Page 17 of The Lyon Rampant

Chapter Eight

Belinda’s conversation with Roland had been uncomfortable, to say the least. He’d voiced his severe disapproval of the fact that she’d been working in a kitchen, even one of such renowned excellence as that in the Lyon’s Den. She’d tried to explain that Mrs. Dove-Lyon had forced her hand, but it carried no weight with Roland, who berated himself for being a very poor protector and ended up deciding that he must pull himself up by his bootstraps and change his ways.

Belinda emerged red-faced from the drawing room after their contretemps and almost walked into Caroline, who backed into the corridor, still undoing her bonnet.

“When did you get here? Have you been listening at doors, Caroline? Surely, that is beneath you.”

“Oh, no. I couldn’t hear anything through that door, anyway. But I was hoping you’d tell me what’s going to happen about the Lyon’s Den.”

“Well, if you genuinely weren’t listening at the door and didn’t catch any of our conversation, I should tell you that I’ve been permitted to carry out the rest of my sentence.”

“Oh, that’s splendid! Oh—I mean, you have been enjoying it, haven’t you? You love cooking, soup especially, and you’ve been getting such wonderful compliments.”

“I’m pleased our excursions make you happy, my dear. Particularly as you were initially most unwilling to be my co-conspirator. I’m glad the experience is not proving too dull for you.”

“Oh, no. It does me good to be away from Mother and Father. They tend to be somewhat stifling. I’m wondering if I should find myself fresh employment.”

“Why don’t you just move to Forty Court with the Aylshams? You’re already familiar with some of the inmates and have worked with them a great deal. The earl would be happy to have you back if you wish to escape your parents.”

Caroline frowned, then looked self-conscious. “I’d much rather stay in London. I just need to be out of the house more often. Forty Court is too far away from—” Her voice trailed off.

On any other occasion, Belinda might have questioned her friend about her conflicting views. Was there something else keeping Caroline in London, something she wanted to keep secret? However, Roland’s recent ultimatum was thundering around in Belinda’s brain, and it was as much as she could do to concentrate on the conversation. Further questioning would have to wait.

“Oh, but we mustn’t talk about me,” Caroline continued, coming back to herself. “Evidently, something has happened to put you out of sorts. Do I need to fetch your smelling salts?”

“That might be a good idea.” Although a stiff brandy would be better. However, the brandy decanter was kept in the room she’d just left. She collapsed onto the upholstered stool in the hallway, struggling to collect her thoughts.

Caroline returned with the salts. These roused Belinda instantly, and she shot up and cast a glance at the longcase clock. “Nearly noon. My doom is almost upon me.”

“Your doom?” Caroline packed the bottle away in her reticule. “It’s a long time since you made such a melodramatic remark. What exactly transpired with Mr. Chetwynd?”

“We are obliged to pay a visit to the London residence of Mr. Piers Darvill.”

“No, not that objectionable follow! We seem to be running into him all the time, and I never enjoy it. Is there no escape?”

“I’m afraid not. For some reason best known to himself, Mr. Chetwynd requires us to go carriage-riding with the man. I’ve no idea why, or where. It seems it will be greatly to Roland’s advantage if I comply—and also to mine, since he now knows that I’ve been working in Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s kitchen. He has the power to nip that activity in the bud immediately, should he wish to.”

“Caught between a rock and a hard place, my poor, dear Belinda. But of course, we must go with Mr. Darvill, if not doing so means you leaving the Lyon’s Den. When must we go?”

“Pretty much immediately. Gather your things. The man doesn’t live as far away as one might wish, so we may as well walk.”

As Caroline tied her bonnet, Belinda discerned a rosy flush on her friend’s cheek. How peculiar! Caroline was usually far too practical to be prey to any emotion and was thus the perfect foil for Belinda. So why was she blushing? Oh, dear! What if, despite her protestations, she’d developed a tendre for Mr. Darvill? This could make life exceedingly difficult.

By the time they reached the smart townhouse just off Russell Square, Belinda’s heart was thudding rapidly. Not with the exertion, because she was determined to neither arrive early nor on time. No—the hammering of her heart was because she was going to meet with her tormentor, with no idea of what he had planned for her. She’d have to keep her wits about her and find a way to undermine his plans without endangering her own.

“Oh, I say. Is that the vehicle we’re going to be riding in? I declare—the wheel is almost up to my chin!” Belinda quailed as she surveyed the high-perch phaeton. It was, indeed, exceedingly high off the ground, higher than riding a horse and looking a good deal less safe. She’d done little riding of any kind, but she mustn’t appear frightened, or Darvill would laugh at her.

Caroline touched her on the arm. “Mr. Darvill is a renowned whip. You should be quite safe with him, even if he does choose to tool along a little quickly. Just think how superior you’ll feel, sitting up above everybody else! And you’ll be able to see into some people’s gardens.”

Caroline’s attempts to calm her fears relaxed Belinda, and she managed to smile. “I suppose we’d better beard the lion in his den.” Holding her head high, she mounted the steps and rattled the door knocker.

The door was opened with alacrity, not, to her surprise, by a footman, but by Mr. Darvill himself. Of course—they’d kept him waiting. He’d probably been dressed and ready an age ago, and had been pacing grumpily around the house ever since. Good. She pasted a smile on her face.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Darvill. I understand you are to take us for a drive today.”

His grin was disarming, giving every impression that he was pleased to see her. He’d dressed with great care—he was sporting a forest-green suit, excellently tailored to show off his fine figure, and his abundant dark hair had been carefully brushed forward in the fashionable Brutus style. With his high-crowned riding hat adding to his already considerable height, he positively towered over Belinda and her companion.

“Miss Bellamy. Miss Brent.” He removed his hat and bowed. “I apologize for my apparent haste, but the horses are becoming restless and we need to depart as soon as possible. I regret that there’s no space to take you up as well, Miss Brent, but if you go inside, I have a very pleasant library where you will receive tea and ginger cake from my housekeeper, who you will find an excellent conversationalist.”