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Lyon’s Den gambling hall, Whitehall, London 1814

W ith his arms occupied by his sister’s cold, lifeless body, Crispin Morgan kicked at the door of the servant’s entrance to the Lyon’s Den gambling club. His was hardly a front-door type of visit.

“For the love of God, let me in,” he bellowed to the wolf he knew stood just behind the door. Heart pounding in his chest, fear curdled his gut while white-hot anger stabbed his mind. She couldn’t be dead. He’d promised to protect her.

“What the…” Lysander jumped aside and waved him in. “Quickly. The sick room is unoccupied,” he said, pointing to a doorway next to the pantry on the far side of the kitchen. “Take her there. I’ll get the Black Widow.”

Crispin had no sooner laid Mary-Alice down and covered her with as many blankets as he could find than Mrs. Dove-Lyon stormed into the room.

“Quite a surprise to see you, Lord Morgan, and you’ve brought us a… guest?” she asked, rushing to the bed. “How bad is it?”

“My sister, Mary-Alice. She’s cold as a stone, but I can still feel her breath against my hand.” Crispin shook his head with doubt as he replied. He should have hidden his sister away a year ago when she begged him to. Until he found her in such a state, he’d never believed her husband could be so cruel. “She gave birth a few days ago and was left to die in an abandoned townhouse in Goulston Square. It was only by chance that I found her. I pray I did so in time.”

“I’ll send for someone I trust in these matters for both their expertise and their discretion.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon leaned over and laid the back of her hand on his sister’s forehead. “Be prepared. If she has childbed fever, it may be too late to help. Where’s the child?”

“I don’t know. There was evidence of a birth but no child,” he explained. “There were no servants and not a scrap of food. Her husband abandoned her to die alone.”

“Who’s her husband?”

“Lord Dunwoody.”

“Not one of mine.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon closed her eyes as if relieved by that fact.

“Mary-Alice has our father to thank for the pairing.” Fighting the urge to punch a wall in frustration, Crispin chose his next words carefully. “Yours was the first establishment that came to mind that I knew would open its doors. I need your help. I’m willing to pay.”

“This seems an odd time for the sort of bargains I make. Do you understand what you’re asking?”

“Yes.” He nodded. “If Mary-Alice lives, I need your help hiding her away where Dunwoody can’t find her again. If he discovers she’s still alive, he’ll redouble his efforts to kill her next time.”

“I can hardly safely marry her off for protection if she’s already married. That’s beyond the pale. Even for me.” She picked up Mary-Alice’s hands and gently rubbed them warm.

“I’m offering myself for your matchmaking services. Keep my sister alive and help me whisk her out of Town to somewhere safe.”

“Not that I’m unsympathetic, but that’s a lot to ask from someone in my line of work.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon reached out to brush the hair from Mary-Alice’s face. “The dear lamb is already looking a bit pinker, is she not?”

“I’ll marry your toughest case. Anyone.” With fear, and impotent anger still wrestling in his brain, he saw no other path. He’d do anything to save his sister’s life. He owed her that.

“Anyone or anyone with money ?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon asked without a hint of judgment.

“With money,” he admitted. “I’ll need enough to set my sister up in an anonymous household far from here.” His pride rankled to admit that until he inherited his father’s title, he couldn’t afford to support his sister, a wife, and himself.

“Lord Dunwoody won’t sit on his thumb while his supposedly dead wife is spirited out of town. You’ve made a serious accusation against a peer. Not that I doubt you. He’s an odious man who’s allowed entry here only because he loses bucketsful of money.”

“I convinced a servant at their usual address that I needed to repay a gambling debt, and they provided the address on Goulston so I might reimburse Lord Dunwoody before he left Town. It was barely more than a hovel. I had to break a window and crawl in. She was left with nothing but her sleeping gown and a bloody sheet.”

“He’s going to be furious when he finds out she’s not where he left her to die conveniently. You’ve only a courtesy title and he’s a powerful earl. Your sister is his chattel. The courts will not favor you. As long as he lives, she may never remarry. If she regains her senses, what shall I tell her about the child? She will ask.”

“Tell her the baby died. Dunwoody cannot get her back in his clutches. I’m not even certain the child lived. Perhaps that’s why he abandoned her.” Try as he might, Crispin couldn’t imagine the level of depravity necessary to strip a newborn from their mother’s arms and then abandon her to die. He suspected Dunwoody never wanted a bride. All he wanted was a legitimate heir.

“I feel your anger, Lord Morgan. You’re practically vibrating with it. I beg you not to call Dunwoody out. For now, at least until after your sister is safely away, it’s best to let him think he got away with it. It will give us time. You marry my choice, and I’ll do everything within my power to keep your sister alive and to see her safely out of town. Return in one week—through the main entrance—if your sister still lives, I will have a bride for you.”

“Conditions?” he asked. Based upon rumors from secret conversations whispered outside the walls of the Lyon’s Den, Crispin knew Mrs. Dove-Lyon was a shrewd negotiator. With his sister’s life in the balance, there was little time for him to gain an advantage.

“Whatever your bride’s dowry, we split it fifty-fifty.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon looked down at his stricken sister and frowned. “Time is of the essence.”

“Seventy-thirty. In my favor, thank you.” Crispin paced across the small room. “I’m getting a life sentence out of this. While your aid is much appreciated, I’m the one taking the bigger risk.”

“All marriage is a gamble of sorts. Just as much as betting on a toss of dice. I’ve been doing this a long time, young man. I will choose the right person for you. It is in my best interest to fashion happy, successful marriages. Favorable outcomes keep me in business. I’ll grant you sixty-forty. Do you accept my terms?”

“Y-yes,” Crispin choked on the word. He drew in a slow breath, fortifying his resolve. “Yes.”

“Who’s doing what now?” Birdy Carmody resisted the urge to roll her eyes at her father’s long-winded explanation. They were foreign fish in this pond called England and she, with her Ojibwe blood, was even more so.

“I may have missed a few details, but my overall understanding is that the young man asked for you specifically.” Hardy Carmody poured two fingers of brandy into a glass and handed it to her. “You’re going to need this.”

“What have you done, Father? Explain it one more time because I thought you said—as ridiculous as it sounds—I thought you said I was getting married.” Birdy gulped down the brandy and instantly regretted it when her throat burned in protest. She’d much prefer a good homemade cherry bounce to this devil’s spit.

“You’ll be a lady. Imagine it, Lady Carmody. Oh, wait,” her father said as he poured himself a second brandy, “You’d be Lady Morgan. That has a ring to it. Of course, his father has to die before he’s a proper earl. You’ll be a countess. Shouldn’t be too long. I’ve not met his father yet, but everyone here looks sickly, don’t they? So thin and pale.”

“It’s the air, I think,” she said, settling herself into a comfortable chair. “The air smells bad here.”

“That’s coal smoke. It’s big city air. The country air must be better. I hope this Morgan fellow has a country estate. You’d be happier there.”

“I don’t recall meeting a Lord Morgan. Why should he offer for me?” Suspicion began sneaking its way up her spine. Her father, famous for his business acumen, may have bartered away the rest of her life on a whim. He was impulsive, but she’d never questioned his intelligence before.

“ Nenokaasi ,” he said, using her tribal name, “My little hummingbird, when your mother died, I promised myself I would find someone for you who would love you as much as I loved her. None of the trappers, traders, or warriors on our island will do. They don’t know your true worth. To them, you’re still the little girl who grew up behind the counter at the trading post. You deserve a prince, but I got you a lord. Well, nearly a lord, he’s as close as I could get.”

“You told me this was a business trip. I thought we were here to sell lumber and pelts and see the sights.” Birdy closed her eyes and swallowed down her anger. He means well , she kept repeating in her head. There wasn’t a respectable man on the island who’d dare to court her after the incident with Ben Red Feather. Her father must have gotten desperate.

“It is business. I just worked out a little matrimonial business on the side.” He had the decency to look sheepish.

“What have you done?” The reason for her new wardrobe and all the social gatherings she’d been dragged to since setting foot on English soil became clear.

“What I intended to do when we came here. You’re an educated young lady. You deserve better than some barefoot Romeo, drunken Lothario, or a trapper who smells like beaver piss.”

“Father! We trade with those men. They’re our friends.”

“I’d trust them with my life,” he said, placing his hand over his heart. “That doesn’t mean they’re good enough for you. You’re smarter than the whole lot of them mashed together. Heck, you’re smarter than me. You deserve an educated man with manners.”

“And this Morgan who is almost a lord is that man?” Whether from the brandy or the conversation, Birdy’s brain stuttered over this revelation. Her father was on a mission to find her a husband and what Hardy Carmody wanted, he got.

“His name’s Crispin Andrew Morgan. I followed him around a bit. He’s tall enough and built like a mountain lion, with wiry strength rather than bulk. He’s got the same middling brown hair color as nearly everyone else here. Honestly, I was hoping for a noble redhead such as myself, but I couldn’t be too choosy. Princes and dukes aren’t as thick on the ground as I imagined.”

“A lion? What color are his eyes?” she asked before thinking better of it. What did it matter if her father had already decided? She and her brother couldn’t have asked for a better or more loving parent. Hardy Carmody was a provider, a problem solver, and the most determined, hard-working man she’d ever met. But now, he was testing the limits of her obedience.

“Blue,” he answered solemnly. “I’m sorry.”

“Weak eyes,” she replied as she placed her cup on the table, determined to never drink brandy again.

“Seems like a smart fellow,” her father said with a shrug. “High class, but not extravagant. Treats merchants and common folk with dignity. I was impressed.”

“Will I be?” In this land, she was a dark-faced goose among a bevy of swans. Would Crispin Morgan’s blue eyes see her differently?

“Your mother took her chances with a pasty Irishman, and I hope to think she never regretted it.”

“You met at sunrise and were one by sundown,” Birdy repeated the story she’d heard a thousand times. “Brody arrived one night the next spring. The name-giver called him Beshkwe , the nighthawk. Three springs later, I was born the day the catmint first bloomed. I was named Nenokaasi , after the hummingbirds who came to feed.” Birdy turned away wistfully. She wanted her own love story.

The thought of marriage to an Englishman had crossed her mind more than once this past year. While her father had set his cap on a peer of the realm, she’d have been happy with a barrister or ship owner who might help them fend off the Hudson Bay Company and keep their island trading post under a partnership with her mother’s tribe. What good would this Crispin Morgan be to her cause?

“Someday you’ll be telling the stories of the day your children were born,” her father announced, capturing her attention once again. “They’ll be little lords and ladies.” He beamed as he spoke.

“They’ll be English,” she said, with a twinge of apprehension. The Ojibwe people had always been more welcoming to her than the English. Even at school in Montreal, some treated her like an oddity or, worse yet, an untrustworthy foe. Sometimes her father only heard the information he wanted to hear. That’s what frightened her.

“Can you imagine the faces of the regulars at the trading post when I introduce you as Lady Morgan? Ben Red Feather will throw himself into the Gichigami and swim to a new village.”

“Does this soon-to-be lord know you expect him to return to Ziinzi Island with us?” While earls weren’t required to live on the English continent, she’d be surprised if he chose a life among the Anishinaabeg, a trading post, and months of freezing weather each winter.

“A minor detail. We just need him to visit. Once he sees our patch of heaven, why would he want to live here?” her father asked. “This place smells funny.”

“It does.” Smiling wanly, Birdy knew their discussion was over. Her mother once warned her it would happen like this. One day a man was a stranger, then you blinked and suddenly you couldn’t imagine your life without him by your side. Their love seemed so pure and effortless.

Could she and this man Morgan create the same magic? Was it even possible? She’d often said she wanted to marry a man like her father. Perhaps she should have been more careful about what she wished for.

“Father,” she asked without being able to meet his eyes. “Have you made promises? Did you shake hands?” Her father’s business was successful because he was an honest man of his word. Deals were made over strong spirits and sealed with handshakes. If he’d already given his word…her marriage was fait accompli .

“I felt it in my gut, Birdy. He’s the man for you.” Pouring himself another drink, he walked around the chair until he was standing directly in front of her. “I know you yearn to spread your wings. You agreed to accompany me to this place for a reason. Am I wrong?”

“Did you shake hands?” she repeated, ignoring his question. Were her inner thoughts and secret dreams so transparent to those who knew her?

“I met his representative, a respectable woman by the name of Mrs. Dove-Lyon. We shook hands.”

When one of the hotel’s footmen came to lie out that evening’s fire, Birdy retreated to her bedroom. Throwing herself on the bed, she waited for tears that never came and huffed out her frustration.

She was neither sad nor scandalized, and the realization was unnerving. Her father must have known of her plan all along. It had always been difficult to get anything past him. Her desperation must have shown through.

But did he realize her desperation was for him, not her unmarried state? Her father needed help and had denied the fact for too long. It would take her brother Brody years to set himself up in a position to be useful. By then, it might be too late.

A well-placed marriage, however, might allow for a timelier rescue. If the man her father chose wasn’t useful, he must somehow be made to be. If Crispin Morgan’s father really was an earl, perhaps, if she played the doting daughter-in-law well enough, he might prove helpful.

But only if he didn’t take offense to the hue of her skin. A fifty-fifty chance at best based on her prior experiences.

If Crispin and his father were useless, she had to find a third option. Or create one. The trading post must survive. The island must remain under the tribe’s control. Losing the land was not an option.

Marriage was the answer for now. Crispin was a silly name for a man, but it didn’t really matter. His social standing and business contacts were more important than his name.

But there were risks. Was Crispin a drunkard? A gambler? Did he intend to beat a wife into subservience?

What about children?

In what was surely the longest week of his life, Crispin got his affairs in order. Dunwoody had not returned to Town, and no one asked about Mary-Alice. It was as if she had never existed at all. His decision to keep her condition and whereabouts a secret from their father had not been an easy one. His father was a man of his time. He’d bargained his daughter away to a rich man thrice her age and patted himself on the back for a job well done. With him, it would be a matter of honor. Given the chance, he’d return her to Dunwoody.

For the first time, Crispin was thankful his mother didn’t live long enough to witness her husband’s actions. She would never have forced Mary-Alice to marry the old curmudgeon.

Unaware of the importance of his visit to Lyon’s Den tonight, his valet had laid out Crispin’s standard gambling ensemble. While a perfectly presentable brown would suffice for faro and hazard, tonight called for something special.

Flat black was too formal and a little depressing, but the green was too cheerful for his current mood. Crispin settled on a charcoal gray superfine with a blue silk waistcoat his valet insisted matched the blue of his eyes.

He’d happily gambled at the Lyon’s Den for years, never losing more than he could afford to pay, and keeping himself outside of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s notice. While on the surface the Lyon’s Den was a reputable gaming establishment, the matchmaking deals that took place behind closed doors were an open secret. While he’d known men who, through their debts, got caught in the Black Widow’s web, Crispin never thought he’d one day beg for her services.

The carriage ride to Whitehall was spent in silent contemplation. Before the evening was over, he’d be introduced to the woman with whom he would share the rest of his life. One day of chaos changed his life forever. Somehow, Dunwoody would pay.

Mouth turning to dust the moment he walked through the door, Crispin snatched two cordials off the tray of a passing servant and swallowed them down one after the other as he made his way to the sickroom. What had been a small dark room with a tiny bed was now transformed into a space befitting a lady. His sister, dressed but still wrapped in blankets, sat in an overstuffed chair, reading a book.

“Brother,” she cried out, jumping from her seat and wrapping her arms around him. “You saved my life.”

“I’m so sorry about the baby, Mary-Alice.” Crispin kissed the top of her head and led her back to her chair, relieved he didn’t have to look into her eyes while lying.

“No, Crispin, I heard the baby cry. I saw him. He’s a perfect, beautiful baby boy. Where is he?”

“You were very ill,” he explained. “There is no child. I’m so sorry.”

“No, he lived. Dunwoody must have taken him. I must find him.”

“Mary-Alice, please, you’re still so weak. It would be best if you focused on getting well now. I’ve made a deal with Mrs. Dove-Lyon. I can get you away from your husband. We’ll hide you away where he can’t find you. Somewhere you can be safe and happy.”

“How could I ever be happy without my child?”

“Shall I ask someone to bring you some laudanum?”

“I don’t need laudanum,” she replied. “I need my baby. Show me my baby or show me his grave.”

“I can’t,” he said, turning his face to the wall so she wouldn’t see the tears forming in his eyes. Only his cruelty would save her now. “The child did not survive. Dunwoody has left town. God only knows what he did with the body. Without christening, there would be no proper grave to find. I hope he showed the little soul more concern than he showed you. You nearly died, Mary-Alice.”

“Wait, you made a deal? What does that mean?”

“Mrs. Dove-Lyon will help me set you up somewhere away from London. A cottage of your own with allowance enough to support you and a servant or two. Maybe even a horse and gig. We’ll keep you hidden away from Dunwoody so he can’t finish the job. You cannot contact him looking for a baby that no longer exists. He’ll have you thrown into Bedlam. Once away, you cannot return to Town.”

“And what did you pay for this assistance?” His sister sat up straight and demanded he look at her. “What have you done?”

“The Lyon’s Den doesn’t just gamble with dice and cards,” he tried to explain. “Mrs. Dove-Lyon deals in matchmaking as well. Debts that cannot be repaid by normal means are settled with marriage. I have agreed to such an arrangement.”

“No.” She shook her head. “You didn’t. You can’t. I won’t ask that much of you. There must be a better way.”

“Dunwoody will not rest until you’re dead. I need to get you out of town as quickly as possible before he realizes you’re still alive. Mrs. Dove-Lyon has the connections to make this happen. This is the only way.”

“Who are you to marry?”

“I won’t meet her until later tonight when the settlement papers are signed.”

“You’re going to use her dowry to support me, aren’t you? I can’t let you do that.”

“It isn’t up to you. I’ve already decided and chosen the best course of action. I need you to obey me because I can’t bear to lose you again.” She was always a handful, but he’d secretly admired her quiet bravery in the face of so much adversity. She was stronger than she realized and somewhere she’d have to find the additional strength to move on without her baby.

“Would Father let me hide away at one of his properties?” she asked, her voice so hopeful that it nearly broke his heart.

“Father would return you to Dunwoody in a heartbeat. He can’t know where you are. We can’t count on his help.”

“I should have died with my child. It would be easier all around if I had.”

“Never say that! You will outlive that blackguard, Dunwoody.” He hadn’t come here to get cross with her and shame rolled in his gut. After tonight, it was likely he’d not lay eyes on her again until after Dunwoody’s death when it was safe for her to come out of hiding.

“I didn’t mean it. Don’t be angry. I won’t ever say it again. Please don’t send me back to him. My husband is a monster. He’s threatened to kill me often enough. He’ll find a way. I’ll go wherever you send me.”

“It’ll be Dunwoody’s problem to explain your disappearance to the world. Once you leave here, you and I may only communicate through Mrs. Dove-Lyon. That will keep Dunwoody from having me followed to find you. He’ll hire someone to look for you as soon as he realizes you’re alive and outside of his clutches. If he can’t kill you outright, he’ll have you shut away in an asylum. You cannot, under any circumstances, contact him or anyone who knows him. That includes our father.”

“I agree, except for one thing,” she said, placing her hand on his arm. “Promise me you’ll never stop looking for my son. I won’t allow myself to believe he died.”

“My priority is keeping you alive, but I’ll do what I can.” Guilt burned in his chest even though he knew his lie was necessary. If the child lived, there was no legal way to get him out of Dunwoody’s clutches. In that matter, he was helpless. “I promise.”

“Lord Morgan.” One of the house servants appeared in the doorway. “You are expected in Madam’s office.”

Crispin hugged his sister tightly, once again relieved she wouldn’t see the anguish on his face. He had to leave before he wept. With one last kiss to the top of her head, as she pressed her cheek against his heart, he stepped through the doorway and out of his only sibling’s life.