Page 1 of The Lyon Returns
Chapter One
Cleveland Row, Whitehall, London, 1815
When, at agetwenty-nine, a widow of three years and a grieving daughter of eight weeks, Gwendolyn Barnes packed up all her worldly belongings and departed the small town of Little Giddingford, she imagined herself embarking on a quest to claim a new and exciting life. She had not foreseen exactly how that new life might look, except that it would certainly involve expanding her editing career and include her friends from the Ladies’ Literary Society of London, none of whom she had met in person—until two days ago.
That had been the day her rented travel coach deposited her at number 7 Dove Street, the home of Lady Harriet Oglethorpe and Mrs. Margaret Sheridan, where she had kindly been invited to stay while she searched for more permanent accommodations. It had also been the day she received the vexing news concerning Bell & Company, the publishing house she wished to purchase, and the day of her first in-person emergency meeting with the entirety of the Ladies’ Literary Society, an invitation-only club whose membership totaled seven, including herself.
The meeting was devoted entirely to helping Gwen. In retrospect, the lively discussion may have gotten out of hand. Nothing else couldexplain the situation in which she currently found herself: emerging from a rented hackney at twilight, ensconced in her hooded cloak, sandwiched between Lady Amelia Culver and Lady Harriet, preparing to visit a gambling hell in search of a husband.
She didn’t even want a husband.
They did not speak as they made their way down an alley toward a side entrance—the ladies’ entrance, her two compatriots had previously explained.
Gwen slanted a long look at the stately, pale-blue mansion. It boasted several floors, a manicured lawn, and sedate, wrought iron fencing. If not for the presence of the forbidding looking man stationed at the front door, the property might resemble any other in the upscale neighborhood.
Trepidation tightened her stomach. She searched over her shoulder for the hackney to assure herself the driver waited. “I’m not sure this is—”
“Hush now, Mrs. Barnes,” Lady Amelia interrupted. “You’ve nothing to lose by speaking with the proprietress.”
Other than social ruin,Gwen thought, stifling a sudden urge to giggle. Her new life was off to an exciting start.
Lady Harriet, the matriarch of their club, gave her arm a little squeeze. Gwen took heart from the small encouragement and the three marched on.
They were ushered inside by a tall woman dressed in men’s garments, from her top hat to her gleaming hessians. Gwen was not surprised by the spectacle; Amelia and Harriet had forewarned her.
Once inside, another female servant, also garbed in a man’s suit, guided them along a narrow corridor to a small drawing room. She divested them of their cloaks, informing them Mrs. Dove-Lyon would be with them shortly. Then, casting Gwen what seemed to her a knowing smile, she withdrew and closed the door softly behind her.
Amelia grasped both of Gwen’s hands. Her blue, nearly violet,eyes sparkled. “I have a good feeling about this, Mrs. Barnes.”
Gwen sent her a wry grin. “As we are embarking upon the most illicit adventure of my life to date, I think you may as well call me Gwen.”
“And you must call me Amelia.”
The door opened. A woman dressed in widow’s weeds, the better part of her face concealed under a black netted cap, glided into the chamber.
The proprietress of the Lyon’s Den, the infamous Mrs. Dove-Lyon and so-called Black Widow of Whitehall, Gwen presumed.
She angled her face toward Harriet, then Amelia. “Good evening, ladies. I confess, I had not expected to see either of you again quite so soon. And who is this you’ve brought me?”
Lady Harriet answered. “This is our very good friend, Mrs. Gwendolyn Barnes of Northumberland, who’s recently decided to relocate to London.”
The black cap angled in Gwen’s direction. “And she would like to avail herself of my services?”
Gwen opted to speak for herself. “That remains to be seen.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon was silent a moment, as if considering Gwen’s words. Finally, she gestured toward the sitting area, comprised of a plush red-striped, satin sofa, two red, velvet-covered armchairs and accompanying tables. “Please, have a seat. We shall drink tea and discuss possibilities.”
As if on cue, the door swung open, and a woman dressed in one of the most ornate evening gowns Gwen had ever seen pushed a cart laden with a silver tea service for four into the chamber.
The ladies settled, with Harriet taking one of the armchairs, and Mrs. Dove-Lyon the other. Amelia sat on the sofa and patted the seat beside her, smiling encouragingly at Gwen.
Gwen sat, her fingers icy in her gloves.This is a mistake.“I don’t want a husband,” she blurted out.
“But you need one if you are to pursue your dream,” Amelia countered, unruffled. “And Mrs. Dove-Lyon is so very good at choosing. Isn’t that so, Lady Harriet?”
The Black Widow, occupied with pouring tea, issued a soft snort. “In your case, Lady Culver, I more vetted the candidates than choosing them.” She handed Harriet a cup of steaming black tea, seemingly sure of how the woman took it.
“Sugar, milk?” She asked Amelia and Gwen.
