Chapter Two

One week later

Cleveland Street, London

B essie Dove-Lyon contemplated the young woman sitting before her. She had a coltish look about her—tall and slender with large dark eyes sheltered beneath thick, long lashes, an upturned nose, and a mane of lush chestnut curls. Under normal circumstances, finding her a husband would be challenging—she was five-and-twenty with only a modest dowry—but given her current predicament, it might be near impossible. Well, nothing was impossible—not for Bessie Dove-Lyon, the Black Widow of Whitehall.

She’d arranged hundreds of successful marriages and would no doubt arrange hundreds more. But, with this one, she’d have to tread carefully. Deceiving a man into marrying a woman already with child was a tricky business. Most of Harley Street frequented her establishment, and there were doctors who could be relied upon for their silence. Still, she preferred not to go that route. A better solution was to find a man who would accept a woman already with child. Such a delicate situation required the right kind of man. Ideally, someone who loved without conditions. Someone who’d be a devoted family man, no matter the circumstances. Someone who had loved and lost, who lived with the pain and silence, and who thought he could never find happiness again. Someone like…the answer provided itself in a flash: Lord Oliver Knox.

She’d been observing the Earl of Knox closely for over a month. He came into the club every night, rain or shine. And Bessie suspected that he did so to stave off his loneliness. He had been a devoted husband to his late wife—that was common knowledge—and he’d been devastated by her sudden death, shutting himself away for two years before he started frequenting the Lyon’s Den.

He enjoyed the card games and fine brandy but never indulged in the women upstairs. So she suspected his devotion and loyalty to his dead wife remained as strong as it had been during her lifetime. He came to her establishment to ease the painful silence that had become his world. Yes, she’d come across men like him before. And she knew the cure. He needed a new wife—and not just any wife—someone compassionate and loyal as she suspected Kate was, after hearing her story and spending some time in conversation with her. She was the type who could fill his heart and home with joy again—and what could bring a lonely earl more joy than a son and heir?

“I realize the situation is problematic,” the young lady’s aunt, Mrs. Jane Seton, said, “but time is of the essence. If something cannot be arranged within a few weeks, I’m afraid it will be too late.”

“Indeed,” Bessie mused. “You have presented me with a most challenging task. Fortunately for you, I enjoy a well-paid challenge.”

“That will not be a problem.” Mrs. Seton opened her reticule and extracted two banknotes. “My late husband left me a generous sum when he died, and I have no children of my own, so I can see no better use for this money than securing a future for my departed sister’s only child.”

“Oh, Aunt!” Kate exclaimed. “I couldn’t let you—”

“Hush!” Mrs. Seaton rested a hand on Kate’s arm. “I’m doing this for my sister and for the good of the family—it will save your sisters much heartache and preserve their reputations. But most of all, I am doing this for you and your babe. I know what it is to lose a child, and I won’t let that happen to you.”

“And it so happens,” Bessie interrupted, wanting to return to the business at hand, “that I have a suitable candidate in mind.”

“So soon?” Kate gave a little jump, reminding Bessie of a skittish pony.

“Who is he?” Mrs. Seaton stood up and placed the banknotes on Bessie’s desk.

Bessie smiled under her veil as she reached for the banknotes and secured them in her desk drawer. Then she picked up a silver bell and gave it a quick shake.

Almost immediately, her wolf Hermia appeared.

“Locate Lord Knox and ask him to join me in my office.”

“Certainly,” Hermia said before disappearing again.

“Am I to meet with the gentleman right away?” Kate half rose out of her seat as though she wished to escape. “I’m not prepared.”

“No, you are to go downstairs with your aunt and mingle, while I have a private word with the earl.”

“An earl!” Mrs. Seaton and Kate exclaimed together.

“I’m amazed,” Mrs. Seaton said. “I knew we were right to come to you, but I never imagined—an earl—you say?”

“Don’t get too excited. There’s no guarantee he will accept my proposal, but I am known to be quite persuasive.”

“No!” Kate’s eyes grew wider than they already were. “I couldn’t possibly—not an earl—not in my condition!”

“Let me worry about those details. That’s what your aunt paid me for.” Bessie removed the small gold key from her neck and locked her desk drawer. “As I said, there’s no guarantee that the earl will be interested in my proposition, but if not him then we’ll find another solution. I’m a woman of my word. Your aunt paid dearly for a service, and I shall deliver.” She put a gentle hand on Kate’s back as she escorted the two women to the door, “Now, the earl is on his way up, so you’d best get downstairs and familiarize yourself with my wonderful establishment.”

Mrs. Seaton thanked Bessie once again before the widow closed her office door and smiled to herself. If Hermia had managed to locate the earl in a timely manner, Bessie’s two potential lovers would pass each other in the passageway as he made his way upstairs and she made her way downstairs. That will set the stage for what’s to unfold , she thought with satisfaction. A glimpse of potential love is a glimpse into a future ripe with hope and that is what dreams are made of. What could be more enticing or powerful?

The statuesque, broad-shouldered Hermia looked more like a Greek Amazonian warrior than a hostess at a gaming club, Oliver thought as he followed her up the red-carpeted staircase. She was taking him to see Mrs. Dove-Lyon, who’d asked for a word in private with him.

Oliver wasn’t surprised. All the men who frequented the Lyon’s Den knew that the Black Widow arranged marriages on the side. A woman in some sort of trouble or even just trying to avoid spinsterhood would pay a hefty sum to marry an earl like himself and restore her reputation in society. But he’d have to disappoint Mrs. Dove-Lyon because he had no intention of ever remarrying. Nonetheless, he’d listen to what she had to say out of politeness before letting her know where he stood on the matter.

He followed Hermia down a long corridor illuminated by multiple candelabras affixed to the walls. Two women walking in the opposite direction passed them, greeting Hermia with light nods. There was nothing unusual about this, as both women and men moved freely throughout the Lyon’s Den. There was even a women’s gaming hall located on the second floor. The Lyon’s Den was a kingdom unto its own, with its own rules quite different from those in the outside world—set by its very own queen—Bessie Dove-Lyon.

As the women passed, the younger of the two—or more specifically her eyes, large, dark, and doleful—caught Oliver’s attention. Those eyes, soulful like his wife’s, told a story of love and loss—a story Oliver knew only too well. The momentary connection was fleeting as they passed each other, but it seemed to stop time and buried itself in Oliver’s heart.

He mused on this as the wolf led him to the widow’s office and opened the door for him after a knock and a murmured “enter” from within. He stepped into the room. “Lord Knox,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon, dressed in her signature black veiled ensemble, stood to greet him. “Thank you for coming. May I offer you a drink?” she asked.

“Brandy, thank you,” he said.

She poured his drink and invited him to sit on a plush scarlet armchair, seating herself across from him on a matching sofa. A table laden with a silver tea tray stood between them, and she leaned forward to fill her cup. “I am always happy to meet new patrons. How are you enjoying the Lyon’s Den?”

“Very much,” he said.

She leaned back onto the sofa, leaving her tea untouched. “I am pleased. You have been here every night for over a month now.”

“Is that a problem?” he asked.

“Not at all. But I’m curious to know what draws you here. I’ve been in business for many years, and you’ve never been a patron before.”

He nodded and sipped his brandy, not wanting to dredge up the old pain but not seeing a way out of this conversation. “I was a happily married man for eight years, but my wife died quite unexpectedly two years ago, and I—” his throat seemed to close on his words.

“You come here to assuage the loneliness,” the widow said.

He stared into his glass, then lifted it to his mouth and drained the golden liquid. It slid down his throat and warmed his chest. “Something like that,” he said, turning his eyes back onto her. He didn’t need to say more. He supposed she understood since she’d lost her husband, though he knew nothing of her past or her married life. Not everyone’s marriage was as blissful as his had been.

“But you could do that at any gaming establishment. What I want to know is why you have chosen mine?”

He shrugged. “It’s no secret that you serve the finest wine and brandy,” he saluted her with his glass, “as well as many other discrete services.”

“That’s right.” She nodded and then paused as if she were waiting for him to say more. When he remained silent, she said, “But you are not a man who cares for those discrete services, are you?”

Sorrow engulfed Oliver, rendering him unable to respond. He hadn’t been able to bear the thought of another woman after his Beatrice died.

“Lord Knox, it is no secret that I arrange marriages, so I was wondering if you chose to frequent my establishment in the hopes of finding a new bride?”

Here it is. Thank heavens. Now, I can put an end to this conversation. “I’m aware of the services you provide, but I’m afraid I am not here for that reason. I have no intention of remarrying.”

She cocked her head. “Were you and your wife blessed with children, Lord Knox?”

He shifted in his seat. The widow’s questions were starting to stab at his heart like knife wounds. He didn’t want to be having this conversation. “No,” he said abruptly.

“Then your wife was barren?”

This time the knife plunged deeper into his chest. “My wife was a perfectly healthy woman—a perfect woman in every way,” he said, his throat tight.

“But eight years and no heir? Clearly, she was—”

He held up his hand to stave off her words. He could not tolerate his wife’s memory being defiled so. Beatrice had not been at fault. It was him—he was flawed. He could not let this stand!

“The fault didn’t lie with my wife,” he blurted.

The widow remained silent behind her veil, no doubt.

He sighed. “She’d been married once before. During that union, she conceived and birthed a healthy daughter. But both her husband and child perished when their carriage overturned. A year later, she married me, and in our eight years together I failed to give her a child.”

“You can’t be certain about that. Your wife could have developed a problem that wasn’t present in her younger years. The fault could still have been hers.”

“It wasn’t her fault!” he said. His heart clenched like a fist as the memories of Beatrice’s tears assailed him. “For eight years, I felt my wife’s pain as she waited in vain to hold her own babe in her arms. I won’t do it again.”

The widow nodded.

He had a strong urge to leave the room. Why was he here discussing his most painful and private life with this woman? How dare she speak to him about such matters? He ought to leave this club and never return.

“I apologize if this conversation upset you, Lord Knox. That was not my intention. I do have good reason for my inquiry, and the situation is quite delicate.” She leaned forward. “Are you willing to hear my proposal?”

Oliver’s anger softened in response to the widow’s apology. She obviously had good intentions, no doubt believing she could pair him with some young woman and bring him happiness again. He eyed her black attire and wondered why she chose to dress thus when she’d been a widow for several years. Did she still mourn her husband? Why hadn’t she taken her own advice and remarried? People said she was married to her work, and that seemed to be the truth. She was a formidable woman who ruled her club with an iron fist. Still, she understood loss—that much was obvious. Mayhap, it would behoove him to listen to what she had to say.

“Go on.” He nodded.

“A young woman was just in my office. She came to see me because she has an urgent problem that needs solving.”

Doleful eyes. Oliver straightened, suddenly eager to hear more.

“You see, she was betrothed to a young man. It was a love match.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon cleared her throat. “Unfortunately, the young man died unexpectedly, leaving his betrothed in a rather delicate situation that requires her to find a husband immediately.”

“Do you mean that she’s with child?” Oliver said.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon nodded. “There are no outward signs yet. No one would know the child wasn’t yours.”

Oliver put down his brandy glass. “What are you saying? Are you suggesting that I”—he shook his head—“I already told you that I have no intention of remarrying.” He stood, intent on leaving.

“If what you have told me is true, this could be your only chance to have a family—and an heir.”

Oliver stiffened. “Are you suggesting that I pass on my title and estate to a child who’s not my own?” He bristled at the notion—not because of some archaic law, but because he could not endure the thought of raising a child with another woman. “As opposed to some distant cousin you know nothing about?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon stood, retrieved Oliver’s empty glass from the table, and went to pour him another brandy. Clearly, no matter what he thought, the conversation wasn’t over. Especially when she turned to him and said, “A child you raise from birth and love as your own—a child who calls you ‘papa’—becomes your child. Blood is not what makes a parent.”

He wasn’t able to dispute her logic. Instead, he accepted the brandy she handed him and peered into its amber depths.

Then he returned to his plush armchair. “It wouldn’t be right,” he said, finally taking a sip of the brandy. “My title will pass to the next in line. Whomever that may be.”

“Lord Knox, if I had done what others deemed to be right and proper, I’d be in the poor house as we speak. We must all take responsibility for our own happiness. And this is your chance to fill your home with love and laughter again.”

“I wish that were true. But you do not have an earl’s responsibilities,” he said because it was easier to hide behind his earldom than to tell the truth. He would have raised a foundling with Beatrice if she’d so desired. But his hope becoming a father had died with her. He put down his glass and stood up. “I’m sorry, but I cannot,” he said, nodding to her before he left the room.

Bessie was not convinced. Lord Knox was a family man at heart, but he was afraid. He didn’t ever want to relive the hurt he’d experienced after losing his wife. He hated the loneliness, but he wasn’t willing to risk any more pain. Such problems weren’t insurmountable. A man like Lord Knox could be won over. Unfortunately, Miss Sheldon didn’t have that kind of time. She needed a husband and father for her baby, and she needed one now. It appeared as though Bessie would have to take more drastic measures.