Page 35

P iers dropped his hired hack off at the stables and walked the rest of the way down Cleveland Row to the Lyon’s Den.

He was exhausted after a busy fortnight in Devon, during which he’d had to find a safe pair of hands to take over Wheal Betty, organize an inventory, and help Maman cope with a severe bout of rheumatism.

It was a long journey back to London, and only the thought of seeing his beloved Belinda again had buoyed him up through the various vicissitudes of travel.

Although spring was now meant to be giving way to summer, the weather still seemed much colder than it ought to have been.

However, once in London, one was less aware of the weather because there was so much going on and the tall buildings and well-tended gardens distracted the eye from the unbroken cloud above, hanging like a grey veil between earth and heaven.

Much as he wished to change his clothes at his London townhouse, and make his way immediately to Forty Court to see his fiancée, he still needed to stop at the Lyon’s Den.

Roland had sent word that he’d meet Piers there on the day of his return, but he couldn’t linger—he had urgent business to attend to.

It was vital that Piers speak to him since Roland had been tasked with ensuring that the banns were read.

He’d also been asked to smooth the ruffled feathers of both Katie and Sally, in case Piers’s attempts to soothe—and bribe—them into acceptance failed.

Piers had great faith in Roland Chetwynd’s easy charm.

There were also the gossipmongers to consider; Piers hoped Roland would alert him if he learned of any rumors that could jeopardize the wedding. If Belinda were to hear tittle-tattle circulating about herself, she might panic, and that would be intolerable.

He kept telling himself there was no risk of losing her; he was just being cautious, as befitted a man about to take the most important step of his life.

As Piers approached the door of the Lyon’s Den, Mr. Starveling held it open. The weathered face was wreathed in smiles as soon as the giant veteran recognized him.

“How splendid to see you again, sir. What can I do to assist you?”

“You can take my hat and coat and convey me into the presence of Mr. Roland Chetwynd—assuming he’s here. I came as fast as I could to make sure I didn’t miss him.”

“Certainly, sir. The gentleman is in the dining room.”

Starveling’s eyes were bright, and he was staring expectantly at Piers, eyebrows raised.

“Is there something you want from me?”

“There’s something I’d like to tell you, sir.

” Starveling kept his voice hushed as he led Piers through the empty gentleman’s lounge of the Lyon’s Den.

“Firstly, I have some happy news to relate. Do you remember the young lady I was telling you about? It seems I’ve managed to convince her that I’m trustworthy and no longer inclined to seek revenge on anyone who upsets me.

She doesn’t even mind that I walk with a limp since that French cannonball crushed my kneecap and has agreed to be my wife! ”

Despite their difference in station, Piers clapped the big man on the shoulder. “Congratulations! I have been met with the same good fortune, although you probably already know that.”

“Oh, yes, sir—I do. Caroline—I mean, Miss Brent—is full of your news. She’s happy for the pair of you. When you see Miss Bellamy again, can you convey Caroline’s apologies for not having been to visit? Her mother’s sick and she’s been nursing her.”

“Completely understood. I shall pass on the message.”

Piers knew how concerning it was when an elderly person was unwell, because illness struck them harder and took longer to shake off. Maman was a case in point, but fortunately, through the good auspices of Dr. Franklin, she’d made a speedy recovery.

“I’ve been busy selling my mine in Devon, so I’ve not been aware of what’s been afoot in London.

I don’t suppose you have seen anything of that young miscreant, Tom Haggar?

I used to find him very useful for delivering messages, but my wife-to-be informs me that I can no longer do this with good conscience.

I’m to find him a more settled place in this world, and ensure he turns his many dubious talents to a better purpose. ”

“Why, he was here just this morning. You mightn’t have heard—his ma died and he’s often lurking, hoping for some leftovers from the kitchen. Caroline seems to like him. She thinks someone should take him in, and I agree. The lad needs to be apprenticed.”

No—Piers hadn’t heard. But Tom was resourceful and would land on his feet. He could save his ill-gotten gains for a change, instead of spending them on drink for his mother.

“A sorry end for the woman. It’s a shame she could think of nothing better than to drink herself to death. But who knows what weight she carried? And Tom can’t have been an easy boy to have as a son.”

They were by the dining room door, but Starveling failed to open it. He was looking oddly guilty.

“There’s a letter waiting for you, sir. Forgive me—I should perhaps have told you that at once.

All the post goes straight to Mrs. Dove-Lyon—we’re not used to getting mail for our members.

Assuming it was for her, she opened it. Perhaps I shouldn’t say anything—she’ll want to say sorry herself.

But whatever was in that letter, she sent me running after the person who delivered it, but as I find running impossible, I gave Tom a shilling and passed the job onto him.

I don’t know what happened, but Mrs. Dove-Lyon will tell you when you see her. ”

A letter? Addressed to him at the Lyon’s Den? Who would think to contact him here, when his town address was well known? And even if someone didn’t know it, they could always leave a message for him at the theater.

An unexpected message? Mrs. Dove-Lyon opening it, and sending someone after the messenger? These things did not bode well.

“Where’s the letter now?”

Starveling sorted through some papers on an occasional table beside the door and held out a folded paper. “Here it is, sir. I trust you enjoy your meal.”

Disquiet had created a queasy spot in Piers’s stomach and he’d lost all interest in food. He entered the dining room, scanning the letter’s contents as he walked.

He was vaguely aware of a familiar voice in his ear saying, “Sit down, Darvill—you look terrible. Let me order you some wine.”

Without objection, Piers sat, spread the letter out on the table, glanced at Roland Chetwynd’s anxious face, and then read his missive again.

“Have you had a bad journey? Was I wrong to ask you to meet me here? Or is it something in that letter that has unsettled you?”

“This damned letter.” He read it a third time, hardly able to absorb its contents. Surely, Charlotte would not be so vindictive? Hadn’t he done everything she’d ever required of him?

“I’m all ears, but if you wish to keep it private, I totally understand. I’m discretion itself these days,” Roland assured him.

Piers seized the glass of wine that had been brought for him and drained it in a single draught. “I will find a way to stop this. I must. ”

Roland sensibly refilled his glass, handed it back to him and waited, his expression solemn.

Piers nodded. “I suppose I may as well tell you, as it could involve your family. And it may even involve your services again. Do you remember when we went to persuade Charlotte Lavoisier to allow me to see my son?”

“I most certainly do!”

“Well—it seems she’s heard of my forthcoming marriage to Miss Bellamy. She’s decided to take action by demanding that I renounce Belinda and marry her instead. If I don’t accede to her demand, she’ll take my son out of the country and I’ll never see either of them again.”

Now that the words had been spoken, the enormity of this development struck him like a physical blow.

He rested both elbows on the table, burying his face in his hands.

He’d been a fool to underestimate Charlotte, and now she was forcing him to make an impossible choice.

On the one hand, he stood to lose Belinda and his future happiness.

On the other, he stood to lose any chance of knowing little Oliver or having any say in his life.

The boy would grow up with Charlotte’s poison in his ears, and hate his father for abandoning them.

What in heaven’s name was he going to do now?