Page 20 of Lyon on the Lam (The Lyon’s Den)

A lbert Wilton has a French wife and children.

Matthew had thought of little else from the moment he heard the words. He’d participated in the conversation, asked the right questions, and nodded in the proper places. All the while, one train of thought was constant.

Lord Burridge was a bigamist.

That was his motive for trying to kill Tavie.

“Are you well?”

Matthew blinked, and his reflection came into focus. He was standing in front of his dressing mirror, his neckcloth crushed in his fist. His valet stood behind him.

“I’m fine, Walter. Thank you.” He handed over the wrinkled silken tie. “But perhaps I need a new one of these.”

The return to London meant the return to the costume he was required to wear. Businessmen, even merchants, weren’t taken seriously without a coat, hat, and gloves. It was ironic, given that he’d made his fortune in shirt sleeves and braces, with dirt on his boots.

As much as he despised the restricting layers of cloth, he appreciated the chance for a bath, a clean shirt, and his own bed. However, he didn’t think he’d be sleeping for a while yet. There were too many things to sort through.

Walter helped him tie and pin the cravat and then held a coat so Matthew could shrug into it. It was his favorite, a brown wool that reminded him of rich fields in the spring, or perhaps his morning coffee.

“Good as new, lad.” Walter brushed the shoulders and tugged the hem before stepping back and nodding. His halo of silver hair reminded Matthew of a dandelion.

The man had served his father from the time they’d moved to London, gently guiding the newly wealthy merchant farmer in how to make the best impression. He’d taken Matthew under his wing as time had allowed.

He had helped him dress the night he’d planned to propose to Tavie.

“Will you be dressing for dinner when you return, since Mr. Davis and his wife will be joining us?”

It was the proper thing to do, and Mother would insist on it. She loved a party.

“I don’t believe so,” Matthew said. He preferred being comfortable at home. Besides that, Tavie still only had the dresses gifted to her by Bessie Dove-Lyon. “Please tell Mother’s maid to keep her dinner dress simple as well. We don’t want to make Lady Burridge uncomfortable.”

He didn’t want to keep using that name, but guest made it seem that he didn’t believe her marriage was legal.

Tavie’s reputation required that she be seen as the legitimate wife of the cad who had taken a second wife while his first was still alive.

Her safety depended on him proving Albert had plotted to ensure she wasn’t alive for long, and doing it quickly.

“Thank you, Walter.”

Matthew left the valet folding dirty clothes as though they were going back into the closet rather than into the laundry. Martin was waiting at the bottom of the stairs.

“Going out, sir?”

“I have a…colleague to visit.” How did someone explain visiting a gaming hell in the middle of the afternoon? “She will know what everyone else doesn’t.”

Martin glanced upstairs to ensure Tavie wasn’t in earshot. “I’m not sure it’s possible to tell the truth from the gossip at this point. You know how Society loves a scandal.”

Matthew nodded. He’d learned early on that almost every social event was less about a party or a performance and more about what stories could be told.

When he’d begun tracking people, the largest task was always untangling fact from fiction. Most of the time he had turned to records, associates, and the same working-class men and women who had shielded Tavie once before.

Now, the only record was a marriage certificate that was likely in a safe. Albert’s associates would have already closed ranks, and Matthew never had luck speaking to servants. No amount of money could persuade them to gossip. “I don’t have anyone else.”

“I may,” Martin said.

A door opened and then closed upstairs. Tavie glanced over the railing. She’d bathed, and a maid had done her hair. The girl from the country was gone.

“You should be resting,” he said. Travel was exhausting in good circumstances, and their race back to London did not count as good .

“So should you,” she replied before she straightened. The rug muffled her steps to soft thuds as she walked into full view and began descending the stairs.

Irritation sparked all the way to Matthew’s fingers.

In anticipation of their eventual return, Mrs. Dove-Lyon had sent Tavie’s black dress to his home.

Though he was glad she could surrender the ill-fitting secondhand dresses she’d been wearing while they traveled, the dress held the memory of her escape.

It also gave the impression that she was the one at fault—or perhaps that she was a threat to her own status.

“You can’t go out in that,” Matthew said.

The deep, somber color made her skin gleam like pearls, and her clear green eyes shimmered like jewels. “I can’t be seen looking like a pauper.”

“We’ll ask a modiste to come—”

“I will not hide for two weeks, or more, waiting on new dresses while others debate and argue my future.” She turned so Martin could drop her cloak across her shoulders.

The butler did as asked, though he had the grace to look reluctant. Tavie did not as she fastened the clasp near her neck.

“You can’t mean to confront Albert alone?” Matthew asked. A cold fist clenched his heart at the thought of all that could befall her if she reentered that house. He took her hand. “Promise me, Tavie.” He’d only just got her back.

“I shouldn’t need to promise you anything.” She squeezed his fingers. “Albert is not on my list, though I’m sure we can expect his arrival soon.”

“Likely so.” Though recent events would make Albert less self-righteous, which would be a welcome change. “Unless he snatches you off the street.” He could do it—and the people of London would do nothing but watch and then spin tales over supper. “Take Martin with you.”

“No.” Tavie slid on one glove and worked the fingers straight.

The woman would be the death of him—if she didn’t die first. “This is no time to be stubborn, Octavia.”

“I’m not being stubborn, and don’t call me that.” She finished with the other glove. “I shouldn’t be seen with your servants.”

The whole of London would know by morning that she was in his house, bossing him around. “Will you at least take my carriage?”

“I will, thank you.” She scrunched her face into a comical grimace. “It will make for a quick escape if—when—Mother becomes unbearable.”

Matthew opened his mouth to offer his house, possibly for supper, maybe tomorrow, but Tavie silenced him with one glance and half a smile.

“If I don’t go there, she’ll come here. And I don’t want her here, Matthew.

I also don’t want the gossips seeing me toss her out when she causes a scene.

Best to beard the lion in its own den. Which sounds ungrateful, since they think Albert tossed me into the Thames.

” She heaved a sigh. “This is such a mess.”

“We’ll sort it together.” He walked her to the door. The carriage was already waiting, though for him and not for her. “If you aren’t home in an hour, I’ll come looking for you.”

“Thank you.” The sunlight set her lashes and hair aflame. Her flushed cheeks made it easy to forget she was shrouded in black.

It made it easy to forget a lot of things.

Martin cleared his throat, and Tavie leapt across the threshold and toward the steps. “Thank you for cleaning my cloak, Martin. It looks good as new. I’ll keep an eye on the time, Matthew. Goodbye.”

Matthew watched her go, aware that Martin had joined him in the doorway.

“The driver is armed, and I put Thomas on the back.”

Thomas was a young footman who could carry two of Mother’s trunks at the same time. “Thank you,” Matthew said.

He watched until the carriage turned the corner. “Do you know someone in the Burridge household?” He halfway hoped the answer was no. It was disconcerting to think of his life being connected to Albert’s in any way.

“I know someone who may know of someone.” Martin checked his watch. “I’ll have an answer when you return.”

Home .

Tavie drew a deep breath and tried to stem the warmth the word sparked. She failed.

It had been years since she’d had a home—since Father had moved them to London. He’d spent more and more time at the markets and his new club, while Mother had turned the Marriage Mart into a very different sort of industry.

But Matthew’s house had felt like home the moment she had arrived. Perhaps it was because they’d entered through the kitchen.

Perhaps it was because he was there.

A group of children played on the street, one using a stick to roll a hoop while his friends chased after him. A girl clutched a rag doll in the crook of her arm, its yarn hair bouncing madly.

Tavie wrapped her arm around her thin waist. A home needs children.

When she hadn’t fallen pregnant during the first year of her marriage, she had consulted every reliable apothecary and midwife in London. She had put potions in her tea, bathed with herbs they recommended, eaten specific foods or avoided others. Once she’d even drugged Albert without his knowledge.

Nothing worked. Albert had never looked at her with love, but what kindness he harbored had faded as their nights together grew more frustrating.

Midwives had explained that sometimes it was a medical issue with the husband, and Tavie had clung to that. Perhaps it wasn’t her fault at all.

But now he had children with his French wife.

“We’ve arrived, your ladyship.”

She looked out the window and stared up at the edifice. Boxes full of geraniums and violets blocked her view of the windows, which meant no one staring out of them could see her either. It gave her the element of surprise.

Though in this case, that might not be wise.

Matthew’s broad-shouldered footman, Thomas, handed her down. “Sing out if you need help, Lady Tavie.”

The name gave her pause.