Page 3 of Love, Lies, and the Lyon (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)

A nastasia breathed in through her nose and out again.

Jemisin. Jeremiah Jemisin.

His sneering face filled her mind and she blinked it away.

Of all the people… Anastasia shook her head. She’d been right to drag Betsey away. She didn’t want to think of him. She didn’t want to see his face. She could well imagine his sneering features to this day.

By the time they’d reached their home, Betsey complained her feet were aching and limped the entire way, leaning on Anastasia to help her. She groaned as Anastasia helped her out of the carriage and up the short few front steps.

The Banks’ home was a comfortable house, set on four acres of land.

It boasted chickens, pigs, ducks, and geese and there was a shady glade of trees on either side of the house.

Mr. Banks was a successful cobbler in town and through his family was also a landowner.

He had a tenant on another property two miles away.

As such, his income was around two thousand pounds a year, and with two daughters and no mother to look after them, he usually spent his free time in his personal library reading books or fishing in the little brook running through town.

He was late to bed, early to rise, but since his wife, Catherine, had died of the fever a few years back, he’d lost all interest in socializing.

He’d loved Catherine since they’d been childhood sweethearts and had never thought he would lose her so young.

But now he had two daughters to care for, and so he threw himself into his work, barely speaking to any but his children and the servants.

If the girls wished to socialize, they went without him.

It was not that he was not invited; he always was.

It simply was that he did not wish to come.

He liked and was well-liked by the neighbors aplenty, but he couldn’t stand the polite society and stifled manners of dinner parties and endless conversation that to him, as he often told Anastasia, sounded like the droning of bees in summer.

As Anastasia helped Betsey into the house, she waved at their father, who stood in the entrance of his study, candle in hand.

He raised an affectionate hand in greeting.

She watched as Mary, their shared lady’s maid, assisted the younger Miss Banks upstairs to her room.

A moment later, she went and sought her own room, her feet creaking up the wooden stairs.

That was the nice thing about there being just two of them; they did not have to share a room.

When their mother had been alive, she’d had great plans to have more children, but then the fever had taken her one summer and that had ended, far too quickly.

And during her mother’s final moments, where had Anastasia been?

In Jeremiah’s bed across town, losing her virtue.

All for nothing. Losing her mother had been a sharp pain in her heart, even though it had happened just seven years ago.

It was a heartbreak that never really went away, although the passing of time helped soften and dull the edges of the pain ever so slightly.

As she kicked off her dancing shoes, her bedroom door opened to reveal Mary, who quickly and quietly helped remove Anastasia’s dress and stays.

As she took off her shift and pulled a plain, white nightdress over her head, Anastasia heard the sounds of retching in the next room and hoped Betsey had had enough time to vomit into the chamber pot beneath the bed.

Mary disappeared in an instant. Anastasia pulled on a robe with a shrug of her shoulders, then went to Betsey’s room to help hold back her hair while Mary cleaned up the mess.

The next morning, Anastasia went down to breakfast. Over a meal of strawberry jam, toast, and black tea, she smiled at her father as he sipped his tea while reading the newspaper.

That was one benefit to living in the city of St Albans; it meant the news reached them faster, and there were more frequent carriages to other places like London.

Anastasia bit into her toast as Betsey stomped down the stairs with a loud, heavy tread and sat down at the dining table with a noisy thud . She gave a great sigh and laid her head on her arm, looking sideways at her sister.

Anastasia focused on her toast. She knew her sister had a sore head and a flair for dramatics. She did love her, but still.

But then Betsey sat up and hummed a little tune. She looked a trifle worse for wear, a bit peaky, but she glanced quickly at Anastasia and then their father with a note of mischief in her eye.

“I wonder if we might go to London, Papa,” Betsey said.

Her father lowered his newspaper. “Whatever for? St Albans is a great city.”

“Yes, but I’ve only just come out, and I’d like to see some new sights.”

New men , Anastasia thought.

Seeing her older sister’s raised eyebrows, Betsey said, “I’d like to get a bit of culture. I’ve never been to London. They have a museum there, a British museum, full of antiquities. And they have gardens and parks. I’d like to go for a walk or a carriage ride and see them.”

Their father laughed. “You’d like to go for a walk? You hate walks.”

It was true. Anastasia liked a good walk and there were many sights to be seen around the city, including the pretty green space that surrounded St Albans Cathedral, which dated back to medieval times, as well as a small and cozy twelfth-century church.

She enjoyed all of it, especially going for a walk and stopping by Perkins’s tea shop on the way back for a cup of tea and a scone.

Her sister was another case entirely. Betsey, with her round, baby cheeks and soft, blonde hair, abhorred a walk. She’d much rather travel by carriage and be seen, ideally wearing the latest fashion, meaning the newest gloves, hat, ribbon, and dress to be had.

But the suggestion of visiting new gardens might be a fine idea. “I have heard that St. James Park and Hyde Park are spectacular, Father.”

Their father sipped his tea and surveyed Anastasia. “Is this a plan that you both have concocted? I may be old, but I’m not so clueless as to be unaware when there is a scheme brewing. Why the sudden interest in London?”

“I fancied a change,” Betsey said, pouring herself a cup of tea. As the hot water hit the tea leaves and the scent of the black tea filled the air, she turned pale and her stomach gurgled. “Oh. Excuse me.” She ran off, thundering in the direction of the nearest privy.

“Is she ill?” their father asked. “Maybe we shouldn’t go until she’s better. I wouldn’t want her to travel when she’s sick and I’ve got to let the servants know, and make the necessary arrangements at the shop.”

Anastasia spared a sympathetic glance for her sister’s retreating form. “Too much rich food and dancing last night, I suspect. She’s probably just got a sore stomach. But a trip to London is not such a bad idea, Father. And a change of pace might do Betsey some good.”

“And yourself?”

“I love a walk. We could go together and see the gardens. It might be nice.”

Mr. Banks hummed and picked up his paper. “I’ll think about it.”

A moment later, he asked, “How old are you, Ana?”

“Me? Why I’m… five and twenty. Nowhere near thirty.” The memory of the women’s jeering voices from the previous night made her cheeks warm, and she raised her cup of tea to her lips.

“And Betsey? She is seventeen. She came out this year. Has she had many beaus?”

“No, Father. And Betsey is eighteen. She’s had many young men interested, but none who are suitable, in any case.”

“In a city like St Albans? I find that hard to believe. Why is that?”

“The men who she takes to are either wastrels, in debt, or looking to prey on her innocence.”

Betsey peeked her head around the doorway, looking less pale.

“It’s true, Father. Why, just last night, Mr. Edwards was trying to kiss me at the dance, and another young man came in and stopped him before Ana found us.

He hit him on the chin, like a boxer. It was incredible. ” She gave a little sigh.

“Mr. John Edwards? The thatcher’s son?” His eyebrows drew together.

“Yes. We simply danced and then he took me by the hand to the balcony. I thought he wanted to compliment my shoes or my hair, or help me get a bit of fresh air, but I was wrong. The nice young man, however, his name is Mr. Jemisin, Percy Jemisin.”

“‘Jemisin’?” Mr. Banks glanced at Anastasia. “I know that name. Aren’t you acquainted with the eldest, Jeremiah?”

“Yes, Father. But we have not spoken for years.” Anastasia sipped her tea and took another bite of toast. She did not want to speak of him and munched furiously.

“He was so kind. And gentlemanly. He asked if I was all right and was ever so polite. Handsome too,” Betsey gushed, patting her hair.

“I think a trip to London would be an excellent idea, Father. I think we should go. Excuse me.” Anastasia rose from her seat, brushed crumbs off her lap, and placed her napkin on the table, almost knocking over her teacup. “Oh.” She nodded and said again, “Excuse me.” Anastasia fled from the room.

As she walked down the hallway, her father asked, “What was that about?”

“I don’t know. Maybe she needs the privy. Anyway, Father, let me tell you all about the dance…” Betsey’s voice carried on.

Anastasia went upstairs to her room and shut the door.

She crossed to the small writing table and looking glass that was gathering dust. It isn’t fair , she thought, with a very unsisterly pang of unhappiness and if she were being honest, jealousy.

Why did she have to look out for her younger sister so and then be condemned as a controlling bear or an unattractive spinster?

All she’d been trying to do that night was protect her younger sister, yet no man had asked her to dance, when there had been plenty of young men around.

She brushed her fingers across the table, wiped her hands on her dress, and washed her face, wanting to dispel the heat from her cheeks.

Shame and embarrassment filled her. She did not want to hear any more talk of the young Mr. Jemisin, or his older brother, Jeremiah.

They were not on speaking terms. She closed her eyes.

She could practically see him, half-dressed, his curled dark hair unruly and mussed, his sly smile and smirk as he took in her naked form, covered by sheets.

And then his horrid words as he saw right through her.

“Make yourself ready, Anastasia. You’d better get dressed.

You don’t want to keep your maid wondering where you’ve been.

Or who you’re with. Although I suppose everyone will guess you’ve been with me. ”

She swallowed and washed her face again, wiping her hands and face dry with a small hand towel.

The stupidity of it all. She had been young, just eighteen, and her mother had been sick.

She had been not-so-subtly seeing Jeremiah and when he had encouraged her to come to the soldiers’ barracks and share a glass of wine, she’d been aware of the impropriety but hadn’t cared.

She’d fancied him, wanted him, and had known he’d wanted her.

She hadn’t cared at that moment as to whether it had been smart, when in fact she had been fantastically dumb.

She had been a smart young woman and yet had totally misjudged the situation. And the man. She was incredibly lucky she had not gotten with child and ruined herself more publicly. For all she was worth, she would protect her sister from making the same mistake.