Page 26 of Lyon on the Lam (The Lyon’s Den)

T avie had been walking for less than five minutes, and she already regretted leaving the house. Even in the less popular Green Park, she was an oddity.

“Everyone is staring,” she hissed to Celeste.

“Nod and smile.” Celeste did just that as she spoke. “Most of these people have spent the week thinking you were dead.”

“And now they’re all thinking that I’m living with you.” Tavie nodded at another wide-eyed matron and smiled as sweetly as she could manage. The woman almost toppled over a bench.

“Well, you are living with me.” Celeste nudged her onto a new path, away from oncoming coaches. “And that’s all anyone needs to be told.”

“Aren’t you concerned about the gossip?”

Celeste tucked Tavie’s hand into the crook of her arm. The sun shone through her lace parasol, creating patterns across her face. “Other people only have power if you cede control, dear.” She patted Tavie’s fingers. “You have learned that with your mother, have you not?”

“Mother is at bay, but not under control.” Tavie still expected her to knock on the door with Albert in tow and demand a reconciliation. “She’s not ready to give up her theatre seats.” She drew a deep breath. “That was uncharitable.”

“And unnecessary. Hostesses are removing Albert from lists and withdrawing invitations. That will flow to your family and to his…all of his.”

They rounded a curve in the path, and Celeste stopped in the shadow of a large oak.

Ahead of them, a young woman sat on the grass, heedless of her burgundy dress.

She held a girl, tickling her chin with a leaf until the child gurgled with laughter.

A chubby-cheeked boy ran around her, jousting an imaginary foe with a stick.

He had Albert’s eyes.

“She comes every morning so the little ones can play in the fresh air,” Celeste whispered.

Tavie’s gloves stuck to her sweaty palms. “You wanted me to meet Angeline?”

The idea was ludicrous, even for Celeste. There was no guessing how the girl would react.

“Albert’s decisions irrevocably affect you both,” Celeste said. “And you each hold the other’s life in your hands, you more so.”

The boy spied them and ran forward as fast as his fat legs would go, stick outstretched.

“ Non , John Charles.” Angeline struggled to rise while still holding her daughter. “ Non. Come back.”

One misstep and the boy would impale himself on his wooden weapon. It wouldn’t be fatal, but it would hurt. Tavie stepped forward and scooped him into her arms without thinking. “Let’s get you back to your mama.”

John Charles shook his head, sending his inky curls bouncing around his pink face. His blue eyes blazed and his feet thumped against her ribs. It would have stung if not for her corset. Tavie blocked him from hitting her with the stick.

Perhaps she should have let him fall on it.

“My apologies, madame,” Angeline said when Tavie placed the boy within her reach. “He is at a willful age.”

He was just like his father.

Angeline looked past her and smiled at Celeste. “Madame Foster. It is good to see you again.”

“And you, Lady Burridge.”

It was odd to hear someone else called by the title.

Celeste put a warm hand on Tavie’s shoulder. “Angeline, this is Octavia.”

Angeline’s features went blank with terror as she gathered her children close. Her knuckles were white. “Please—”

Tavie dropped to her knees so she could meet the young woman’s eyes. “I mean you no harm.”

The quiet stretched for several long moments. Celeste stepped into the breach. “How is Madeline?”

“Her nose is much better. Thank you for suggesting the apothecary.” Angeline’s gaze flicked to Tavie. “Her nose was… coulait .”

Drippy.

The little girl was a stunning miniature of her mother, save a cherry-red nose. “I am glad she is improving,” Celeste said.

“ Merci .”

John Charles took a run to get past Celeste, but the woman intercepted him with ease. It set off another—louder—tantrum.

“He dislikes being confined,” Angeline murmured. “He dislikes London altogether.”

“I’m not fond of it either,” Tavie said. “I grew up in the countryside as well.”

“We have taken the freedom of Abbeville for granted.”

The concern in Angeline’s voice struck a chord with Tavie, whose teeth ached from the memory of jarring cobblestones as she fled for her life. “Is your family safe?”

Angeline nodded. “They wished to stay in France, but I…I have English children.”

Tavie had run from her husband, and Angeline had run toward him. “You made a wise decision.”

“Did I really? Because they are alive, but now are—”

“No.” Tavie looked from the young woman to her children. “John Charles is Albert’s heir. He gave the boy his name. The same with Madeline. Nothing will change that.”

Nothing should change it. These children had done nothing to deserve Society’s harsh censure.

Angeline stared at her daughter and twined the fringe of the blanket between her fingers. “He told me you were dead.”

I could have been . “How did you meet him?” Tavie asked. She held her breath while she waited for the answer.

“The comte introduced us when he and Albert visited my father. My family owns a winery. We were celebrating the harvest. We danced a waltz under the stars.”

She pronounced his name Al-bare .

“He was kind and a good dancer.” Angeline continued, smiling wistfully. “He understood wine, which endeared him to my family.”

The pattern soured Tavie’s stomach. Once again, parents had bartered their daughter in a business deal. “They promoted the match?”

“No. No.” The young woman blushed. “I am sorry to say I pursued him quite boldly. He was a handsome widower, a wealthy gentleman with a title.” It was her turn to take a deep breath. “And you?”

Tavie had a momentary, irrational impulse to compete with Angeline’s romantic tale.

“My father and Albert were doing business together, and Father invited him for dinner.” She couldn’t even recall what they had eaten.

“By the end of the evening, Mother had decided we should marry.” She shrugged.

“It was not a love match.” Matthew had been her grand romance.

Everyone deserved one. “Do you love him, Angeline?”

“I do, and we have a good marriage. Or we did, until I arrived on the docks to this… cauchemar .” Angeline glanced Tavie’s way, and a tear slid down her cheek. “Forgive me. That was—”

“Think nothing of it.” Tavie offered a handkerchief without thinking. Her brain was already spinning between pity for a man who was forced to marry a girl in love with someone else, and appreciation for a young girl who had taken hold of something she wanted. “Where are you living?”

“We have rooms nearby. We can see the palace from our windows.”

It was also near Parliament. Albert could spend time with them away from prying eyes.

And John Charles was forced to view the sunshine through a window. Boys needed puppies and dirty boots. Sailboats and garden snails. Little girls needed dolls and flowers. Perhaps kittens and songbirds.

They needed their fathers.

“You are not what I expected,” Angeline said as she returned the handkerchief.

“Well, you did think I was dead.” Tavie chuckled and was happy that Angeline joined her. She liked the other Lady Burridge. “You’re not what I expected either.”

The breeze rustled the leaves overhead. The little boy dropped into her lap and offered her a prize—a plain gray stone with moss dotting its tiny face and soil wedged in its large nooks. He smelled of play.

If she closed her eyes, she could imagine a child with wheat-yellow hair and green eyes. He would enjoy feeding chickens or riding on his father’s wide shoulders while they supervised the harvest.

But she couldn’t go through life with her eyes closed.

“Do not give up hope just yet, Angeline. There will be a solution.” She stood and shook the wrinkles, grass, and soil from her skirt. “But when this is over, hire your own staff.” She smiled at the young woman’s frown. “Trust me. You’ll understand.”

She took her leave then, waving goodbye to John Charles as she went, his gift clenched in her other hand. Celeste was waiting nearby.

“That girl—those children—should not be punished for Albert’s weak will,” Tavie said.

“But they will be,” Celeste replied. “And it will follow her home to France.”

It would. Angeline had left as a wife with a baron’s heir. She would return an adulteress with two bastard children and no hope for support other than her own family—if they did not disown her.

Resentment bubbled under Tavie’s skin. Neither she nor Angeline had done anything to land in the poorhouse or on the streets, but they couldn’t both be tied to Albert’s budget.

Was there a way to make a living like a man without actually being a man?

Eloise Miller and Hildie had both done it. Most shopkeepers in Lambeth were women, usually widows, and farms were often managed by wives who made the goods and sold them at the market while their husbands were in the field.

It was possible because they stayed out of London or because Society ignored them altogether.

The carriage came into view and Thomas, the footman, waited near the door. He nodded a greeting before handing them up. “Thank goodness you’ve returned. I was ready to come fetch you.” His fingers were tight, as were his lips, while he tried to look every direction at once.

Tavie was tired of being the key ingredient used by everyone else to create their own version of scandal. This story had all the makings of a tragic tale, and Society didn’t care who lost. They just wanted to eat cake while they watched.

But the same ingredients that made cake could also make bread, depending on the amounts used. Bread was easy to overlook in a city full of sugary fluff. But she would need money to do it.

“It’s time to see Albert, I think.”

Celeste turned from the window. “Matthew will want to go with you.”

Tavie didn’t want to rely on him for this, but it would be comforting to have his support. “It can wait until tomorrow.”

“You did what ?”