Page 9 of Lyon on the Lam (The Lyon’s Den)

M atthew strode down the corridor and didn’t look back. He didn’t have to; he could feel three sets of hard stares. Or at least two.

He was never quite sure if, left to his own devices, Rupert would have thrown Tavie at a baron. Though it was a good business deal, Rupert was also a businessman. He wouldn’t have seen the harm of Tavie marrying another like him.

Dorinda was a different story altogether.

Matthew slipped into the booth and took the seat beside his mother.

She snapped her fan against his knee to scold him for returning late.

It stung, but not enough to distract him from surveying the opposite boxes until he found green feathers, which he followed to red hair, which led to Dorinda’s face.

She was focused on the crowd, and who could see them in the box with the baron.

Burridge was beside her where he could see the floor—and all the other boxes.

Damn . Matthew shifted his attention to the stage. He’d have to stay until Mother was ready to leave, which would be late into the night.

The soprano was talented, as was the orchestra, and Mozart was always Matthew’s favorite. This time the notes faded as his thoughts took over.

The minute they’d discovered Tavie’s bolt for freedom, Dorinda would have told Burridge everything about her romance with Matthew. That meant Burridge’s approach tonight wasn’t about hiring him to find Tavie—it was about taking the measure of the competition. A warning shot fired across the bow.

It wasn’t surprising that Burridge was here. He wanted the appearance that everything was fine at home. And he wouldn’t have rushed around London in search of his wife. He’d wait for someone to bring her to him.

He’d hire someone—or a group of men—to find her.

The wrong hands . The words slipped through Matthew’s brain as he tightened his fist around the program. The wrong hands could easily be translated to the wrong place. The wrong side of town.

There was every chance that Burridge had a group of men searching through boardinghouses, trying to find his wife, while he presented an unruffled face to the ton . Because crows never traveled alone.

Matthew made himself sit still. Now was not the time to fidget or check the time. It might raise suspicion. Suspicion always led to surveillance. For all he knew, Burridge already had someone following him through London. What if he’d led them straight to Tavie?

Don’t be a ninny. If he’d done that, he’d have plucked her up already and she’d be in the box with him now .

That assumption kept Matthew in his chair for the rest of the performance, helped him keep pace with his mother as she visited with every matron on the way to the door, and made it easy to smile as Charlotte and Will said their goodbyes.

Once in the carriage, he sat so he could see the street behind them and made the appropriate agreements as his mother summarized the evening they’d spent together.

“Are you listening to me?” she eventually asked.

“Yes, of course I am.” He glanced from the window to her. “I apologize, Mother. It’s been a long day.”

“Yes, Charlotte said her husband was late arriving home. Again.”

He didn’t have Will chained to his desk. The man was just as hungry as Matthew was. “Success takes an investment of time as well as money, Mother.”

“What good is it if you have no one with whom to share it?”

“But are they sharing it if they bolt the first time I’m late for the opera?” Matthew heard his tone before she could scold him for it. “I apologize, but you know this is a sore subject.”

The coach stopped in front of their townhouse, saving him from the well-meaning argument that he didn’t have time to resolve.

Matthew escorted his mother through the hall and to the base of the stairs, where he kissed her cheek. “I love you, dearest. Please don’t fret.”

She kept a grip on his arm, her strength and clear-eyed stare at odds with her sweet, flighty nature. “If you had a wife, you wouldn’t work so hard all day and then wander London most of the night.”

He could give her a list of men who were married and still did just that, but it would never convince her. And he might have to disclose his nighttime hobby. It had been difficult enough to hide it from her this month, especially with her social schedule.

Thank God she was returning to the country tomorrow.

He gently squeezed her fingers. “If I had a wife, I’d have two women to escort about Town, and I’d never get anything accomplished.”

She sighed and shook her head. “I do wish you’d be serious, Matthew. This house is far too quiet. I’ll spend the next few months thinking of little else than your rattling around in here alone.”

She always turned to this. Noise meant children. More specifically, grandchildren. For the longest time, Matthew had imagined the house full of red-headed hellions who raced up and down the stairs. And a wife who, rather than scolding, rewarded the winners.

Tavie. Who was across town—unless Burridge’s thugs had found her. If Burridge had even hired anyone. Perhaps Matthew’s imagination was running away with him. Or perhaps he just wanted the man to be a horrible husband.

To find the truth, Matthew needed to get on his way. “I am hardly alone,” he told his mother. “And you need your rest. Tomorrow’s travel will make for a long day.”

“I do hate to be boxed into that carriage.” She turned for the stairs. “Please be here when I leave, dearest. I want one last opportunity to harass you.”

He would have felt bad about his choice of words if he hadn’t heard the humor in her voice. “Sleep well, Mother.”

Then he turned to Martin, who was always waiting, whatever the hour. “Join me in the library, please.”

Martin followed and closed the door behind them. “Sir?”

“I need to get out of the house without anyone seeing me.” If Burridge’s plan was to scare Matthew into running to Tavie’s hiding place, there would be someone watching the house.

He opened his cash box and plucked half the sovereigns and most of the shillings from it.

“I know it sounds unreasonable and very foolish, but better safe and all that.”

Martin nodded. “Then you’ll need to go out the back and stay on foot so they don’t recognize the coach. Will you be leaving the city?”

Mother was leaving for the country, taking several of the staff with her. The house would be emptier, and Matthew’s servants had proved their discretion and their loyalty. But hiding in plain sight was a dangerous option for many reasons. “Yes.”

Martin opened the door and spoke to the footman in hushed tones. “Have Mr. Foster’s valet pack a bag for travel—just necessities for business. Quickly as he can.” He closed the door and faced Matthew once again. “Shall I hire a coach and driver?”

“No.” An idea had sprouted in Matthew’s brain.

“It would be too easy to track.” And to catch, honestly, but he had a ship set to sail for Ipswich tonight.

All he had to do was get there on time. “I need you to ensure Mother leaves London without being accosted.” He scribbled a note and folded it.

Without the time to melt wax for the seal, he had to trust Martin not to read it.

“Deliver this to the Lyon’s Den before you leave London. ”

“As you wish, sir.” Martin tucked the note in his chest pocket.

There was a rap on the door. Martin answered and returned with a dark carpetbag. “It smells as though Cook packed scones and cheese in case you can’t stop to eat. And your room is already lit, so one of us will mill about whilst you leave through the kitchen.”

“Make it a footman. No one would mistake you for me.” Matthew tucked his purse into his pocket before strapping a knife to his outer thigh. “Thank you, Martin,” he said as he lifted the bag. He sent his thanks to heaven that it was light enough to avoid exhaustion.

Matthew left the study and strode through the house, anxious to be gone. At the back door, he drew a deep breath and said a quick prayer for the safety of his family and his home. Then he stepped into the night.

Torchlight from the front streets cast the alleyways in random shadows that flickered like dancers across the dirt tracks traveled by people Society didn’t wish to see.

After a few moments, Matthew’s eyes adjusted so that he could tell the difference between humans and inanimate objects.

He took his hand from the knife’s hilt and lengthened his stride.

By the time he reached Westminster Bridge, he was out of breath.

Every gasp for air drew the stench of the river deep into his lungs.

Carriages passed him, carving trenches in the muck created by gravel, dung, and damp.

Several times he had to dodge to the side to avoid horses that couldn’t swerve around him.

The streets of Lambeth, so easily navigated by a driver, were confusing on foot and in the torchlight. Still, it was a relief to blend in with the groups of men either trekking to work or fleeing for home.

The relief faded when he reached Hildie’s street. Every window in the house was lit, the front door was ajar, and an agitated crowd milled about in the street.

“Just pushed their way in. Poor girl stood up to them the best she could, but those louts just barreled right over her,” one woman whispered, shaking her head.

Matthew pushed his way through them and into the house. The dining room was a shambles of upended tables and broken chairs. The fire cast crisscrossing shadows over the carpet. There had been a battle of some kind.

“Tavie!” he shouted as he maneuvered through the ruins toward the kitchen. “Tavie!”

A wall of men blocked his way—three sets of broad shoulders, three thick necks, and three pairs of narrowed eyes. “What do you want here?” one man asked.

“Let him by, fellas. He’s no harm.” Hildie swatted the man to Matthew’s left with a dishcloth, and the giant flinched like she had whipped him. The men moved enough to let Matthew shoulder through.