Chapter Nine

D orcas went straight through the great room that took up most of the ground floor and upstairs, not even noticing that she had failed to replace her mask. If anyone spoke to her, she did not hear them. She wanted only to see that Stephen was safely in his bed and unharmed.

It was foolish of her, but somehow, she was afraid that the Seward family, with Kempbury at its head, might have taken advantage of her attendance at the Masque to spirit him away.

Not that Mrs. Dove-Lyon or her wolf pack would allow such a trespass against the Lyon's Den. But her brain could not convince her heart that her fears were unreasonable until she arrived in the rooms she had been given for her stay, and had seen her sleeping son for herself.

After that, she read Kempbury's note.

"To Mrs. Anderson, formerly Lady Vespasian Seward," it said. "Please accept my profound apologies. I acted unwisely in believing the words of others instead of seeing you for myself. As my brother's widow and the mother of his son, you had a right to expect my assistance and support. I failed you. I beg you to allow me to visit and to make amends. I wish to do what I can for the boy."

On the surface, it was a handsome apology. But what did he mean by doing "what I can for the boy"? Dorcas was very afraid he meant what his stepmother had said three years ago. He thought Stephen would be better off in his care and out of hers. She had always known that Stephen was next in line to the dukedom after Kempbury. But surely, he would marry and have sons of his own?

Still, the fact that Stephen was heir presumptive would strengthen the duke's case, should he claim guardianship of her son. A mother would count for nothing in a fight against a duke. He would take Stephen and send her away.

Over her dead body. But no, that would simply make it easier for him. Better to live and to defeat him. She prepared herself for bed, but though the sky was already alight with the promise of dawn and she was tired to the bone, she could not sleep.

She was so angry at Ben. Somerford. Ben. Though he had angered and disappointed her, she still could not help but care for him. Stupid, arrogant man.

No. It was unfair to blame him. She had been hoping for a kiss after a perfect evening, in which she felt both seen and heard. And instead, he had shocked her with the news that he had gone to Kempbury.

The sudden conflict between her dreams and reality had made her response unduly harsh. He had thought to do her a favor, perhaps. No. Not perhaps. It was what he had thought, and he had trusted Kempbury to be as honorable as he was himself.

But Dorcas had known two of the Sewards well. She would not put any innocent child into the hands of the Seward family, let alone her one, precious, darling son.

Vespasian had been immature and self-centered, convinced that he was always right, and inclined to sulk when he did not get his own way. And Augustus was mean, self-righteous, and as self-centered and arrogant as Vespasian. She had not met Kempbury, but she had been told he was cold and remote.

She would not trust a single one of them to think of anyone except themselves, and she was certainly not going to risk having her darling Stephen raised under the control of either of the surviving brothers.

But how could she prevent it?

Her mind circled like the tiger at the Tower menagerie. By the time Stephen woke and begged to be allowed up, she had not had a wink of sleep, but she had come up with an idea. It might cost her the last token in the tinder box, but if it worked, she would not need any more favors from Mrs. Dove-Lyon.

Once she and Stephen were washed and dressed, they went down to the kitchen, where the cook had breakfast waiting for them. The kitchen still bore the evidence of last night's event, in heaping piles of dishes—now sparkling clean—tired maids and four times as many boxes of food as after a usual night. Edible leftovers from the Lyon's Den went to a nearby church, where a small group of worthy women ran a program of food distribution.

None of the girls from the third floor put in an appearance while she was downstairs. Of course, last night had been a busy one for them, too. She wondered if any of them had achieved the goal for which they all yearned.

"Do you know if Mrs. Dove-Lyon is awake?" Dorcas asked one of the women who attended that lady.

"No," the woman said. "My instructions are not to take up her hot chocolate until she rings for it, and she has not done so. I do not expect her to be up before the afternoon, however. Not after last night. Or this morning, rather, for I believe she went to bed just an hour ago. Shall I let her know you wish to speak with her?"

Dorcas nodded. That would have to do, though she was on edge for the rest of the morning, while she took Stephen for their daily walk, spent some time playing with him, using the alphabet blocks one of the wolves had presented him with a couple of days ago to make words—another gift from her benefactress—and then picked up her embroidery hoop, while Stephen stacked the blocks one on top of another regardless of any meaning they might otherwise have.

All the time she fretted. Had Lord Somerford kept her location a secret? Would Kempbury turn up and demand to see her? Would the doormen turn away a duke if he did arrive? She could sew and fret at the same time. She and Stephen would have starved long ago were it not so. She did not much like herself, however. There should be a way to stop her thoughts from chasing one another around inside her head. But if there was, she had never found it.

At noon, Stephen had a snack of milk and bread sent up from the kitchen, and Dorcas enjoyed the tea and biscuit included for her. After that, he consented to read quietly on his bed. At four years of age, he sometimes still fell asleep during these afternoon rests, but even when he did not, she insisted that he be still for a bit.

Sometimes, she conceded that the rest was more for her sake than for his. She loved him with all her heart, but she frequently felt frayed by his frequent questions and his need to show Dorcas everything he was doing.

A short while after he had gone to sleep, Maudie, the kitchen maid Stephen liked, arrived with a message. She was to stay with Stephen while Mrs. Anderson went down to Mrs. Dove-Lyon.

Rehearsing the words she wanted to say, Dorcas went downstairs.

"And so, you see, Mrs. Dove-Lyon," Dorcas concluded, after explaining Kempbury's possible intentions, "I need a husband. Preferably titled, and certainly of good reputation. I have one more token…"

Mrs. Dove-Lyon held up a hand. "No need to use your last token, Mrs. Anderson. As it happens, I have been approached by several gentlemen seeking to know the identity of ‘Lady Boudicca' with a view to marriage. I can certainly find you an excellent match, and even charge the gentlemen for the privilege of being considered."

She narrowed her eyes. "But what of Lord Somerford? He has been very attentive. Might he not make you an offer?"

Dorcas ignored the pang that shot through her at the words. "He thinks Kempbury can be trusted," she said. "He went to him, Mrs. Dove-Lyon. He might even have told him where I am staying. Just consider."

Her eyes dropped lest Mrs. Dove-Lyon could see her feelings reflected inside. "He helped me at your request, and he feels an obligation to see me comfortably established, but he did not make me an offer." He did not even try to kiss me, though I asked him into the garden to give him the opportunity. She pushed away the niggling thought that she hadn't given him a chance to kiss her because he'd felt compelled to confess his actions to her first. "He went to Kempbury. As a gentleman, he wants me comfortably established, and if Kempbury were to, for example, give me an income, Be—Somerford will happily walk out of my life, his duty done."

"Hmm." It was the only comment Mrs. Dove-Lyon made before returning to the matter of an arranged marriage. "You understand, do you not, that I need to be paid for my matchmaking services? In this case, I will require a cash payment for the right to enter a game of vingt et un. The payment will cover my fee. Wagering on the game will give me a tidy profit. The prize of your hand will go to the winner."

It sounded very cold. Dorcas gulped.

"I will screen the gentlemen who will be permitted to enter into the game," Mrs. Dove-Lyon assured her. "They will be gentlemen in fact as well as in name. They will have sufficient power to protect you from the duke, should it be necessary. They will be willing to take Stephen and raise him as if he is the same as any children you may have together. They will treat both you and Stephen well. I cannot predict the future, Mrs. Anderson, but I have ways of knowing the past and present of the men who frequent the Lyon's Den."

"That sounds acceptable," Dorcas agreed.

"Your part is to agree to be bound by the results of the game. It is your decision, Mrs. Anderson, but you must make it now. If you wish me to go ahead and organize the game, I shall do so, but you must be prepared to marry the winner."

Dorcas gulped again. It was a serious decision. Marriage was forever, or at least until "death do they part," as had happened to her twice in less than two years. Perhaps, after all, she should wait until she had seen Ben again.

"The Duke of Kempbury visited this morning, asking to see you. At my orders, all callers were refused the door while my servants made a more gradual than usual start to the day. Also, you should know that Augustus Seward has made two attempts to get into your rooms at Mrs. Simmon's. My wolves will be paying him a visit. We discovered he was also behind the attempt to push me under a dray—no doubt in revenge for being banned from the Lyon's Den. A husband from an influential family would be a powerful protection, Mrs. Anderson."

All good reasons. For Stephen, she would do whatever she needed to and as she had in the past when she'd married Noah for the protection and survival of her son, she would accept this new proposal. "I agree," Dorcas said. "I will marry the winner of the game."

"Excellent," said Mrs. Dove-Lyon.

Ben slept too late to call on Mrs. Anderson the day after the Masque. Parliament was sitting in the evening, and he had a committee meeting before the sitting. He had only become active in the House of Lords recently, but he now regarded that contribution to the governance of his country as one of his most important duties.

He possessed, he had realized, an unusual perspective on the challenges facing the United Kingdom after thirty years of nearly constant war. He had been a serving officer in the recent hostilities—rare for a peer, since most of them had been intended for their title, and therefore too precious to risk on a battlefield.

Even those first sons who had entered the army, either from a sense of duty or with dreams of glory, had usually seen out their service safely in England or far from anyone who might be an enemy.

Of course, there were other second or—as in his case—third sons who came to the title through family tragedy. Some of them had been in the army. A few of them had even formed a positive view of the private soldiers and non-commissioned officers who served under them.

Together, he and they hoped to make a difference for the great sea of injured and otherwise damaged soldiers who had been invalided out of the army and abandoned to destitution or, if they were very lucky, private charity.

His commitment to that issue had led to an interest in other matters that concerned those whose birth or misfortune had condemned them to live one meal away from disaster, including the corn laws, suffrage reform, and an investigation into the poor laws, which were administered at the parish level and utterly failing to cope.

It was the last of these that had him on his way to Westminster Palace instead of to the Lyon's Den, where he would prefer to be. He had handled matters with Dorcas badly. He should never have spoken to Kempbury without asking Dorcas for her permission. He should not have told the duke where Dorcas lived. He still did not think Kempbury had any hostile attentions to Dorcas or her son, but he should not have made decisions about her without consulting her.

He wondered if she would understand that it was not because she was a female and he'd not thought her capable but because he had been an officer and was now an earl. His job was solving problems and making decisions. Consulting others had not been part of his life in either role.

Mind you, he should have learned his lesson with Laurel, his sister. She had been most indignant with him when he'd acted on her behalf without consulting her first. She, too, had assumed his "interference", as she'd called it, had been because she was a woman when in truth, it was because he was a thoughtless fool.

Perhaps that is what he should say to Dorcas when—if—she would speak with him.

The meeting was frustrating. Some of the other men on the committee seemed to have their minds firmly made up. The poor were poor, they insisted, because they were lazy and feckless, and any reform of the poor law must be firmly founded on that immutable fact.

Ben argued his point, with some support, but he left depressingly aware that the discussion had been futile. Until they reached some sort of agreement, nothing could be decided. And both sides of the argument thought the other side was the one that needed to change.

He had an hour before Parliament sat. Not enough time to go anywhere else. He was hesitating in the corridor, thinking about the best way to use the hour, when a voice greeted him. "Lord Officer, isn't it?"

It was the man who had been dressed as King Richard. "Somerford," Ben introduced himself.

The other man introduced himself as Amberley, and they walked together toward the long gallery, where they could wait to enter the chamber where the House of Lords met.

"I take it you will be putting your name into the hat for Lady Boudicca?" Amberley asked.

"I beg your pardon?" Ben asked. If Amberley and others were wagering on Dorcas, some people were going to have their faces rearranged.

"The marriage game at the Lyon's Den. Lady Boudicca needs a husband to protect her and her son—Mrs. Dove-Lyon is not making the details public. You had not heard?"

No, he had not. He should have gone to see Dorcas today. Hell, and damnation! " Lady Boudicca has the money to pay the matchmaker's fee?" he asked.

"You would know better than I," Amberley said. "The pair of you are friends, are you not?"

Ben had thought so. "As far as I know," he said, "she is near penniless."

Amberley nodded. "That will be the reason for the entry fee, then. Five hundred pounds for a seat at the table tomorrow night. The game will be vingt et un."

"Would you vote my proxy tonight, Amberley, if I am not back in time?" Ben asked. "I find I have a pressing need to visit the Lyon's Den."

Amberley assented and, after a brisk walk from the Palace of Westminster to the Lyon's Den, Ben was told that Mrs. Anderson had already gone to bed, and no, he could not see Mrs. Dove-Lyon, but he could be admitted to the gambling floor.

"She has left instructions regarding you, Lord Somerford. You are to be permitted to buy a seat at the table for the game to win the hand of Lady Boudicca," said the doorman.

"Mrs. Anderson," Ben said, just to be certain.

The doorman inclined his head. "As you say."

On the walk from the House, he had planned a speech to Mrs. Dove-Lyon, if Dorcas would not see him. "There is no need for this. I will willingly marry her, not just to protect her child but because I want her as my wife." Tomorrow, then. He would tell her tomorrow. He would ask Dorcas directly tomorrow.

Meanwhile, just to be safe, he would buy into the game. He had not played vingt et un for some years, but the rules were simple enough. And he had always been good at figuring out when to stand and when to seek another card.

Yes. One way or another, he would win Dorcas for his wife.