Chapter Three

"This way."

Quin gave the large, mottle-faced doorman a nod, then followed him across the threshold of the four-story structure housing the Lyon's Den. Cautiously, the doorman guided him to a steep set of stairs that led to an opulent landing. Women funneled in and out from one room to the next with clouds of wispy hair and smoky, seductive eyes. At the top of the landing, another man guarded a closed door.

Why was the guard necessary?Had recent violence warranted the decision? Undoubtedly, business at the gambling den determined the need. These types of places were filled with iniquity, though he cast no aspersions on his cousin for the choices she'd been forced to make.

The doorman passed him off to the stern guard, who, in turn, hurriedly opened another door leading to an anteroom. "Make yourself comfortable," he said. "The abbess will be with you shortly."

"Thank you." He'd no more than said the words before the door clicked shut, sealing him inside. Curious about the secrecy, he glanced around the chamber, his mind buzzing with questions. The anteroom was luxuriously decorated with lush fabrics, expensive carpets, papered walls, and polished splendor. As he moved to the office beyond, a library of betting books and ledgers occupied a bookcase along with first editions of a culled assortment of classical reading. Feminine touches confirmed a proprietress had taken over the space, with traces of male influence, leather and tobacco, faintly suppressed by beeswax and lemon.

He approached the large, ornate desk, imagining the mergers and millstones indebted to Bess, and those called to quarter and quittance. Fraught females with nowhere else to turn. Bored men seeking pleasure. Those in need of a challenging game of chance. Escapees of scandal and vice. The desperate and despicable, hunted and hounded.

Threadneedle Street supported businesses like this one with good reason. The Lyon's Den's formidable reputation stemmed from Bess's quick mind and a keen awareness of the depravity and depth of humanity. Her triumph as a courtesan had earned the attention of her husband, Colonel Lord Sandstrom T. Lyon. After his death, she'd combatted snobbery, while prosperity and fortitude brought her good fortune. He had to wonder how many unwitting souls had entered her office searching for companionship and monetary gain, while anticipating the Black Widow of Whitehall's stipulations.

How many had groveled before her over unimaginable gambling debts? Was he not like them, seeking his cousin for an incredible favor? Indeed, his presence there was a gamble. Bess could refuse him. It had been an age since they'd last spoken—five years to be exact. His travels and investments into mining and horseracing demanded the bulk of his time. Fifteen years separated them in age, but neither of them had ever seemed to notice.

He glanced around the room, speculating how long it would take to find out exactly where his luck would lead. An establishment such as this one, with personnel and patrons to manage, surely occupied every spare moment of a proprietor's time.

I should have sent a note beforehand. Warned her I was coming.But there hadn't been time.

He studied the books lining the wall. Bess had always enjoyed enriching her mind, so it was no surprise at all to find a volume of Gnomologia: Adagies and Proverbs, a compilation by Dr. Thomas Fuller, a proverbial English physician, dated 1732. Next to it was Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream, which had always been her favorite.

He grazed his fingers over the volume, then pulled out his pocket watch—ironically, a gift from Bess. Rubbing his thumb over the interior, he repeated the words that had shaped his adult life. "‘Don't let your will roar when your power only whispers.'"

"Quin?" Bess's lively voice washed over him like cleansing rain, the sound unchanged, and as lyrical and youthful as ever. "Is it really you?"

He spun around, hardly startled by her appearance. She had led an eventful life, one few imagined for themselves. Dressed in black from head to toe, the widow's veil concealing her features quickly lifted and he beheld her beautiful face. Not surprisingly, she had hardly aged at all since the last time he'd seen her.

"Quin!" She rushed into his arms. "How long has it been?"

"Too long." Embracing her tightly, he soaked in the wasted years like a sponge. "Much too long, Bess."

They parted, eyes locking, hearts interwoven by the bloodlines that bound them. "I see you still have it."

"What?" He looked down, not realizing he still gripped his watch fob. "Ah. This. I always have it in my possession."

She smiled, the pierce and tug of their familial connections expertly weaving a path to the depths of his soul. "After all this time, I must ask, what has brought you here? There is only one thing to my knowledge that would drive you from Sevenoaks—Threadneedle Street. Am I mistaken?"

"Not Threadneedle Street." It was his turn to smile. "It's a quill of a different feather that I'm after this time."

"What kind of feather?" she asked as if she already knew. "And from what type of bird? A pretty one, I hope."

The mystifying variety I encountered along the Serpentine.He sucked in a breath, the admission coming from a place beyond logic and reason. "I find myself in need of a wife."

"You?" Her eyes widened with disbelief and she stared at him, as if totally bewildered. "You, of all people, have decided to become leg-shackled? I never imagined this day would come."

"Is that so surprising?" he asked, stepping away and marveling at the lifestyle his cousin had cut from the quarry. The desk's proximity to the bookcase separated her from visitors who entered her office seeking avarice and mercy. "So hard to believe?"

"Not at all," she said, recovering. "You are a man, after all. I just never thought I'd see the day when a member of our family would seek me..." Her eyes narrowed. "La, I understand what you are about now."

"Have I not always been an open book?"

"Only to the careless." Her bombazine skirts rustled as she moved. At a side table, she lifted a crystal decanter, motioning for him to join her. He gave her a nod, and without missing a beat, she poured two fingers of brandy in a tumbler, then carried the libation to him. "Well, you have come to the right place, though I do not understand your reasons for seeking my help. You are an extraordinary man, Quin. No woman alive would be foolish enough to deny you."

"Except the women at balls I attend who avoid me at all costs." Only one had offered him a smile, a moment to last a lifetime. His spirit of the Serpentine. Possibly the Lady of the Lake, mystical, magnificent, and mysterious. He accepted the glass and downed the entire contents, now more than ever, determined to find her. "If what you say is true, then the Season is asunder with fools."

She shrank back, her narrow stare snake-like, yet charming. "You have been in London all this time and did not let me know?"

"I thought I could do this on my own. I thought—"

"Society would accept you?" She frowned at his shrug.

"I do not know what I thought." He did relish the way the brandy helped him relax. "I suppose... I had hoped, with the merchant class slowly advancing in the ranks, that the ton might have forsaken their bias."

"Not in hundreds of years." Her contempt was unmistakable. "To wish it so would be vanity." She removed her kid leather gloves, one finger at a time. "But you are quite successful, are you not? A gentleman of noteworthy means now. These old names and houses stay relevant by replenishing their coffers through marriages of convenience, deep pockets and advantage."

"In that respect, I rejoice. I suffer little lack. And that is why I am here, Bess. I need help." It felt good and terrifying to admit. "Holding up a wall at these events is exhausting."

"Are you confessing that you've become a wallflower?" She laughed, then quickly sobered. "You are. Oh, dear. I see the rub."

"Do you, cousin? All my life, I have worked hard to improve my rank. And I have excelled in that regard, but to what end? Despite gaining admittance to several events in Town, I have faced derision and disapproval in every attempt to win the favor of the female sex."

"By hovering mamas, no doubt. Those foolish women indulge in gossip and strive to be the envy of others." She worked her lips as if the repugnant words burned them. "The irony is they pursue access to prestigious family lineages themselves." A flash of humor crossed over her face. "Yes. I understand your dilemma more than you know." She raised a finger to her mouth, the digit as slender and youthful as he remembered. "You need the help of someone familiar with these matters." She picked up a bell and rang it. "The help of someone at the cusp, someone trustworthy and true. A man who also happens to be a member of the ton."

Before he could inquire to whom she inferred, the door opened, and another veteran appeared. "Yes, abbess?"

"Locate Frost and send him to me."

The man bowed obediently before departing to do her bidding.

"Where were we?" she asked, not missing a beat as the door clicked shut.

"I have met someone," he blurted out before he lost his nerve.

"Who?"

"That is the problem. We were never introduced. I do not know her name, but I had hoped you could help me find her."

"Finding a girl in the whole of London is a Herculean feat. I cannot produce miracles out of thin air."

"There's more." He reached into his coat and produced a piece of parchment. "She was wearing this."

"A brooch?" She snatched the drawing from him. "This is how you expect me to identify her?"

"Yes," he said refusing to appear ridiculous. "You have always been fond of trinkets." He shifted his feet and glanced around the room. "And I assume that you have seen jewels like these in their many forms." When she didn't respond, he added, "It is a unique piece, is it not?"

"It is." Bess studied the sketch, her features altering from frustration to surprise. "You are talented and have rendered it beautifully. As it happens, I have seen this particular piece before." She moved to her desk, grabbed a ledger, opened it, and began thumbing through the pages. "No, indeed. This cannot be a coincidence. The odds are—"

"Not in my favor?"

A knock at the door interrupted them. "Enter!"

"You sent for me." A bedraggled man with a suspicious air and sporting perfect posture sauntered in, then brought himself up short. At the sight of Quin, his carriage mysteriously altered, like an actor appearing on stage, then mysteriously inhabiting another form. "Many pardons. I was not told that ye were already engaged."

The man's altered speech pricked his curiosity. Quin shot a look at Bess, then back to Frost, unapologetically confused. "How is this man supposed to assist us?"

"Frost is just the man to help us. And after studying this drawing, I am convinced of it more than ever." She waved her hand between the two men. "Mr. Quinton Prendergast. My associate, Peregrine Frost. He does investigatory work for me, among other things." She paused, allowing them time to acknowledge one another before adding, "More importantly, his real name is Lord Septimus Grey."

"Grey, you say?" He looked the man over, finding nothing of note about him, the name, of course, hinting at a long line of wealth and privilege.

"Mrs. Dove-Lyon, I object—"

"Hold." She gestured to Grey who became more alarmed by the second. "He's harmless and scarcely related to the Greys, but he is a Grey, nonetheless. Which is something you might find intriguing."

Grey staggered as if appalled. "This is—"

"Hush, Grey. Allow me to add that Prendergast is also a member of our family."

"Our family?" both he and Grey united to say.

As Quin took in Grey's measure, Grey did the same. Why was a nobleman masquerading as a lower-class laborer at the Lyon's Den, of all places?

"Come." Bess smiled sweetly, as mischievous and secretive as ever. "You are both quite aware that I had a life before owning the Lyon's Den."

"What is this about, Mrs. Dove-Lyon?"

"Frost," she said, upholding her charade and tenting her hands. "My cousin has recently arrived in London and requires our help."

"What kind of help does he require?" Grey asked suspiciously.

"The parson's mousetrap." Bess sat back and crossed her arms. "Do not look at me as if I have grown two heads. You are my son-in-law, are you not?"

"Son-in-law?" Quin's mouth dropped as he struggled to digest this news. That would mean—"How is this possible?" To his knowledge, Bess had never had a child, and her lifestyle did not warrant a seat at a nobleman's table. "Forgive my confusion, but I thought—"

"Quinton Prendergast! What other reason would Grey be here, and pretending to be someone else?"

For goodness' sake, he'd grown up on a farm. He understood reproduction. If Bess had given birth, no one in the family had been aware. "But—"

"I never told you about my daughter, which makes your incredulity understandable. Few know, and for reasons I am not at liberty to discuss. So, before we proceed, I must make you promise to keep our little secret."

"Of course." Though the reasons driving her to solicit such a vow disturbed him greatly. "Anything for you, Bess. You have my promise."

Grey cautiously waited for Bess's cue, while studying every inch of Quin, his suspicion obvious. A nod of approval set him free. "I am married to her daughter."

"And it is quite fortunate that you have come here looking for a wife, Quin. Grey's two sisters-in-law are in a desperate hurry to marry."

"Desperate?" he asked, wondering what she was getting him into.

Bess clucked her tongue. "It is nothing so vile as that. The girls are innocent and have done nothing to warrant the vicious lies flowing out of the rumor mill."

Grey's discomfort grew, his mouth thinning into a tight line. "May we talk privately?"

"There is nothing to worry about, Grey. ‘Fortune may be blind, but she is not invisible.' My cousin has come to London to find a wife, and your cousins need husbands." She fanned out her hands. "Unfortunately—"

"No one will give your cousin the time of day." Grey moved forward and offered a bow, his bearing transformed. "The stakes are clear to me now."

"Not to me. My confusion is complete," he said. "Forgive my impertinence, but why is a member of the nobility working at The Lyon's Den? What investigatory work requires an alias, Lord Grey? And why are you dressed like a gutter rat?"

"Cease and desist. The hows and whys are irrelevant now," Bess said, her mouth set severely. "What matters is saving the virtue of two young women very dear to my daughter's heart."

"And to yours," Grey added, quirking his brow.

"Let's not go that far."

Bess had a habit of dismissing her feelings no matter how strong they were. But at that moment, Quin didn't care. He had questions of his own that needed answers. "I provided a drawing of a trinket related to the woman I seek, and you believe this is the right course of action?" He tried to muzzle his disbelief, but failed. He'd never seen this side of Bess before, and it worried him, though he'd always known she had a soft spot for people in distress.

She and Grey exchanged knowing looks, at last providing him some sort of understanding to the importance of this course of action. "I see."

"Do you? Do not delude yourself, Quin. My daughter's cousins are above reproach. And while this is not the usual way of procuring a wife, the odds happen to be in your favor."

"My favor?" She couldn't be serious. Nothing had bolstered his mood since he'd arrived in Town, except the woman by the Serpentine. "How so?"

She handed his drawing to Grey. The man took it, then immediately glanced up. "Where did you get this?"

"He saw it on a woman in Hyde Park," Bess said calmly. "And he longs to find her. You see, Grey? This cannot be a coincidence."

"What is going on? What is it that you are not saying?" Hope began to fill his chest, though he dared not latch onto it. "Do you know who this trinket belongs to?"

"I do." Grey arched a brow. "My wife's cousins wear this cameo. Their father purchased it in Italy on one of his many expeditions."

"Fate can be finicky," Bess said, "but in your case, Quin, luck happens to be on your side. Allow us to plot and plan an introduction for you. I suspect you will not face rejection in this instance, for you will be able to choose from one of Viscount Steere's two daughters. They are both of marriageable age and find themselves in quite the pickle."

"You misunderstand. I have decided to marry and am looking for the owner of this brooch."

"And you have found her," she said, smiling wryly. "At least one of them."

"You are not making sense. You said two daughters. Which one wears the brooch? That is the one I seek."

Grey's face hardened to stone. "The Misses Steere are twins."

"Twins?"

Bess burst out laughing. "Now, which one will you choose?"