Page 5 of The Lyon and the Lamb

Roland tugged at his sleeve and made puppy eyes at him.

Leo couldn’t help but smile. “Very well. I shall consider dining at the Lyon’s Den. I’m not going to get myself involved in anything more complicated than that, however.”

Unless he received word that the merchant ships had run into difficulties on the voyage. If that happened, he might find himself grateful for whatever scheme his brother, or the mysterious Mrs. Dove-Lyon, could come up with for him.

Chapter Three

It had taken Araminta over a week to build up the courage but now here she was, standing in front of the blue-painted building on Cleveland Row known as the Lyon’s Den. The carriage was tucked down a back street several blocks away, and she was once again incognito behind her mourning veil.

Drawing in a breath, she took a step forward, but before she could touch the knocker, a shape materialized in front of her, barring her way. She repressed a scream, and looked up, then looked up still more until she met the eyes of the giant now obstructing her. He wore a dour expression and carried one gloved hand stiffly against his side—a war wound, no doubt. He had the harsh, haunted look of a veteran. It was as much as she could do not to take a step back, or even turn tail.

But she was Lady Araminta Lamb, Respectable Widow, and had decided not to be cowed by anybody, particularly men. Her business might not be in the least bit respectable, but nobody needed to know that. Yet.

“Good morning, madam. I must inform you that the ladies’ entrance is around the side.”

“Oh. But I have business with the proprietress, Mrs. Dove-Lyon.” Surely, she didn’t look like a servant or a tradesperson? She lifted her chin and glared at the man.

He sketched her a bow. “I beg your pardon, but this entrance is for gentlemen only. I shall conduct you to the ladies’ entrance and make sure Mrs. Dove-Lyon knows you’re here. What name shall I give?”

Should she call herself Mrs. Bellamy again? Would that not get her into all kinds of hot water with Mrs. Dove-Lyon? Although she’d heard rumors about the Lyon’s Den, it had been impossible to substantiate any of them or to be absolutely certain of the names of those involved in the scandals that emanated from that place. Evidently, the proprietress knew how to be discreet.

“Can I rely on your discretion, Mr. er—”

“They call me Titan, ma’am.”

Of course, they did. Although Atlas or Hercules would probably have done just as well. Despite his appearance, the man knew his manners.

She lowered her voice. “Please inform Mrs. Dove-Lyon that Lady Araminta Lamb is here.”

The giant nodded again, then ushered her around the side of the building to an alternative entrance. Opening the door, he invited Araminta to precede him up some steps, through a robing room, and into a well-appointed parlor.

“If you would care to be seated, Lady Lamb, I’ll send word to Mrs. Dove-Lyon. Can I offer you refreshment?”

She tried to picture this larger-than-life creature pouring tea into a delicate porcelain cup and failed. Anyway, her stomach was tied in such a knot, it would reject anything she tried to put into it.

She shook her head. “No, thank you.”

The man vanished just as suddenly as he’d appeared, and she was left to gaze around the room. But her brain took in nothing of her surroundings. She was seething with nerves, and it took every ounce of her strength not to retreat from this strange place where a woman ruled the roost, where men lost fortunes and gained wives by devious means, and wagers were laid on the most imaginative of outcomes. There was supposedly a floor upstairs where unmentionable happenings occurred. Certainly not a safe place for a vulnerable young widow to be.

Araminta squared her shoulders. She’d stood her ground with the intractable Earl of Aylsham, hadn’t she? And here, she was a bona fide customer with enough money—she hoped—to afford Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s extortionate fees, so she shouldn’t feel threatened. She must think of Belinda—she was doing this for her sister as much as for herself. Belinda called Forty Court home and needed to be restored to that place of security before she slipped any further into melancholia.

A door opened, and with a rustle of bombazine, a veiled woman, attired all in black, entered the room and offered her hand to Araminta.

“Lady Lamb. Please accept my condolences on the recent loss of your husband.”

“Allow me to return the same sentiment to yourself.”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon laughed as she indicated a chair and took another for herself. “Be seated. And please—I don’t need your sympathy. My husband is long gone. I have my reasons for choosing to continue in this garb. However, I would be most gratified if you could remove your veil, as I’d like to see with whom I’m dealing. I assume you’re here as a client?”

Araminta lifted her veil and hoped that her skin was not too pale and her thick, chestnut hair not too untidy. She wanted to make a good impression on the mysterious woman in front of her.

“You refused Titan, but perhaps I may offer you something?”

“No, thank you.” Araminta wanted her visit to be as brief as possible, while her courage still held.

“Very well.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon folded her hands in her lap and tilted her head to one side. “Tell me what I can do for you.”

“I assume that what I say to you will go no further?” If only she could see the woman’s face! It was impossible to assess someone’s trustworthiness when their expression was hidden.