Page 3 of Lyon on the Lam (The Lyon’s Den)

M rs. Dove-Lyon looked between them, her veil swishing like a skirt in a ballroom. “You are already acquainted?”

Acquainted . Tavie was acquainted with her husband.

But the man across from her, with his dark-blond hair that always smelled slightly of the rosemary pomade that ensured it stayed where he brushed it?

She remembered when he’d climbed atop his father’s churlish horse, which had thrown him off for his efforts.

She’d watched him conquer his fear of the animal, but still harbor both a grudge and a deep respect for their power.

She knew that he was as straight as his jawline and how solid that jawline was beneath her fingers. She knew he carried mint comfits in his waistcoat pocket for when they danced, and how warm his body was when they did so.

She lowered the hand he hadn’t taken. She’d been cold since he had stepped aside and cleared the way for Albert.

“Yes, we are.” Tavie tore her gaze from Matthew’s. “Our families are both in the grain business.”

She brushed past Matthew, holding her breath as a protection from his scent—herbs and citrus—that had always left her hungry, staying well clear to avoid touching him. Her fingers ached from the effort.

“Thank you for hosting me for the night, Mrs. Dove-Lyon.” Tavie resisted the instinct to curtsy before she sat in a chair facing the woman who had promised to be her savior. She’d never had an audience with the queen, but she imagined people who had felt the same.

“I trust you slept well,” the other lady said as she poured tea. She was once again in black, and veiled. Tavie wondered if she owned any other colors, and if her face was a mystery even to her staff.

Again, slept well was an understatement. Tavie hadn’t slept that soundly in nearly five years. Not since her wedding. “Yes, thank—”

“You haven’t answered me,” Matthew snapped. He was still in the middle of the room, his back poker straight and his eyes blazing.

“Because I have no idea of your meaning.” Tavie reclaimed the attitude she’d copied when she’d first entered the ton . In the beginning, she’d only used it to survive in ballrooms and at ladies’ teas. After six months under Albert’s roof, she’d worn it every day, all day, like a winter cloak.

“You are dressed in rags that are two sizes too large for you, and you are hiding in a gambling den,” he said. “You absolutely know my meaning.”

Tavie raised an eyebrow and trusted her skirts to hide her feet, which were braced against the carpet in case she needed to run. She fingered the lace at her wrist and prayed he couldn’t see her tremble. “They are hardly rags, Matthew, and I am very glad of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s generosity.”

“It’s disappointing that Themisto couldn’t find something suitable in your size this morning,” the lady replied. Tavie thought she could hear a smile in the words. “But we couldn’t have both of us in black for the meeting. Mr. Foster might have grown confused.”

Tavie lifted her hand to her lips to hide her grin.

“Black?” Matthew looked from her to Mrs. Dove-Lyon. “You said… Is he…?” He looked back at Tavie, a hundred questions in his eyes. “Did you…?”

Does he truly think I would kill someone? If I had, I wouldn’t have run for help. I would have run for Scotland.

“Black kept everyone at bay on the street,” Tavie said. “It was also easier to disappear if someone from the house followed me.”

Matthew finally sat in the empty chair beside her. “Do they do that often?”

For a moment last night, the terror had lifted.

She had enjoyed being outside with no walled boundary and no one at her shoulder or in her shadow.

Albert had told her he was only interested in her safety, but it happened in the house as well.

The servants might not have trailed her like a hound, but they watched everything she did. “Often enough.”

“That must have made it difficult for you to learn your husband’s secrets,” Matthew said.

He looked very much like the man she remembered, but his voice had deepened since she had last seen him. His eyes were harder, too. Sharper. It could have been that five years ago running his family’s business had been a dream, and now it was a reality.

Or it could have been that he didn’t believe her.

“It would have, had Lord Burridge bothered to hide most of them.” Tavie lifted her teacup and let the cup warm her fingers as the brew heated her insides. “Or if he thought I was bright enough to understand what was happening right in front of my eyes.”

“What was happening?”

“Albert entertained the Comte de Abbeville in the country on several occasions, more than he entertained his friends. At times, he traveled to Abbeville himself. After each visit, large sums of money were added to his ledgers. And—”

“Perhaps they were for innocent reasons.” Matthew spread his hands as he spoke, all but shrugging at her discoveries. “Gambling. Horses.”

“Albert rarely profits on gambling, and there were no new horses or a lack of old ones,” Tavie snapped. “And perhaps it has everything to do with Albert’s cronies in Parliament and the increasing unrest in France.”

Unrest… Napoleon’s escape from Elba had all of Europe fearing what would come next.

Matthew’s eyes narrowed. “And what does Albert gain?”

“Other than money?” People did a lot of foolish things for money without thinking twice. Fathers gave their daughters away simply for the hope of it. “The comte mentioned a promising property near Paris.”

A property large enough for a growing family . Tavie had shuddered simply reading the words.

Matthew didn’t look convinced, and she understood why. She had led with the weakest of Albert’s motives because the other seemed too far-fetched and, frankly, petty. “He raves like a madman when votes go against him in Lords, and he counts every slight, whether it’s in a ballroom or on the street.”

“So he’s small-minded, avaricious, and has French business acquaintances?”

The tone of his question grated on Tavie’s already frayed nerves. “He’s hardly going to shout I’m a spy from the roof of Westminster, is he?” Years ago, she’d been a foolish girl with dreams much larger than were possible, but he had listened to her ramblings and—she thought—believed them with her.

His lack of faith now made her wonder if he’d ever believed in her at all.

Matthew leaned back in his chair and looked at Mrs. Dove-Lyon, who had been a silent spectator. “Madam, Lady Burridge is a woman who made a bad match and now regrets her choices. I won’t brand her husband a spy based on how he spends his money and his travel to the French coast.”

“And I won’t put my life in the hands of a man who refuses to listen past his own preconceived ideas. For all I know, he’d take me back and surrender me to—”

“Enough.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon didn’t need to raise her voice to command their attention.

“Lady Burridge, you put yourself in my hands, just as Mr. Foster promised a favor in exchange for my earlier assistance. You each have free will and the option to choose a new course.” She looked from one to the other.

“But once you leave this room, the door is closed to you. Do not return.”

Tavie dropped back and wrapped her fingers around the chair’s arms. The intricate patterns dug into her palms, a physical reminder not to burst into tears.

There was a high probability she had already been missed at the house.

She couldn’t go back even if she wanted to do so.

“My apologies for appearing ungrateful for your assistance, Mrs. Dove-Lyon. If you trust Matth—Mr. Foster, then I will as well.”

For his part, Matthew’s posture hadn’t changed, but his jaw muscles were bunched into a tight knot near his ear and his knuckles were white. “I will keep my word. Lady Burridge will be safe until arrangements can be made for her testimony.”

And then Parliament can laugh her out of London.

He didn’t say the words, but Tavie heard them all the same.

“Very good.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon was back to her cheerful self as she tugged the bellpull. “The maids will have your new things packed by now.”

The maid came into the room carrying a small carpetbag and a hat that had been in style last season. Still, it was in good condition and the light veil would conceal Tavie’s features without her looking like a specter.

“Before we go…” Tavie retrieved a book from the half-empty bag and glanced toward Matthew, who was already standing by the door and all but tapping his foot.

The worn leather cover teased her skin, and the fading, gilded title caught the sunlight.

She had snatched it from the library on her way out the door last night.

“Please keep this safe for me.” It was her favorite book, but that was not the only reason it was difficult to leave behind. “It has everything in it.”

“It will be waiting when you need it,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said. Her solemn tone made it easy to believe her.

“Thank you.” Tavie took her cloak, the one tie she had to her previous life, and swung it across her shoulders.

In Mayfair there was a closet of clothes and shoes waiting for her.

Her maid had likely already chosen what she should wear to walk in the park.

Now she had a carpetbag with three dresses and a night rail, the shoes on her feet, and a hand-me-down hat.

Matthew offered his arm, his elbow at the precise right angle. “Shall we go, Lady Burridge?”

His voice was as flat as old champagne. She had left a husband who didn’t value her only to be forced to take the arm of a man who didn’t believe her.

Tavie drew herself up straight and lifted her chin, putting on her best Society mask.

Matthew didn’t have to trust her. She trusted herself.

Matthew tried to look anywhere but at the woman sitting across from him in the carriage, but his eyes always returned to her.