Page 4 of The Lyon’s Dilemma (The Lyon’s Den Connected World #86)

F elix did not go back to the house. More than ever, he needed to be alone. He needed to think. He took a path that led further out into the park. His mind was reeling.

In his country seat, Felix had a miniature of himself as a child of nine or ten. Melody Beverley could be that child’s twin, green eyes, and all. It was easy to tell where her name had come from, for Adaline had once told him that her mother’s name was Melody.

Felix remembered everything she had told him in the brief few weeks of their romance. Everything she said and did, though his memories were colored by what came after.

He should have expected her to be a wanton. She was, after all, the baseborn child of Arthur Fairbanks and his mistress, even if she was raised in the Fairbanks house with the legitimate daughter. She had been honest with him about that even from the first.

He had admired her for it, he remembered, had said that he was a duke and could do anything he pleased short of treason, had said she would be a duchess and—even if people did find out about her tarnished birth—it wouldn’t matter, because she would be ranked above all but the queen and the royal princesses, and a score or so of other duchesses.

Even when she came to his bed, he didn’t despise her for it. They had made promises to one another, after all. He had thought only that she loved him too much to wait, or to make him wait, for them to repeat those vows in a church.

He had, at the time, believed her to be a virgin, though he had doubted that later. Whether or not it was true, he could no longer doubt that the child—of whose existence he had so recently learned—who went by the surname of Beverley, was conceived on that night.

She was his daughter, and Adaline had kept her from him.

Felix was, he realized, being a little unfair. She had visited him at his townhouse and been turned away. She had written to him twice, and he had ordered the letters returned, refusing even to touch them.

He did not feel like being fair. He did not know how he felt, in fact. His mind, heart—his soul even—echoed with the beat of the repeated words. I have a daughter.

A daughter who was four months past her ninth birthday, if she was born nine months or so after the night that Felix and Adaline spent together.

Felix had missed more than nine years of her life.

It hurt more than he could bear, like an ache over his entire being.

He felt as if he had missed her all his life, though two days ago, he had not even known she existed.

“Adaline will not keep me out of my daughter’s life anymore,” he swore.

Melody. She seemed a nice child. She spoke politely and curtseyed beautifully, and there was obvious affection between her and her mother.

But was Adaline a fit person to raise a child? A daughter? If he did not intervene, would he not be condemning his own child to the kind of life Adaline must have lived? Condemning some poor fool to the kind of betrayal he had experienced?

He could take Melody from Adaline, citing her immoral conduct as a reason. The legal ground would be shaky, but he had no doubt he could succeed. Wealthy dukes had few limits. But was it the right thing to do?

No child deserved to lose a loving, even if unfit, mother. Felix did not remember his own mother, but he had seen his sister-in-law Dorcas with his nephew Stephen and her new baby. The impersonal attention of servants was no replacement for maternal affection.

No matter how far he walked, he could not make up his mind.

“Felix, you need more facts,” he decided, as he made his way back towards the house.

“Talk to Mrs. Stillwater. Talk to others who know Adaline. Talk to Adaline herself, as distasteful as that may be, and to Melody. You are no longer a cub, still wet behind the ears. You won’t be taken in again. ”

Felix was not altogether confident about the last point. Even with everything he knew about her, he still felt the tug in Adaline’s direction. But he was a man in his thirties, a respected peer, and a gentleman. He could trust himself to resist Adaline’s wiles and to do the right thing.

Couldn’t he?

Kempbury did not approach Adaline again that day, but she frequently felt his eyes on her, as Mrs. Stillwater herded them out onto the bowls lawn to play, and then set the men to rowing on the lake, with a lady or two as passengers.

Refusing that task, Kempbury took station in the pavilion on the lake shore, and watched the revels.

Or watched Adaline, surreptitiously, to avoid the attention of others.

She was grateful for his discretion. She did not want any talk that might reignite the scandal of ten years ago, especially since no one here present seemed to have made the connection between Adaline Fairbanks, the woman that Kempbury jilted, and the widow, Adaline Beverley.

Mind you, they might, if he kept watching her.

All day and into the evening, she caught him casting her a glance and then looking away.

Bah! She did not have time for Kempbury’s nonsense.

She had been waiting for Viscount Stillwater to emerge from his chambers—Mrs. Stillwater had said he was indisposed, but she had heard a couple of footmen saying he had a cold.

He had at last joined the house party for dinner, and she had managed to strike up a conversation with him.

Yesterday’s treasure hunt, organized to entertain the house-bound guests, had given Adaline an excuse to view every public room in the great house.

The dragon scroll was not on display. Adaline guessed it must be in Lord Stillwater’s rooms, where he could see it whenever he wished but could keep it from the prying eyes of anyone who might report its presence to its true owner.

No doubt he moved it after Mrs. Dove Lyon’s friend saw it.

So, it was a great relief to hear that that he was at last joining the house party.

“I have been confined to a chair by my fire, Mrs. Beverley,” he told her.

“With a blanket around my shoulders and a supply of handkerchiefs to wipe my nose. You would have been sorry for me—indeed, I was sorry for myself.” He chuckled. The man was rather charming.

She managed to get him to talk about his collection by commenting on an ornately carved statue that decorated the mantlepiece in the parlor to which they headed after dinner.

After that, the challenge would have been stopping him.

He told her where he had found the piece, how he had bargained to get an excellent price, what pieces like that were worth in England, what significance it held in the barbaric land from which it came, and what other similar pieces he had seen in the collections of other people and how his was better.

His surface charm did not survive the opportunity to indulge in his obsession.

The more he talked about how he had bested other collectors, the more credible she found the story Mrs. Dove Lyon had told her.

Furthermore, she was wary of the light of passionate avarice in his eyes.

When he invited her to come and view the items in his collection room, she raised her voice slightly and angled her body to include others nearby in the conversation.

“I would love that, my lord. Mrs. Stillwater has allowed us to view it, of course, but to have you show us the pieces, and explain what they mean and why they are so desirable—everyone, Lord Stillwater is going to give us a guided tour of his collection!”

Several of the other guests exclaimed how delightful that would be, and Lord Stillwater inclined his head and led them all down the hall to the collection room, stopping along the way to point out a large painted vase on one hall table, a charming little statuette on another, and a silk scroll with an ink drawing of mountains on a wall.

“These dots and lines are Chinese writing,” he explained at the third object, holding his candelabra high so that they could see more clearly.

“A good luck wish, I was told. They write with brushes, rather than pens as we use, and use the same brushes and inks for these marvelous scenes. Mrs. Beverley, note how they manage to make an impression of a mountain with just a few strokes.”

“How marvelous,” she said, and, “Isn’t that wonderful?” and, “How clever you must be to remember all that,” and other admiring comments, as seemed appropriate. If she displayed enough interest in Chinese art, perhaps he would be encouraged to show her the stolen scroll and the pendant.

On the other hand, perhaps she’d encouraged him too much. In the collection room, he continued to give a general explanation of each of the objects, then singled Adaline out for a more detailed comment. Several times, he took her arm or brushed against her.

Adaline was very pleased she had not gone off with him alone.

Perhaps a third of the objects in the collection room included depictions of dragons. They curled around pots and bowls, along painted screens, and across fans. They were carved into knife handles and table legs, and molded into statues. In fact, they were everywhere.

Adaline was trying to think of a way to ask him whether he had others when one of the other guests managed the job for her.

“Why so many dragons, Lord Stillwater?” he asked. “Have you a Chinee St. George tucked away to stop them from devouring all the princesses?” The ladies he had escorted giggled.

“Chinese dragons are quite different to the European breed,” Lord Stillwater explained.

“Our dragons are wicked, destructive, and treacherous. But in China, dragons are symbols of good luck. They are powerful, but benevolent and wise, unless one offends them.” He chuckled.

“Any devouring is strictly benign.” He sent a sly look at Adaline, who pretended not to notice.

“I have many more,” he offered. “I would be happy to organize an exclusive viewing of my favorites.” Once again, his gaze drifted her way. It made her skin crawl.