Page 6 of Lyon on the Lam (The Lyon’s Den)

Matthew was standing in the middle of the kitchen, his top hat in one hand, a cane in the other. He was dressed for the opera. Hildie was near his elbow.

Tavie’s head swam and her lungs burned until she remembered to breathe. She was safe.

“Are you well?” Matthew’s eyes narrowed as he stepped forward. “If you need—”

She stepped back and put her hands behind her, ignoring the pain in her shoulder. Her cold fingers trembled against each other. “I’m fine. Please don’t fuss.”

“And she’s been busy.” Hildie’s gaze swept the room, and the hint of a smile curved her lips. “Kate and I will leave you two to talk.” She nailed Matthew with a hard stare. “But if she so much as squeaks, I’ll be back in here with the poker. And it won’t be cold.”

Matthew dipped his chin in somber acknowledgment, but there was a twinkle in his eye. He stepped aside so Kate could join her grandmother.

His well-tailored suit called attention to his wide shoulders and narrow waist, and his gloves were pristine. He could fit into Society easily until someone looked closer and saw the disdain in his eyes.

“Opera?”

“Theatre. Mother loves it. We have a box.”

Celeste Foster was a lovely lady with a kind heart and an appreciation for art that her husband had been happy to indulge. She had always doted on Matthew, and he had returned the affection. “You brought your mother here?”

His lips curved into a wry grin. “There would be far too many questions. She’s taken the coach. I hired a cab.” He looked to the basin and the stacks of clean dishes, then ran a finger between his neck and collar. “I know this is not what you’re used to.”

So he came to make certain I’m not cowering in a corner and expecting Kate to obey my every command. Tavie squared her shoulders. “You needn’t have worried.”

“Tavie—”

“You promised me safety, and I have it.” She shooed him away. “Go meet your mother before she worries.”

He stayed planted between her and the clean dishes she needed to put away. He may have even widened his stance. “We need to talk.”

Tavie lifted her chin and squared her jaw. She would not be bullied ever again. “We have nothing to say to one another, Matthew.” She walked to the door and pushed it open.

Hildie stood near the fire, poker in hand. The room full of working men was as quiet as a church. Matthew walked past her. “I’ll come fetch you when things are arranged.”

How dare she send me away like a bill collector or an urchin begging for scraps?

He’d been foolish to worry after her in the first place. There had been no need for his heart to still when Hildie had led him into the empty kitchen, or for him to register Tavie’s every twitch.

“Matthew.” His mother’s whisper accompanied her sharp elbow into his ribs. “You aren’t paying attention.”

It was bloody Shakespeare. The man had only written so many plays. “We’ve seen this one at least five times, Mother.” She only queued up to see the comedies. “I can quote it while asleep.”

“Not to the stage, young man. To our guests.” She leaned closer. “And I know how you love this play, no matter how much you roll your eyes.”

It had been one of his favorites since childhood, perhaps because of the talking donkey. But after Tavie’s marriage, the story of lovers who turned their backs on each other with no warning had soured. “I’ll visit with the Woods family when I return.”

Matthew nodded to their guests as he passed on his way to the door that led to the hallway, which led to the bar. The space was crowded with gentlemen who had taken intermission as a chance to stretch their legs and avoid the gossipy visits that boxes inspired.

“Foster!”

Matthew turned to greet his oldest friend and most trusted business partner. “Hello, William. Pleasure to see you here.”

“I was hoping to run into you,” Will said before he knocked back the remainder of his drink. “Been looking for you all day.”

William Davis had been one of the most affable lads at Eton, but his good nature masked a remarkable head for figures and an almost unmatched determination to succeed. His clients, like Matthew, benefited from his ambition as much as he did himself.

“Why?” Matthew accepted a whiskey from the barman and left a coin as payment. “What have you found in my ledgers?”

“Nothing untoward, except that you have too much cash on hand and need something on which to spend it.” Will followed him away from the bar. “Charlotte would say you need a wife.”

“I know you’re newly married,” Matthew teased, “but wives always tout that marriage fixes everything.” Wives and mothers—who were also wives. “Assume I’m not marrying,” he continued. “What would you suggest I buy?”

“There’s some acreage in Suffolk, attached to an estate. It has a mill that’s sat idle since the old gent died. No son, just a widow who needs a living and a marriage-aged daughter who needs a dowry. You could negotiate a bargain price.”

“And the fields?”

“They’ve lain fallow since the bloke’s death, but they’ve been well tended and they’re ready to plant.” Will sidestepped to avoid another pair of gentlemen on the way to refill their glasses. “The ladies must have worked themselves to exhaustion to keep things going.”

Matthew recalled a planting season years earlier where his father had fallen ill.

He’d been too short to reach the plow, so his mother had driven the mule.

Matthew had followed behind with the seeds.

It had happened again while he was at Eton.

He’d come home to help. That time, his mother had carried the seeds. “Country families do that.”

They also deserved a fair price for their fields. Will might be the first man of business to hear of the property, but he wouldn’t be the last.

“Send them word that I would like to meet,” Matthew said. “And that I’ll travel to Suffolk when it’s convenient for them.” He caught a glimpse of a familiar couple who, unfortunately, saw him as well. He turned to make his escape. “And send them my condolences for their loss.”

He would have made it into the hallway if he hadn’t stopped to let a lady pass in front of him.

“Matthew?” A shrill cry cut through the crowd. “Is that you ?”

He turned and dipped his head to Tavie’s mother before turning to her father. “Good evening, Rupert. How are you?”

Tavie’s father had been red-faced for as long as Matthew could remember. Now his balding head was flushed as well, and the light from the gas lamps reflected off his skin.

“Doing well, Matthew.” Rupert pushed open his coat and shoved his fingers into the shallow pockets of his waistcoat.

He probably did it to seem important or carefree.

All it did was call attention to his broad stomach and the spot where his watch chain had been extended.

“The baron has been quite generous with his introductions of late. We may have need for an office on the Continent soon.”

“Rupert, dearest.” Dorinda Fowler cast her eyes over each shoulder. “You shouldn’t count your chickens before they’re hatched.” However, once she saw that no one was listening, she spoke again—louder. “It would be wonderful to have a reason for regular travel.”

Matthew rolled his lips together to hide his smile.

Not because it would be rude to laugh at Mrs. Fowler’s fake modesty.

More that it was impossible to hide the mockery.

Because their success and expansion had nothing to do with Rupert’s prowess and everything to do with their bartering their daughter to an arse.

“Is tonight a celebration, then?” he asked. “Are the baron and Tavie here as well?” He looked over their heads and scanned the crowd.

“No.” Dorinda’s smile froze and her stare hardened. “Albert is traveling, and Octavia isn’t feeling well. Besides, she does not enjoy Shakespeare.”

Tavie loved Shakespeare. She’d made Matthew help her reenact the farcical plays within the plays for her nieces, and talked for hours about the Bard’s social critiques while they finished ices at Gunter’s or walked in the park.

“Then it’s a good thing they’ve given you leave to use their box.” Matthew checked his watch. The next act was due to begin soon. “Good luck with the new venture.”

He walked away before he lost the battle not to say what he was thinking: that he hoped the box was a decent exchange for a daughter they’d given to a man who left her bruised.

That the girl they claimed to love so much was now so frightened that she’d rather live with strangers and wash dishes.

And so ill that she reminded him of a corn husk after fall threshing.

But if he did that, they’d know he’d seen her and would tell her arse of a husband. And while he might not believe that Albert was a spy for France, he believed that Tavie believed it.

And that she wanted to believe it for a reason.

He returned to the box, where his mother was entertaining the Woods family by herself. Mr. Woods turned to face him, a broad smile on his face. “Matthew, my boy. Come let me convince you of the benefits of corn.”

Matthew took the only empty chair, which—conveniently—was beside Rebecca. The young lady very much reminded him of a porcelain doll his grandmother had put on a shelf and never allowed him to touch. But now her parents were doing everything but put her into his hands.

Problem was, she was the wrong girl. They were always the wrong girl.