Lyon’s Prey

large ornate room in the middle, the one that always had the door closed—Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s office.
“Wait here,” Titan grunted. “I will let her know you have arrived.” His voice hinted at displeasure before he disappeared into a smaller hall that ran off to the right.
“Certainly,” Evan replied coolly, suddenly recalling Banbury informing him that Titan had seen the incident with Lady Charlotte and her brother.
Titan returned and opened the door. “Mrs. Dove-Lyon will be here soon.”
If they created this reception to add to his discomfort, it scored on that point. Evan looked around the gaudy office, taking in the oversized chandelier hanging in the center of the ceiling of a room full of red velvet. He chose an overstuffed velvet chair with ornately carved arms sitting to the left of her small parlor couch. He preferred to address opponents from the left side of the room, something he recalled his father mentioning to him years before. He did not have any basis to believe it made a difference, but it had become a habit.
The opening of the door behind him and swish of petticoats alerted him that the woman had arrived, and he stood to greet her, a taut smile plastered on his face.
“Ah, Lord Clarendon. It is good to see you again. I trust you and your family are well?” she asked with a curious intonation to her voice.
It immediately reminded him of his disadvantage with this woman. He prided himself on being able to read people, but she purposely kept her face hidden. He would have to rely on the other aspects of body language and her voice to gain him any advantage in this conversation. His stomach tightened, and he drew up straighter in the chair. “My family is well, Mrs. Dove-Lyon.” He paused. “I have to admit to more than a slight amount of curiosity as to the purpose of our meeting today. I am not aware of any outstanding debts,” he ventured.
“As to that, all in due time,” she answered, reaching to the table beside her couch and pulling out a tin of cheroots and offering him one.
“No, thank you, but I appreciate the offer. It is too early for me.” Evan inclined his head politely, and she returned the metal box to the table.
“I see that you are not a man who appreciates small talk, so I will get right to the point. What I have to say will be a benefit to us both, Lord Clarendon,” she continued. “Your biggest debt, if you will, is to your son. You made a rather casual wager before leaving the gaming room two days hence, which relates to that.”
“Pardon? That would be curious, as I do not recall placing such a bet. I picked up my winnings and left soon after that,” he supplied, outrage forming at her bringing his son into the conversation.
“Do you recall wandering to the betting book before you left?” she asked.
“No.” An icy feeling shot through him. He noted the firmness to his answer, yet a sliver of memory stabbed at him, something to do with Lord Christie. The man had bought him a drink . . . no, two drinks. What happened after that?
“Are you sure?” she prompted, undeterred by his previous answer, and picked up a large brown ledger book sitting next to her.
His head ached from the combination of stress and the feeling in his bones he was about to lose serious ground.
She pulled a cord, and a youthful woman appeared. “Gertie, would you fetch us some tea and whatever the cook has in the way of sandwiches?”
“Yes, madam,” the young woman replied. She curtsied and left, pulling the door closed behind her.
Evan wished he could see her face but felt sure he would not see weakness or indecision in it. However, he was having an arduous time maintaining his emotions.
“Lord Clarendon, do you recognize this?” She tugged on a thin red ribbon hanging from the bottom of the book and opened it to a page. Following the writing with her right forefinger, she drew it slowly down the page until it came to rest about two inches from the bottom. Turning the book around so he could read it, she handed it to him.
Gertie returned with tea and sandwiches and poured each of them a cup, placing them on the small tables next to them.
Squinting, he recognized his signature written in a flurry under a hand-printed statement. He stood and walked to the window that looked over the gaming room behind her parlor chair. The light from the room helped him to make out the handwriting.
The Earl of Clarendon bets that should he lose all his winnings by the end of this night, he agrees to allow the House to choose his wife.
Signed: The Earl of Clarendon
Witnessed: Titus
“That is a stupid bet. It has to be a joke,” he exclaimed. “You cannot hold me to that. I would have had to be deep in my cups to sign such a thing,” he responded, unease seeping into his stomach. He needed to leave the room, convinced that another shoe was about to drop. Feeling invincible at cards that night and having won against tremendous odds, he had bragged to Lord Christie about always winning, except in life. Lord Christie had been equally in his cups, he felt sure—too much to have concocted such a bet.
He looked up at the Widow and caught a wide smile of red lips beneath her black veil.
“I assure you it is no joke.” She studied him. “I see you are recalling this,” she spoke as she pulled the book back and closed it, its ribbon still in place. “Titan overheard you make the statement and asked you if you wanted to make that a wager. You accepted and lost,” she said with decisiveness. “That is your signature, is it not?”
Damn it. As soon as she mentioned Titan, he remembered signing the book, and that was problematic. He was trapped by his own arrogance. “Where exactly is