Page 29 of Eight Hunting Lyons (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)

T hough a regular patron at the Lyon’s Den, Ambrose Crossley, Earl of Pendlewood, had never before set foot in the Black Widow’s office. Till today, he’d had neither cause nor desire to do so. Even now, standing in front of her office door, he wondered if he was doing the right thing. Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s services, while renowned, did not come cheap. But given her reputation and what was at stake, he reckoned it would be worth the risk.

He required a wife.

Not just any woman either. She’d have to be someone a little bit special. How his plans might all work out, of course, remained to be seen.

“Needs must,” he muttered, and rapped on the door.

“Enter,” came the muffled reply.

The door opened with a soft creak, and Ambrose stepped into the candlelit office, struck immediately by the room’s lavish furnishings. The lady’s preference for subdued fashion did not, apparently, translate to her flamboyant taste in interior décor. The red-and-gold wallpaper provided a felicitous backdrop for a number of rather risqué oil paintings set within their gilded frames.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon, seated behind an impressive mahogany desk, lifted her veiled head as he entered.

“Lord Pendlewood, welcome.” She gestured to a chair. “Sit, please, and tell me what brings you to my office. Not a complaint, I trust?”

“Good evening, Mrs. Dove-Lyon. I appreciate your time. No, not a complaint.” He sat, cleared his throat, and got straight to the point. “I’m here because I’m in need of a suitable wife, and I understand you might be able to assist me in finding one.”

The lady sat back. Ambrose imagined her eyes narrowing behind the veil as she scrutinized him. “I confess this is not at all what I expected,” she said. “Such requests usually come from patrons who have been, shall we say, compromised somehow. As far as I am aware, no discredit has recently been applied to the Earl of Pendlewood.”

Ambrose gave a grim smile. “Indeed, it has not, madam. However, I do not seek a wife for myself but for a friend.”

Again, he imagined her expression—a frown most likely—as she puzzled over his response. “Then may I ask why this friend is not here?”

Ambrose shifted in his seat. “Because he knows nothing of it.”

“Really? How interesting.” She leaned forward, resting her elbows atop the desk. “Is this some kind of game you’re running, my lord? Are others involved?”

“A game of sorts, I suppose, but with good intentions. And no one is involved but me. That being so, I expect your full discretion. The man must not know he’s being manipulated.”

“My discretion is assured, my lord. Am I right in assuming this friend is a patron of the Lyon’s Den?”

“Yes.” Ambrose fiddled with the cuff of his coat. “One of your more frequent patrons, actually.”

“His name?”

“That depends,” Ambrose replied. “In these parts he’s known as the Fallen Angel of Mayfair.”

A soft gasp escaped the confines of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s veil. “Lord Eskdale?”

“The same.”

“May I know your definition of suitable?”

“You may.” Ambrose shifted in his seat. “First, she must be respectable. No scandalous skeletons in her closet. Able to marry without parental consent, so at least one-and-twenty. Intelligent. Confident. Dowry preferable but not essential. Pleasing to the eye. Or at least, not unpleasant to look at.” Ambrose scratched his chin. “I think, too, a woman who might present Lord Eskdale with a bit of a challenge. Not one who is too complacent. And if possible, someone who is seeking more in a husband than just his title.”

The lady stayed silent for a moment. “You set me a hard task, Lord Pendlewood. The odds of finding a woman of this caliber who would be willing to marry a man like Lord Eskdale are virtually…”

“Nil?”

“No, never that. There’s always a chance.” A chuckle followed. “But if this request was a racehorse, I’d probably shoot it. And my fee will not be small.”

Ambrose smiled at her comment. “I understand. Whatever it takes.”

“Does it matter the lady’s status? A widow, for example? Or an innocent?”

He grimaced. “I shall leave that up to you, though I think a young widow might be more suited to the challenge. More worldly, if you get my drift.”

The lady sat back again. “May I ask why you’re doing this? I will not deny that Lord Eskdale leads a less than exemplary life, yet he seems happy to do so. Why would you see him wed?”

Ambrose shook his head. “Things are not always as they seem, madam. I assume you’re aware of the man’s history?”

“The death of his wife and child, yes. A sad affair all told.”

“One that haunts him to this day.”

“You’re hoping a bride might exorcise his ghosts?”

“I pray that will be so,” Ambrose replied. “He’s really not as nefarious as his reputation suggests. That said, his current direction is leading precisely nowhere. He’s capable of more and indeed owes it to himself, his title, and his peers.”

“With respect, Lord Pendlewood, in my experience a man must welcome change before it can be successfully implemented.”

“I don’t disagree, madam. But I happen to believe Lord Eskdale would welcome change from the right person. In any case, I reckon it’s worth the gamble.”

The woman gave the impression of a smile. “He’s fortunate to have such good friends. Says something about him, in truth.”

Ambrose laughed softly. “He could probably count his true friends on one hand. You’ll keep me advised as to your plans and progress?”

“Certainly.” The lady opened a drawer and pulled out what looked like a ledger. “I still require a few more details from you, my lord, but first things first. You need to settle the fee.”