Page 21 of Lyon of Least Resistance

“Surely you don’t think the winners of my games are determined by pure chance?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said. “I flatter myself in my ability to match those who are perfect for each other, even if they may not agree with me at first. And it is for this purpose that I’ve asked you to see me tonight.”

“For what purpose?”

“You wish to reside in the country, do you not?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said. “And I understand that you want a family of your own. A husband to love whom will love you in return, and children to nurture.”

“How do you know…” Cordelia began, then she shook her head. “Most women wish for that, don’t they?”

“Most, but not all,” came the reply. “Isidore and I have been discussing you, and Isidore told me that—”

“Isidore ought not to have told you anything,” Cordelia said, glancing to the woman on her left.

A sigh came from behind the veil. Mrs. Dove-Lyon reached for the decanter on the desk, poured a measure into a glass, and pushed it toward Cordelia.

“I only have your best interests at heart, Cordelia,” Isidore said.

“As do I,” the woman behind the desk added.

Cordelia’s heart tightened at the softness in her employer’s voice. Did she, like every other soul employed at the Lyon’s Den, wear a façade to conceal a tender, loving heart?

Cordelia took another mouthful of her drink. The flavor burst on her tongue, then the liquid slipped down her throat and warmth radiated through her body.

“How can I ever hope to find a husband, ma’am?” she said.

A soft laugh came from behind the veil.

“My dear girl, you know the true nature of my business here, do you not?”

“Yes, you find rich wives for titled men, but—”

“Oh, no, my dear, you’re quite mistaken. I admit that impoverished titled men come here to find wives and, foolish creatures that men are, they believe that to be my primary concern. But my clients—my real clients to whom my loyalty is directed—are the women who come seeking a husband. For each woman, I devise a game to find their perfect partner. Many of the men who come here—men such as Sir Iain Leaney—will never find a partner here, because I would never inflict them on a woman.”

“But I’m a doxy,” Cordelia said.

“And? Does that render you undeserving of a loving marriage with the right man, or incapable becoming a mother? The women who come to me do so because they would be spurned by London Society—because the world is incapable of seeing their worth. Do you believe that you have no worth?”

Cordelia shook her head. “It matters not what I believe.”

“Then will you take heed of what I believe, my dear? You deserve to be granted what you yearn for. You have a loving soul and are capable of making some very fortunate young man blissfully happy. And, to that effect…”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon opened a drawer in her desk and pulled out a ledger, flicking through the pages.

“Aha!” she said, placing a fingertip at the top of a page. “There we have it. Eighteen thousand.”

“I beg pardon?”

“Your fortune, my dear,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said. “More than enough to tempt the competitors.”

“Eighteen thousand…pounds?”

“That’s right. Naturally, I’ll waive my usual arrangement fee. Consider it a retirement gift.”

A swell of hope rose within Cordelia’s heart. “You mean…you intend to find a husband for me?”

“Yes, my dear girl,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said. “Isidore and I have devised the perfect game, which, with your consent, will take place next Saturday. If you’re in agreement, I’ll just need you to sign this.”

She reached into the drawer and drew out a stiff piece of paper covered in a cursive script and bearing a crest in the shape of a lion’s head. Near the bottom, the scriptwriter had inscribed the name Cordelia Anne Flowers.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon picked up her quill pen, dipped it into an inkpot, and held it out.