Page 1 of Lyon on the Lam (The Lyon’s Den)

O ctavia Wilton, Baroness Burridge, stood in the shadows, staring up at the large house that was far too bright for this time of night.

Every lady whispered about what happened at the Lyon’s Den, and every man always changed the subject. But Mrs. Drinkwater had made it sound like a beacon of hope.

And Tavie needed hope.

She waited until the street was empty of both coaches and people before crossing it, careful to keep her veil in place despite the stiff breeze that accompanied spring in London.

Halfway up the front walk, Tavie reversed direction and went to the rear of the house. If a lady was running away from her husband, she shouldn’t walk in the front door of a house frequented by many of said husband’s peers.

Tavie’s fingers shook in her black riding gloves, but she pressed on. Fear had been part of her life every day for the past two years. Even now, she glanced over her shoulder, expecting Albert to be on her heels.

“Don’t be foolish,” she told herself. “He’s gaming or drinking. Or worse.” She glanced to the bright windows, now far too close. Surely he didn’t gamble here . She really should have learned more about his favorite haunts.

But she had been worried he would grow suspicious. And he would have lied anyway. Albert lied as easily as breathing.

Tavie put her foot on the step and grasped the rail in her free hand. Bessie Dove-Lyon surely knew who passed through her doors and whose money she took every night. She wouldn’t risk being caught out by having two spouses under the same roof.

The trip up the short set of stairs left Tavie struggling to catch her breath. That happened more often recently. First it had been dancing, then it had been walking long distances. Now it was stairs.

Perhaps that was what happened when one had a lifetime of late parties, rich food, and limited activity. Or when one put on a public face every day, even for the servants.

Then again, Lady Chilton had coughed far too often during her last tea. And then several of the ladies present there had spent a great deal of time in the retiring room at the last dance. Whatever it was, it must be catching.

“There’s nothing for it now,” Tavie muttered under her breath.

She straightened her spine before righting her bodice and sleeves.

The mourning dress and lace veil left her cold, as though it were wishful thinking, but her hands were too warm in her gloves.

Mother would swoon if she knew her baroness daughter was out at night in riding gloves.

Before she could knock, a neatly dressed woman opened the door. She gave a start when she saw Tavie in front of her and stepped back over the threshold.

Tavie slapped her hand on the door to keep it from closing in her face. “I’m sorry to frighten you, but I must see Mrs. Dove-Lyon.”

The woman didn’t scream for help. That was a good omen, wasn’t it?

“Please,” Tavie continued. “I have nowhere else to go.”

It seemed an age before the maid stepped aside and allowed Tavie into a narrow hall. She pointed to a straight-backed chair. “Wait here.”

“Thank you.”

Tavie followed her instructions and watched her disappear up a flight of narrow, well-lit stairs. That was another good omen—unless the footmen lounged about up there.

She was seated near the kitchen, given the scents and the clatter of plates and silver. Beyond that was music and laughter. It sounded very much like a ballroom.

The Lyon’s Den was definitely not a ballroom.

After a few long minutes, her savior returned, alone, her face the placid mask of most servants whilst they were working. “This way,” she said.

Tavie followed her up, wondering how many times the woman went between floors each day, and how many women had followed her. How many had tumbled, tripped, or lost their nerve altogether.

Perhaps her shortness of breath was simply panic. She didn’t know what was awaiting her, after all.

“Are men not allowed in the household?”

“The men are responsible for the front of the house, especially in the evenings.” The woman shot Tavie a sideways glance. “The gentlemen can get boisterous at times.”

They had reached the top of the stairs. Her escort opened the door and stepped aside. Tavie’s heart thundered in her ears.

She had never been afraid of much, especially not people.

Perhaps her country upbringing, around kind people who either worked with or depended upon her father, had made it easier to see everyone as a friend.

London made her wary. Society made her cautious.

Her husband’s household made her distrustful.

Now the shadowy figure waiting in the middle of the room was reminiscent of the thing under the bed.

The door clicked closed, and Tavie flinched. Perhaps young wives who arrived unannounced were shoved out the window or sent into the bowels of Whitechapel. Perhaps Mrs. Drinkwater was a ninny who knew nothing at all.

Think of something else, you silly girl.

It was a nicely appointed sitting room, larger than expected. Blue velvet drapes hid the windows and coordinated with the soft pattern of the wallpaper. Lamps worked with the fire in the grate to brighten the room, but shadows still lurked in the corners.

Art hung on the walls. They might have been landscapes, but the shadows and Tavie’s veil made it difficult to tell.

“Who are you, madam? And why have you come?” the woman in black asked. Her questions were firm, but her voice was kind. This was Tavie’s last opportunity to change her mind, to go home and set all her suspicions aside.

She didn’t like her husband, but that didn’t mean he was guilty of a crime. And though Albert was a poor excuse for a spouse, he was also smart. Perhaps he’d suddenly learned how to make wiser investments.

You’re not foolish, either . Tavie forced her feet to move forward. This is the right thing to do .

She lifted her veil so the other woman could see her face.

It was a calculated risk, given what she had to say.

But that was the same reason she felt it was necessary for the widow to see her eyes.

This was a negotiation, after all. She was asking this woman to be her partner in a dangerous business.

“Lady Octavia Wilton, Baroness Burridge.” She loathed the title, but not using it felt like a betrayal of everything she’d been forced to surrender. “It’s a pleasure to meet you…Mrs. Dove-Lyon?”

The veil over the lady’s face dipped before she indicated the sofa near the fire. “Have a seat, Lady Burridge.”

Her dress was expertly tailored, with no ruffles to be seen and a neckline just deep enough to be fashionable. Tavie envied her black lace gloves.

She perched on the edge of the sofa. “Thank you for seeing me.”

“How did you find your way to me?”

“I was doing charity work at the vicarage and someone mentioned you…help women like me.”

Women who went in search of more meaningful work than planning a menu for a cook who rearranged it anyway or talking to a housekeeper who ignored every request. Women who stood around corners and listened to kitchen gossip.

“Josiah sent you?”

Tavie shook her head. “Mrs. Drinkwater.” The fib soured her tongue. “And she didn’t actually send me. I heard her whispering in the kitchen and—”

“And decided to take matters into your own hands.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon didn’t sound irritated, but nor did she sound impressed. “Why?”

Tavie ran a tongue over her dry lips. “My husband is spying against the Crown.”

The words hung in the air for a moment before they settled under their own weight. Tavie felt lighter immediately.

“You are certain of this?”

Tavie nodded. “He has hosted several French aristocrats at his estate in the country. I believe those men to be agents, given their continued correspondence and the news we hear of the ongoing intrigues on the Continent. He is flush with money when rents are not due.”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon was a dark statue against the pale blue pillows. “Perhaps he gambles.”

“Oh, he gambles,” Tavie said. “Poorly.” She knew her smile was cruel, but she would not apologize for her feelings. Albert had made her this way. “And he is not a wise investor.”

“You have seen his ledgers and his correspondence?”

“Lord Burridge considers me little more than a living statue, Mrs. Dove-Lyon. He sees no need to hide his actions.”

That was partly true, but Tavie held back a few things. Like listening at doorways and breaking into Albert’s desk when she was alone in the house.

“Then go to your family.” The older woman gave a dismissive wave. “I have no wish to get involved—”

“I cannot involve my family.” Panic drove Tavie to forget both etiquette and her dedication to acting the part of a calm business partner. “My parents would never believe me.”

“Have you tried?” the Black Widow asked.

Tavie had done her best to convince her parents that Albert was a bad choice while they gleefully negotiated the marriage contracts. A girl from a merchant family had caught a baron. It didn’t matter that the daughter had wanted someone else.

Matthew Foster. The name came to her unbidden, as did the image of his handsome face.

His family were successful wheat and flour merchants, which put them in the same circles as Tavie’s family, who dealt in barley and oats.

They were friendly rivals in the markets and allies when negotiating with Parliament.

She and Matthew had tormented one another until they had left for school.

Afterward, at their first formal dance, he’d taken her hand, and she had fallen in love.

A marriage would have meant a promising partnership, but no new opportunities. No new markets into which they could expand. So Father had refused Matthew’s suit in favor of Baron Burridge, hoping he would open doors that had previously been closed.

Matthew, despite his claims of love, had stepped aside, and Albert had been astute enough to show her father just enough preference to keep him loyal.

Her father would hear nothing bad said about the man.