Page 2 of Lyon on the Lam (The Lyon’s Den)

“I have,” Tavie said. “My only ally would be my brother, James, who is a vicar in Norfolk. He is married to Baron Pembroke’s sister, but Pembroke would choose his loyalty to title over family.” Despite the fire and her heavy clothing, a chill went down her spine. “They would have no protection.”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon stayed quiet for a long while, and Tavie itched to reach across the table and snatch the veil from her face.

“You still have not told me what you want,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said.

Was my husband is a spy not enough?

“I cannot go to war with France,” the lady said. “What other help can I give you?”

“You have the ear of people who have the ear of the king.” Tavie stated her assumption and waited for the woman to nod. “I do not, and I cannot approach them on my own without attracting attention.”

“I can make an introduction.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon quieted again, tapping her finger against the floral upholstery. “You have painted a picture of a house where you are not safe if Lord Burridge finds you out.”

Tavie blinked. She had been careful not to be more dramatic than necessary.

“It’s in what you haven’t said.” The lady leaned forward slightly. “And you are bright enough to know that your husband will hang if he’s discovered. Are you prepared for that?”

It was what kept Tavie from sleeping through the night. “If he was a shopkeeper rather than a peer, nothing would keep him from the gallows. If Albert is guilty of this, he should pay the price.”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon nodded. “Then you cannot return to Mayfair.”

The relief of not returning to that dour house with its acrimonious air was tempered by practicality. “I have nothing but what I am wearing.” Tavie also had no money.

“The secrets you have discovered, are they safe?”

Tavie tightened her grip on the book she had secreted away in her cloak. “Yes. I have—”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon held up her hand. “I do not need—or want—to know the details.” She stood and tugged the bellpull. “You will stay here this evening. I will make arrangements for a small wardrobe, and my men will guard the doors in case of trouble.”

The same woman who had brought Tavie upstairs now returned to lead her out. Tavie’s head spun. “But—”

“You came to me for help, Lady Burridge.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon was already walking to her desk. “Leave it to me.”

“Matthew, dearest?”

Matthew Foster smiled as he turned from the stairs and went down the hall to his mother’s rooms. He knocked on the already open door before entering. “How did you possibly hear me?”

“Motherly magic.” She turned her cheek for a kiss, which he was happy to give. Her rosewater scent made him recall his childhood when he’d sat in her lap while she taught him how to draw. “Did you rest well?”

“Yes,” he lied. After dinner there had been contracts to review, correspondence to answer, and reports to write. Then, after the house had grown quiet, he’d gone out to do business he could only conduct in the dark. “And you? After our visitors last night, I expected you to have a late morning.”

“The room is as comfortable as it’s always been.” She poured him a cup of tea, requiring him to sit and drink it. “I’ve grown accustomed to rising early in the countryside, especially since I’m no longer dancing until dawn.”

Matthew lifted a scone from the tray and sliced it open. “Thank you for helping me host dinner.”

Mother nudged the raspberry jam in his direction. “I was glad to do it. Mrs. Woods was lovely to talk to, though she spoke far too long about shopping.”

From his end of the table, Matthew thought his mother had held her own in the conversation. She would likely take three or four new dresses home with her to the country, even though she’d have few places to wear them.

“Don’t give me that look.” Her eyes twinkled over the rim of her cup. “Their daughter was a lovely girl, and she played the pianoforte quite well.”

“She does.” Rebecca Woods’s dark hair contrasted with her light skin, making her resemble a porcelain doll.

She had impeccable manners and was, indeed, a talented pianist, though she blushed furiously while she did it.

And though her father had talked about grain, and her mother had gossiped over the latest styles, Rebecca had said very little.

He could see a life of agreeable dinners and evenings at the opera where she nodded along with every cockeyed theory he proposed. “She’s not for me, Mother.”

“You mean she isn’t her .” Mother sighed as she placed her cup in its saucer. “Darling, Tavie is married and living in Mayfair. She’s in a circle that far exceeds our reach.”

Tavie Fowler. No one had ever called her by her proper name.

Octavia hinted at gilded carriages and furs, not a girl whose red-blonde hair never stayed properly pinned, whose eyes shifted between brown and green depending on the light and the weather.

A woman whose laugh struck him in indecent places at inappropriate times.

Tavie would never let him spout shite at the opera.

“It isn’t that, Mother. I promise.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but snapped it shut when the maid entered with a note. “For you, Mr. Foster.” Her voice shook as much as her hand on the tray, and she did everything but curtsy as she backed out of the room.

“What’s arrived?” Mother craned to see the stationery. “An invitation?”

Matthew recognized the mark in the corner and the sharp curves of the imprint in the wax seal. “Someone is calling in a favor,” he said.

He’d needed help finding a man with a gambling problem and a penchant for selling state secrets. There was only one woman in all of London who could help find him. Given that he was also cruel to his wife, it was certain that she would.

But you will owe me a favor.

“What, dearest? You really shouldn’t mumble, you know. It reflects badly on how you were raised.”

“I have to go, Mother.” Matthew took one last large bite of his scone, then washed it down with the rest of his tea. “Duty calls.”

“The theatre tonight?” she called after him. It was a useless question. He’d go wherever she wanted while she was visiting.

“Perhaps I’ll invite the Woods family. It would give the ladies a chance to wear their newest gowns. It might put Mr. Woods in a favorable mood.”

Matthew descended the stairs, still clutching the note from Bessie Dove-Lyon. No one was in a favorable mood for wheat , or flour, for that matter. People needed it for food. Most times they never gave it, or the people who sold it, a second thought.

His new butler met him at the door. Martin had been with the household only a fortnight, but Matthew liked him already. The young man had a bearing that far outstripped his years, a sharp eye, and a quick smile.

“Out for the day, sir? I’ll send for the carriage.” Martin was already on the way to the bell before Matthew stopped him.

“No need. I’m headed into the lion’s den this morning, and I’m not certain how long I’ll be out.” He straightened his coat and lifted his hat from the peg. “Mother will need it for shopping before our trip to the theatre this evening.”

“Very good, sir.” Martin opened the door. “Will it be just the two of you?”

“Not bloody likely.” Matthew sighed as he walked onto the steps. The skies were gray and the clouds were heavy with the threat of rain. He turned back for his umbrella, only to see Martin offering it to him, handle first.

“Good luck today, sir.”

“Thank you, Martin.” Matthew descended the steps onto St. James Street and turned right toward the park and one of the busiest streets in London, where he hailed a cab.

Once they were underway, Matthew leaned back against the seat, which was as straight as a church bench and almost as uncomfortable. Though church services didn’t bounce his head against the pews. At least the coach’s floor and the drapes that helped hide him from passersby were clean.

The driver was also astute, because they bypassed the most direct route, which would be clogged with delivery carts, market workers, and early shoppers, in favor of a quiet, practically empty street.

It would mean a quicker trip, resulting in less frustration for the passenger and a chance of more clients for the driver.

The sick feeling in Matthew’s stomach had nothing to do with the pitch and roll of the narrow carriage and everything to do with his dread over what was waiting at the end of the ride.

Bessie Dove-Lyon was known for many things.

She ran an honest game, kept a well-stocked bar, and her gentlemen kept disagreements to a minimum.

Matthew had been wise enough to wager wisely, drink sparingly, and choose his card partners carefully. He had also kept an eye on those who came and went from the Lyon’s Den. The best-positioned men in the city were among her patrons.

Those connections had sent him to her for help in finding first one scoundrel, and then another. After his third success, she’d exacted his promise of a favor in return. And, despite her reputation for… unusual requests, he’d agreed. He owed her that much.

But now he worried what he’d gotten himself into.

He was admitted by a giant of a man he knew as Titan, which was fitting but surely not his real name.

“The lady is expecting you upstairs,” Titan said as he led the way through the quiet, empty gaming room.

The spotless mirrors reflected the light from the equally clean windows, which were no longer hidden behind heavy drapes.

It was easier to assess the quality of construction and the tasteful choices of paint, paper, and sconces. Even the rugs on the floor were thick and showed little sign of wear. One resembled, in pattern if not in color, his most recent purchase for his family’s drawing room.

The only hints of the establishment’s purpose were the overpopulation of tables and chairs and the lingering smell of cigars.

Titan stopped at the top of the stairs and rapped on the door.

“Enter,” the lady replied.

Titan went into the room first. “Mr. Foster has arrived.”

Matthew followed him, nodding his thanks as he passed.

The lady was behind her desk, her appearance just as startling as it had been during their first meeting. Clad in all black, she drew in the sunshine but never reflected it. “Thank you for coming so quickly, Mr. Foster. Take a seat.”

Matthew did as she asked, resisting the urge to wipe his palms on the knees of his trousers. “How can I help, Mrs. Dove-Lyon?” There was no sense in drawing this out. They both had other business to conduct this morning.

“A lady has come to me with a most unusual tale. She says her husband is spying for the French.”

A shiver traveled down Matthew’s spine and ended in his fingers, which twitched until they banged together. Still, a claim did not a spy make. For all he knew, the woman in question simply had an overactive imagination. “Then she should go to the magistrate, or to her member of Parliament.”

“Which she cannot do without her husband, especially since her representative in Parliament is her husband.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon heaved a great sigh, stirring the lace covering her features.

A member of Parliament, a spy? It wouldn’t be the first time, but that didn’t mean he should get involved. He was already far too busy. “Her family, then.”

“Her parents are dazzled by her husband’s standing, and her brother can pray for her but little else.” Her dress rustled as she sighed. “Her boor of a husband may have threatened him as well.”

“So you believe her?”

The lady nodded. “I believe her to be in grave danger.”

For years, Matthew had trusted his own good sense in finding the right people and placing his faith in their judgment. Bessie Dove-Lyon was one of those people. “Then what do you need from me?”

“To keep her safe and well hidden until the proper assistance can be marshaled. To call on your own resources when necessary.”

Matthew blinked. His contacts and experience could be helpful, but a single man could not successfully hide a married lady without damaging both their reputations. “Madam, surely you grasp—”

“I do, as certainly as you grasp your debt to me. You can hide the lady as you please, with whom you please, but her protection falls on you and you alone. Agreed?”

He owed the lady a favor, and a gentleman always repaid his debts. Not to mention, the Black Widow might continue to be a valuable ally if he could fulfill her request. And he might be making England safer.

Matthew nodded.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon tugged the bellpull, and after a few moments the door behind them opened. It offered a glimpse of the private chambers no one was ever allowed to see.

Matthew had always wondered what lay behind that door, but today his assessment stopped at the threshold and the woman standing there. Same red-gold hair, same graceful—if unfashionable—height. Her eyes, likely green today due to the sunshine, were wide and luminous. “Tavie?”

“Hello, Matthew.” She crossed the room and offered her hand, not palm down for him to kiss, but straight forward ahead as though they were friends.

Now that she was close, he could see that she was far too pale. Her hair, which had reminded him of sunshine, was flat and dull. As were her eyes. Her dress hung from her body like a cast-off. And it was a plain frock, more suitable for a housekeeper than a baroness.

“What has he done to you?”