Page 1 of The Lyon’s Dilemma (The Lyon’s Den Connected World #86)

A daline Beverley straightened the pile of paper on her desk out of courtesy to the person who had employed her services as an investigator.

The woman needed a moment to read Adaline’s report.

Since the client was still reading, Adaline then tidied her desk drawer, though it was already in perfect order.

What next? But no, her client had read the report twice and was now placing it back in its card folder.

“I see,” she said. “Are you certain… but you are, of course. You would not have told me anything you had not checked.”

“Triple checked, my lady,” Adaline assured her. “The information came from three different persons, and in each case, I followed the rumor back to its source, and confirmed with eyewitnesses, then sought out the documentary evidence.”

“But mine was the original marriage,” her client insisted.

“That is true.” At least, as far as Adaline had been able to discover.

It appeared unlikely that the lady’s husband had had another, earlier marriage, since Adaline had investigated the man’s life back until he was a child still in a schoolroom, and nothing indicated he was a bigamist. Until he had run through the money that her client brought to the marriage.

“I can recommend a lawyer,” Adaline offered.

“I would rather handle this without publicity,” the lady said. “I cannot allow a scandal. I must think of the children.”

“I understand, my lady. I am sure the other two wives will feel the same.”

That fetched her a glare. “Mrs. Beverley, you are working for me. Not for these women who only think they have married my husband.”

“They need to be told, my lady. Not only is it the right thing to do, but if you wish to keep the entire matter secret, you cannot afford for them to discover on their own. For the same reasons, the fourth prospective wife must be warned.”

Her ladyship considered that, her mouth screwed up in a disapproving pout. After a moment or two, she shook her head, but conceded, “You have a point. You shall handle them.”

“I have a suggestion,” Adaline said. “A meeting of the three wives, here, chaired by me. I shall present the other two with copies of the report, and then we shall discuss what must be done. I shall meet the fourth lady, and explain to her that Mr. Rogers is already married. I may need to prove the point, my lady, but I will aim to conceal his true identity and the situation with the other two ladies.”

“Do not ‘aim’. Succeed,” her ladyship demanded.

“I shall do my best.” That was the most Adaline would promise, for she prided herself on keeping her promises. “The fourth lady will not want a scandal either,” she pointed out.

After another half hour of argument, her ladyship agreed, and Adaline was left to make the arrangements for the meeting.

Once, she would have been exultant to have followed her client’s vague suspicions to such a conclusion, and to have stopped a scoundrel.

The man had found marriage to an heiress to be the easiest solution to continuing his affluent lifestyle despite his chronic mismanagement.

The one tick in his credit column was that he had not killed his first wife before taking a second.

Then a third. And now, though he had not yet succeeded in tying the knot, a fourth.

Yes, she was pleased to have uncovered the story—but exultant? Not really. In fact, she was irritated with the first wife’s disregard for the other women, and disgusted by the entire situation.

She had started on this investigator career out of desperation, when scandal expelled her from the ton, ended her betrothal, and broke her heart.

Adaline had been certain that her half-sister was behind the sudden defection of the man she loved.

She had been able to prove it, but not to her former betrothed.

He would not see her and her one letter was returned unopened.

No. Two letters . She had sent a second eight months after the first and it received the same treatment.

Well. That was ancient history. She had since married and become a widow. She had been making a good living as an investigator for seven years, ever since her husband died, leaving her and her daughter in danger of destitution.

It was time she retired. It was time, in fact, that she re-married. Melody kept wistfully asking about a father, about brothers and sisters. Adaline wanted that too, more than her daughter could know, and her thirtieth birthday was nearly upon her. Not too late, but she could not afford to delay.

She opened the drawer again and took out a calling card that sat on its own in a clear space within, easily readable every time she opened the drawer. It revealed the one way a woman like her could find a husband. A woman who had owned a business. A woman with scandal in her past.

It was a simple card—ivory pasteboard with a silver lion rampant stamped at the top and the name in black ink.

Mrs. Dove Lyons

Nothing else. But it was all that Adaline needed.

Dukes don’t wait. Dukes keep other people waiting, but they are never left kicking their heels in the absence of the person on whom they have condescended to call—after making an appointment, mind you.

Felix Seward, the Duke of Kempbury, was tempted to get up and leave, but coming here once was hard enough. Leaving and then returning was unthinkable. And nothing else he had tried had worked.

He sat on the uncomfortable chair to which he had been directed. It was at least, a private parlor, but he could not forget that the establishment was a gambling den, and one in which light-heeled ladies—or prostitutes, if one wished to avoid polite euphemisms—prosecuted their trade.

Felix had been here once before, and he had been at a disadvantage that time, too.

That previous time, it had been his own fault. Mrs. Dove Lyon, the proprietress of this gambling den, had been rightly protective of her guest, and rightly reluctant to allow him to see her.

He had been operating on false information—believing what he had been told about his half-brother’s widow by his other half-brother and stepmother. He should have known they were lying—he should have investigated for himself.

It had all turned out well. The widow had married nine months ago, becoming the Countess of Somerford. Felix saw the Somerfords often—her, her doting husband, and their delightful son Stephen, who was the son of her first husband, and therefore, his nephew and currently, his heir.

Indirectly, Dorcas Somerford and her son had sent him here. Stephen Seward was a delightful boy, and made him long for a son of his own. Dorcas and Ben had that rarest of things, a happy marriage, and Felix wanted one, too.

Which was why he had come to the Lyon’s Den, after weeks—no, months —of indecision. Mrs. Dove Lyon was a highly successful matchmaker. Dorcas and Ben had married as a result of her machinations, and Felix knew of at least twenty other marriages that, from his observations, were credits to her work.

The truth of the matter was, he needed a matchmaker.

Felix had had no success in finding a wife.

A duchess? That would have been easy. Almost any woman in the ton would be delighted to take on the role.

But wife? Felix didn’t know how to ferret out a lady’s true character.

Nor did he know how to make himself agreeable to a lady in a way that would lead her to look on him with favor.

Him. Felix the man, rather than Kempbury, the duke.

In his mind’s eye, he could see them, the women who slavered over him when he was forced to make an appearance at a social event.

As they looked up to him with adoring eyes they did not see the man at all.

For them, he was simply his title, the words obscuring him entirely—words that were capitalized, perhaps in gilded letters and possibly shedding gold dust: The Duke.

Gilded title or not, Felix wanted to be simply a man to his wife, if to nobody else.

“Your Grace.” The widow had finally arrived, stepping into the room without fanfare and speaking before she’d even seated herself.

Felix stood politely. She was veiled and dressed in black—her habitual garb.

Felix understood that her husband had been dead for years and years, so if she was in mourning, nobody knew what—or rather, why—she mourned.

“Mrs. Dove Lyon,” he returned. “Thank you for seeing me.”

“I apologize for keeping you waiting. A small crisis in the kitchens.” She settled in her tall-backed chair by the fire and extended her hand toward the chair across from her, a command to seat himself.

Felix sat and nodded his acceptance of the apology.

It was fair enough, he supposed. Unlike him, not everybody had one hundred servants whose only function was to make sure their needs were met.

Nor did they have several supremely capable servants who managed the rest, so that it would be the task of one of them—the housekeeper, he rather thought—to resolve a crisis in the kitchens.

One of Mrs. Dove Lyon’s servants arrived with a tea tray, and the next few minutes were devoted to establishing Felix’s beverage preferences and providing him with a cup of tea made to his liking, and a plate of small delicacies.

Once Mrs. Dove Lyon had poured her own cup, she came straight to the point.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, Your Grace?” she asked.

Plain speaking, was it? That suited Felix. “I need a duchess, Mrs. Dove Lyon.”

“The ton is full of suitable ladies, well-trained and of good reputation and demeanor, Your Grace,” the lady replied. She took a sip of tea while he considered his reply.

“I need a duchess,” he repeated. “But I want a wife. I want a marriage of mutual respect and affection, and a lady who will be a good mother to our children.” Once he was started, all that he’d been considering poured out.

“I do not know how to find one. I am not a good judge of women—witness how I initially treated Dorcas.”

And the disaster that was his first and only betrothal, to a woman he had esteemed above all others despite her unfortunate birth.

He had not believed that such a woman was doomed to repeat the sins of her mother—until he found his betrothed in the arms of another.

Adaline Fairbanks. Further evidence that he was no judge of women.

No need to share that shameful history with Mrs. Dove Lyon, however.

“I do not have female relatives I can call on. Nor female friends, come to that. Dorcas, of course, but she has just had another child, so will not be going out in the ton this Season. And she is not familiar with the ton, in any case. You have an exemplary record of making successful matches. I need your help, and I am prepared to pay your fee.”

“Very well,” said Mrs. Dove Lyon. “A lady capable of being a duchess. A lady worthy of your respect and affection and who is able to reciprocate those feelings. A good mother. Those are your requirements? You are not concerned about social status or bloodlines?”

Felix had to pause to think about that question.

“Not overly,” he decided. “Provided she is genteel and refined, the rest is unimportant.” Adaline had been country gentry, the elder daughter of an untitled country squire.

It hadn’t mattered to him. It still didn’t, but thinking of her reminded him of another requirement.

“She must be of good character,” he said.

“I do not require a young woman. Indeed, I would prefer the candidate to be mature enough to have some conversation and self-confidence. But I do require good character. I intend to be faithful and will expect faithfulness from my wife.”

“Understood,” said Mrs. Dove Lyon. He stood when she did, but she merely moved to the pretty little desk in the window, and sat again, dipping the waiting pen into an ink well and writing on a piece of notepaper.

She blotted the paper, folded it in half, and handed it to Felix. “My fee,” she said.

Felix glanced at the figure. Astronomical, but not unreasonable for the perfect duchess. “Half now and half on delivery,” he suggested. Negotiating fees was comfortable territory for a man who had been a duke since he was a boy.

“Half now, a quarter when the betrothal is agreed, and the final quarter when the marriage agreements are signed,” countered Mrs. Dove Lyon.

“The final quarter on the morning of the wedding, once vows have been exchanged.” Perhaps overcautious of Felix, but it was a lot of money.

“Agreed.” The lady held out her hand. Felix had never shaken hands with a lady, but after a moment’s indecision, he met her hand with his. Her grip was firm and her shake as decisive as any man’s.

“By ‘now’, Your Grace, I mean I will draw up the contract. If you return tomorrow, you may sign our agreement and pay the deposit.”

There was nothing more for Felix to say except, “Thank you. Good day, Mrs. Dove Lyon.” He bowed and left the room.