Page 22 of Lyon on the Lam (The Lyon’s Den)

M atthew nodded his thanks and left the doorway. Once he was on the street, he began walking toward his destination until he spotted a hackney. The driver stopped for him, and Matthew provided the address.

“Little early for gaming, ain’t it?” the driver asked, cackling as he urged the horses on.

The trip was quick, uneventful, and so quiet that Matthew could hear himself think. There were no arguments, no slip of a dress with a cock-eyed hat, no fraying braid.

It was deadly dull.

“Best of luck to you,” the driver called as he left Matthew in front of the Lyon’s Den.

Matthew strode up the steps and rapped on the front door. It swung open while the sound was still echoing through the quiet room. A footman stood at guard. “Yes?”

“Good afternoon, Daniel.” Matthew handed over his card and hoped that he’d used the correct name and, in doing so, would gain a bit of favor—or at least not alienate him. “Is the lady at home?”

The doorman glanced at the card and nodded once, sharp and quick. “She’s expecting you, Mr. Foster. Follow me.”

He led Matthew up the stairs, taking them two at a time. After rapping on the door of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s office, he entered without waiting for an answer. “Foster has arrived.”

Another moment passed before Daniel motioned him into the room. The lady was behind the desk, veiled and in black.

Matthew thought of Tavie in the doorway, of the light on her hair, of the black dress and cape she wore almost as physical weights on her shoulders.

How old was Bessie Dove-Lyon? What did she see when she looked in the mirror? And how did she navigate a London filtered through lace?

“Good afternoon, Mr. Foster.” She indicated a chair. “I heard you had returned to Town. Has Lady Burridge returned to good health?”

The question gave him pause. “You knew?”

“I suspected.” She shrugged. “It was obvious that she believed her claims, but they were not logical. That concern caused me to look closer, and it became clear that she was not herself.”

“You didn’t say.”

“You would have confronted the baron immediately, would you not?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon raised an eyebrow and waited for him to nod. “Then you would have been in custody, and she would have been returned to her husband.” She pushed a book across the table. “Octavia—”

“Tavie.” Matthew smiled. “She hates the other.” Given that her mother and her husband used the name to reshape her into a baroness, Matthew disliked it too.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon dipped her head in acknowledgment, and the lace shrouding her features pooled in her décolletage. “I believe Tavie’s illness heightened her suspicions, but they were so frightening she couldn’t face them.”

Matthew understood that. For years he’d lain awake at night trying to think of anything but Tavie in someone else’s bed. Lately, he’d spent his nights staring at the ceiling, listening to her breathe while he thought about Albert trying to kill her.

“So she turned it into treason.” Matthew lifted the book and it fell open to reveal loose ledger sheets written in Tavie’s neat, straight hand. “Have you read this?”

“After you left, yes,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said. “The evidence she has loosely connects him to France, but it’s likely through trade rather than treachery. Though selling grain to France may well be considered treason, especially now.”

If Albert’s buyers were feeding Boney’s army, then the Crown would look poorly on him and on every one of his connections—including Tavie’s parents. And Tavie herself, unless she could end said connection.

“What of the lady from France?”

“I’ve heard she fled because the coalition army is forming near her home in Abbeville.”

Matthew wondered if the village was a coincidence or if she were related to the Comte de Abbeville, who had so concerned Tavie. “Is her family in support of Boney’s return?”

“If they were, she certainly wouldn’t admit that here .” Her wry tone was one Matthew had heard before. “I also cannot fault her for removing her children from harm’s way.”

“But to claim she is Burridge’s lawful wife?” To Matthew, that seemed beyond belief.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon shrugged. “She is young and lives on another continent. She would have no reason to suppose that the handsome baron who courted her was lying. And later, even if she wondered, he is the father of her children. She wouldn’t risk making them illegitimate.”

Much like Tavie refusing to wonder if her husband wanted her dead. He leafed through the pages. She might have been irrational due to whatever she’d eaten and drank, but she wasn’t incoherent. She’d seen something that made her suspicious.

There were secrets here. They might not be treasonous, but perhaps they would lead to a very real crime.

“Thank you for looking after her,” he said. “There is such a difference in her now, I find it hard to believe no one close to her was suspicious.” Especially her parents, who had claimed to want nothing but the best for her when they shoved her at Albert.

“People don’t see what they don’t want to see,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said.

Like their daughter—and, if push came to shove, like him. He’d stood in this room, looked at her, and seen nothing but his dashed hopes and broken heart.

He wouldn’t make that mistake again. He closed the book and gripped it until the binding left grooves in his fingers. “I have a man who sees everything. Whatever is here, he’ll find it.”

Matthew understood that drive today better than he had a few weeks ago, perhaps better than he had even yesterday. Their return to London had put them at the center of a whirl where others’ decisions made everything more urgent.

“Good luck, Mr. Foster, and please give my regards to Tavie.”

He was glad to hear someone not address her by her title. “Thank you. I will.”

Matthew descended the stairs. It had been foolish not to send everything to Will in the first place. He would have had answers waiting for them when they returned.

He passed Daniel at the door and nodded his thanks as he slid Tavie’s notes inside his coat for safekeeping. “I think it would be best if no one saw me taking records from the premises, no matter what they might be.”

“It’s appreciated.” The man smiled.

Matthew began his walk home, lengthening his stride to eat up the distance between where he was and where he needed to be. Will and Charlotte would be there soon, and he didn’t want Tavie to be uncomfortable.

A hackney pulled alongside. “Ride, sir?”

The voice caught Matthew’s attention. A young boy sat in the box next to an older man with a stubble-covered chin and gray hair exploding from under his cap. The wispy salt-and-pepper curls reminded Matthew of his mother’s favorite hen.

He gave them the address and grasped the latch without hesitation. He swung into a space that smelled of smoke and cheap perfume. A discarded handkerchief, its edges frayed and the embroidery unraveling, lay in the corner under the opposite seat.

The upholstery appeared clean, which was a small mercy, but he was still glad for his coat. He dropped his head back and stared at the ceiling. A mural of flowers stared back at him, roughly painted, but bright and unexpected. Dark circles dotted the edges—soot from the cloudy lanterns.

If he was late, would Mother cede hostess duties? If she did, would Tavie accept them? She probably shouldn’t. She wasn’t the lady of the house, no matter what he might imagine.

She was a guest, but only for as long as Society let her be. She was still another man’s wife, no matter what Albert had done.

The coach crashed through every rut in the road, sending his teeth clacking together and the book thudding against his ribs. It might have been better to walk.

Matthew braced his feet against the bench and gritted his teeth. He didn’t want to be late. He was tired of hearing only his own thoughts.

Each turn brought him closer to home. The roads smoothed, the crowds thinned. Things quieted.

“Your address, sir,” the boy shouted down just moments before the carriage rocked to a stop.

Matthew tightened his hold on the book, as though thugs were waiting to rob him of it.

After checking to ensure the street was clear, he exited and fumbled through his pocket for payment.

The boy extended his hand. His fingerless gloves were as clean as they could be, given the lad’s job.

Matthew looked again, following thin fingers to a slender hand and a finely boned wrist.

Not he …

Matthew dropped his coins in the girl’s palm and met her gaze. The clothes disguised her well, as did the haircut, but it was there in her features. Questions bubbled on his tongue, things he had no business asking even if he had the time to do so. “Thank you.”

She checked the coins and smiled. “We’ll look for you again, sir.”

The last words were lost in the snap of reins and the rattle of a harness. Matthew watched them go and wished them well before turning toward the house.

Martin was waiting for him at the door. “Mr. and Mrs. Davis have only just arrived, sir. Your mother and Lady Tavie are entertaining them in the drawing room.”

Laughter drifted into the hall, proving his point. “Lady Tavie?”

“The staff came up with it on their own, sir.” The butler helped him from his coat. “And about the meeting we discussed earlier?”

“Have you found someone?” Matthew checked his reflection in the mirror, straightening first his hair and then his cuffs and cravat. He fought the urge to raise his hopes.

Martin nodded. “We have an appointment for later this evening at the Green Goose.”

“Well done, thank you.” Matthew clapped the man on the shoulder.

“I’ll be ready to leave after Mother and Tavie retire.

” He was accustomed to meeting sources after hours in questionable places.

Most household staff weren’t free to move about until after their employers were snug in bed.

Matthew lifted the book from the table. “We’d best get on with supper. ”