Page 2 of The Lyon and the Lass

“No.”

He began to close the door, and she found the nerve to put her foot in the small opening, keeping it from closing. “I sent her a letter.”

He studied her from head to foot, then opened the door wider and waved her in. As the door closed, she heard the sound of the hackney rolling away from the building.

“Follow me.” The monster turned and strode through a narrow corridor and climbed small steps to the first floor. She could hear the cheers and groans of men gambling, winning, losing, and egging other men on.

They climbed one more flight to a floor that was heavily decorated. Plush carpets under their feet hid the sound of their steps. They stopped at a beautiful oak door, polished to a high sheen. He opened the door and waved her inside.

Inside was even more richly and tastefully decorated.

“If you take a seat I will see if Mrs. Dove-Lyon wishes to see you.” He glared at her. “It is difficult to see her without an appointment.”

Christine nodded “I understand. Thank you for allowing me in.”

He grunted and entered another door where she assumed the notorious Black Widow of Whitehall resided.

She pushed her bundle under the chair she sat on. She took off her gloves which were damp with sweat. She smoothed out her skirt and patted the sides of her hair.

How did she get to this point in her life? Papa died, left her a fortune, and Uncle Carl wanted the money. Short of killing her, he decided to marry her off to a friend. She had no doubt that there was an agreement somewhere that Lord Newton would split the fortune with Uncle Carl. They would get all of Papa’s money and she would get a portly, slobbering, lewd husband.

The door opened and instead of the man who had escorted her, whom she was expecting, a slim tall woman of undetermined years, wearing all black, including a fashionable hat with a veil covering her face that made it impossible to see her, glided into the room.

Christine stood, her heart in her throat. “Mrs. Dove-Lyon”?

Laird Kerrigan Lindsayglared at his steward Neil and cousin, Patrick, not ready to hear another warning from them. “Doona have anything to say. I am set on this path and ye will no’ talk me out of it.”

“What if this wife of yers turns out to be ugly? Or a shrew? A woman looking to buy a husband must have something wrong with her,” Neil said.

Kerrigan downed the rest of his ale. “’Tis no concern of yers. As ye well ken, our people will starve if I doona find a way to buy the sheep we lost during the disease that wiped out almost our entire herd. No sheep, no wool. Therefore, no making sweaters, caps, wraps, kilts and blankets that keeps coin in the clan’s pockets. As laird, ’tis my duty and responsibility to take care of the problem.”

“But to marry a stranger,” Patrick said. “A woman looking to buy a husband? And English? Dinna ye ken that the English lasses are spoiled, haughty, and expect others to take care of their every need? You might be looking at a lifetime of grief.”

Kerrigan slammed his mug down on the table. “Enough! Ye are no’ changing my mind and now that I have received an answer from that woman in London who makes matches, I will be on my way at first light.”

The direction he’dreceived from Mrs. Dove-Lyon, led him to a blue-painted house at the fringes of Whitehall, a section of London he’d not been to before. Granted, his visits to the city had been few and far between since he didn’t care for them, always feeling as though there wasn’t enough air to breathe. And you couldn’t walk the streets without bumping into someone.

He preferred the open country and the smell of grass, trees, and sheep to what was found in London. But that was where his only hope lay. If it hadn’t been for his longtime friend, the Earl of Devon, he’d still be home pulling his hair out as he tried to think of a way to gain the coin he needed to replace his sheep.

He and Devon had gone to school together when Kerrigan’s da had decided he should attend Cambridge. No amount of arguing that he preferred to attend the University of Edinburgh swayed the man who never changed his mind once he’d made it up. Considering the damage the English had done to the Scottish clans over the years, it seemed an odd demand, but even though he never knew why his da had insisted on it, it had given Kerrigan the opportunity to make friends in England, who most Scots hated.

After sending Devon a letter telling him of his clan’s darkness, his friend wrote back with information about a woman, referred to as the “Black Widow of Whitehall”, who matched up wealthy women, mostly with bad reputations, withmen in dire straits. He sent a letter, pleading his case, asking to be considered for a woman who could solve his problem. He’d been immediately informed that he must present himself to her for an examination. Her women, she’d said, deserved the best and she would give them no less.

The next afternoon he set out for London with hope in his heart. He didn’t care if the lass was tall, short, ugly, pretty, plump, skinny as a broom, or had a face full of warts. All that mattered was that he had the coin he needed and the coffer to renew his clan’s riches. He would take care of her, show her respect, and provide a loving home for her and any bairns they might produce.

She was saving his clan when he had no other way to do it.

The Lyon’s Den, which was where he was told to present himself, was not in the best of neighborhoods in London. The building that housed the notorious gambling den was unimpressive when he approached it.

A small building, painted blue, made him chuckle. It stood out from the other buildings, making him wonder what her neighbors thought of the unusual presentation her place of business made.

He climbed from the hackney and straightened his cravat, a fashionable bit of nonsense. The man at the door merely nodded when he presented his name and the information provided by Mrs. Dove-Lyon as to when and where he was to appear at The Lyon’s Den.

He was led down a narrow corridor, where he almost had to turn sideways to walk. They climbed two flights of stairs before they stopped at a well-polished oaken door that his escort opened.

“Mrs. Dove-Lyon will meet with you momentarily. In the meantime, I can send for tea.”

“Tea?” Kerrigan almost choked out the word. “Are you telling me a club like this doesna have whisky?”