Page 34 of The Lyon Whisperer (The Lyon’s Den Connected World #79)

A melia descended the stairs, summoning courage for what lay ahead. She would put the question to her husband directly and clear up the matter of their hasty marriage once and for all.

She had gone to bed heartsick, convinced Lady Tully had somehow unearthed details of her marriage which she herself had not.

Then she woke from that horrid dream and found her husband watching over her like an archangel from above.

He cared for her. He had to.

The idea he had married her merely to satisfy someone else’s gambling debt seemed more and more far-fetched.

She entered the breakfast hall in time to see her husband rising from the table, his plate and coffee cup cleared. He sent her a dazzling smile and pulled out her chair. “Good morning, Amelia. You appear much restored after a night’s rest.”

She approached him but did not sit. “You ate early.”

He arched a brow. “Is that a problem?”

“No, but…” The change in his routine wreaked havoc on her plan to ease into the conversation. “I wished to breakfast together.”

“I apologize, my dear. I rose early, plagued with the realization I neglected a rather urgent matter in town. I did not wake you in the hopes you would sleep in.”

“I see.”

He ran his fingertips over her jawline and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial tone. “I do not mind telling you your extreme fatigue last night gave me a scare. I hazard to wonder what might cause such malaise.” His dark eyes locked with hers. A clear question lurked in their depths.

Frustration mounted within her. She could tell him right now what bothered her last night, but to do so with him all but chafing at the bit to depart did not sit right. No, she refused to settle for a buckshot approach to her questions.

She would have a civilized, adult conversation with her husband about the things Millicent had told her, and if that meant she must wait ’til her husband returned from London later today, so be it.

She lifted her chin and lowered herself into the seat. “I have no notion what you mean, sir. Now, off with you if you must venture off to London. I have many things to see to today and would like to have my breakfast before it grows ice-cold.”

He snorted softly. “By all means.” He bent and pressed a kiss to her cheek.

The show of affection shocked and delighted her. Before she could find her tongue, he was gone.

Later that day, Amelia and Sally strolled along a shady clearing through the nearby forest marking Warren House’s perimeter.

Amelia called over her shoulder to the lone, recalcitrant puppy. “Roddy, come along. Your master is not at home. You shall have to make do with us.”

With a last baleful look at the manse behind them, Roddy gave up his vigil and trotted to catch up with his siblings.

Amelia could not wrap her mind around the idea that two of her precious dogs would soon be gone. She knew, of course, which two Lady Frommer would take—Rose and Fergus. In other words, not Roddy.

The one-eyed pup was far too attached to Chase, and vice-versa—not that her husband would likely admit as much. Still. No one could miss how the hound followed him with his eye. How he glued himself to Chase whenever the chance arose.

As for her husband, he not only laughed at the pup’s antics, he seemed disinclined to notice when Roddy found his way into Chase’s den—if, indeed, he had not been led into the chamber as Amelia suspected happened on more than one occasion.

Once she’d entered Chase’s den to find the pup sprawled on his back, fast asleep on a palate near the glowing grate. Her husband had given her a vague story about Rose and Fergus having run roughshod over the smaller pup while playing, and knocking him into the river.

Apparently Chase deemed the drying room too chilly for the soaked dog. “I quite forgot he was in here,” he added. But he had not returned the dog to the kitchens ’til much later.

Another time, she found the two napping together on the sofa, Chase’s ledger open on the floor as if it had slipped from his hand. She had retreated, closing the door softly behind her without saying a word.

Amelia eyed her maid. A spontaneous question formed in her mind. “Sally, is it true servants gossip, between houses, I mean?”

Sally’s eyes widened. “Never think any one of us would spread word of the goings on here, ma’am.”

Amelia grinned. “Of course not. Besides, what could anyone say about Lord Culver and me? We live quite humdrum lives, comparatively, I expect.”

“Oh, to be sure, ma’am. If you heard about the happenings at some other grand houses, your toes would curl. Why just the other day, my cousin, Bea, told me…” Her words died as it evidently dawned on her what she had revealed.

“So it is true.”

Sally ducked her head. “I suppose, when one or two of us get together, especially those of us what’s family, we might share a bit o’ news.” Her eyes turned very earnest. “Still, ye must believe me when I tell you, we who work for you, well, we could not, we would not, say anything against you. You’re an angel, ma’am, and that’s a fact.”

Amelia felt her face grow hot. “I’m no angel, Sally. You need only ask my father.” She cleared her throat. “But I thank you for your kind words and your loyalty. Sally…” She hesitated.

“Yes, ma’am?” She sounded wary now.

“I heard something last night and I wondered…” She shook her head, feeling more than a little silly for broaching the matter with her lady’s maid, especially as Lady Tully had likely fabricated the whole thing.

“Should we get back, milady? It looks like it may rain.” Sally set about gathering the dogs.

Amelia glanced up through the canopy of tree limbs overhead. Clouds liberally dappled the sky, but rain hardly seemed imminent. Suspicion lanced through her.

“Sally, look at me.”

Sally lifted her gaze with evident reluctance.

“Have you heard anything at all that might indicate my marriage with Lord Culver is owed to…” She cleared her throat. “A lost wager on the part of Viscount Culver?”

Sally blinked rapidly. “Now, ma’am, you mustn’t worry over bits and bobs people might say—”

Her stomach dropped, as it had last night. “What do you know, Sally?”

Sally wrung her hands in front of her. “There was talk a ways back, came by way of Lord Culver, the elder’s home. Something to do with a bet between him and your father, the earl. None of us thought much about it until…”

“Until?”

“Until the other night when Lord Culver and the earl had words in the front drive, after your party.”

“What was said?” Amelia asked.

“Now, milady, no sense in asking through all that and getting yerself upset. It was clear they both had your interests at heart, just saw things a bit differently.”

“My interests,” she aped. “What was said?”

Sally looked on the verge of tears. “Something about a bet, and six months’ time. The baron was spitting mad in defense of you, and the way James, the new footman, described it, he was every bit the Iron Lion that night.”

“Yes, yes, the Iron Lion of Barrosa,” she said with an impatient wave of her hand. “Mad about what?”

“I can’t say, ma’am. James only got bits and bobs.” Her lady’s maid trembled visibly. “Whatever the case, I honestly think Lord Culver adores ye, ma’am. We all do.”

With an effort of will, Amelia forced herself to present an air of calm. She sent Sally a reassuring smile. “I’m sure you’re right.”

She called the dogs, who loped to her side, then tossed a large stick toward the manse.

They charged after it.

“What now, ma’am?”

“I think a long ride, to clear my head, Sally.”

The hired hackney slowed before a pale-blue, five-story home. Black wrought iron fencing framed the grounds.

Amelia turned her veiled head to glance at Lady Harriet, who also wore a veil, albeit not a black one meant to connote mourning, as Amelia’s entire ensemble did.

“Is this it?” She asked her friend. “The Lyon’s Den?”

Lady Harriet took Amelia’s black gloved hands in hers. “Amelia, there is still time to change your mind. Are you absolutely certain you wish to proceed with this?”

“Nothing you could say would dissuade me.”

In truth, she had already tried.

When Amelia landed on Lady Harriet’s doorstep an hour ago demanding to know the location of the Lyon’s Den, Lady Harriet refused to give her one scrap of information until she explained why she wished to know. After listening intently to Amelia’s tale, she expressed sympathy, but also cautioned her in the strongest possible terms to resist her impulsive nature. She suggested Amelia simply wait to discuss the matter with Chase.

But her mind was made up. She wanted answers, and she would have them, straight from the horse’s mouth.

Lady Harriet would not hear of sending Amelia on horseback to the gambling hell. Nor would she allow her own carriage to be spotted before the notorious blue mansion in the middle of the day. Hence, a hackney had been hired, and here they were.

“You do not have to go in with me, Lady Harriet. This is my problem, and should there be consequences—”

“Enough,” she said in a tone that brooked no dissension. She paid the hackney driver, and promised more upon their return.

The driver promised to wait.

“This way,” Harriet commanded when Amelia would have approached the front gate.

She led her to the alleyway beside the house. “The ladies’ entrance,” she explained quietly.

Amelia’s eyes grew wide behind her black netting, as she picked her way through the uneven cobblestones.

A few moments later, they neared a side door where two men stood sentinel.

No, not men. Two women, dressed in men’s garb—black topcoats, black top hats, black pantaloons, black boots.

They greeted Harriet and Amelia like expected guests. The door was opened with a flourish, and the two of them, ushered inside.

Another female servant led them out of the corridor and into a small parlor.

“Ladies, I was not aware of any appointments for Mrs. Dove-Lyon today.”

Lady Harriet spoke on both their behalf. “We are old friends. I believe she will see us.” She snapped open her reticule and withdrew a small piece of folded foolscap. She handed it to the servant.

“A moment, if you please.” The woman exited and closed the door behind her.

Amelia glanced around the intimate room. Oil lamps lit the space, but not well, and the curtains over the lone window were drawn. Though sheer, their dark amber color allowed for only muted light.

No fire burned in the grate, though the day had grown increasingly blustery and clouds blotted out the sun’s rays.

A plush velvet sofa and two armchairs, plus the accompanying tables, made up the sitting area.

Amelia did not wish to sit. She paced to the window and looked out at the alleyway.

“You’ve…er…been here before, I take it?”

Lady Harriet made herself comfortable on the sofa. “I have had occasion to meet with Mrs. Dove-Lyon.”

The door opened with a soft click. Amelia turned in time to see a petite woman, dressed in widow’s weeds like herself, enter the chamber. She wore a black veiled cap which covered all of her face, with the exception of her mouth.

“Good afternoon, ladies, welcome to the Lyon’s Den.” She nodded regally at Harriet. “Madam, a pleasure to see you again, if unexpected.”

She moved—or rather, glided—across the carpets toward Amelia.

“Lady Amelia Culver, we finally meet. I must confess I never expected to see you in my establishment.”

She gave the woman a shaky smile. “And yet, here I am.”

“Perhaps you would be good enough to tell me to what I owe the pleasure.”