Page 10 of The Lyon and the Lamb

Down below, Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s staff had returned, each bearing baskets which they took round so that the men could collect the prizes. The blond gentleman seemed very happy with his bolt of silk, and the mousy-haired one was thrilled with his Jeroboam of Champagne and performed a brief and rickety jig.

Mr. Raven-hair stared at his ticket for many moments, then shook his head as if unable to believe what he read there. He then began pacing around the room, and finally, he glanced up at the balcony and locked gazes with Araminta.

He knew. He knew he was looking at his prize. Her heart flipped in her breast and a shiver coursed through her.

He couldn’t possibly know what—or rather, whom—he had won. She was far too well concealed for that. What mattered more was who he was since he was going to play such an important part in her life. Why could she not know his name, his status, or his occupation until after they’d spent the night together? It seemed cruel and strange, unfair to both of them that they should not know until much later what they had gained. Or lost.

She didn’t move. Holding his gaze boldly, she wondered what color his eyes were, and whether or not his features would be pleasant. No—what did that matter? It was what lay in his heart and mind that would determine what their future should be.

He remained staring at her silently for a moment longer, then gave her an elegant bow before turning to one of the many veterans who served Mrs. Dove-Lyon. He must have asked a question, because the fellow nodded his head, and the dark-haired man disappeared from view.

Araminta reached for her wineglass and was delighted to see it had been refilled. She drained it to the very last drop, then turned away from the balcony and saw the same female servant who’d undressed her, waiting for her.

She swallowed hard. This was it. Her future, and those whose futures depended upon her, rested on the encounter that was to come. By heaven, this plan had to work! Otherwise, she would be completely, utterly ruined.

Chapter Five

Leo followed the masked woman up the stairs. The night had taken on a dreamlike quality—in fact, if he hadn’t made every effort to be moderate in his drinking, he might imagine he was drunk. Not that he was swaying or feeling as if he were about to cast up his accounts—it felt more as if there was a buffer between him and reality, and that nothing he did in this strange half-world truly mattered.

Only—it did. Somewhere above, so his lottery ticket had informed him, a woman who was in search of a husband awaited him. And he, as Roland had pointed out more times than he could remember, needed her inheritance.

No! This was wrong. Where was Roland? He was familiar with the Lyon’s Den—why hadn’t he put a stop to this tomfoolery?

Leo spun around, grabbed the handrail, and attempted to return to the dining room—only to discover his path blocked by two powerfully-built gentlemen, clad in the garb of servants. They bowed their heads politely, turned him back the way he’d been facing, and escorted him back up the stairs. Even in his befuddled state, he knew it wasn’t wise to struggle with two giants on the stairs.

On the landing above, the female servant vanished, to be replaced by a woman dressed entirely in black and masked. Not the same woman he’d seen on the balcony before—his body didn’t react at all to this one.

“Lord Aylsham, you’re most welcome. Congratulations on winning tonight’s grand prize. Trust me—you won’t regret participating.”

This must be the fabled Mrs. Dove-Lyon. He bowed. “I regret it already, ma’am. Is it permissible to refuse the prize?”

“It is, but I wouldn’t advise it.” Her tone was no longer friendly. “Particularly not in your case. You’re concerned about the future of your foundlings’ hospital. A certain Mr. Pargeter is keen on buying and demolishing the buildings so he can make commercial use of the land. You don’t currently have the funds to prevent this. No, don’t shake your head at me. You winning the grand prize was no coincidence.”

Indeed—he suspected as much. Mrs. Dove-Lyon must have made inquiries about him. Had she been in league with that scoundrel, Roland? He’d have something to say about that.

She tapped his elbow with her fan. “Not only will you obtain a highly desirable young wife who can bring you a regular income, but you’ll have made an ally of myself. I have many connections and can do you as much harm as I can do you good. So, you see, it’s most certainly in your best interests to accept your prize.”

It was a trap, as Leo had suspected when he’d been handed that ticket—he’d been deliberately targeted, so Roland must be in on the scheme. He didn’t like having his hand forced by others, particularly when not in full control of his faculties. He’d been drugged—he must have been. It was the only explanation for his current state.

However, the opportunity of acquiring a wealthy wife did sound like a good prospect, although he preferred to judge for himself whether or not a woman was desirable. He’d be taking a less risky gamble than he had with the missing cotton shipments.

Besides—he wasn’t only doing this for himself. He was doing it for the orphans, sacrificing himself for the good of the many. It was his own folly that had put the Foundlings’ Hospital in jeopardy, and he ought to pay the price.

“Very well. Where is she? And who is she, more to the point?”

The hostess tilted her head to one side. “There’ll be no introductions. There’ll be no speech at all, in fact. You are to spend the night together. In the morning, so long as the lady is still agreeable to the arrangement, you may procure a special license—my contacts will smooth that process for you.”

So, his would-be bride could refuse him, but he could not refuse her? That rankled. But it also filled him with a powerful determination to ensure the woman would not refuse him. He would make her want him—his pride could not permit any other outcome.

He pushed his shoulders back. “Then I’m ready. Take me to her, if you will.”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon nodded. “When you step through the door, you’ll find yourself in complete darkness. Don’t be alarmed—there’s very little in the room that you could trip over. Beside the door—you should be able to feel it when you walk in—is a chair. Disrobe and lay your clothes up on that chair.”

Heat flowed into his cheeks. How could he be talking to a complete stranger, and a woman to boot, about something so intimate as undressing? The situation was too peculiar—maybe he was asleep and having a bizarre dream. Had he eaten something at supper that disagreed with him?

As she reached for the door handle, his hostess reminded him once more that he was not to speak once inside. Eager to discover what awaited him—dream or no—he nodded his acquiescence and entered.

He was met by a feminine gasp from the other side of the room—where the bed was located, presumably. Locating the aforementioned chair with his knee, he threw off his cloak and mask and removed his clothes. Cool air caressed his naked flesh, but he wasn’t cold—they must have warmed the room earlier, then put a curfew over the fire. Reaching out, his fingers touched thick, flocked wallpaper.