Page 3 of The Scarred Lyon

Laura smiled. “I was hoping you would ask. I want to do some shopping at the Soho Bazaar. I read about it in the newspaper. It’s a popular indoor market. And I want to meet the young woman. Promise me you will keep an open mind, Duncan. Mrs. Dove-Lyon said you can talk with the lady in question privately in one of the retiring rooms on the third floor.”

Duncan snorted. “Isn’t that where the supposed brothel used to be? Wasn’t Mrs. Dove-Lyon a reputed courtesan?”

“So the rumors say. Does that matter in the scheme of things?”

“And what a scheme. What if this chosen woman does not suit?”

“I have instructed Mrs. Dove-Lyon to compile a shortlist, which we will meticulously review. We will find you a suitable bride, Duncan. Never you fear.”

“Am I to interview them as if I were hiring an employee? A housekeeper, perhaps?”

“Yes. Which you are. Let us be completely honest.” Laura picked up her teacup and sipped it. “We can only hope the lady you choose is able to have children. If not, at least you attempted to carry on the title.”

This entire discussion left a chill in his midsection. His just-eaten breakfast churned like a ship caught in a storm on the North Atlantic. Duncan could refuse and spend his few remaining years alone, allowing the crown to take possession of all entailed money and properties after he died. Other peers had done so. The stark truth was that he wanted children and, hopefully, a son to carry on the title. Given his advancing age and circumstances, he had no choice but to take this course of action. “Then, make arrangements for travel as soon as possible.”

Laura clapped her hands together. “Brilliant! You will not regret it, Duncan.”

The devil he wouldn’t. This had all the earmarks of a complete disaster.

Chapter Two

A few weeks later…

Augusta Cheevers stepped down from her family’s carriage, gazing at the multistory blue building on Cleveland Row, then moved aside as the footman helped her mother, Viscountess Hampton, out of the carriage. She couldn’t believe she had agreed to come here.

“We shall not be long, Thomas. Tell the coachman to wait,” the viscountess said. “Come, Augusta. Before anyone sees us.”

“Why? Is this place disreputable?” Augusta asked as her mother took her arm and led her to the side of the building.

“It is a gaming den,” her mother murmured. “But it is also a matchmaking service. And you need one. Mrs. Dove-Lyon and I agreed on the particulars. We must use the ladies’ entrance here.”

Augusta remained uncertain about how the agreement had come about. It all came down to the fact that her parents wanted to be rid of her, and that aspect cut deeper than she cared to admit. “Perhaps I could look for a position as a paid companion,” Augusta suggested.

Her mother looked horrified. “That is out of the question. You are the daughter of a viscount. Imagine the talk! No, marrying you to a suitable man is the only solution to this…this—”

“Problem? I am problem for you and Father. Is that it? More so than usual?”

“You are soon to be without anyone to look after you. And you refuse to move back home.”

“Father will not allow it, you know that, Mother. After all that has passed between the three of us, we agreed that this is the only solution. However, now we are here, I am having—”

The door opened, and a woman looked at them inquiringly. “How may I assist you?”

“Viscountess Hampton and my daughter, Mrs. Cheevers, are to see Mrs. Dove-Lyon. We have an appointment.”

The woman opened the door wider. “Of course, Viscountess. Mrs. Cheevers. Welcome to the Lyon’s Den. I am Helena. Please come into the parlor. Mrs. Dove-Lyon will join you both presently.”

Augusta and her mother followed Helena into a plush parlor, tastefully decorated in gold and burgundy that was even more elegant than the one where her parents entertained.

“Shall I bring tea, my lady?” Helena asked politely.

“No, thank you,” her mother replied. “We shall not be here that long.”

Helena nodded slightly and left the room. She had barely been gone a few minutes when another woman entered. Dressed entirely in black, with a heavy veil concealing her face, she made a striking impression. She sat at the desk, facing them. Without a word, she opened the desk drawer and took out a ledger. “I am Mrs. Dove-Lyon. And this is your daughter, Augusta, I assume?” She dipped her pen into the inkwell, ready to take notes.

“I am Augusta Cheevers, nine-and-twenty years of age. I’m not married, but I was in a long-term relationship with a married man.”

“Augusta!” her mother cried.