Page 6 of The Lyon’s Paw

“The two former I can certainly offer,” Geoffrey peered into the empty glass and sighed. “The latter two I doubt many ladies of my acquaintance would agree with. If you have not noticed, Thomas, I do not always have the kindest of manners. Even I know I tend to be gruff and sometimes surly if vexed. As for being a loving husband,” he grunted, “I do not know that I will ever be able to make that claim. Especially to a woman I am marrying first and foremost for her money.”

“But you do have the capacity to try to love her, don’t you Geoffrey?” Thomas’s gaze bore into him.

“Well, of course I will make every effort to love her.” Geoffrey would make the attempt, although he had grave doubts about the success of the endeavor. He knew himself too well not to where women were concerned. Try as he might, when out in Society he always seemed to do or say the wrong thing. And when anything went wrong, of course his temper did get the better of him. As it had that horrible day in June. He shuddered at the thought.

“Then that is all anyone can ask of you, my friend.” Thomas rose. “Come, let us go find Honoria and tell her I must go to London to help you find a bride.”

“So yet another woman will have reason to be dissatisfied with me.” Geoffrey shook his head as Thomas chuckled and led him out of the library.

His friend was likely correct. The only recourse to finding the funds he so desperately needed was to marry a fortune. That didn’t make it any more palatable to someone like Geoffrey who had traditional ideas about love and family. Unfortunately, it seemed that to secure the future of the latter he’d have to eschew any hope of the former.

Seated in the cramped office of a rather peculiar establishment her aunt called The Lyon’s Den, Diana looked around cautiously at the piles of papers strewn over the small desk, the pictures of women in strange poses on the walls, and the ornate golden bird cage on a stand behind the desk where a pair of love birds fluttered, squeaking amicably. Aunt Frances sat beside her, waiting patiently for someone she knew to come talk to them about finding Diana a husband. That was all her aunt had told her on the way over, although Diana hadn’t liked the sound of it when her aunt had called the woman they were going to see a matchmaker.

Of course, Diana knew she had to marry someone or lose all the money Uncle George had left her. She only wished she had time to find a man she at least liked and respected. The best she could hope for now was someone she could tolerate. Why hadn’t Uncle George, or at the very least Mr. Boniface, told her about the marriage stipulation before now? But then they both thought she was already betrothed. If only she hadn’t told her uncle that little white lie, she might have had more warning about the situation. She couldn’t help but think the cards were stacked against her.

The door opened suddenly, making Diana jump as a short woman entered wearing black clothing including a veil that obscured her face. Had she had a recent death in her family? Diana peered closer at the swathed figure.

“Mrs. Dove-Lyons, how good of you to see us.” Aunt Frances stood and motioned for Diana to rise as well. “I am Mrs. Henry Beaumont. I doubt you’d remember me, but we met once—”

“Almost twelve years ago, Mrs. Beaumont.” The shrouded figure nodded. “You were Miss Reed then, about to marry Charles Nichols.”

“You prevented me and introduced me to Mr. Beaumont, for which I still give you daily thanks.”

Aunt Frances’s words made Diana’s head swivel toward her so quickly, her neck popped. She leaned toward her aunt, intent on asking her to explain, but Aunt Frances shook her head slightly and Diana shrank back, shocked and puzzled. She’d no idea her aunt’s marriage had been arranged.

“I am happy to hear you are still pleased with your marriage.” Mrs. Dove-Lyons sat and indicated for them to take their seats once more.

“Mr. Beaumont is the kindest of husbands, I must say, Mrs. Dove-Lyons. I couldn’t have asked for a better. He’s from home at the moment and I miss him sorely.” Aunt Frances smiled at the lady. Uncle Henry, a classics scholar, was currently in Switzerland as a bear leader for a group of young gentlemen on a Grand Tour.

Diana sank down onto the chair, still staring at her aunt. Today was a day for revelations.

“What can I do for you, Mrs. Beaumont?”

“My niece, Miss Edgerton, needs to marry and quickly.”

Although she couldn’t see the woman’s face for her veil, Diana could imagine Mrs. Dove-Lyons’ expression at that statement and interjected, “In order to inherit my uncle’s fortune, ma’am. It’s a stipulation of his will that I marry within a week.”

“Six and a half days, to be exact.” Aunt Frances put in. “And dear Diana has no acquaintance for whom she has a tendre or special affection. With time so short, I told her we must consult with you if she is to find a suitable gentleman in time.”

Mrs. Dove-Lyons nodded. “A wise decision to be sure. Unfortunately, my usual cadre of eligible bachelors has vanished I am sorry to say. At present, the only gentleman who is, to my knowledge, actively seeking a bride is Sir Harry Bowles.”

“Sir Harry Bowles?” Aunt Frances looked at Diana, frowning. “Did you meet him during the Season, my dear? Do you recall a young gentleman of that name?”

“Sir Harry was not present at the entertainments of the past Season, Mrs. Beaumont.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s voice held a note of mirth. “He is long past his days of dancing.”

“How long past?” Her aunt glanced at Diana who held her breath.

“Sir Harry is currently five and sixty years old.”

Diana gasped. That was not anything she’d bargained for at all. “I cannot marry…what are you…” She waited a moment to collect her scattered thoughts. “Why would Sir Harry wish to wed at such an advanced age?”

“The reason most men marry, my dear.” The figure turned toward Diana. “He needs an heir.”

“And hitherto he’d not been able to secure one?” Aunt Frances’ voice held a tinge of skepticism.

“His wife of thirty-four years was sadly barren. She died two months ago and although Sir Harry has been inconsolable, he knows he still has a chance to produce an heir if he can find another wife.” Mrs. Dove-Lyons shrugged. “He asked me to find him a bride and I’ve been doing my best, but again it’s too soon after the regular Season to find many unmarried young ladies with an eye toward matrimony with an elderly gentleman.” The woman seemed to be staring straight at Diana. “Unless they had reasons of their own to accept such a match.”

Diana turned to her aunt, aghast at how this interview was transpiring. “Aunt, you cannot expect me to marry a man older than Uncle George,” she whispered, horrified at the mere thought of such a thing.