Mrs Dove Lyon

by

A little mouse of a heroine in WIP Wednesday

Thrown to the Lyon is beginning to gel in my mind.

***

Dorcas Kent hoisted the heavy bag of linens and embroidery thread a little higher on her shoulder. Short as she was, it was hard to keep the bag from brushing the ground, which would be bad enough on any day, but worse when three days of heavy rain had turned the streets into a swamp of mud, dirty water, and other far more noxious substances.

She had walked to the drapery warehouse as soon as the sun had peeped through the clouds. Even if she had had the coins to spare, she was unwilling to risk the table linens she had embroidered in the filthy interior of a hackney. Mr. McMillan would dock the price of damaged linens from her wages and would, moreover, refuse to pay for any work she had done on them. Mr. McMillan was the man who employed her to apply family crests, monograms, or whatever motif buyers desired onto the household linens he supplied.

That was also why she was walking home, keeping one wary eye on the gathering clouds.

She carried two weeks or more of work and therefore a month’s rent, and food on the table for at least part of that month. The loss of even a set of table napkins could leave her destitute. Scraping the bag in the mud would be a disaster. Rain before she reached her room would be a disaster.

So, she readjusted the handle for the umpteenth time and trudged on.

Disaster came looking for her just as she rested for a moment against a stone water trough set a little back from the footpath. She had her back against the trough and the precious bag clasped to her belly as she looked idly at the passersby and wished that she did not have so far to walk.

People must have rushed out to enjoy the brief sunshine, for both road and footpath were crowded. One lady caught her eye. She was clad in deep black, and a veil fell from her bonnet to cover her veil. Dorcas found herself wondering about the widow. Did the heavy mourning represent the truth or a social lie?

Dorcas had worn black for Michael, and then again for Noah. Not, however, quite like the lady she observed. She smiled at the very idea. It was like comparing a sparrow and a peacock—her in her hastily dyed everyday gowns and the clearly wealthy lady who was picking her way cautiously around a puddle in her expensive and fashionable sails and velvets.

The lady was just walking past Dorcas when someone dashed out from the shadows and pushed her, so that she stumbled into the street, right into the path of an approaching carriage.

Dorcas was barely aware of the assailant running away and was not conscious at all of casting her bag down and hurling herself after the lady. She didn’t think, but grabbed a double handful of the lady’s redincote and swung her around, just before the horses, snorting and stamping, reached their position.

For one horrid moment, she lost her own balance as the carriage raced towards her. Then hard hands grabbed her, pulling her to safety. And the lady in black, too, she noticed as a tall strong man with hard eyes set her on her feet, and another did the same for the widow. The carriage had driven on by, the driver hurling imprecations over his shoulder.

“How can I ever repay you?” The widow held her hands out to Dorcas. “You saved me from serious injury, at the very least. Titan, did you see who pushed me?”

“No, Mrs. Dove Lyon,” said the man who had caught the lady. “I’ve sent a man after him, but he was fast on his feet.”

“And you, Miss?” Mrs. Dove Lyon asked Dorcas.

“Mrs.,” Dorcas commented. “And no, all I saw was his back as he gave you a shove.”

“Mrs…?” Mrs. Dove Lyon asked.

It was at that moment that Dorcas remembered her bag. “Kent,” she replied absentminded as she looked for the bag. Her heart quailed when she saw it lying on the edge of a puddle. “My linens!” she moaned.

Sure enough, when she picked up the bag, she could see that one corner was completely saturated in muddy water.

by

Allies, friends, and fellow travellers on WIP Wednesday

The Talons of a Lyon, my first Lyon’s Den connected world book, is out on the 26th April. Just enough time for a WIP excerpt, this one about an alliance with the Black Widow of Whitehall herself.

Mrs. Dove Lyon did not keep her waiting long. Seraphina stood when she entered, and curtsied. That was probably incorrect, since a baroness, even a disgraced widow, surely outranked the owner of a gambling den, but Mrs. Dove Lyon had a presence that transcended considerations of rank.

Mrs. Dove Lyon nodded briefly and took a seat behind her desk, saying nothing, but simply facing Seraphina. Studying her, Seraphina assumed. Seraphina had swept her veil back over her bonnet, but Mrs. Dove Lyon wore a thicker one that completely obscured her features.

“Lady Frogmore,” she said at last. “How may I be of service?”

Seraphina took a deep, brief breath. She had prepared and practiced her speech. “If you know who I am,” she said, “you know I am rumored to be a wicked wanton, and a bad wife.” Moriah had said that Mrs. Dove Lyon knew everything.

Mrs. Dove Lyon inclined her head.

“The rumors are untrue,” Seraphina declared. “They were spread by my husband’s family, who want to keep me from my children.”

Mrs. Dove Lyon said nothing.

Seraphina continued. “I know few people in Society and few of them know me. I come from a merchant family and my husband kept me at home. The Frogmores want me out of my children’s lives because they wish to control the fortune my father left to my children, and my son’s estates—estates saved by the fortune I brought into the marriage as my dowry.”

She had another fear. Only the person of that son, born after Henry’s death, stood between Marcus Frogmore and the title. But surely, he was not such a monster as to kill his own nephew?

She would not mention that to Mrs. Dove Lyon lest the woman think her crazed.

“Marcus Frogmore took a case to court to gain custody of the children. I knew nothing about it until after the case was decided. I have sought another hearing, but my solicitor says that, as things stand, I cannot hope to win without the support of some of those in the ton who can then stand as character witnesses. To do that, I need to move among them, to allow them to get to know me.”

Mrs. Dove Lyon spoke. “So, you want me to find you a husband.”

Seraphina spoke with all the horror she felt. “Dear Heavens! No! Never again.”

Mrs. Dove Lyon stilled. Without seeing her face, Seraphina could not be sure, but she thought the Black Widow was surprised.

Her voice had no inflexion, though, when she said, “No.” Then, “I see. Or, rather, I do not see. I can understand why a widow would not wish to marry again, but I do not understand what you want from me.”