Lyon’s Den

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Spotlight on Only a Lyon Will Do

Only A Lyon Will Do: Lyon’s Den Connected World

By Sherry Ewing

Can a chance encounter turn desire into love?

Asher Tyler, Earl of Rowley, has guarded his life as a carefree bachelor by avoiding romantic entanglements and the debutantes of each Season. When his world is turned upside down by a mysterious woman who saves him from a fall, Asher wishes to know her better but she refuses to reveal her identity. Asher cannot forget the woman at the Lyon’s Den and remembers every delectable detail about her.

Mrs. Patience Moore, a widow with a complicated past and ties to the Wicked Widow’s Club, was disowned by her merchant father when she married without his consent. Now a widow, she lives with her friend, Cassandra, who pays the matchmaking fees of the infamous Mrs. Dove-Lyon, the Widow of Whitehall, to find a husband for Patience.

But Patience doesn’t want an arranged marriage. She wants to fall in love but not with the man who stumbled into her one night at the Lyon’s Den who appears only interested in one thing. She knows his type. She should stay far away from him. Her heart tells her differently.

Mrs. Dove Lyon’s matchmaking brings Asher and Patience together, but the road is complicated. Asher insists he isn’t interested in marriage, his brother is vying for Patience’s affection, and an enemy from Asher’s past is seeking revenge.

Only time will tell if love will win over a woman who is afraid to trust and a man who refuses to see that the perfect woman is right before his eyes.

Learn more on Sherry’s website at https://sherryewing.com/regency-books/only-a-lyon-will-do/ 

 

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Dreams on WIP Wednesday

“What is it about Mrs. Dove Lyon’s masked balls,” Dorcas asked the upstairs girls who had gathered in the kitchen for breakfast before going home to their rooms to sleep, “that makes the Earl of Somerford think I should be gone from here before the next one.”

The girls looked at one another and laughed. “Lord Somerford is rather stiff about what is appropriate for ladies,” one of them offered.

“Not that we know him personally,” said another. “He is not a patron of our services.”

Scarlett Brown explained, “Some of us met his sister when she was using Mrs. Dove Lyon’s services as a matchmaker. She told us all about him.”

“Lord Somerford’s sister came to Mrs. Dove Lyon for a husband?” Dorcas was fascinated. The girls had told her stories about the women who paid for Mrs. Dove Lyon to match them to a gentleman, but she was somehow startled that an earl’s sister would be one of them.

They took it in turns to tell Dorcas about Lady Laureline and her long betrothal, which she ended when the man tried to put the wedding off for the fifth time. “Then she found out she must marry by the time she was twenty-five. Lord Somerford tried to talk her out of it, but she objected.”

When she visited the Lion’s Den she bumped into a lame violinist, who turned out to be an old acquaintance and the heir to an earl. He won a series of contests and they were soon married. And happily, by all accounts.

“All of Mrs. Dove Lyon’s matches are good ones,” one of the girls said, somewhat wistfully.

“Lord Somerford bought drinks for the whole house to celebrate the birth of their baby, his nephew,” Scarlett commented. “And I heard him tell someone that Angel—that is, Lord Findlater, is now able to walk with only a pair of walking sticks, and not crutches.”

“But he was not happy about his sister using Mrs. Dove Lyon, for all that it turned out so well,” another concluded.

“The Mystere Masque happens once a year,” Scarlett, returning to the point. “It is to celebrate Mrs. Dove Lyon’s birthday, and the tickets are very sought after, and very expensive. Anything might happen on the night, and usually does. But nothing that a person does not want. Our lady’s wolves make sure of that.”

“It is a grand night out for all of us,” said another. “Even though we are working, we all wear masks and consumes and we can pretend to be whoever we want to be.” She giggled. “Last year, I was a Prussian princess in exile.”

“Every year, Mrs. Dove Lyon gives away golden tickets. No one knows how she chooses who will get them, but everyone who gets them has a wonderful time, and some find love.” Scarlett sighed.

The sigh was repeated around the table. “It is a magical night.”

The Mystere Masque sounded wonderful. Dorcas hoped she would be allowed to see it. That was, if she was still here. Which she would not be, if Lord Somerford had his way. “Does Lord Somerford go?” she asked.

The girls did not know. Only those who dealt with the tickets would know—perhaps only Mrs. Dove Lyon herself. “Probably not,” Scarlett thought. “He sits and he watches. He nurses a drink or two all night and plays a friendly game of cards or two with friends, but he does not know how to enjoy himself, that one. What would he do at the Masque?”

The event caught Dorcas’s imagination. When the girls showed her their costumes, she could not help but imagine herself in one. As she embroidered the last of the current pile of linens, her mind was designing a costume for herself.

She had never been to—had never even seen such an event. She had been too young even for village assemblies before Michael met her in the village street. He’d run away with her after just three weeks of stolen meetings—how wicked she had been! But to be fair to her seventeen year old self, Michael had been seven years older, so should have had the wisdom that she lacked.

She had attended two assemblies with him as his wife, wonderful affairs to her young eyes, but even then she understood that the venues and even the gowns were the best that could be managed in a hostile country in the middle of a war, even behind English lines, as they were.

And the impromptu dances she and Noah had enjoyed during their marriage would have horrified her clergyman uncle and his wife, who had raised her.

Stephen jerked her out of her reverie, asking for help with a castle he was building, for the highest tower would not stay up.

Still, when she was settled back in her chair again, her needle flew all the faster for thoughts of a stunning costume that would fascinate and capture Lord Somerford.

There. She had put her yearnings into concrete thoughts. Very silly thoughts. If she was not well enough born, as a gentleman’s niece, for a duke’s third son, she was far more unsuitable, as a sergeant’s widow, for an earl.

The only role available for such as her in Lord Somerford’s life was not one she could possibly accept. For Stephen’s sake, if for no other reason. Scarlett would say it did not hurt to dream, but Dorcas thought Scarlett was wrong.

The kinds of dream that Dorcas was tempted to have about Lord Somerford would far too readily lead her into more temptation than she could resist. Then she would either be rejected or accepted. She didn’t know which would be worse.

No. Temptation was not something to be encouraged. Except perhaps for that one single night.

And there. She had knotted off the last thread and woven it back into the pattern until it disappeared from view entirely. She had better see whether Cook would mind watching Stephen while she took this lot to her employer.

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A protective hero on WIP Wednesday

 

This is from my next Lyon’s Den story, Thrown to the Lyon.
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Ben had given up on finding Seward the night before, after trawling through a dozen awful dives. He woke the following morning determined to track the man down. He had a couple of other engagements for the day, but making Mrs. Kent safe was his priority.

Perhaps the next step was to find Seward’s friends. One of them, Tiberius Hastings, who had once been betrothed to Ben’s sister, was now in a private asylum, after attempting to drown Lauren for breaking off the betrothal. But the man ran with a pack of other dissolute fools.

There was no point in looking for any of them before noon, so in the interim, Ben would meet with his secretary and also call at the Lion’s Den to look in on Mrs. Kent.

They would not let him up onto Mrs. Dove Lyon’s floor, but they showed him to one of the little sitting rooms on the floor above the gaming den, and a few minutes later, Mrs. Dove Lyons joined him, accompanied by the little boy and his soldier doll.

“I have not yet been able to talk to Seward,” he admitted, once they had exchanged greetings.

“I was wondering whether if it would be possible to find the man who gave Stephen the apple,” Mrs. Kent commented. “He was on his way to market, and the apples in his baskets were of exceptional size. Surely there cannot be many apple sellers with apples that are so large?”

It was worth a try. If it could be shown that Seward was lying about the theft, then his entire case collapsed. “When we say exceptionally large,” he said, “what size are we talking?”

The shape she made with her hands was about five inches around. “I thought I might go to the market and look for him myself,” she said. “I would recognise him, you see.”

“Not without escort,” Ben objected. “We need a reputable witness handy whenever you go out, Mrs. Kent, in case Seward tries something else.”

Mrs. Kent accepted his argument without demur, and when they left the Lyon’s Den some thirty minutes later, Mrs. Kent was on Ben’s arm, and a couple of Mrs. Dove Lyon’s wolves (as she called her doormen-come-bodyguards) paced behind them.

Stephen had been left behind in the kitchen, where the cook and the maids had promised to keep him entertained.

Covent Garden market was not far away, but it was crowded, and they had almost completed the circuit of the area before Mrs. Kent pulled her hand away and hurried up to a man who was loading empty baskets into a cart.

“Sir,” she said. “Sir, was it not you whom I met yesterday morning, on the Strand?”

He turned, a cheerful fellow in his middle age, with a girth that hinted at the pleasures he enjoyed at table, and twinkling blue eyes. “It is the lady who helped me pick up my apples. How do you do, ma’am? How is your sweet little boy? Did he enjoy his apple pie?”

Ben gave a sigh of relief. The man could not have been a better witness.

And when Ben and Mrs. Kent explained the situation to him, so he proved to be. He insisted on heading to the magistrate’s court without further ado, and swearing a statement. “My brother, here, and my son shall say the same. I’ll leave them here with the stall, but they can make a statement if needed. And I daresay your constables can find a dozen other people—or more—who were on The Strand near Charing Cross, and who saw the whole thing.”

He had another thought. “Furthermore, if you have the apple, it proves it, for I am the only person within carting distance of London who grows Peasgood Nonsuch, and if she was not given it by me, then there’s nowhere else she could have got it. Show me the apple, man, and let’s be finished with this.”

Mrs. Kent leaned heavily on his arm, as if she was dizzy with relief. “The officers at the Bow Street Magistrate’s Court have taken the apple as evidence,” she said. “You will be able to see it when we get there.” The dastardly Seward would be foiled, and she would be free to return to her home.

At Bow Street, a different clerk was on the desk, and when Ben gave his name and title, he was quick to fetch Officer Fairlie. Fairlie was delighted to meet the apple seller—his name was Bert Grummidge. “I’ll take your statement, Mr. Grummidge, if you will just step this way, and yes, the apple will be in the property lockup.”

But it wasn’t. No one could explain what had become of it, but eventually one of the younger constables discovered an apple core in a rubbish bin. It was twice the size of a normal apple, and Grummidge declared it to be a Peasgood Nonesuch, even though not much of it was left and even what was was brown and gnawed.

“That’s good enough for me,” Fairlie told Ben and Mrs. Kent, but I will put the information to the magistrate to see if he requires further information.” He glowered. “And I shall find out who has been eating our evidence. If you can just be patient until I send word to the earl, Mrs. Kent.”

Ben took Mrs. Kent back to the Lyon’s Den. “I beg you to stay with Mrs. Dove Lyon for a few more days, Mrs. Kent,” he said. “Just until I have done what I can to spike Seward’s guns.”

He frowned as another thought struck him. “I will make sure to sort things out before the end of the week. Mrs. Dove Lyon is having another of her masked balls, and you will not want to be in residence at that time.”

After that, he carried Bert off to the nearest tavern for a well-deserved drink.

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Meeting the Matchmaker on WIP Wednesday

Here’s a short excerpt from the book that’s out on 20th March, Hook, Lyon, and Sinker

Mrs. Dove Lyon was not as Laurel had imagined her. Laurel had expected someone garishly painted and indiscreetly clad in gaudy colors. After all, she ran a gambling establishment which also offered other entertainments of the most scandalous kind.

The person who joined Laurel was clothed all in black and veiled. Her garb would not have looked out of place on the most dignified of Society’s fashionable matrons, and was far less revealing than many gowns worn by such august ladies. Her language and carriage too, as she invited Laurel to sit and asked her preference for beverage, were those of a lady.

The knowledge comforted Laurel. Perhaps this desperate scheme might work after all.

Once Laurel had her tea, Mrs. Dove Lyon came directly to the point, without any polite evasions. “Why have you asked to see me, my lady? Do you wish for me to find you a husband?”

Blunt and to the point. Also surprising, for Laurel had agreed to Benjamin’s request that the broken betrothal should not be made public just yet. Laurel thought he wanted to give Tiber time to talk Laurel into reversing her decision, as she had last time, but she had agreed anyway. It suited her to keep the gossips at bay for a week or so.

Her hostess must have guessed at her thoughts, because she said, “Lord Tiberius Hastings was here last night, and he is indiscreet when in his cups. Most of the gentlemen present will now be spreading the news that you have jilted him. Mind you, his loose tongue will work to your advantage, for he was bemoaning his own stupidity in putting off the wedding once again. And, making it clear that his chief regret was losing your dowry.”

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Tea with Laurel

Or not tea, to be honest. This is another excerpt post. This one is from Hook, Lyon, and Sinker, my next Lyons’ Den book. My heroine and  her family attend a charity ball at the house of the Duchess of Winshire.

For the second evening in a row, Benjamin had offered himself as escort to Laurel and his stepmother. Tonight, Laurel had only the one event—a ball at the home of the Duke and Duchess of Winshire. The host and hostess were the Earl and Countess of Sutton, the duke’s heir and his wife, and it was a fundraising event for one of the countess’s charity schools for young women.

Those present had paid an entry fee for the event, and fully expected to pay more for raffle tickets during the evening. “Lady Sutton will probably be looking for pledges, too, Benjamin,” she said as they waited for their carriage to take its place at the door, “so you should know I have already put my name down for fifty pounds from my pin money.”

Mama clicked her tongue. “Educating people like that. It is disgusting. Somerton, are you aware that your sister holds lessons for your servants? As if a kitchen maid needs to know her alphabet and her numbers!”

“A kitchen maid who can read can aspire to write shopping lists and learn new recipes from books, and therefore to one day be a cook,” Laurel pointed out. It was an old argument, and not one she expected to win with her mother.

Benjamin, though, said, “I think it is admirable. Indeed, I used to teach reading and writing to those of my soldiers who wanted to learn. Even just being able to scribble a few words to their loved ones back in England used to give them great joy.”

Mama snorted. “We are not responsible for their joy,” she insisted.

The carriage pulled up and the door opened, putting an end to the conversation.

Inside, Mama’s tune changed when greeted by the Duchess of Winshire, whose support for the cause was well-known. “So pleased to be here to support this important work,” she simpered. Nor was she backward about bustling straight to the long row of tables containing prizes for the raffles. All donated. Vases, paintings, jewelry, a couple of bolts of fine oriental silk, even the use of one of London’s most celebrated chefs for a dinner party, and access to one of the famed Winshire oriental stallions at the Sutton stud farm.

The last might not interest Mama, but Benjamin was one of a long line of men who wished to buy tickets in the chance at a Winshire foal. “The service fee is out of my reach at this year,” he told Laurel, “but this way, I can’t lose. If my ticket wins, I can breed my mare Lightfoot. And if it doesn’t, my money at least goes to a good cause.”

“Education for females? And servant females at that?” It was Lord Hoskings. “No good ever came of letting a female get above herself.” He swayed a little on his feet, and glared at Laurel as if she was such a female.

He confirmed the impression in his next words. “Your brother should lock you up, missie,” he grumbled. “Going to a gambling den for a husband, then choosing a crippled yokel and a country bumpkin over two respectable gentlemen.” The brandy fumes that cascaded over her as he spoke suggested the reason the man had broken the vow of secrecy that Mrs. Dove Lyons demanded from all who entered into one of her agreements.

“You are drunk, Hoskings, which is the only reason I do not call you out for your offensive remarks,” Benjamin said, his voice low and furious. “Go home and sleep it off.”

Hoskings puffed out his chest. “Invited guest,” he said. “Place to be seen. Got to find another bride.” His scowl at Laurel hinted that he blamed her entirely. “Someone biddable and grateful,” he added.

Laurel thought of suggesting the man sober up first, but he would not appreciate the advice. Instead, she inclined her head in polite farewell. “Mama has moved on, brother,” she said. “Shall we catch up?”

Benjamin offered his elbow and they hurried after Laurel’s mother. “May I leave you two ladies for a moment?” he asked. Laurel saw him stop one of Winshire’s younger sons and speak earnestly for a moment. Shortly after Benjamin returned to her side, Lord Hoskings was escorted out of the ballroom by that son and a couple of the Winshire retainers.

“I told Lord Andrew that Hoskings was drunk and offensive,” Benjamin admitted. He slid a glance at Mama, who had found a friend with whom to talk fashion, and lowered his voice so as not to be overheard. “We cannot have him talking about your arrangement with you-know-who. I’ll see him in the morning and remind him of his promise to that personage.”

Laurel breathed a sigh of relief. Not that she was doing anything wrong, but she knew that Society would look down their collective noses at her making a Dove Lyons match. Or at least at it being public knowledge. Laurel knew of several successful high-Society matches brokered by Mrs. Dove Lyons, but only because the ladies in questions were well known to her. She was certain there were many more who had kept their affairs out of public view. She counted on being one of them.

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Happenstance in WIP Wednesday

Chance and coincidence play a larger part in real life that we like to admit. And also, of course, in fiction. This segment introduces the heroine in Hook Lyon and Sinker, my little mermaid reinterpretation. Chance has just come to her rescue, though it might not feel like it at the time.

If the kitten had not lost his ball behind the sofa, Lady Laureline Barclay might even now be moving inexorably towards her wedding day.

She was behind the sofa on her hands and knees when her brother and her betrothed entered the room. She stayed there when she realised they were talking about Tiber’s wish to postpone the long-expected event yet again.

“Not if you want Laurel’s dowry, you won’t,” her brother told him. “If she is not married before she turns twenty-five it all goes to a home for indigent gentlewomen. Our father changed the conditions the first time you put off the wedding, when Laurel was nineteen.”

Laurel frowned. She had not been aware of that. She would be twenty-five in a matter of months.

Tiber was surprised, too. He let loose a word that Laurel hadn’t heard before. “But you are joking, Ben, surely. Or making it up to force my hand.”

“Tiber,” said Benjamin, “you are my best friend, but you are a careless ass. Do you mean to tell me that you still haven’t read the marriage agreement? Even after agreeing—and then changing—five wedding dates? Six, now.”

That fetched a deep sigh from Tiber. “For good reason, Ben,” he insisted. “The first time, at least.” His voice brightened. “But you are earl now,” he reminded her brother. “Just change the agreements.”

“Can’t do it,” Ben disclosed. “The money for her dowry is in a trust, and I’m not a trustee. Besides, the trustees are bound by the terms my father set. Anyway, I’m not sure I would if I could. You have messed the poor girl about. Father was right to be suspicious of your motives. And don’t suggest I give her a dowry. My money is all tied up in property.”

That set Tiber off into another string of what Laurel was certain were expletives, accompanied by the sound of boots walking back and forth.

“If you don’t want my sister,” Benjamin added, “just break the betrothal, or ask her to do so. She needs to be married by the time she is twenty-five. I’m sure I could find someone to take her off my hands. She might be old for a bride, but she is comely enough. And she has a whopping dowry.”

The footsteps ceased.

“I esteem her dowry,” Tiber admitted. “I even quite like the lady. She is pretty enough. A bit too strong-minded for my tastes, though. I think she will make the devil of a wife. But I have promised to marry her, and so I will. I don’t dislike the idea of marriage so much that I would leave her to dwindle into a spinster, for I doubt anyone else will have her at this late stage. And at least her dowry will allow me to set up another mistress.”

Laurel was over her first shock, and was in a tearing fury. She bounced to her feet and declared. “However, I shall not have you, Captain Lord Tiberius Seward. Consider our betrothal at an end. Benjamin, I shall find my own husband, thank you very much. One to my taste and not to yours.”

Both Tiber and Benjamin tried to change her mind. Tiber promised to be faithful, looking so doubtful about the idea that Laurel laughed.

“You can barely bring yourself to say the word, Tiber. Do not make me and yourself look ridiculous. You know as well as I do that our marriage would be miserable. I would indeed make you a devil of a wife, and you would make me a devil of a husband. Count your blessings, Tiber. Being jilted by me is certainly one of them.”

After Tiber left, Benjamin told Laurel she would be sorry when she realised what she had done, for Laurel had loved Lord Tiberius since she was seventeen. Laurel replied thatshe had been foolishly infatuated with Tiber when she was seventeen, but had lost her respect and even her affection for him over the interceding years. “You must know, Benjamin, that I have been convinced for some time that going ahead with this marriage would be a mistake. We do not suit, Tiber and I.”

Mama, when she was told, said she entered into Laurel’s feelings, but Laurel was foolish to think that Lord Tiberius would be faithful, for men were not. And besides, what would everyone say if she broke the betrothal? “Every one will think there is something wrong with you. You will be sorry when everyone jeers and calls you an old maid,” she said.

The gossips already thought there was something wrong with her. She had been betrothed for five years and the wedding had been postponed five times already. “People can call me what they wish,” Laurel replied. “I will not wed Tiber.” Mama had an attack of the vapours and retired.

Laurel remained adamant. Marry Tiber she would not. She retreated to her bedroom to think of a plan, but only after begging a couple of sardines from the cook to feed to the kitten as a reward.

 

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Meet my “Little Mermaid with a Twist” in WIP Wednesday

Angelico Warrington made his painful way from the parlour of his employer down the stairs to the main hall of the Lyon’s Den, where he was nearly due to play another set with the other musicians. His progress was slow, but with a crutch on each side to take part of the weight off his damaged feet, Angel did make progress.

That was an improvement over those excruciating months after his friends rescued him from the French camp. They had insisted on sending him to London to see the best doctors, but he remembered little of the journey from Spain, and not a great deal of successive failed treatments. Except for the pain. He remembered the pain.

He had been working for Mrs Dove Lyons for a calendar month, completing the trial period she had offered him at the behest of her chief guard. Her wolves, she called them. Titan, their leader had served with some of same officers as Angel, but at different times. Still, at the request of one of his friends, he had put in a word with Mrs Dove Lyons, who had declared herself willing to employ Angel for a month. And after that, she said, they would see.

He had not doubted his ability to prove himself. Angel had always been a capable musician, though he had been a better singer. Once. Before he screamed his throat raw over and over during the month he had been in the hands of the French.

He had been a good dancer, too, once.

No point in repining. He could have been killed when the explosives he’d been setting under a bridge went off early and trapped his feet under piles of rock and his head under the water. He could have died at the hands of the French who rescued him, imprisoned him, and tortured him to find out what he knew about the movements and plans of the British army.

He could have passed away after his friends got him out, since by then the wounds in both feet were infected. Or he could have lost his feet altogether. The surgeons had been keen to cut off the poor mangled objects that remained after his captors had repeatedly rebroken the bones, over and over.

Instead, he was alive, free, and mostly recovered. He was even mobile, sort of. And he now had a permanent job. Mrs Dove Lyons had pronounced herself satisfied with his performances in the post month. She had offered him a contract and an increase in his wages. He could possibly move from the fourth floor room he shared with one of the other musicians, if he could find a cheap enough place on the ground floor somewhere.

He was smiling as he reached the intermediate landing and executed the manouver that allowed him to change directions, but one foot came down more heavily than he intended, and he shut his eyes against the pain that stabbed up from every poorly set bone in the dismal appendage.

As he did so, a warm fragrant body collided with him, and he lurched off balance into the wall, gritting his teeth against the agony, now from both feet as his crutches clattered to the floor.

“Oh, I am so sorry,” said a melodious voice even as a firm hand grasped his upper arm on one side to support him.

“Take a moment, Nereus. My lady, would you fetch my friend’s crutches?” It was Titan, the head wolf. Not that his true name was Titan, any more than Angel’s was Nereus. But Mrs Dove Lyon gave each of her workers a name—a stage name as it were. From Midsummer Dream, most of them, but not Angel. For him, their employer had strayed into Greek mythology. Nereus was the shape-changing god of the sea and particularly of its fish. Titan must have told the lady what Angel had done when he joined the Allied cause in Spain.

Titan’s was the firm hand, but not the melodious voice. Angel had to see who that was.

He managed to open his eyes, but the lady was wearing a bonnet with a thick veil. A pale blue rather than black, as was the fashionable gown that highlighted rather than disguising her figure. So not a widow. Wonderful. He had fallen in front of one of the customers.

“I truly do apologise Mr Nereus,” she insisted, as she handed Angel each crutch and he tucked them under his arms. “I was speaking to Mr Titan over my shoulder, and not looking where I was going. I do hope I have not hurt you. Well. I mean, I can see that I hurt you, but not worse, I mean.”

“Nothing that won’t pass, my lady,” Angel assured her. “As long as I keep my weight off my feet, they will be better soon.” Or as good as they ever were, which was the best that could be expected.

“Mrs Dove Lyons is expecting you, Lady Laureline,” Titan told the lady, and she smiled at Angel. “If you are sure you are unharmed, Mr Nereus,” she said, and continued on up the stairs.

Titan stopped to say “Stay there and I’ll help you down when I’ve seen the lady to Mrs Dove Lyons. He hurried after the lady.

Angel stayed leaning against the wall, it and his crutches doing most of the job of supporting him. He ignored the pain—it was a familiar companion. The thoughts that seethed in his mind took all of his attention. That was Lady Laurel.

Laurel Barclay. The girl he had once adored from afar. The girl he had saved from the sea when the ship they were on sank off the coast of Portugal. Eight years ago, that had been, in 1808. She had returned to her world and he had joined the British army.

Why on earth was Lady Laurel, virtuous sister of an earl, and flower of the English ballrooms, visiting the proprietor of a gambling den? Even such a gambling den as this, popular as it was with men and women alike, was not the place for an unmarried daughter of an aristocratic family.

A thought crossed his mind, but that couldn’t be her errand. Mrs Dove Lyon was a matchmaker for the misfits and the desperate. Laurel is betrothed. And if she does not like Lord Tiberius Seward9, and who could blame her, she can just choose another.

Titan caught him by surprise. “Nereus. You waited. Do we need to call a doctor?”

A fair comment. Usually, Angel refused help. “The lady,” Angel said. “I knew her once, a long time ago. I was curious about why she was here.”

Titan raised a brow. “Her business with Mrs Dove Lyon is her own. When did you have an opportunity to meet Lady Laureline? I thought you had only been in England for eighteen months.”

“It was long ago,” Angel said. “We were both on the same ship coming from Italy.” For part of the trip, anyway. Angel had been taken from his Sicilian home by pirates, and was on his way to the Tunisian slave blocks when the pirate vessel encountered a British naval patrol and came off the worst.

“The commodore was Lady Laureline’s uncle—Lord Somerford’s brother. I can’t say that we met, exactly. She was well chaperoned, and I was working with the crew. Then, off Portugal, a storm struck the fleet. It was scattered and our ship was blown onto rocks and foundered.” Angel shrugged. “Lady Laureline was the first person I rescued.”

“Which means,” Titan observed, “that you went back into the sea. More than once if I was to guess. How many people did you rescue, exactly?”

Angel shrugged again. He had no idea. Just the memory of aching heavy muscles as he forced himself through the waves again and again.

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Nasty relatives on WIP Wednesday

 

I seem to have a lot of nasty relatives in my stories. A Regency romance trope that can be very useful. Here is my heroine from my Lyon’s Den story, The Talons of a Lyon, which is coming out with Dragonblade next April.

Despite the size of the rooms and the number of facilities, there was a queue for the dressing screens. Mrs Worthington insisted on Seraphina going first, and Seraphina conceded, since she had had a glass of champagne and two of punch in the course of the evening, and the matter was becoming urgent.

When Seraphina came out from behind the dressing screen, Mrs Worthington was nowhere to be seen, so she must have taken her turn.

Seraphina stooped to peer into one of the mirrors, and fiddled with a couple of her pins to fix a lock of hair that had fallen down. Focused as she was on the mirror, the first she knew of the presence of one of her enemies was when the woman’s reflection appeared in her mirror.

She turned to face her. “Virginia,” she said.

“You nasty common little bitch,” her sister-in-law hissed. “How dare you come here, swanning around on the arm of your fancy man, pretending you are fit for the company of your betters.”

“You insult Lord Lancelot Versey,” Seraphina replied, pleased that her voice was steady, though inside she was shaking like a blamange. “He is a perfect gentleman, and you are wrong to speak such untruths.”

Virginia didn’t listen, which came as no surprise. “Marcus and I will see to it that you are put back in the gutter where you belong, and I can promise you that you will never see your children again,” she snarled.

Mrs Worthington had emerged and was standing behind Virginia. “I have a promise for you, Virginia Frogmore.” When she spoke, the woman started, and twisted to see who was there.

“You and your husband,” Mrs Worthington continued, “have lied and cheated to see Lady Frogmore deprived of her place, her fortune, and her children. I promise that your sins have been uncovered, and you will not be allowed to enjoy the fruits of your lies and deception. Now go home before I tell Her Grace of Winshire that you have been threatening another of her guests.”

“You cannot support her!” Virginia whined. “She is not one of us!”

“You are not one of us, Mrs Frogmore,” Mrs Worthington declared. “Ladies do not spread false gossip. They do not cheat widows out of their income. Lady Frogmore has powerful allies. If you are wise, you and your husband will return the children and retire to somewhere you can afford without stealing from the little baron. I believe Italy might be suitable.”

Seraphina realized that everyone else in the room had stopped what they were doing and were listening avidly. Virginia must have noticed the same thing, because she suddenly put both hands over her face and rushed from the room.

The starch went out of Seraphina’s knees and she sank onto the stool in front of the mirror. Her breath, as she released it, was ragged.

Mrs Worthington sat beside her and put an arm around her shoulders. “What a horrid woman,” she commented.

Seraphina’s laugh was as shaky as she felt. “You do not know the half of it,” she said.

by

Acts of Daring on WIP Wednesday

In my current work-in-progress, my heroine is fighting a court battle to get back custody of her children from the brother of her late husband. Discovering that the brother’s wife intends to hide them away in the country, my hero hatches a plan.

Thank goodness they were in time. The drivers were not yet in their seats. Men in Frogmore livery lounged against a nearby wall. Lance had been afraid that the detour to his bank might delay them too long, but money was essential to the plan.

“Take the rig a few doors down,” Lance told the groom as he dismounted. “We don’t want Mrs Frogmore coming out and seeing it.”

“You won’t leave me out, though, my lord?” the groom asked, and drove along with Lance’s reassurance.

The other three men approached the loungers. “How would some of you like the rest of the day off and all of you like a month’s pay for keeping your mouth shut?” Lance asked.

It took a bit of negotiation, and more money than he had initially offered, but in the end Lance and his men were dressed in Frogmore livery and one of the grooms relieved of duty for the day was on his way to Lance’s stable with Lance’s cattle and phaeton.

They were just in time. The word came from the house that they were to drive to the front steps to pick up their passengers.

Lance’s groom, with Lance alongside, drove the second carriage after the first. Hal and the valet took the footmen’s seat at the rear. As his informants had predicted, Mrs Frogmore and her dresser climbed aboard the first carriage, and it trundled away.

The nursery party waited for the second. They pulled up the steps. Hal and the valet leapt down to assist the passengers to board: first the nursemaid with the baby, then the sour governess, and then the two little girls.

They took off after the first carriage, their driver using every opportunity to let the other carriage get ahead—stopping to give way to people, other vehicles, and horses, and keeping their team into a slow walk.

Thankfully, the first carriage took the Windsor Road. It was the logical direction, given that young Baron Frogmore owned a secondary estate just out of Swindon. Lance had hoped Mrs Frogmore wouldn’t risk taking the children north to the principal Frogmore estate, not just because it was obvious, but because a journey of several days would give pursuers time to catch up.

This road would suit Lance’s plans very well. He had been thinking about where to hide the children until after the custody hearing made it safe to put them in their mother’s hands. Not with any of the Verseys or their closest friends. Percy certainly had the power to refuse to release them, but Lance didn’t know how his theft of the children would influence the custody hearing.

It was best if Percy, Lady Frogmore, and Mr Forsythe knew nothing about it. Then they could swear on oath that they had not been involved. It was possible that Mrs Frogmore would not know they were missing until she arrived at her destination this evening. That would be even better, for it would take at least ten hours to get the message back to London. The custody case could be over before anyone heard that the coach with the children had been hijacked.

However, just in case, Lance planned to take them to someone whose independence would not be questioned.