Page 3 of The Blind Lyon (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)

Hanover Square

Mayfair, London

Widowed Annette Jennings rested an elbow on the windowsill, plopped her chin into her hand, and settled in to watch the Mayfair world as it passed beneath, for her bedroom at her parents’ townhouse overlooked the street.

It was how she spent most of her days, and if she weren’t watching the world literally go by, she had her nose in a book, because one could escape the horrors of reality by being lost in fictional stories.

For the past three years, ever since her husband had died, she’d been obliged to return to her parents’ home, for he hadn’t been a titled gentleman, and the townhouse where they’d resided was rented.

With him gone, there was nothing left over, after the bills and other obligations had been paid, to continue to keep the house.

Besides, once Annette had lost him, she’d been nearly inconsolable and lonely.

And embarrassed, since she couldn’t bring herself to leave the house.

Murder did that to a person, sucked away their confidence as well as their will to live.

She frowned at her reflection in the window glass.

Dark-brown hair that had been negligently caught back in the loose chignon, a crop of curls that hung over her forehead nearly to her full eyebrows.

A face people called heart-shaped that was a bit on the thin side, since she’d not thought of her health for the past three years, and full lips the hue of a middling pink.

As the only child to her parents, and her father being quite high in rank at the bank and a gentleman besides, she had enjoyed a decent life filled with lovely things and opportunities not given to many young women her age.

Which was how she’d met Timothy, in the assembly rooms at Almack’s.

What was the point in caring for her appearance now, or in attending countless fittings with modistes that her mother insisted on, when she didn’t go anywhere? It was quite ridiculous to drift into the drawing room with her parents clad in a new gown, wasn’t it?

A heavy breath escaped her. I know that my life needs to change, but is it truly a sin to not want it to?

That spring day when she’d lost her husband had changed her world entirely, and she didn’t know how to exist in this world, even three years later.

Though her marriage to Timothy had only lasted a year, she had loved him with her whole heart.

In fact, she adored him, thought he’d hung the moon and stars, and from his responses, he’d loved her with the same intensity.

But then, one night on his way home from the bank where he made his living, he’d been attacked, robbed, and stabbed in the gut.

He was dragged into an alley and bled out, at least that was what the Bow Street man had said when he’d knocked at her door.

The one thing that softened the news was the fact that her husband had died clutching a miniature painting of her that had just been finished and framed just the week before.

Yet he was gone, and she remained behind.

It had taken a few months until she learned how not to cry every day.

However, the whole incident had left her terrified of everything beyond the four walls of her room, and that was why she refused to leave her home.

Which vexed her mother, for her father was in ill health already, and that was a large burden to bear.

She didn’t need to also care for a widowed daughter.

But there was nothing Annette could do about it; she simply didn’t know how to continue with her life now that she was alone…

after her husband had been violently ripped from her.

Quite frankly, everything was frightening now, and anyone’s existence could be snuffed out in an instant regardless of how lovely it had been.

But what really bothered her, and made her almost ill each time she thought about it, was the fact that she’d lost two pregnancies during the year of her marriage, both early on before she could truly look forward to the secret little dreams. Because of that, she didn’t even have a child to remember Timothy by.

Every day that went by, she hurt a little more as well as died a bit more inside.

The hope of being a mother would never be realized.

Was her body even capable of carrying a child full term?

Perhaps those answers were not to be had.

Beyond that she was lonely, missed having a man’s arms around her, missed feeling another heartbeat with hers in the darkness, missed the brush of his fingers against hers, or the welcoming grin when they met each other within the house.

Through it all, she had learned one undeniable fact—never would she offer her heart again, even if it had been three years. Losing a second husband had the power to tear her apart.

A sharp knock on her door wrenched Annette from her tortured musings, and when she bid the caller to enter, the door opened, and her mother came into the room. “Why am I not surprised to find you in the same chair and the same position as you always are?” Exasperation rang in her voice.

“I enjoy watching the world go by. Sometimes there are dogs on leashes or silly, foppish men in ridiculous suits,” Annette said with a touch of defense in her tone as she glanced at her parent.

“At others, there are governesses towing children or nursery maids pushing prams.” Which allowed her to perhaps foolishly dream of the things she would never have, which in turn sent stabs of hurt into her heart.

Still willowy thin, at first glance, her mother could pass for a debutante, until one noticed the fine wrinkles that framed her mouth and eyes, or saw the beginnings of age spots on her hands and the copious strands of silver in her dark hair.

Presently, though, her mouth was set in a tight line as she rested her hands on her hips.

“That is the point, dearest. You are watching life go by instead of entering it.” She shook her head. “I’m tired of seeing you sit at this window and moping all day,” her mother said, as she crossed the floor and stood by Annette’s chair. “It has been three years, darling.”

“Is there a time limit on grief, then?”

“Of course not, and Lord knows I’ll be beside myself when your father goes.”

Annette frowned. Her father currently suffered from complications of pneumonia he’d caught over a year ago.

The physician had told them to prepare themselves for the worst in the next month or two, barring a miracle.

“If you wish to know the truth? I am tired of grieving, yet it is the only thing that is familiar just now.”

“I know.” Her mother’s voice took on a softer tone while she rested a light hand on Annette’s shoulder.

“The best thing for you to do is to put herself back into society, meet a lovely man, and then marry again. That will give you a new perspective and help you through that grief. It’s far too tragic to waste your life as you’re doing. ”

“Please, Mama, not this again.” She uttered a tired sigh. “I can’t do what you’re asking, and you know why. The thought of marrying again, offering up my heart to be broken again, leaves me paralyzed with fear.”

“I really think you need to, though.” Her mother patted Annette’s shoulder. “You are six and twenty with the whole of your life ahead of you. I refuse to let any more time pass with you sitting at a window, frightened to leave the confines of your room.”

“What if something happens to me like it did to Timothy?”

“Of course it won’t.” Her mother shook her head. “And perhaps that is the problem. You need to get out more often to reassure yourself that life is indeed fine.”

“But Mama…”

“None of that.” Her mother tsked her tongue. “I’m going to summon your maid and then pick out a pretty gown, so you’ll look your best.”

“Why?”

“We are going out on a call.”

“The thought of being in society for any reason makes my ill.” In fact, Annette gave into the urge to dry heave. Her cheeks heated. “I simply can’t.”

“You will. It’s just to visit with an old friend of mine.

I wrote to her last week to ask for her assistance.

We married around the same time, and I happened to meet her at a modiste’s shop.

We were both hoping to hire out the woman for our wedding gowns.

Though she didn’t come from the ton either, we got on well enough, and once we married our respective husbands, we were both able to move within the fringes of the ton and make connections.

” Her mother shrugged. She crossed the room and then yanked on a blue brocade bell pull.

“From what I understand, she’s quite a talented matchmaker, and I think that is exactly what we need at this time. ”

Icy fingers of fear played Annette’s spine. “Please don’t make me do this,” she said in a choked whisper, for it felt far too much like betraying Timothy’s memory.

“I’ll have no more opposition, dear. Your father and I have talked at length about your future, and we both think it’s best that we find you a match as well as see you wed before he passes on. I want him to see you settled so he won’t worry about that during this difficult time.”

With a tight throat, Annette turned her attention to the window once more as her maid, Nancy, came to the room in response to her mother’s summons. This was certainly not how she wanted to spend her afternoon.

And above everything, she didn’t want a second husband.

The Lyon’s Den

Cleveland Street

Whitehall

Annette frowned as she gazed without interest at the five-storied, blue building that sat smack in the middle of Cleveland Row.

As edifices went, it was unassuming and rather quiet looking, with a pair of bow windows on the second level.

Since it was raining, droplets of water raced each other down the window glass of the closed carriage.

“What is this place?” she finally asked, for curiosity got the better of her. “It doesn’t seem like a townhouse in a decent neighborhood.”