Page 148 of The Lyon Whisperer
Lady Harriet made herself comfortable on the sofa. “I have had occasion to meet with Mrs. Dove-Lyon.”
The door opened with a soft click. Amelia turned in time to see a petite woman, dressed in widow’s weeds like herself, enter the chamber. She wore a black veiled cap which covered all of her face, with the exception of her mouth.
“Good afternoon, ladies, welcome to the Lyon’s Den.” She nodded regally at Harriet. “Madam, a pleasure to see you again, if unexpected.”
She moved—or rather, glided—across the carpets toward Amelia.
“Lady Amelia Culver, we finally meet. I must confess I never expected to see you in my establishment.”
She gave the woman a shaky smile. “And yet, here I am.”
“Perhaps you would be good enough to tell me to what I owe the pleasure.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Amelia studied Mrs.Dove-Lyon through the black netting of her veil. She could not discern the woman’s age, although by her self-prepossession and steady carriage, and the fine complexion visible beneath her own black netting, she was not in her dotage.
Not that any of that mattered. Mrs. Dove-Lyon had asked why she’d come, and despite the running dialogue in her head during the entire ride from Wimbledon to Mayfair, she now drew a blank.
“Perhaps a cup of tea to loosen the tongue?” their hostess suggested.
She snapped her fingers, a neat trick as she wore gloves, and the door opened. A trolly topped with a silver tea service was delivered by yet another female servant, this one dressed in finery.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon took it upon herself to pour. “Perhaps you would be so good as to sit.”
“Thank you,” Amelia said, and joined Lady Harriet on the sofa.
“Congou tea from Fujian,” the widow said as she poured. “I prefer it for the slightly floral accents. Help yourself to milk or sugar.” She handed Lady Harriet and Amelia, each in turn, a cup and saucer of the steaming, fragrant tea, then settled on an armchair.
Amelia’s cup rattled in its saucer, and she cursed the obvious tell of anxiety. She took a bracing breath. “Mrs. Dove-Lyon, I have been told my father, the Earl of Fallsgate, and my husband’s uncle, Lord Harry Culver entered into a wager at your establishment.”
The widow took a sip of her tea. She seemed disinclined to comment.
Amelia went on. “Furthermore, I have been led to believe the viscount lost this bet to my father, but upon losing, proposed another bet, whereby his nephew and heir would marry me and…” She cleared her throat. “How can I put this? He would manage to make a proper sort of lady out of me within a set time, six months I believe, or lose the entire sum and then some.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon sipped more tea then placed her china cup in its saucer. “Is there a question here?”
Amelia felt her cheeks grow warm. “Is this a correct summation of events?”
The gaming hell proprietress set her cup and saucer aside. “Yes. Am I to understand you have a problem with this?”
Amelia’s chin wobbled. It was all true. Every last detail. She took a hasty sip of tea and through an effort of will regained her composure. “Of course.”
The gaming hell proprietress shifted her attention briefly to Lady Harriet, her mouth firming in displeasure. “May I ask if it’s the end you oppose, or the means?”
“I beg your pardon?” Amelia asked.
“Is it the bet, your father’s part in it, your husband’s complicity, or do you simply regret marrying Lord Culver?”
Amelia drew in a sharp breath. Despite everything, pain shafted through her at the mere the thought of not being married to Chase.
“I asked my husband many times why he agreed to the hasty marriage. He managed to evade answering directly by the use of vagaries and half-truths.”
“You would have preferred him to admit that your father not only leapt at the chance to marry you off to the Iron Lion of Barrosa, but accepted a wager whereby he would profit—to your detriment—should Lord Culver not succeed in reining in your less-than-idyllic tendencies—by his standards, of course?”
Amelia had not considered the matter in that light.
“Lady Culver, do you love your husband?”
