Page 11 of Love, Lies, and the Lyon (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)

H er breath caught. It was him. She’d dared hope, and now he stood here, before her.

“Oh. Good evening, Mr. Hardwicke,” Anastasia said, curtseying. Her sister followed suit.

“Good evening.” Mr. Hardwicke bowed. “Your sister, I believe.”

“Yes, this is my sister, Miss Betsey Banks.”

“How do you do?” He gave her a polite bow.

Anastasia surveyed him. Mr. Hardwicke looked very smart that evening, in a snowy-white cravat, expertly tied, his dark hair combed and showing some attractive curls, whilst his dark-blue suit jacket and light waistcoat and breeches gave his muscular legs and calves a shapely look, right down to his black, shined shoes with brass buckles.

Her gaze drifted up to his face, and he smiled.

He’d seen right through her and caught her eyeing him.

She blushed.

But he was too polite to say anything, for which she was relieved. “Do you play many games, Miss Banks?” he asked.

“Not really. I’m no card player. And yourself?”

“Mr. Hardwicke loves cards,” a feminine voice said behind him, revealing Mrs. Sherwood. “And horses, racing, betting, and any number of fanciful things,” she teased.

Mr. Hardwicke shook his head. “Pay her no mind, Miss Banks. Mrs. Sherwood likes to tease me. She likes to paint me as a blaggard, when I am nothing of the sort.”

Mrs. Sherwood laughed and said to Anastasia, “He’s always joking. I only pay attention to half of what he says, and only the good half.”

They shared a private smile. Anastasia’s heart sank. A private joke shared between them suggested a close acquaintance, indeed.

Mr. Hardwicke cleared his throat. “Mrs. Sherwood, Miss Banks you know. Allow me to introduce her sister, Miss Betsey Banks.”

“Delighted, I’m sure,” Mrs. Sherwood said, grinning up at Mr. Hardwicke.

As Mrs. Sherwood wrapped her arm around his, Anastasia tugged on her sister’s arm to direct her away. “Enjoy your evening.”

Mr. Hardwicke said, “Miss Banks, wait.”

She kept walking.

“Oh, Hardwicke, let her go,” Mrs. Sherwood said. “Come, they’re balancing bottles over there. Let’s go see.”

Anastasia looked over her shoulder to see him watching her, and yet she kept walking.

“Why did you not keep talking to him?” Betsey whispered. “He’s watching you.”

“He is busy.”

“With a woman he does not want. I can see that plain as day, even if you can’t.”

“It’s no business of mine what he does. Or with whom he spends his time,” Anastasia said.

“But—”

“No, Betsey.” Anastasia pulled her sister along. She felt more despondent with every step. He would spend his time on the arm of Mrs. Sherwood. She and her sister would keep an appropriate distance and go home. She let out a little sigh.

“Well, I don’t care. You may be determined not to have a good time, but I am going to enjoy myself.” Betsey huffed and walked away.

“Betsey,” Anastasia hissed, though she was ignored. Now she stood alone in the middle of a gambling salon with no one to talk to. She stepped back and bumped into a passing gentleman.

“Have a care. I almost spilled my drink,” he said disgustedly. The older gentleman with a military bearing and impressive gray mustache shot her a dirty look.

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

The man grunted and walked on, leaving her red-faced with embarrassment.

Anastasia heard a titter and saw two ladies giggling, watching her.

She desperately wanted to leave but couldn’t.

No doubt her aunt would be busy making new acquaintances.

If only her sister had stayed beside her.

Really, neither of them should be unchaperoned in such a place.

Anastasia didn’t much care for herself, as she knew her aunt was nearby, but Betsey she had hopes for of making a good match.

The young woman must be protected at all costs.

She thought how Betsey always was the more sociable of the two of them, and people seemed to flock to her warm, sunny personality.

Anastasia, on the other hand, knew herself.

She was older, cold, and more severe. But she was not immune to society’s pressures, and if the ground could have swallowed her up whole at that moment, she would have welcomed it like a warm blanket in winter.

“You seem to be all alone,” a cold voice said behind her.

Anastasia turned and curtsied. There stood a woman dressed all in black, right down to the shining, jet-black buttons on her dress that caught the light, and the expensive-looking black lace veil that obscured her face.

This mysterious woman could have been anywhere between thirty and fifty, and had a presence that made a person take notice.

Anastasia straightened and mentally thanked her old governess for her deportment lessons.

This woman approached her and spoke confidently. “I am Mrs. Dove-Lyon. You arrived with Mrs. Wildemay. You must be one of her nieces.”

Anastasia swallowed. “You know who I am?”

“This is my club. I know everyone who passes through here. You are very welcome, Miss…?”

“Anastasia Banks. And you’re right. My aunt is Mildred Wildemay.”

“A dear friend.” A ghost of a smile passed over Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s face. “Come take a turn about the room with me.” The polite request held the undercurrent of a demand.

Anastasia nodded and took a place beside her, letting her hostess lead the way. They walked a little as Mrs. Dove-Lyon greeted other guests who approached. More than one gentleman nodded to them both, and gave Anastasia a second glance as if appraising her.

After a few minutes, Anastasia asked, “Is something amiss?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it’s just… A few of the men we passed by looked at me, as if waiting for something.”

Did another smile pass across Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s face? Anastasia couldn’t tell.

“It is possible, I suppose. Do you fully understand what goes on here?”

“It is a gambling establishment,” Anastasia said simply.

“Yes, it is that. But so much more. The men and women here come to rest, to relax, to play—sometimes with each other. Fortunes are won and lost over a hand of cards, and more importantly, matches are made. You look to be of an appropriate age to make a match, if I am not mistaken. You should know that if the men here give you second looks whilst you are with me, they wonder if you are a client.”

“What do you mean?”

“It is simple. I am a matchmaker, Miss Banks. The men and women come here with their eyes open, and if they come to me for help, I help them. For a price. Many a young woman has darkened my door, begging for my assistance.” She spoke so confidently, so matter-of-fact, Anastasia had no doubt it was true.

“Why?”

“I have a talent. A skill. Rich women with either bad reputations themselves or daughters who have… made mistakes come to me for my assistance in finding them a suitable match. Not just any man will do.”

“And they pay you for this?”

“Handsomely. I have excellent taste.”

Anastasia did not doubt it. The men and women around her were all dressed well, many in what she surmised were the latest fashions. They drank and laughed, and pearls decked many a hair comb and cravat alike. How could she ever hope to fit in with this society?

“Enjoy yourself, Miss Banks. Try the champagne. Do not be afraid to mingle. You might find yourself some new friends, if you are lucky.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon walked away.

Although Mrs. Dove Lyon had disappeared, Anastasia had the distinct feeling she was being watched, so she accepted a glass of champagne from a passing servant and approached one of the gambling tables, where nearby, a group of men was standing on their hands, up against a wall.

There were three gentlemen, quite red-faced, their shirts in danger of falling down over their faces.

All three looked as though they’d had a lot to drink, and one teetered dangerously.

Another wobbled and burped, to the laughter of the onlookers.

The man toppled over and the people watching laughed harder. One called out for one of the men, Mr. Horsley, apparently, to pay up. The man who’d fallen over sat up, red in the face, and turned to the man next to him, giving him a shove. “You pushed me.”

The man fell over and crashed to the floor, sending the third and last man standing on his hands to fall over. But what had begun as a simple bit of fun soon grew nasty as the men started pushing and shoving.

Anastasia backed up but realized she stood in a group of people and no one was moving.

Then the first punch flew, and it was chaos.

Men surged forward, pushing and elbowing, women shrieked, and people stamped and trampled others, trying to get away from the fight.

The fight was being disbanded by some of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s bouncers, but that didn’t stop some people from joining in.

Anastasia was elbowed in the side. She grunted and doubled over as the breath expelled out of her.

A hard fist sent her flying and she fell to her knees, her drink spilling to the floor.

The rabble of voices grew and she feared she would be trampled, when suddenly a strong pair of hands pulled her to her feet.

An arm whisked around her waist and jerked her away from the fight, when her feet caught in her skirts and she fell over, onto something quite warm and muscular. “Ooh!”

Anastasia heard a distinctly unamused grunt and opened her eyes.

It was Mr. Hardwicke.

She looked into a pair of brown eyes, wide and wild, and felt a firm hand curl around the small of her back protectively.

She breathed in the hints of wine and men’s cologne, and something else.

A spicy scent that was all masculine. She blinked, her lips parted, and she became suddenly aware that they were pressed breast to breast. She’d fallen onto a gentleman.

She coughed and winced. Her side hurt. “Oh, excuse me. Dreadfully sorry.” She put a hand on the floor to steady herself and glanced up.

“Calm yourself, Miss Banks, I’ve got you.” His voice was low.