Page 7 of The Cornish Lyon

She moved back a step, as though she’d divined his thought. “Mrs. Dove-Lyon requests your presence in her private room.”

Uh oh. Fitz couldn’t help a glance in the direction of that room. He’d heard she was all-seeing, but couldn’t quite work out how she knew what was going on in the private gaming room, which, as far as he could see, had no windows through which she could be spying. If they’d been on the main gambling floor, which her room overlooked, then he could have understood it. How she knew he’d overstretched his welcome also eluded him, but that might have had something to do with the quantity of brandy he’d imbibed. A lot of things were eluding him right now.

He pushed back his chair and rose to his feet, annoyed at how unsteady he felt. One hand shot out involuntarily to rest on the tabletop. “Lead on,” was all he managed to say, as all other words had abandoned him. A wave of anxiety cascaded through his body, which was almost but not quite enough to sober him, as he followed Oberon towards the central hallway.

Oberon knocked lightly on the door into Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s private room, pushed the door open and stood back. Swallowing down unaccustomed nerves, for he was after all a soldier and an officer and considered himself a rake of the first order, Fitz stepped into the room and heard the door close behind him.

The room was gloomy, but he could see a figure seated behind a large oak desk.

So this was the fabled Black Widow of Whitehall. She was indeed, as legend said, clad all in black, and even had a veil covering more than half of her face. He had time to wonder if that veil covered some horrible scar or birthmark before the lady indicated a seat on his side of the desk. “Please, Captain Carlyon, be seated.” Her voice was cool with a hint of steel.

Fitz remembered himself with a start, sketched a hasty and hopefully elegant bow and sat. Best under the circumstances to do as he was told. He was in no position to bargain, and he had a feeling that his monetary problems were to do with this summons.

She regarded him from the far side of the desk.

Through somewhat myopic and drink-addled eyes, he regarded her back, aware of unaccustomed heat in his cheeks. How was it he felt as though he were back at school in front of his old Headmaster, the Reverend George Heath?

He resisted the impulse to physically shake off that feeling.

How old was she? Difficult to tell with that veil covering her face, but she had a trim, girlish figure, and her hands possessed long, slender fingers any young lady might be happy to possess. If he wasn’t in such a pickle he might have made a play for her as he was fond of older women. He pushed that thought back where it belonged and took a better look at her. In one hand, she held a pen, as he seemed to have come upon her in the act of writing.

“I hear you are somewhat financially embarrassed,” she said, at last. That was all. Nothing else. Just the simple statement.

No good denying it. He nodded. “You hear correctly.”

“Betting on snails is not to be advised. At least, not if your financial reputation depends upon it.”

Was that a twitch of a smile on her lips?

He forbore from saying he knew that now and would have known it earlier had he not been so foxed and led into it by the nose by Dugdale. That would have been a feeble excuse, and he had his reputation to think of.

She made the sort of sound his mother had been wont to do when she discovered one of his misdemeanors as a child, which made him want to squirm, as he’d done back then. It was only with great self-control that he didn’t.

She set down the pen. “My information is that you are unable to fulfil your promissory notes and are at risk of being sent forthwith to the Fleet.”

Fitz briefly considered brazening it out and assuring her he could find the wherewithal somewhere and that she need not concern herself in his affairs, but then, sensing rather than seeing her penetrating gaze, thought better of such foolhardiness. “You are unfortunately right. The only excuse I can give is that I am somewhat in my cups and, alas, have rather gone astray.” Blaming Dugdale would not have done, even though he was sure his friend should shoulder at least some of the responsibility. He’d keep that thought to himself. Mrs. Dove Lyon exuded the aura of one who would not like to hear excuses.

She folded her hands on the desk in front of her. “You could still be classed as a young man, Captain, and young men must kick over the traces from time to time.” She paused. “And you are from an excellent family.” She smiled, but he had a feeling that smile did not reach her hidden eyes. “Although your mother contracted a marriage which her father did not approve of and ran away with a penniless young officer. A somewhat inauspicious start for you and your sister.”

“That’s true,” Fitz said, itching to make excuses for his mother, of whom he was very fond. “Although you must also know that my father was himself a younger son from a good family. One not quite so exalted as my mother’s, but with a title to their name. A Cornish family.” Although he was none too fond of the Cornish right now. A sight too protective of their criminals. Catching smugglers had been almost impossible during his five-year stint down there. Being half Cornish himself had not helped him at all.

However, the thought of someone disparaging his late father irked. “I’m sure you know that my late grandfather, my mother’s father, was the fourth Duke of Denby. My uncle, who frequents your establishment, has recently come into the title.” The temptation to assure her his uncle would fund his expenses arose, to be quashed by the suspicion that as she already knew his uncle, she would know it for a hopeful lie. The last thing Uncle Jasper would do was put his hand in his pocket for the man he considered the black sheep of the family.

Better hint at his father’s origins. “My cousin on my father’s side is Viscount Ormonde.” There was, after all, the vague chance that Cousin Kit and his infant son might die, an event which would provide Fitz, as his nearest male relative, with the title and estates.

She inclined her elegant head. “Not a gentleman who has graced the doors of my establishment, although, as you know, I cannot say the same for your uncle. In fact,” her eyes twinkled for a moment, visible even behind that veil, “when in town he is more often here than not.”

Of course he was. Uncle Jasper had never been able to control his impulses and as one of them was for gambling and the other for women, what better place was there to come than here? He might have a brood of seven children at home, but that did not prevent him, or rather it most likely encouraged him, to seek his pleasures elsewhere than in his own bedroom. “I daresay,” Fitz said, in an effort to keep his comment noncommittal.

“As you are still a young man by many standards,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said, her voice smooth. “I find it in me to wonder why it is you are not yet married when your sister already has a daughter of marriageable age.”

Good God. This woman knew everything. Or did perhaps Marianne’s apparently saintly and puritanical husband, Lord William Fortescue, frequent the Lyon’s Den? That would be a turn up for the books. Wouldn’t he like to be able to throw that at his often-disapproving sister’s feet. Might make her sit up and stare.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon gave a discreet cough.

“I’m not yet married,” Fitz said, winging it somewhat, “because as a lowly captain firstly in the hussars and more recently in the Cornwall Militia, I can’t afford it.” He narrowed his eyes at her, assessing whether to tell her the truth or not. Yes. The truth might be best. “And in order to maintain my lifestyle, or rather, the lifestyle to which I would like to be accustomed, I need to find myself a rich heiress. They’re surprisingly hard to find when everyone knows you’re the poor relation, even if it is of a ducal family. The mamas of suitable young ladies keep them close and don’t let them near the likes of me.” He gave a shrug. “Their dance cards are often unaccountably full when I ask them for a dance.”

A chuckle escaped the veil. “You are refreshingly honest, Captain Carlyon. Now, tell me. If the right young lady were to come your way, would you be prepared to enter into matrimony forthwith?”