Page 4 of The Lyon and the Lamb

Roland rolled his eyes, then glanced outside. “I think I should like to go out for a walk. Will you join me?”

“No. Forgive me. I’m weary from a full day at the home. I’ve been playing games with the children, which is more exhausting than you can possibly imagine.” He stared at his brother. “You ought to come and spend some time with them—Mama would’ve wanted you to.”

“Maybe. And perhaps, in the meantime, I can make some inquiries about this Mrs. Bellamy of yours, who seems to have got beneath your skin. In fact, I’ll come and help you with the little orphans, if, in exchange, I can tempt you to one night at the tables.”

Before Leo could react, his brother had raised his hand dismissively. “No, don’t say me nay yet. We’ll take a limited amount of money each—we’ll just leave if we make no progress. But if one day soon, you come to the Lyon’s Den with me, I can assure you of a damned good meal and doubtless some unusual entertainment before play begins. The proprietress, Mrs. Dove-Lyon, is most inventive in the methods she uses for keeping gentlemen entertained. I’ll have a word next time I’m there, and make sure she’ll enroll you as a member. She knows pretty much everything about everyone, so there shouldn’t be any problem getting you accepted.

“No doubt because you love sharing tittle-tattle.” What had Roland been saying about him? Leo sucked in a breath. His brother was wearing his “brilliant idea” expression—it was time to be diplomatic, or they would end up crossing swords again.

“You’d better head out for your walk now before it gets dark. I swear there was rain on the wind. I felt a few spots as I rode home.”

“Don’t try to distract me. I have an excellent plan bouncing around in my head—I just need to get it straight. And as I keep telling you, if you used a carriage, you wouldn’t need to worry about the weather.”

As always, the hair rose on the back of Leo’s neck. He had hated carriages with a passion ever since he’d fallen out of one as a child. But that was a secret he intended to take to his grave. No one need know that the great, the benevolent, the well-connected, the impeccable Earl of Aylsham was frightened of carriages.

“I think I’ll settle down with the newspaper.” He took up a copy of The Courant and chose the chair closest to the fireplace, then pretended to be deeply absorbed, in hopes that his brother would not pursue his “idea” any further.

Roland drummed his fingers on the edge of the desk, blithely ignoring the hint. “I’ll go in a moment. But I’ve just thought of something that will solve all our financial problems. One of us must marry an heiress! Preferably you, as you’re the better catch.”

Leo closed his eyes and thrust away the pain. He’d been married once and had lost both wife and child at the same time. The agony of Elinora’s loss, and that of their baby son, had never diminished.

He lifted his hand and pressed his lips to the signet, saluting her memory. Keeping his voice as level as his shattered emotions would allow, he said, “I have no objection to you marrying an heiress, Roland. But please, leave me out of it. I refuse to put my neck in the noose of matrimony again. I remain true to the memory of Elinora and intend to spend the rest of my days as a bachelor. It’s far simpler that way—I have enough responsibility with the estates, the Foundlings’ Hospital, and my investments.” It had been almost three years since he’d lost his wife, but it felt like yesterday. He never wanted to endure such agony of loss again.

“I don’t think you understand the complexities of marriage, Roland,” he continued. “Our parents made it appear simple, but I can assure you, it’s not. You’d have to give up some of your ways if you were to wed, and I can’t see you liking that at all.”

“Oh, but it had far better be you, Leo. You have more to offer an heiress than I do. A title for a start, and good standing in society. Perhaps you should marry an American—I hear they adore titles. Then you can stop fretting over the hospital, we can get the townhouse painted, and do something about the roof at Brampton Hall.”

“Heiresses don’t grow on trees. I don’t know how you plan on discovering such a one.”

Dammit. He hadn’t meant to sound interested. His brother would see it as encouragement.

“Begging your pardon, Leo, you’ve lived like a hermit since Elinora’s demise. You know nothing of what goes on in London society, either the better half or the demimonde. Mrs. Dove-Lyon deals in heiresses.” Roland jutted his chin forward, as he always did when he warmed to a subject. “Those in need of a husband employ her as a matchmaker. And from what I’ve heard, not a single couple she’s united in matrimony has had anything to complain of. Her methods are somewhat unusual, but I can assure you that they’re always successful. If you make it known that you’re available, she’ll find you a wealthy wife, sure as eggs is eggs.”

Leo folded his paper and flung it down in exasperation. “Please curb your enthusiasm, brother. I have no intention whatsoever of falling in with your plans. From the sound of it, you shouldn’t either—this Mrs. Dove-Lyon sounds like a denizen of the London underworld. Neither she nor her gambling den can be trusted.”

Roland’s response was cut off by a knock on the door.

“Come.”

In reply to Leo’s command, a footman entered, bearing a letter on a silver salver.

“A note for your lordship,” he announced, bowing and backing away as soon as Leo picked up the missive.

He frowned. The handwriting was one he recognized and had learned to dread. “It’s from that dreadful Pargeter,” he growled, ripping open the letter.

“Pargeter?”

“You know, that rich-as-Croesus interloper who’s after the land on which the Foundlings’ Hospital stands. He’s certain he can make a mint out of it and keeps increasing his offer. The other trustees aren’t as conscientious as I am—one day, they’ll cave. The orphans will be forced to move out to the country, where there are no prospects.”

“Any new premises needn’t be too far out of town, surely? There are stagecoaches and mail coaches aplenty to keep you connected with what London has to offer.”

Leo grimaced. “The children will hate the upheaval.” As would he. “The move could end up being extremely expensive. And if Pargeter reneges on the deal, we could find ourselves bankrupt halfway through the process and stuck in a lengthy court battle to get the rest of the money out of him. It’s too risky.”

He stared at the note and the temptingly increased offer written there, then screwed the paper into a tight little ball and cast it into the fire, staring angrily as the flames consumed it. He rather wished they were consuming the writer, too.

“Then perhaps you should consider my suggestion and see if there are any wealthy widows in search of a decent, upright husband such as yourself. Come with me to the Lyon’s Den and at least see what the place has to offer. I can assure you that you’ll enjoy your evening, even if you don’t come away with a fortune in your pocket or a fiancée on your arm.”

“You’re incorrigible.” Leo stared gloomily into the flames. Maybe Roland was right. Would it be betraying Elinora’s memory if he were to step out into the light of society again—and perhaps even do something foolish but fun?