Page 17 of Lyon of Least Resistance

Sir Matthew nodded. “Together with a fat dowry. And, according to Coriolanus, the bride’s supposed to be quite pretty.”

James shook his head. “Who’d take a bride sight unseen?”

Mr. Vernon rolled his eyes. “Any man not prepared to primp and preen his way around the ballrooms of London in an attempt to persuade those gorgon-like matriarchs to release their precious daughters for a dance in the hope of securing the opportunity to bore himself rigid courting her.”

“Exactly,” Sir Matthew said. “A sensible man takes the direct approach.”

James stared at the victor, who was now being carried about the hall in a lap of triumph, a golden circlet on his head.

Perhaps Mr. Vernon and Sir Matthew—and Mrs. Dove-Lyon—had a point.

James finished his port, then a youth appeared at his side—the same fellow who’d escorted him in.

“Shall I show you out, Lord Bedford?”

Clearly Mrs. Dove-Lyon considered him dismissed.

The youth led James to the doorway and bowed.

“Compliments of Mrs. Dove-Lyon,” he said. “She regrets that you were unable to take your second glass tonight, but she hopes you’ll return, as her guest, tomorrow night.”

“To partake in a…a drinking game?”

“Oh no, the competitors are chosen in advance of the games themselves. But a new game will be announced at the end of the evening, which may be more suited to your tastes. Unless you’d rather attend Lady Tirton’s ball?”

James stared at the youth. How the devil did he know about the ball at Lord Tirton’s townhouse tomorrow night? Unless Mrs. Dove-Lyon really was a witch—an all-seeing, omnipresent witch.

Lord knew what sort of creature lurked beneath that black veil of hers.

But the youth had piqued James’s curiosity. That, and the prospect of being able to excuse himself from a night of prancing and primping, was enough to tempt him.

“Please thank Mrs. Dove-Lyon and tell her that I shall attend,” James said.

“Very good, Lord Bedford. Please arrive no later than half past eight.”

The youth bowed and James exited the Lyon’s Den. As he stepped onto the road, he turned and surveyed the building. With its benign-looking pale-blue façade, it looked no different to any other building. But who knew what really resided beneath the surface of anything—a building, a schoolfriend, a veiled widow…

…or a masked doxy who, despite her bright exterior and knowledge of the world, sobbed quietly to herself when she believed she was alone.

Chapter Five

Having tidied her possessions from her boudoir—or, rather, the room that would, in future, be occupied by another of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s employees—Cordelia performed a final tour of the room. She bade farewell to the marble statue of the goddess Venus that watched over the activities, the furnishings in rich imperial colors with their gold trimming that reeked of opulence…

…and the sturdy four-poster bed on which she had earned a living.

Most people would have considered it a room of degradation, a place to debase herself to satisfy the physical needs of the men she serviced. But, under Bessie’s watchful eye and Isidore’s kind tutelage, Cordelia had come to view it as a place of opportunity where, instead of being the oppressed, she took advantage of the baser needs of the opposite sex to earn a living.

It’s just a business transaction, Cordelia, darling. Bodies only are required—hearts and souls are left outside the door.

Cordelia smiled at Isidore’s wise words, by which she had lived during her tenure.

I always left my heart and soul outside.

Until him.

Where was he tonight? Had he returned to the country? Or did he sit alone, in his lodgings wondering what his Dahlia was doing? Perhaps, having turned his back on the Lyon’s Den and its decadence, he’d sallied forth into the Society in which he belonged…

…to seek a better woman than me.