Page 6 of The Cornish Lyon

Miss Frampton gave a nervous giggle. “Nothing so exciting, I’m afraid, although my aunt is lucky I haven’t done just that in the four years she was my guardian.” She paused. “I should explain that I have quit her establishment now that I’m of age and am in complete control of my fortune. My father left it to me in its entirety as he had confidence I would know how to manage it. He was an excellent teacher.”

She pulled a wry face. “Unfortunately, he did not foresee the fact that he would depart this world before I came of age.” Her eyes clouded. “Nor that I would have to live under the guardianship of such a tyrant as my Aunt Patience. She has been…difficult throughout the four years I have resided with her. She would have been happy in past times as a Puritan, I’m sure. In fact, when I revealed my predicament, hoping against hope for some support, she told me I could no longer remain under her roof after I had so disgraced her.”

“So she knows of your condition.”

A nod. “She does. She had forbidden me from consorting with all gentlemen as she said I was too young to think of marriage. I was not allowed to be presented at court, as my friends from school were, nor to attend any society occasions.” She frowned. “So you can imagine how angry she was that I had not only gone against her rule but also committed the ultimate sin, in her eyes.” Regret tinged her voice. Was it also regret at her own mistake, or something else?

“And the gentleman concerned? Where is he in this?”

Another deep breath. “At the bottom of the Irish Sea.”

“Ah.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon understood it all now. No need to press the girl for more details. A young sailor perhaps, or one of the troops being sent over to Ireland after the confinement of Bonaparte and cessation of hostilities after Waterloo. She had no need of his name or rank as both were immaterial to the matter in hand. Suffice it to say that he was dead and could not make an honest woman of Miss Frampton.

The girl looked her in the eye. “I should tell you that I have my own establishment and am in complete possession of my own fortune as from today. So, if I were not in this condition, I would be a desirable object to the young men of the ton, none of whom I have had the chance to meet, thanks to my aunt.” Another, deeper frown. “And I know I could easily go into retreat on the continent or to my house in the country and have the child in secret, then pass it off as the child of one of my retainers. Or I could just have it adopted by a stranger. I also know I could support it myself by giving money to the adoptive parents and even see the child from time to time.” She set her jaw. “But I don’t want that. I want my child and I want to bring him or her up myself.” Her hand went to her flat stomach, and she spoke from the heart. “I want to be a married woman with an excuse to keep my child.”

Commendable. Too often children born this way, as Mrs. Dove-Lyon knew all too well, were cast off by the mother so she could continue to live her life of indulgence without a baseborn brat hanging around her neck and ruining her prospects. “How many people know of your condition?” She refrained from pointing out that the fewer in on the secret the better it would be.

“My aunt, but she won’t tell anyone. She was far too horrified about the shame it might bring on our family. My maid, who is waiting near the entrance and has been with me since before my father died and is utterly faithful to me. My best friend, Lady Fanny Fitzwilliam, the daughter of the new Duke of Denby. It was she who suggested I should come here. She had heard her papa and his friends discussing your establishment and suggested to me it might be the answer to my problems. She won’t tell a soul, I can assure you.”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon couldn’t avoid a smile. “Yes, I am familiar with your friend’s father.” With his friends too, and also, at this very moment, with his rakish nephew, lately come up from a five-year posting with the militia in Cornwall and busy gambling beyond his means every night. The Fitzwilliam family were very much in evidence at her establishment.

She picked up her cup and took a sip, but it was tepid now and she preferred her tea scalding hot. She set it down again. “So, you would like me to find you a husband?”

Miss Frampton pressed her lips together in determination and nodded. “But I should like to say right now that I have no wish to gull any man into marrying me without him knowing the full facts. I would not wish to deceive him into thinking my child is his. That would be too unfair. I wish to be honest with him from the start.” She paused. “He must be more than willing to give my child a name and a home. Forever. I am happy to provide further children for him, but my first born must be treated equally with them.”

Also commendable. Many girls in her situation would have thought nothing of pretending the child was just an early birth, no matter the size of it. Mrs. Dove-Lyon nodded sagely. “I find you to be a refreshingly honest young lady, who, I surmise, has been persuaded to give herself to a man without realising what it would entail. Might I ask you how many times this happened?”

Miss Frampton’s face, which had begun to lose its bright color, blushed afresh. “Just the once.” She dropped her gaze to examine her hands in her lap. She hadn’t touched her tea.

So in all probability it had been an unsatisfactory encounter on her side as so many “first times” were. From the expression on her face, Mrs. Dove-Lyon felt this was almost a certitude. Poor child. She had to feel sorry for her. No need to ask if the young man in question had assured her he would marry her. That was what they all said while persuading a girl to give up her most important asset. Although, she conceded to herself, as the young man was now dead, there was no way of proving, or disproving, that he’d truly intended marriage. In her experience with young bucks, they frequently did not. Although, as he’d presumably known about her fortune, perhaps he’d cynically decided to mark her as his own in this way to assure himself of her devotion. And no doubt the girl had believed his protestations of undying love. She really must stop being so cynical herself.

She fixed her most reassuring smile onto her face, or at least the portion of it which Miss Frampton could observe. “I am sure we can fulfil your requirements, my dear. But first we must settle on a suitable fee for this service.”

The look of relief on Miss Frampton’s face was almost but not quite reward enough. She must not allow herself to be distracted by any personal feelings for the girl’s predicament, familiar as it was. This was a young lady who could afford a sizeable fee for her services, and she must be resolute. She had her business to think of.

In fact, she already had a particular young man of impecunious means in mind for this spirited young lady.

Chapter Four

Captain Fitzwilliam Carlyon, late of five years in the Cornish Militia, leaned back from the table with a sigh. Whilst in Cornwall, native county of his long-deceased father, he’d been involved in a frustrating attempt at the prevention of smuggling, and was now on a long overdue leave, hoping to never have to return. However, it was looking more and more likely that he would shortly have to find some way to earn money as he’d gambled most of his away over the last few nights. Why on earth, for example, had he decided snail racing would be a suitable way to restore his already precarious fortune?

The snails in question, each one gaudily painted with the colors of its “owner” rested on the board which Peaseblossom, one of the Lyon’s Den’s eleven dealers, had set out some time ago on the table in the private gaming room. Some time ago being the operative phrase, as snails are not known for their speed. Nor, it seemed, for their capability of following a lure. Bits of discarded lettuce lay scattered across the board, all of which the snails, which must surely have been previously overfed, had ignored.

His own snail, in lurid red and white stripes, seemed to have packed in slithering altogether and retreated inside its shell, as had one or two others. Only three snails had so far crossed the finishing line, even though it lay a scant two feet from the start, their circuitous routes marked by shiny trails of snail slime across the board. The winner, and thus the man who was the executor of Fitz’s downfall, was the man who’d lured him into this bet in the first place, Lord William Dugdale.

Of course, he wouldn’t have taken the bet had he not been three sheets to the wind. And he would not have been three sheets to the wind had his luck not been so absent for the entirety of the evening. Again. Had he not been already practically cleaned out with pockets to let. And if he hadn’t been so foxed, he might have realised that staking the last of his blunt on the back of such a creature as a snail was tantamount to committing himself to the Fleet for the foreseeable future.

With little chance of his widowed mother’s help, mainly because his gambling reminded her too much of his late lamented papa, and none whatsoever of his titled uncle’s, his prospects for the future were at an all-time low. Even his horse had gone now, and, if he wasn’t careful, the clothes off his back. All in all, the somewhat sobering thought that he was in a pretty pickle, began to dawn upon him.

Why, oh why, had he allowed Dugdale to persuade him through the portals of the infamous Lyon’s Den while he was on leave? If he was honest, he’d agreed because he’d long nurtured a desire to see inside its hallowed walls, to meet the ingeniously named staff and perhaps to steal a glimpse of the legendary Black Widow of Whitehall herself. But not, alas, to leave it without a penny to his name and having issued a stack of vowels to his fellow gamblers. Vowels he feared he could never fulfil.

Because on each and every night he’d been here, his luck had been conspicuous by its absence, and he’d tipped further and further into insolvency.

He picked up the almost empty bottle of brandy from beside the table and poured himself a generous measure. He might just as well drown his sorrows now, because tomorrow he wouldn’t be able to afford to.

He was just putting the glass to his lips when someone tapped his shoulder. Nearly spilling the brandy, he looked around to find another of the dealers by his side. This time it was the one female dealer, masked, of course, as they all were. Oberon was her name. Might she be concealing a face too ravaged to reveal or beauty too astonishing for the eyes of mortal man behind that mask? No one knew.

“Captain Carlyon.” Her voice was low and husky in a way that suggested to him the latter. Influenced by the brandy, he had half a mind to try and snatch that mask off, but she had the look of someone who could deal with such curiosity with the flick of her wrist.