Page 21 of Lyon on the Lam (The Lyon’s Den)

The young man blushed. “My apologies, but that’s what we’ve been calling you below stairs. One of the maids says that you dislike Bur—the other.”

“I do, Thomas.” She shook her dark skirts, using the action to blink away tears.

It was foolish to weep over something so simple, which meant her emotions were too close to the surface. That was the last thing she needed at this moment.

“We meant no offense, your ladyship. It’s only that we aren’t sure what other name we can use.”

Of course they didn’t, and it was something she should grow accustomed to. With any luck. She smiled into Thomas’s worried stare. “I like this one as much as I dislike the other. Please tell the staff that I appreciate their consideration.”

Perhaps home wasn’t simply determined by Matthew’s presence.

“And I’ll screech like a harpy if something goes awry,” she said as she took the first step toward the door. It wasn’t an idle promise. Mother might well throw a sack over her head and whisk her back to Mayfair.

She rang the bell and waited. When no one arrived, she tugged the rope twice.

The door opened and her parents’ butler blocked her entrance. His dour expression and dark suit were accessorized by a black band circling his arm just above his elbow. “The family is not receiving visitors at this time. If you’ll leave a card, they’ll call once it is appropriate.”

“It’s me, Barnes.”

The older man focused on her face, and his eyes widened. “Miss Tavie?” he whispered. “We thought… We thought…” He tugged her over the threshold and slammed the door. “Belinda will be beside herself,” he said as he pulled her through the entryway still in her cloak.

They were halfway to the stairs before Tavie caught her breath enough to giggle. She had often wondered about the relationship between her favorite maid and their oft-grumpy butler, but she had apparently been right all along.

The sound brought the old butler up short. He squared his shoulders and lifted his head as he turned. “As will your mother, of course, baroness.”

Though his features were more composed, his eyes still shone. Tavie took the few steps to his side and kissed his cheek. When a tear slipped down it, her own eyes filled. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and squeezed.

Perhaps home could be found anywhere.

“Thank you, Barnes.”

“Tavie!”

The cry was her only warning before Belinda flew down the stairs and barreled into her with the speed and strength of a girl half her age. Her shoulders shook beneath Tavie’s hands.

“I apologize, Belinda. I had no idea that all this would—”

The woman pulled back, smiling. “Happy tears, my girl. Happy tears.” She swiped her handkerchief beneath her eyes. “But I should pinch you for putting us all through that.”

“How is Mother?” Tavie asked as she removed her cloak.

“I think she is using the fight against the French girl to distract her from her grief.”

It was uncharitable to think that Mother’s grief had more to do with losing her theatre seats and social circle than with her rebellious, troublesome daughter. Tavie thought it all the same.

“What is the young lady’s name?” she asked Belinda. “Not using it makes her sound like the monster in the wardrobe.”

“Angeline,” Belinda whispered. “Your mother hurls it around her room like a curse, but we’re not allowed to use it.”

Angeline… The name belonged to a fragile girl with dainty features and a delicate constitution. She was likely fair-haired and only went out under the shade of a parasol.

“You should go up to your mother’s rooms.” Belinda pushed Tavie toward the stairs to make her point. “She’ll be hurt if she hears about your arrival from another maid or, God forbid, the boot boy.”

Tavie stopped, a hand on the baluster and a foot on a riser. “Are any of my old clothes still here?” She suspected they were. Mother loved dresses, and she wouldn’t see anything that expensive thrown away or cast off.

Belinda nodded, frowning. “They’ll be out of fashion. It’s been five years.”

They would be more fashionable than what Tavie had been wearing, and they would come closer to fitting.

“They won’t be black. They’ll do.” They would also rid her of the worry about returning to Albert to ask for anything.

“If you will pack a trunk—just day dresses and the things that go with them—there’s a strapping young footman waiting outside. He’ll carry it out.”

She climbed the stairs again, only to stop after three steps. She turned again. “Don’t ask him about his employer, please.”

It would keep Belinda from having to lie. She had never done it well.

With that settled, Tavie climbed the stairs like a soldier going to war. As she went farther into the house, her heartbeat grew faster and louder. She’d never purposely set out to hurt anyone. She preferred to make people happy. She wished to make her mother happy.

It began as a child when she’d bring flowers from the fields. Mother had exclaimed over each one and pressed them between the pages of her favorite books. Even now they tended to drift from pages when least expected.

However, she’d once picked roses from the bed nearest the house. Once. Never again.

When she had been old enough to begin lessons, the prizes for Mother changed. Then it was a perfectly memorized sonnet or cleanly stitched needlework. Tavie labored over her French and learned to perform every dance.

But she had only played the pianoforte once. Never again.

And then they’d come to London, and the prize had become the perfect husband. Everything was thrown behind her making the perfect match to elevate her family to where Mother thought they should have always been. Mother had chosen Albert, and Tavie had tried to make her happy.

She had been in love once, and she wanted to be again. However, it meant doing something she had avoided all her life.

Tavie knocked on her mother’s door.

“Stop plaguing me, Belinda. I do not want more tea, or scones, or visitors. I am weary of being subjected to—”

She was weary? “Open the door, please, Mother.”

The door swung open as the last syllable left Tavie’s tongue. Mother was there, dressed for visitors, not a hair out of place. “Octavia?” There might have been a flicker of emotion in her otherwise dry eyes. Her hands may have twitched. “Do you know what you have put us through?”

Tavie entered the room and closed the door. “I have been in the country.”

“Why did Albert not explain that you were in Hampshire?” Mother frowned. “He could have resolved this—”

“Because I was not in Hampshire, and I didn’t tell him where I was.” Tavie thought it best to omit the part about fleeing London in the middle of the night, not to mention whom she’d fled with.

“You abandoned your home and your husband in a fit of pique because of a wisp of a girl who has no legitimate claim? This city is full of them. How could you be so na?ve?”

Tavie straightened her spine. She was going to make Mother unhappy.

Purposely.

“I had left London before she arrived. I fled Albert’s home in the middle of the night because I believe he is…corrupt.”

That wasn’t a lie, exactly. Even if Tavie now suspected that treason was an overreaction, he was a bigamist. Something was amiss.

“Where have you been? And with whom? Who helped you leave the city?”

Of course Mother would ignore corruption in favor of appearances.

“I have friends and resources of which you are unaware.” Tavie mimicked Albert’s haughty attitude and raised her palm to stop the argument. “That is all you need to know.”

Mother sputtered like a kettle left on the fire too long, and her face turned an alarming shade of pink. She clenched her fists until her knuckles went bone white.

In the past, Tavie would have defused the tantrum by giving in or running away. The last time she’d done that, she’d ended up married.

That would be the last time.

“I wanted to visit so that you and Father would know I’m well. You can stop insisting that I’ve been harmed.”

It took a moment for Mother to master her emotions. When her icy calm returned, she gave a nod that rivaled the queen’s. “We’re glad you’re safe, Octavia.”

“I apologize for worrying you. I was gone longer than I expected.” Tavie would have preferred to stay in Suffolk, feeding chickens and weeding the garden.

“At least you heard the news in time to return and fight for your marriage.”

Tavie bit her tongue. In her experience, if she argued with every point Mother made, things would get too heated for her to be heard.

“But you will need to dress more brightly. Mourning dress gives the impression that you’ve given up, or that you are at fault for his behavior. I’m shocked your maid let you leave the house in widow’s weeds. She should understand the implications of—”

If Tavie didn’t speak up, Mother would be writing an ad for a new lady’s maid. She was no more than two schemes from planning a party to celebrate the tie between them and the Burridge household.

“I dressed myself, Mother. But you are right that black is not a suitable color for these events, which is the other reason I’ve come. I’ve taken the liberty of gathering a few of my old things.”

“You cannot be seen in five-year-old fashions, Octavia.”

“I don’t plan on being seen, not right now. And I don’t plan on returning to Albert’s home.”

It might be a little too crowded at the moment. Though, to be fair, she didn’t think Albert was crass enough to move his second family into the home they’d shared so quickly.

But he had managed to have two wives at the same time, so what did she know?

“Have you lost your mind?” Mother’s voice trembled with her efforts to keep control. “You have pushed Albert into this French whore’s arms.”

Tavie drew a deep breath and gathered her courage. “I was away for less than a month, and they have children. Not even rabbits gestate that fast.”

A shaft of pain shot through her middle, stealing her breath. It would likely be there the rest of her life, so it made sense to make friends with it. Mother’s shocked expression made it easier.

“Octavia—”

“I prefer Tavie.” Just like she preferred comfortable dresses, roses in vases, and loudly playing the pianoforte while she hit the wrong notes.

Making herself happy.

Years of regrets lifted from her shoulders. It was easier to stand on her own two feet—which she used to walk to the door. “I will keep you apprised of my plans. Please give my best to Father.”

She stood in the hallway and closed her eyes. Her mind spun for the first time in years. She was in the center of a whirl, much like when she’d spun in a wheat field and changed the world around her.

It was time to create her own life.