Page 2 of The Lyon and the Lamb

Aylsham’s breath hissed between his teeth. “I can assure you there’s no similarity between this home and a prison. These children are cosseted, educated, and cared for. They’ll be able to exercise their own judgment and make choices when they’re old enough. They’ll be free to enter the world beyond these walls as soon as we’re certain they can find their way and will manage with little difficulty.”

“You don’t think the children would flourish even more in the bosom of a loving family?” For she would shower affection upon any child she could call her own. At one time, she’d been eager to give Horatio all her affection, but he’d mocked the idea of love within a marriage. Her love had been dammed up inside, rejected, eventually turning to poison and bitterness. Having a child in her life would turn her back into a human being again. It would certainly delight Belinda. But Lord Aylsham had no right to know any of that, the hateful fellow. Her pain must be kept hidden—it was the only way to survive.

The light from the window glittered like flint in his grey eyes as he faced her. “One could hardly call you, a widow, a ‘loving family’. Were you to return here with a husband, your veil removed, and documentation to prove your identity, it would be an entirely different matter.”

“Perhaps I should apply to the Board of Trustees—they might take a different approach.” She knew she was grasping at straws now. Her inquiries had suggested that Aylsham’s word was final on most matters to do with the charity. But there might be a loophole in the charity’s constitution, just as there had been in Horatio’s will.

Thank heaven for that mistake! Thank heaven also for the fact that she’d seen a copy of the will before returning home with Belinda to Forty Court. The wording required that a “child of his body or of his wife’s, born within the first five years of their marriage” could inherit, with his wife administering the estates until that child came of age. The “or” should have been “and” but the Lamb family lawyer must have had one too many drinks when he’d checked the paper through.

Lord Aylsham sucked in a breath, reminding her of his presence. “I cannot prevent you from speaking to the other trustees, of course. It would be a waste of your time, however, as we have a charter and articles which would prevent any one person from doing something against the interests of the charity, the other trustees, or the children. How can I put it any more plainly? These children are not for sale.”

It took all her willpower not to slap him, odious creature! But he was too broad-shouldered, too strongly erect and stiff. It would be like hitting a brick wall—which his nature very much resembled.

“Society will be interested to discover you don’t have the children’s best interests at heart.”

His mouth twitched. “Blackmail, Mrs. Bellamy? Do you think I’m afraid of gossip?”

She glanced sideways at his raven-black hair, his determined chin, and unrelenting expression.

“Perhaps you should be,” she retorted, then instantly regretted her words. She was losing this battle. She needed to retreat and regroup. Ducking her head, she maneuvered around him toward the door. “I’d better go.”

He strode across the room and held the door open for her again. “Exactly what I’ve been telling you. Farewell, Mrs. Bellamy.”

She tried to keep her head high and her shoulders straight as she walked down the corridor. A uniformed beadle bowed to her and opened the double doors onto the busy London street.

Behind her, she could still hear the laughter and shouts of the children at play, and her heart clenched painfully in her chest. Tears stung her eyes. The encounter with Lord Aylsham had bruised and shaken her, and she narrowly avoided being struck by a stylish barouche as it sped over the cobbles of Wren Street.

“Put yourself together, woman. You have to be the strong one.”

She sucked in deep breaths of the chill spring air, and wryly noted the date—it was the Ides of March, an ominous date indeed. Perhaps she should not have expected a successful endeavor at such an inauspicious time.

The wind whipped at her skirts as she turned the corner into the street where her carriage had been left, out of sight of curious eyes. The carriage was draped in black, pronouncing her a widow but not revealing the Lamb family crest. It was essential that her business in London be conducted anonymously.

Her coachman alighted to hand her up into the carriage, where Belinda was waiting for her, her beautiful face pale and strained.

She stared at Araminta, at her hands, and then behind her. Her jaw dropped.

The carriage lurched into movement as Belinda exclaimed, “You haven’t got one! You said you were going to get a baby!”

Araminta seized her sister’s hand. It wouldn’t do for the girl to have one of her tantrums in a carriage in the middle of the street. She still hadn’t forgotten the awful moment Belinda had learned of the impossible terms of Horatio’s will and had torn at her face and hair, howling like a banshee as the blood began to flow. She gave the hand in hers a reassuring squeeze.

“These things take time, my darling. And the wheels of the law move slowly, so we have just as much time as we need to make things right.”

And she would make things right.

The last thing she wanted was for the unstable Belinda to be put into an asylum. She must give the girl whatever she needed to make her secure and happy. An adopted child would be a boon to them both, but if the intolerable Lord Aylsham could not be swayed, there were only two alternatives.

Both were drastic and riddled with risk. She must become pregnant immediately and return to Forty Court with a child before the year was out. Or she must find herself a husband at excessively short notice.

There was one thing she could do that might achieve both ends, but it would mean entering a place where no lady ought to go—she must pay a visit to the most notorious gambling house in London.

She must enter the Lyon’s Den.

Chapter Two

“We could do with a lick of paint in here.” The Honorable Roland Chetwynd, Leo’s younger brother, glanced at the bare walls of the study. “Are we too poor now to keep up appearances in the London house?”

Leo frowned. “Don’t remind me.” He reached across his desk for the brandy decanter, poured himself a generous measure, then put some back. If he was to keep the Foundlings’ Home free from interference, he needed to save every penny.