Page 4 of The Lyon’s Love Letters (The Lyon’s Den Connected World #78)

Several days later

A nna sat in her room on an upper floor of the Lyon’s Den. It was small, but well furnished and more than adequate. It featured a narrow bed, a dresser, and a charming little desk where she had been spending a great deal of her time combing through advertisements in the papers, searching for a suitable position.

Right now, though, she was finishing a letter to Lord William Hovell, a great friend of her father’s, and the man who had been named trustee of her fortune until she came of age to inherit it. She wanted to inform him of her cousin’s plotting, and she wanted him to know she was alive and well in London—even if she didn’t wish to disclose her exact whereabouts. She hadn’t seen the man in years. He had not even come to her father’s funeral. Frankly, she couldn’t be sure he hadn’t been aware of Thomas’s plans all along.

Truthfully, Anna was beginning to cultivate a woefully jaded view of men. Her father. Her cousin. And though she had kept to the background here at the Lyon’s Den, she had been watching from the ladies’ observation gallery and from various dark corners. Certainly, there were far more men about than she’d ever been exposed to before—and they were proving themselves a varied lot.

Last night she had watched two young men whooping and hollering as they raced cockroaches through a maze. Their uncomplicated and boyish glee had made her feel…old.

She had noticed some more serious gentlemen engaging in the card games one imagined when picturing a gaming hell. Their play had been so serious—and deep—that it had ended in shouting and fisticuffs. Thankfully, Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s staff quickly put a stop to it, and put both men out into the street.

Interestingly, she had seen a couple of gentlemen who had come to the Lyon’s Den in search of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s special brand of matchmaking. They had eyed the ladies in their viewing gallery, just as the women watched the play on the main floor and observed them in turn. Anna had heard one of the men asking Mrs. Dove-Lyon to arrange an introduction with one of the ladies—and then seen him go on to flirt outrageously with Helena, one of the female staff members.

Finishing her letter, Anna idly doodled on another sheet of paper as she wondered if there were any true gentlemen out there. Where were the men with honor? Surely there must be gentlemen who had manners and character to go along with their titles and estates. Men like…

She looked down at her scribbling.

Mr. Elliott Ward.

Mr. Ward of Stephen Street, London.

Mr. Elliott Ward, Esquire, son of Lord Heyden.

She sighed. He was the man she couldn’t get out of her mind. Mr. Ward with the kind smile and green eyes and thick chestnut hair with a hint of a wave in it. Mr. Ward, who had taken on a mission to help someone he cared about, and, instead of rushing off as soon as it was accomplished, had stayed to help her accomplish hers. Mr. Ward, whom she had trusted quickly, thoroughly, and without reason—except for her sense that he was true and good.

And oh, how she hoped that she had been right. That he was a man unlike those others. That he was a man who would prove her good sense and his own good character.

Except—how would she ever know?

And it was that thought that truly sank her spirits.

“Lady Anna?” Hermia stood in the doorway. “Mrs. Dove-Lyon would like to see you.”

“Oh, yes. Thank you.” Anna folded her letter and took it with her as she went down to Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s private sitting room. Knocking, she entered the lovely room and took the seat the widow indicated.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon, who wore her veil even in her own club, sat next to a laden tea tray. As the widow poured, Anna took in the elegant surroundings. She would have rooms like this, perhaps, once she could claim her inheritance. Splendid rooms done just to her taste, where she could entertain callers…alone.

Sighing, she accepted a cup of tea and declined the platter of cakes. “I’ve finished my letter,” she told her hostess. “You said you would have it delivered?”

“Yes, if you still think it wise,” the widow said.

“I do. I want my cousin’s actions known. Otherwise, I can imagine his claiming I’ve been kidnapped or killed or gone mad. I wouldn’t put anything past him.”

“Nor would I, especially now that you have thwarted him.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon took the letter. “I’ll have it delivered by a boy I can trust, making it untraceable. Just in case.”

“Thank you.” Anna sipped her tea.

“You have been very quiet since your arrival. Are you still set upon finding a position?”

“Yes. Reading through the papers, it seems my wisest course would be to approach the agencies, but I am not sure of my way about London.”

“I will ask one of our staff to escort you when you are ready.” The widow paused. “Lady Anna, you know how grateful I am to have those letters back and my…loved one safe. Are you sure you will not relent and allow me to find you a nice young gentleman?”

Anna’s mouth quirked. “I am not even sure that such a creature exists.”

“I assure you, they do, my dear.”

Anna hesitated. She had not told the widow about meeting Mr. Ward, or how he’d helped her. “Perhaps I will discover you are right, but I find I am conflicted about gentlemen in general right now. After everything that has happened, I’m not sure whom I can trust.” She lifted a shoulder. “I would like to be…known. Seen as a person and not an heiress or a mark. I am hopeful that, in a position out of the spotlight, I can learn how to be simply…me. And I think I need the chance to see people, gentlemen, be simply…themselves.”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon sighed. “Perhaps. Very well. As you are resolved, there is something I should tell you.”

Anna waited, expectant.

“I left someone behind in the village near Martin’s Nest, to keep an eye on things after you left.”

“Oh!” Anna straightened. “Has something happened?”

“It seems the vicar’s cottage was broken into. Someone ransacked the place, as if looking for something.”

Anna gasped.

“The house party broke up early soon afterward. Several of the gentlemen left together, apparently heading for Bath.”

Eyes narrowing, Anna leaned in. “No doubt Viscount Kenniston was one of them.”

The widow nodded.

“It had to have been him who wrecked Brandage’s cottage. Kenniston is looking for the files.”

“He’s looking for you, my dear. Why else choose Bath?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said. “If you are intent on finding a position, I think it had better come sooner rather than later—and perhaps it should be one that is isolated and will keep you from the public eye.”

“Very well.” Anna set down her cup. “I will make a list of agencies. I think I should begin interviewing with them right away.”

“It might also be a good idea to interview under an assumed name.”

Anna grimaced. “But how can I? They will require references. I have one from Reverend Brandage and another from Squire Rhodes. They provided them when I applied for the teaching position in Bath.”

“I can help with that. I have provided services for some of the highest families in the land. It will be easy enough for one of them to create a niece or cousin from the lower branches of the family tree. And to provide a reference for her.”

Anna drew a slow breath. “Thank you, Mrs. Dove-Lyon. I fear I am becoming more trouble than I ever meant to.”

“You have done me a great service, Lady Anna. As I said, I will help however I can.”

The widow sat back and watched the girl hurry off. When Lady Anna was safely back upstairs, Hermia stepped into the parlor.

Without a word, her loyal friend handed over a slip of paper. Bessie Dove-Lynn gazed down at the scribblings, a sense of satisfaction rising in her chest.

“Very good, Hermia.” Rising, she slipped the paper into her desk. “Very well done, indeed.”

Elliott found his mother in her parlor, running her hands over the waist of her gown while she examined her reflection in the terrace doors.

“Elliot,” she greeted him glumly. “You don’t have to tell me the bad news. I heard Thomas Parbury ran off to Martin’s Nest before he could even be invited to take his seat in the Lords. It’s only a matter of time, now, I suppose.”

“But Mother,” he began.

She whirled around to face him. “I don’t blame you, darling, truly I don’t. But you mustn’t go and rile your father up, do you hear? No arguments. No lectures. I’ve been working ever so hard to turn him up sweet and keep him in charity with me before the worst happens. It’s working, too. Largely because that bay colt of his is doing well in the races, so we must hope that the animal keeps his streak going.”

“Mother, Martindale was there, but I managed to sneak into Martin’s Nest and remove the documents.”

Her mouth dropped open. “You never did!”

“I did.”

Elation, relief, and triumph lit his mother up like a spring day, and for a moment he saw the beauty she had been in her youth, when she had all the young bucks of the ton fighting over her.

“Oh, Elliott, darling! You angel!”

Suddenly all the light disappeared. Without warning, a tempest took its place. Her eyes narrowed and her lip trembled. “You didn’t look at them? You didn’t see—”

“No. I don’t want to know.” Taking the folded papers from his pocket, he placed them on a table.

She snatched them up, looked them over—and just like that, the sun was back. “Oh, well done, Elliott! I can scarcely believe you succeeded! I never expected it. Not truly. But you did it!”

He sighed. He was used to taking the slap of an insult with every compliment. He wasn’t even sure she knew she was doing it.

“Well, let me ring for Mrs. Dooley. She must tell Cook to prepare all your favorites. We must celebrate!”

“It’s not necessary, Mother.”

She was already crossing to tug the bell. “We must do something! You deserve a reward. Perhaps Cook can whip up that trifle you always enjoyed.”

“No fuss needed,” he assured her. “I’ll be very happy indeed with what you already promised.”

She looked around. “What was that, dear?”

His heart fell. “Bramberly, Mother. You recall. When you asked for my help, I agreed, but then you said if I could manage to keep scandal from breaking, you would be so grateful you would let me take charge of Bramberly.”

Bramberly House was a mid-sized manor on a farming estate in Somerset. It was the place where he’d spent several summers in his youth, staying with his aunt. It was a place of peace and quiet affection. It was one of his favorite spots in the world.

“I don’t think that is exactly what I said.”

He set his jaw. “It is. Exactly.”

“Well.” Frowning, she turned away. “But darling, Bramberly is mine. My own little place. It came to me from my favorite sister.”

“I know, Mother. But it has long been neglected. It needs attention and repair.”

“You will inherit it someday, Elliott. Someday when I am gone. Surely you are not wishing your own mother dead?” Her lip trembled again. On cue. As always.

“Of course not. It will still be yours. I would just like to see it profitable and in good shape. You haven’t been there in decades.”

“Well, no. It is horribly out of the way. But I have often thought that I would make a project of it myself. One of these days when your father’s horses are losing and he’s raging, I will pack up and head to Bramberly and redo it all myself.”

She had never had any such thought. Not once in her life, until this moment. Elliott knew it to be true. He knew her. She had what she wanted. Now she would forget her panic. Her pleading. Her promise. She would ignore the fact that her own son might have wishes, wants, and dreams. He should have known better. He should not have indulged the idea. He had wasted all those thoughts of a lovely home, of hard work in a worthwhile endeavor, of a quiet, stable place of peace, away from his mother’s swaying tempers and his father’s obsession with his stables.

He turned to go.

“Wait? Elliott. Where are you going?”

“Home, Mother. The bubble popped. I’m awake again. And I’m going home.”

He walked away from her protests—and he took the traveling carriage without asking permission, because he at least deserved to avoid another trip on the stage.

He spent the long hours heading back to London contemplating his future. The one thing he could take away from this debacle—he had enjoyed testing himself. He had liked being of use. He was tired of his idle life, tired of trying to fill the empty hours with drinking, gaming, and mindless socializing with the same people.

But how to change it? His good friend Benjamin had recently married. He and Helen had set out together to travel. To share adventures while they decided on the course of their lives.

The thought brought back a flash of blue eyes, freckles, and a brave girl determined to do the right thing. He pushed it away, as he’d done many times since he left Martin’s Nest. Damn, but Lady Anna had been a beauty. And a woman of character. So damned appealing. But she seemed to have a purpose. It was what he needed. A purpose.

Perhaps it was the thought of Helen that made him suddenly remember the times he’d spent in her home as a young man. He and Benjamin and Helen’s brother Will had spent all their school breaks there, running mad and having the time of their lives. Yes, Bramberly had been the place he found peace, but it was in the Crawford home where he had discovered fun. It was where he’d found what a family life could be.

That was what he wanted. Warmth, peace, and the chance to be useful. He pushed Lady Anna’s face from his mind again. He had work to do before he was fit to have a girl like that in his life.

He had the sudden thought to go back. To consult Major Crawford. Maybe he would have an idea how Elliott could find these things he suddenly craved.

He found himself nodding to no one as the carriage rolled into the outskirts of London. He would gather his things and go to Hertfordshire. Ask the major’s advice—and find his purpose.

All of his fine plans flew away, though, when he came to his rooms and found the door unlocked.

He never left his door unlocked.

Cautiously, he pushed it open. The door would only advance part of the way—because his room had been tossed. He forced his way in and stared about at the mess. Drawers emptied. Furniture slashed. Clothes had been thrown everywhere. What on earth?

And suddenly, he knew. Martindale’s files. Someone must have recognized him at Martin’s Nest. They had come looking for the files, but they hadn’t found them. He’d burned them all that first night, sitting in a room above a tavern in Hampshire, feeding them into the fire and thinking about Lady Anna Parbury’s lush, pink mouth. How it would look if he made her laugh. How it would feel beneath his own.

Lady Anna! If Kenniston or Martindale or any of their roguish friends had failed to find the files here—would they go after the old earl’s daughter?

Of course they would, if they had any notion where to find her. He didn’t.

Or did he? He thought back to her search of the files. Of the name he had glimpsed on the papers she had folded away. Plans have been made, she’d said.

Here was a purpose—thrown into his lap. He must warn her.

And he knew where to start.