Page 35 of The Lyon Whisperer (The Lyon’s Den Connected World #79)

A melia studied Mrs. Dove-Lyon through the black netting of her veil. She could not discern the woman’s age, although by her self-prepossession and steady carriage, and the fine complexion visible beneath her own black netting, she was not in her dotage.

Not that any of that mattered. Mrs. Dove-Lyon had asked why she’d come, and despite the running dialogue in her head during the entire ride from Wimbledon to Mayfair, she now drew a blank.

“Perhaps a cup of tea to loosen the tongue?” their hostess suggested.

She snapped her fingers, a neat trick as she wore gloves, and the door opened. A trolly topped with a silver tea service was delivered by yet another female servant, this one dressed in finery.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon took it upon herself to pour. “Perhaps you would be so good as to sit.”

“Thank you,” Amelia said, and joined Lady Harriet on the sofa.

“Congou tea from Fujian,” the widow said as she poured. “I prefer it for the slightly floral accents. Help yourself to milk or sugar.” She handed Lady Harriet and Amelia, each in turn, a cup and saucer of the steaming, fragrant tea, then settled on an armchair.

Amelia’s cup rattled in its saucer, and she cursed the obvious tell of anxiety. She took a bracing breath. “Mrs. Dove-Lyon, I have been told my father, the Earl of Fallsgate, and my husband’s uncle, Lord Harry Culver entered into a wager at your establishment.”

The widow took a sip of her tea. She seemed disinclined to comment.

Amelia went on. “Furthermore, I have been led to believe the viscount lost this bet to my father, but upon losing, proposed another bet, whereby his nephew and heir would marry me and…” She cleared her throat. “How can I put this? He would manage to make a proper sort of lady out of me within a set time, six months I believe, or lose the entire sum and then some.”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon sipped more tea then placed her china cup in its saucer. “Is there a question here?”

Amelia felt her cheeks grow warm. “Is this a correct summation of events?”

The gaming hell proprietress set her cup and saucer aside. “Yes. Am I to understand you have a problem with this?”

Amelia’s chin wobbled. It was all true. Every last detail. She took a hasty sip of tea and through an effort of will regained her composure. “Of course.”

The gaming hell proprietress shifted her attention briefly to Lady Harriet, her mouth firming in displeasure. “May I ask if it’s the end you oppose, or the means?”

“I beg your pardon?” Amelia asked.

“Is it the bet, your father’s part in it, your husband’s complicity, or do you simply regret marrying Lord Culver?”

Amelia drew in a sharp breath. Despite everything, pain shafted through her at the mere the thought of not being married to Chase.

“I asked my husband many times why he agreed to the hasty marriage. He managed to evade answering directly by the use of vagaries and half-truths.”

“You would have preferred him to admit that your father not only leapt at the chance to marry you off to the Iron Lion of Barrosa, but accepted a wager whereby he would profit—to your detriment—should Lord Culver not succeed in reining in your less-than-idyllic tendencies—by his standards, of course?”

Amelia had not considered the matter in that light.

“Lady Culver, do you love your husband?”

The frank question took her by surprise, but she saw no reason to lie. “More than I thought humanly possible.”

A smile flickered briefly over the woman’s face. “And Lord Culver, does he love you?”

She shifted on the sofa, smoothing her skirts. “He has never claimed to.”

“But he treats you well? He does not beat you, or malign you? He does not overly constrict your day-to-day activities?”

She shook her head. “He is a fine man in every way. He indulges me whenever possible, and is slow to anger, even though I have repeatedly thwarted his attempts to moderate my behavior.”

Another small smile played at the woman’s mouth.

Amelia was not amused. She was aghast. “Dear God. He stands to lose everything—thanks to me. Thanks to my unwillingness to toe the line.”

Lady Harriet spoke up for the first time. “I have had quite enough of hearing how you do not measure up, Amelia. Any man who cannot see the precious gem he has in you does not deserve you.”

Amelia shifted on the sofa to face Lady Harriet. Tears blurred her vision. “Don’t you see? He has been more than accommodating of my eccentricities, but my father holds all the cards. If I do not meet his exacting standards, he can demand payment in full and bankrupt the viscountcy, and likely the barony as it came to Chase in rough shape.”

“Are you so sure your father would carry out his threat, Lady Culver?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon asked.

A bitter laugh escaped her. “He has never approved of me, Mrs. Dove-Lyon.”

“Why do you think that is?” the widow asked.

Amelia gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Because I am so different from him?”

“Or perhaps,” she said, “because you are so like another.”

Amelia glanced at the woman sharply.

“Your mother, Lady Culver. You are your mother’s daughter.”

Her mouth fell open. “Do you mean to say you knew my mother?”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s mouth curved in a slow smile. “I met her in Paris, many years ago, shortly before she and your father married. She was beautiful, and wild in the way only a young woman who’s lived her life under constant supervision can be when she finally finds herself free of the constraints. She loved the coffee houses, the art studios, the poetry readings.”

Amelia drank up every word.

“She was kind, despite her blue-blood lineage. She once did me a service, the details of which I shall not reveal, but which I never forgot.”

“Ah,” Lady Harriet murmured. “Hence your avid interest in Amelia’s welfare over the years.”

She rose from the armchair with fluid grace. “I owed a debt. Not all debts are financial in nature, but they weigh heavily nonetheless. I consider the debt paid in full. What Lady Culver does with the knowledge I have shared is up to her.”

She glided to the door, then turned to glance over her shoulder. “One thing more. Your mother was not the only one who ventured to Paris that summer. Her intended also visited briefly. He missed her by a hair’s breadth.” She paused. “That man was not your father.”

Before Amelia could react to that piece of information, the Black Widow of Whitehall let herself out of the parlor, closing the door behind her.

Chase had arrived home in a fine mood, a spectacular mood.

Then he discovered Amelia had left on horseback hours ago and had yet to return.

“When exactly did she leave?” he demanded of the new groom. Lawrence was his name.

Lawrence shuffled back and forth on his feet, his cap gripped in both hands before him. “An hour or so after you, milord. She instructed me to ready her horse. Said she wanted to take a long ride along the river.”

Sally, Amelia’s lady’s maid, stood beside the groom, her head hanging so low her chin practically met her sternum. She sniffled every few seconds and tears dripped off her cheeks.

He sighed inwardly and geared up to question the hapless maid again.

“Sally, is there anything else you can tell me that might shed some light on where she went? She took the dogs for their morning exercise, and then, what? Announced she wanted to go for a ride?”

“She only said she wanted a horse saddled. I knew something weren’t right, though, when…” She broke off.

“Sally,” he said, striving for a patient tone. “You knew something wasn’t right when…” He left off, hoping she would fill in the rest.

She gazed up at him with swollen, red-rimmed eyes. “On account of what she put on. She didn’t want me to help her dress, and I thought that was strange because riding habits are not the easiest garments to fasten, if you take my meaning?”

“What was she wearing when she left?”

She sniffled. “Widow’s weeds, milord.”

He cursed. “Saddle my mount.”

Lawrence leapt to do his bidding.

Chase searched his mind. It was clear she hadn’t intended a casual ride along the river. That meant she’d likely ridden into town, something he’d expressly forbidden her to do.

Her excellent equestrian skills notwithstanding, the solitary stretches of road between Wimbledon and London were notorious hideouts for highwaymen and bandits.

Why did she do it?

He jammed a hand through his hair as a hard knot of fear tightened his belly. “Sally, is there anything else you can think of that might provide a clue as to where she would have gone?”

“M-maybe what she asked me about before she left might tell you something.”

This was getting stranger by the minute. “What did she ask you?”

“Sh-she asked me about something she’d heard, milord, some gossip about a bet.”

Bloody hell.

The sound of pounding hoofs in the distance blotted out all thought save one.

He turned and squinted in the direction of the road where it curved from the highway onto the long stretch leading to Warren House.

A horse appeared. Its nose, its neck, then the rider. Whomever he was, he was large and male and most certainly not Amelia.

But he might offer a clue as to her whereabouts.

Chase set out on foot, moving toward the rider down the access road.

After a minute he recognized the man. The Earl of Fallsgate, Amelia’s father.

He stood and waited.

The earl drew the horse in when he neared Chase.

“Fallsgate,” Chase said.

“Culver.”

“Do you know where my wife is?”

“Bloody hell, man. Are you saying you lost her?”

Chase cursed aloud. “Why are you here?”

“I have some things to say to you—and my daughter.”

The sound of approaching hoofs echoed.

Chase sent up a silent prayer that this time the rider was Amelia.

To his great relief, it was she—riding astride and dressed in widow’s weeds. At least the net was pulled back.

She drew to halt when she reached them. Her gaze met Chase’s. She sent him a tentative smile.

He did not return it.

She had the grace to look somewhat chagrined before shifting her attention to her father. “Good afternoon, my lord.”

“Afternoon?” he barked. “It’s damn near evening.”

She blinked, and it occurred to Chase she wasn’t accustomed to her father cursing in her presence. “So it is. What… er …brings you here?”

“I wish to speak to you and your husband.”

“Excellent. As it happens, I wish to speak to you, as well. Both of you.”

Chase snorted as his fear subsided and anger over the danger she’d put herself in welled up inside him. “There will be a discussion, madam. You may count on it.”

He was not prepared for the look of profound sadness in her eyes when she looked at him.

Before he could think of one word to say, she seemed to shake off the emotion. “Gentlemen, I shall return the horse to the stables and I’m afraid I’ll need a moment to freshen up. I’ll join you shortly.” With that, she rode off.

Chase watched her for a long moment. Then he gestured in a wide sweep and strode for the manse. “You heard the lady.”

Fallsgate had already handed his mount off to a footman when Chase reached the front stoop.

Without a word, he led the earl into the manse, down the corridor, and into his den. He shut the door and strode for his desk.

Rather than sit behind it, he eased a hip onto the edge and crossed his arms over his chest.

“I think you should know, I suspect Amelia learned of the bet.”

“Learned of it, or you told her?”

He shook his head. “No. If it was up to me she’d never know what a bastard you are.”

Fallsgate’s face went crimson. “How dare you?”

“Oh, I dare,” Chase said, his voice menacingly soft. “And I’ll tell you something else. You will not hold that damned bet over my head any longer.”

Amelia burst into the room. She had not changed clothes. Her face glistened as if she’d done little more than splash water over it. “Please, Chase, do not say another word. I have an announcement to make.”

Both men stared at her.

“Father, I finally understand what you want from me. You want me to behave properly, to do and say things as a proper lady would.” She lifted her chin. “I also understand you mean to not only withhold my dowry, but collect a very large gambling debt should I fail—or rather, should my husband fail to bring me to heel.”

Her father scowled. “Amelia—”

“I will not allow you to destroy all he has worked for to rebuild his and his uncle’s estates. I vow, from this moment on…” She broke off, her voice warbling as tears threatened.

Chase straightened, prepared to rush to his wife and take her in his arms should the dam break. But he prayed fervently it would not.

She took a deep breath and soldiered on. “I vow I will behave properly. No more strays collected from the stews…”

“The stews, saints above,” her father bemoaned. Obviously he had not known where she had found the litter.

Certainly Chase had not, and he could admit to having nearly the same reaction as her father. Rescuing helpless animals was one thing. Venturing into London’s most dangerous neighborhoods to do so was quite another. They would need to discuss matters in future.

Amelia went on as if no one had spoken. “No more dashing around in widow’s weeds at midnight, nor visiting houses of ill-repute midday…”

“Dear God.” Fallsgate’s eyes looked ready to burst.

Again, Chase understood.

“And I’ve quit my book club. I shall devote my time to…” She broke off, looking uncertain for the first time. “To whatever ladies of my station devote their time to.”

“Enough,” Chase said in his most authoritative voice.

Amelia’s wide-eyed gaze shot toward him. “But…”

He held out one hand, staying her, and moved toward the open door in front of which she still stood.

She glanced over her shoulder at him.

He quirked a brow at her and very deliberately closed the door. “I understand servants talk.”

She lowered her eyes.

He closed the distance between them to stand at her back, gripping her shoulders.

“Hear me, Fallsgate. My wife does not need to change a single thing about herself to meet the stipulations of your damned bet. Do you know she won over Lady Frommer at that dinner she held? Evidently the lady came today and collected two of Amelia’s dogs.”

Amelia made a sound of distress.

He lowered his mouth to her ear. “Never fear. She has invited us for a weekend visit so that you may observe them in their new abode.”

She twisted to face him, alarm in her eyes. “A-and Roddy?”

“Please, madam. Do you think I would allow anyone to take your beloved mutt?”

She choked out a laugh that was half sob. “ My mutt?”

“We are straying from the point.” Using gentle pressure, he shifted Amelia, so she once again faced her father. “Also thanks to Amelia, my efforts to aid our wounded veterans has a strong chance of securing the support of the Earl of Claybourne and Lord Randall, the Viscount of Worley.”

“I see,” the earl said, looking anything but clear on where Chase was going.

“I’m mucking this up. I never met anyone like your daughter, Lord Fallsgate. Someone giving and kind—to her own detriment at times. Even now, knowing what we—I—withheld from her, she’s willing to sacrifice her very essence to save me and my irresponsible uncle even though I never…” He shook his head. “That’s not important now. The bottom line is I won’t allow it, and to that end—”

Amelia chirped and twisted around to face him again. Tears welled in her eyes. “You can’t afford to lose all that money, Chase. Think of your tenants.”

“You see?” he whispered, voice going hoarse. “Even now you choose to stand for strangers, because you deem it the right thing to do.”

“It is the right thing,” she insisted.

“I’ve made provisions, Amelia. Today I went to London to secure the funds to pay off Uncle Harry’s debt.” He raised his gaze to meet Fallsgate’s. “I succeeded. You’ll have your double or nothing winnings bright and early Monday morning.”

“Just one bloody damned minute,” the earl erupted. “I came here to say something and so far all I’ve done is listen to what you two had to say. I insist you stop talking long enough to hear me out. I promise you it will be worth your while.”

Amelia turned to face him. “I beg your pardon, sir. Pray, continue.”

The bluster seemed to go out of him and the big man’s shoulders slumped. “Can we sit? I need to tell you some things. They concern your mother.”