carriage door.

Once she was seated, he closed the door and waved the coachman on. Alone with her thoughts, she wondered if tonight was a mistake. Would it be her undoing, or her salvation?

Time would tell.

By the time she arrived at Lyon’s Gate Manor, the building’s name before it had been transformed into the Lyon’s Den, Lucretia was awash with nerves and had to fight to still the trembling of her hands.

It would not do to appear as if she were frightened.

She needed to appear confident, assured of her success, and ready to meet the man she would spend the rest of her life with.

Dear Lord, did she have attics to let? What other choice did she have?

None. She dug deep for the conviction that she would succeed and schooled her features.

Nearly at her destination, she repeated her mantra: she was a woman assured of her station in life, and her worth on the Marriage Mart.

God, please do not let anyone guess that I am a fraud…

a supposedly wealthy widow, when in fact I have no notion of the state of my finances.

Following the instructions she had been given, Lucretia alighted from her carriage near the corner of the building. She glanced at the dim alleyway and hoped that it was empty, no ne’er-do-wells or footpads lurking about.

Lucretia gathered her composure around her like an invisible cloak.

It helped deflect her troubling thoughts.

Besides, it stood to reason that the sooner she was in the building, the safer she would be.

She entered the ladies’ entrance, and as expected, she was greeted by the two female guards.

No, she thought, that wasn’t the term Mrs. Dove-Lyon used. Wolves . Interesting term.

“Good evening, Lady Montfort—my name is Hermia.”

The neutral expression on the woman’s face was unnerving. “Good evening, Hermia.” Turning to the other woman, Lucretia said, “And you must be Helena. Good evening.”

Helena’s expression mirrored Hermia’s. Was it part of their job not to show emotion?

“Mrs. Dove-Lyon is expecting you.”

Their lack of expression worried Lucretia, but she had agreed to place her future in the hands of the notorious Black Widow of Whitehall. “Am I to meet her in her office?”

“Someone will be waiting for you as you step into the small anteroom and will apprise you of the evening’s events.”

Events? “Will there be entertainment?” Music? Surely not any dancing.

“Some would call it that,” Hermia replied.

“Others would not,” Helena said.

Confused, Lucretia wondered what event would be entertaining to some but not others. “Er…thank you. Have a pleasant evening, ladies.”

King knew his way in and out of the Lyon’s Den from its three entrances, and two others not designated as such: the kitchens and the gardens. He walked the few short blocks from where he’d had the hack drop him off to the alleyway next to the ladies’ entrance.