Page 35 of Lyon of Scotland (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)

“Come in, gentlemen,” Dare said, beckoning Scott, Huntly, and their guest into the parlor.

He recognized the young man, having seen him last summer at the Gordon house—quite young, with blond hair flopped over his brow, shadowing deep-set eyes.

He was beautiful in a frail, gentle way.

He was far too thin, his face gaunt. Dare knew the signs—too much drink, too much laudanum.

He frowned, and shared a quick glance with Linhope, who seemed to notice the man’s condition too.

“Mr. Whitworth,” Dare said low, wary.

“Lord Strathburn—Lord Lyon,” Whitworth said. “We met at the Gordons’ once. Hannah,” he said then, with a whooshing exhale, as if very anxious. His hands trembled. “Lady Strathburn, I hear now.”

“Mr. Whitworth.” She came to Dare’s side, standing close, and tucked her hand in his elbow. He set his hand over hers, in a protective, deliberate gesture.

“And is that—Mr. Dove?” Jonathan Whitworth said then. He went pale.

Dove muttered something from the sofa, cupping a hand to his head.

Whitworth turned back to Hannah. “You look lovely, Hannah.”

“You do not look very well, I must say. How is it that you are here?”

Whitworth glanced at Sir Walter. “I, ah, came north with these gentlemen.”

“If I may,” Scott said, having been quiet so far. “Oliver knew the fellow and thought he might be at his family’s estate in York. So we decided to sail north with Lockhart and call on him all together. We persuaded him to come to Edinburgh.”

“Persuaded.” Whitworth pushed back his hair to expose a blackened eye. Glancing at Oliver Huntly, Dare noticed then that the young lawyer sported bruised knuckles.

“Ah,” Dare said. “Go on.”

“I believe Mr. Whitworth has something he wants to say,” Scott remarked. He gave the young man a nudge.

“Hannah—Lady Strathburn,” Whitworth began. “I was wrong. Very wrong.”

She lifted her chin, stepped away from Dare. “You were.”

“I realized my error later. Hannah, please understand. Please. I did not think Sir Frederic would put you through such agony as these men have described to me. I thought he would just come after me, so I fled to my parents’ home. I meant to ask for the funds and return.”

“But you never did. You left me to deal with it. And you forged my signature. It was never my debt.”

“I treated you horribly, I know. I was not entirely aware—of what I was doing then. The drink, you see. The opium—Sir Frederic had a hand in that, I will say. He gave me something to calm my nerves. But I know it is my fault. I should have walked away from all of that, the bottle, the gambling. Not from you.”

“So Sir Frederic had a hand in what happened to you?” Hannah looked toward the man who sat bloodied and diminished on the sofa. “Why am I not surprised?”

“He said you were Scottish and I deserved better. He lent me money and gave me a drug to help my anxiousness. But—that was not helpful.”

“It was not. But he had his own reasons, which we are just discovering,” she said.

“I wanted to be a better man for you, Hannah. But I was not. I was weak.”

She did not answer. Dare glanced down to see the gleam of tears in her eyes. She had a soft heart for this sorry lad, this girl, he thought—this girl he loved with every ounce of his being. But he would say nothing. This was hers to resolve as she wanted.

He frowned, waiting. Hannah had indeed found a better man, and he was deeply glad and grateful to be that man.

But he had to be worthy of her too, Dare told himself.

He must keep his temper in this situation—Whitworth and Dove both, and calm the fist he flexed behind his back.

He must summon that icy reserve he maintained so well.

But he did not feel as much compassion for this sorry young gent as she did.

“Mr. Whitworth has something else he needs to do for Lady Strathburn, I believe,” Scott said when Whitworth seemed to pause too long.

“The debt,” Whitworth said. “It is not yours, Hannah. I have come into my own now, since my father has forgiven me and advanced some of my portion to absolve my debts and start new. I hope you can forgive me too.” He was blushing fiercely, looking agonized, head down, hands behind him like a wayward schoolboy.

“I can forgive you,” she said into the quiet. “I am not sure I can forget.”

She was beautiful, Dare thought then, as the afternoon sun shone through the curtains to gloss her dark-gold hair. She was calm and kind and everything to him and he could not take his gaze from her. He could hardly believe she had married him, could hardly believe she loved him as he loved her.

Silent still, he breathed out, watching Whitworth, and suddenly felt more understanding. No wonder the young lout loved her. Anyone would love her. Anyone but Dove—and that even-sorrier fellow would soon reap more consequences than he could ever imagine, if Dare had anything to say about it.

Then Dare knew, with absolute clarity for a moment, that part of his work in life was to protect this beautiful, talented young woman.

To watch over her, bring her happiness, help her move her work out into the world.

He had not made a good start of that, with no courtship whatsoever, a hasty proposal, a very odd wedding, and an altogether strange start for a marriage. He would make it all up to her.

“I will pay Sir Frederic what I owe him,” Whitworth said then. “And I am so sorry. I did not know how badly this had gone for you. I thought you had gone home to Scotland. I thought your father would take care of you.”

“I did not go to my father. I worked to pay what was owed.”

“Then take this.” Whitworth reached into a pocket and brought out a folded paper. “A bank draft for the amount.” He held it out, his hand trembling noticeably.

Hannah did not move. Dare stepped forward then, took the bank draft, and examined it. He showed it to Hannah, who nodded, then shrugged. A tear slipped down her cheek.

“Thank you, Mr. Whitworth,” Dare said. He left the others to walk over to Frederic Dove. He handed him the draft. “I believe this is owed to you by Whitworth.”

Dove hardly glanced at it, and groaned. Dare handed it to Charles.

“What’s this?” Charles asked. Dare realized that he did not know about the debt, let alone all that had happened to Hannah Gordon in London.

But Dare knew one thing for certain—Charles Dove was another who loved Hannah Gordon.

Returning to his wife’s side, Dare took her hand, their fingers intertwined in the folds of her gown, hidden from view. He wanted her to know she was safe and all was well. She had resolved this without his help, and he was simply here to support her—always.

“Finally! The constable.” Nell opened the door to admit a law officer and the little upstairs maid who had rushed to fetch him. The constable, in a brown coat that hardly hid the pistol and short wooden staff tucked in his belt, doffed his tall black hat.

“Trouble here?” he asked.

Then the explanations began, and three lawyers and a doctor—Scott, Hugh, Dare, and Linhope—conferred with the constable. The fourth lawyer, Dove, sat looking dull and weary, patting at his headwound.

“We can let the gentleman cool his heels for a few days behind bars—since you say he needs rest, but we want him to stay in one place,” the constable said. “And then he will be brought before a judge, if that is what you want. It is up to you, sirs. And ladies,” he added.

“Some of this is up to the ladies.” Dare turned. “My dears,” he murmured to his wife and sister, who had taken seats in the parlor, patiently waiting, both looking spent, “what do you think?”

“Let him sit in jail,” Nell said. “Then you have time to draw up warrants of assault.”

“Do not let him stay in Scotland,” Hannah said. “Send him home to be judged there, not here. I never want to see him again.”

“There you have it,” Dare told the constable. “You can take him for now, and we will think about appropriate charges. Thank you, sir.”

“I will need to fetch some help, don’t want to take the fellow by myself. I will be back, my lord. My lady,” he said, addressing Hannah.

“Thank you,” Hannah said, sounding weary.

When he had left, the others drifted back into the parlor. Nell called for the maid and asked for tea and scones to restore everyone. Remaining in the foyer with Hannah, Dare took her hand. “Aye so?” he murmured.

“Aye so.” She rested her head on his shoulder for a moment and sighed, then looked up at him. “Is it truly done?”

“Not yet, but it will be, once we have seen to all the details.”

“What about Charley?” she asked then. “Should he go south or stay to wait for his father?”

“I will talk to him and see what he prefers. I know you care about him.”

He tipped her head, her smile faint and weary, yet her eyes were bright—perhaps with vast relief, deep love, and hope.

He saw them all at once, shining there. Leaning down, he kissed her, tender and lingering.

He did not care who might see, though he guessed his sister and his friends would discreetly turn away and give them the moment they needed. Then he drew back.

“I love you,” she whispered.

“My love,” he said. Just that. It was enough to fill his heart, his home, his life, and lend more sparkle to the light in her eyes. “My dear lass.”