Chapter Two

Monday, 24 April 1826

The Lyon’s Den, Whitehall, London

Five in the afternoon

M ary perused the three sheets of foolscap spread before her on Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s desk. At the top of each, broad strokes of a quill had resulted in three names. Below each ran a list of details, including age, status, family connections, rank among the Beau Monde, character traits—and one line that listed “Health and Form.” All three men apparently had “good” health and a “fair” form.

Which told Mary nothing. That bloody vicar had been in good health, although as round as a toad with tuffs of red hair circling his head like a mangy tonsure and a nose bulging with broken veins. She gave a little shudder, remembering his touch. Today she marveled that she had ever been so foolish. But then his caresses had brought comfort, reassurance that at least one person truly cared for her.

A childish delusion.

What made these men different? They were indebted to this woman—how could they be any more honorable? Or truly interested in building a family with her?

Kit touched her shoulder. “Are you well?”

Mary sighed. “Just remembering.”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon set down her teacup. The tea service had been replenished in the last ten minutes, and the strong aroma of the brew reached Mary. “They are not like your vicar.”

Mary’s gaze snapped to hers. Apparently, the proprietress also read minds. “How can you be so sure?”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon pointed at the pages. “Because I guard my reputation closely, and making such a foul match would do none of us any good. These men are also much younger, stronger, and from quality families. They are gamblers, as are most men of the ton , and they have stepped out of line—thus they owe me—but none have traversed as far across the line as your vicar.”

“He is not my—”

“Or you.”

Mary’s mouth snapped shut. Beside her Kit bristled. “Now see here—”

“Do you wish my help or not?”

Mary put a hand on Kit’s forearm but tilted her head toward their hostess, addressing her. “My brother and his wife, our families, have taken some desperate steps in attempts to protect me from the repercussions of my... failing. They wed quickly and took my child as their own, risking their own reputations. I also recognize that my brother’s new family has taken him in—and me—and he has found himself elevated in a way none of us expected. He has found a safe place under the wing of the Duke of Kennet. I mean to honor that, although I know I have put it all in jeopardy. The rumors put the possibility of me having a successful season at risk, and I know too that my brother has sought you out in pure desperation to see me settled in a secure position before he and Beth leave for India. He is trying to do his duty toward me.

“But please understand that because I have been a fool once... I do not wish to be one again.”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon took another sip of tea, paused, added another morsel of sugar from the matching bowl and stirred thoughtfully. “Do you trust me?”

Mary paused. “I have to, do I not?”

The older woman leaned back against her chair. “I do understand your concerns. I have been young. And occasionally acted three pence short of a shilling.”

Mary bit her lip.

With a smile, Mrs. Dove-Lyon stirred her tea again, set the spoon aside with a tiny clink, and pointed to one of the pages. “Him. Thaddeus Ephraim Bolton, second son, Earl of Crookham. All three have the usual cockiness of all aristocratic men”—she glanced at Kit—“but he has a bit more humility, and he has been at odds among society since the first and only woman he courted found herself whisked away by a father determined to marry her to wealth.”

Kit cleared his throat. “So he has no income.”

“A modest allowance. He is bright but without serious prospects, as his father will not allow him to pursue a profession in this country. Lord Thaddeus would not suit the Church and the military would not suit him. Latest rumor is that his father would prefer shipping him to America.”

Kit stiffened, looking at Mary. “America?”

“Lord Crookham is extraordinarily bereft in loyalty to his children—other than the heir—but this seems to be an idle threat meant to curtail his second son’s frequent visits here and to Campion’s Gentlemen’s Emporium.” She sipped her tea. “He likes to box.”

Mary looked down at the paper again, running her finger down the details. Six and twenty. She could not remember exactly how old the vicar had been, but he did have children much older than her. She had met the earl in the park, knew that the older son was married, with one child. Both had struck her as cold, aloof, but many of the men of the ton did as well, as if they could barely be bothered with any person who was not their peer in Parliament.

She pushed the paper back. “Does he have friends?”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s brows arched. “Friends?”

Kit too looked puzzled.

“Mates. People he would talk to. Rely on.”

A gentle smile crossed Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s face. “A few. The closest would be George Brothers.”

Kit chuckled, shaking his head. Mary looked at him, as did Mrs. Dove-Lyon. “Something you wish to share, brother?”

He grinned. “I know George Brothers. Richer than Croesus. His father invested heavily in mills and shipping sometime back. Inveterate prankster and gambler.” He lowered his voice. “So if they are such friends, why doesn’t Brothers pay off the debt?”

Again, the mischievous smile. “Because Lord Thaddeus will not let him. He would rather be indebted to me, no matter the consequences, than owe money to a friend.”

“Wise man,” Kit muttered.

Indeed. Mary took a deep breath. “So what do we do now?”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon looked from one to the other, then gave a slow nod. “A meeting. I will arrange it for here. Neutral territory.” She focused on Kit. “Send me your parameters for a marriage contract, so that he can be suitably informed, and I will send the details of the meeting.”

Tuesday, 25 April 1826

Campion’s Gentlemen’s Emporium, Whitechapel, London

Half-past three in the afternoon

“I warned you. You should have let me pay off that debt. Otherwise, this was a real possibility. Who is she?”

Thad shrugged. “The Lyon would not give me her name. I do not know if the woman is my perfect angel from yesterday or some widowed dragon who misses a man in her bed.”

George bounced an Italian-made stiletto in one hand, his fingers sliding over the grip and blade, lingering on the hilt, as if he were caressing his latest mistress. Admiration shone in his eyes. “God, I love this knife. Probably not one of the dragons. They can have any man they want.” He wagged the knife at Thad. “I know that all too well. Widows don’t pay the consequences young maidens do.”

Thad looked around. They sat at the far rear of the boxing salon, on one of the hardest benches Thad had ever planted his derriere on. He shifted, glancing at the fight currently in process in the center ring. Both fighters had drawn blood and looked dazed, but neither had surrendered. The catcalls around them drowned out the sound of the continuous punches. “Not after a certain age.” He turned back to George and pointed at the wall nearest them. “Third plank from the left. Knot about four feet up.”

“How much?”

“Five pounds.”

“I’ve always fancied older women.” George smile turned wicked. “They know what they’re about. Especially in the bedroom. Ten.”

Thad nodded. “Ten. I forget that your actress is almost forty.”

“Forty-three. You’ve lost track.” George stood, bounced the stiletto again, then held it lightly by the tip, aimed, and let fly. It flipped and embedded into the wall, six inches above the knot. Grinning, he took out his wallet and handed Thad a ten-pound note. He paused a moment, then added a twenty-pound note. “For yesterday.”

Thad tucked them away. “But you won’t be marrying your actress.”

George retrieved the stiletto and sat next to Thad. “Not that I haven’t considered it. We are remarkably well suited.”

Thad coughed a laugh. “Not that you have mentioned this to your father.”

His friend returned the grin. “Nah. Da would not appreciate the sentiment. He still wants me to woo some sweet young debutante and add a title to our vast fortune.”

Thad stared at him. “He believes that’s possible.”

This time George was the one who shrugged. “Da is a dreamer. Always has been. The lack of invitations to any sort of Society event has not yet dissuaded him. He has even made a list of families who have the dual attraction of debuting daughters and lack of blunt due to mismanagement. He finds that an equation that might work for us.”

“Nothing more optimistic than a deluded dreamer.”

George tucked the stiletto into a sheath in his boot. “What are you going to do?”

“Not much I can do. The meeting is tomorrow morning. Ten.”

“Ghastly early. Is that why you’re not drinking?”

“That and I haven’t eaten today. Ale without bread is not a good mix for me. Inevitably leads to more debt.”

George peered at him, and Thad wondered briefly if his friend knew exactly why he had not eaten that day.

Apparently he did. “You can’t be that anxious.” He paused. “You’ve spent your allowance.”

“Only five more days to the first of the month.” Thad patted his pocket. “And thirty pounds goes a long way.”

George stood. “If you’re eating pies off a costermonger.”

“Some people live an entire year, two years even, on thirty pounds.”

“And they live in the Rookeries.” George gestured to the door. “I know a pub where the women are warm, the stew hot, and the ale cold as ice. Let us indulge before you trod off to your doom, my friend.”