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In a world where alliances are everything, love becomes
the most daring and unpredictable alliance of all.
In the heart of Regency London, amidst the glittering
ballrooms and shadowy alleyways, a mystery unfolds that threatens to unravel
the very fabric of high society. The intertwined fates of two men navigate a
web of secrets, desire, and betrayal—all for the love of one woman.
Viscount Wolfton seeks to win Christina Heartfield’s heart after making a wager
with Mrs. Dove-Lyon, but soon finds that he is in danger of losing his own the
more he spends time with her...
The society papers prove troublesome as they threaten to ruin all involved...
including Christina’s well-meaning friend Richard St. John, who strives to
prove himself while protecting those he holds dear...
Christina Hartfield, beset by her family’s recent financial woes, finds herself
caught between both men: Viscount Wolfton, with his mercurial charm and
mysterious past, and Richard St. John, steadfast and sincere. The stakes are
high, with reputations, fortunes, and hearts on the line.
In a tale where love and loyalty are tested, the final twist remains shrouded in secrecy, proving that in the game of hearts, the most profound alliances are often those least expected.
Chapter One
London
April 19,
1821 - Afternoon
Marcus,
the Viscount Wolfton, the eldest son of the Earl of Aldbury, should have been
pleased. The fog that had plagued London for days, if not weeks, had
dissipated, allowing the sunlight to play amongst the trees and paint a dabbled
pattern on the paths by St. James Palace. The soft spring breeze, refreshing as
it was, changed the shadow designs at will.
He
maneuvered his way around the marketplace, unaware of the commotion. He should
have been pleased, but Wolfton did not appreciate the fine day or the gaping
mouths of women whose unabashed stares followed him as he passed.
Last
night’s events had gone well enough. As usual, people, primarily women, were
drawn to his wit, confidence, and full bachelor pockets. The usual beauties
that frequented every society event were eager for his attention. Their
mothers, many of whom were just as keen for him as their daughters, counseled
and coaxed their prodigy on how to make themselves more appealing to him.
An
enjoyable conversation with one young woman could easily set the gossipmongers’
jaws flapping. Wagers were set at Whites on a wedding date, heaven forbid. More
often than not, the wager was for the date of the woman’s broken-hearted
disappointment, as if he would consider any of them to be his viscountess. He
pushed his dour thoughts away and instead assumed the mask of a lighthearted,
debonair gentleman. He continued to weave through the crowd on his way to
Cleveland Row.
* * * *
Not
far away, Christina Hartfield took advantage of the brilliant day strolling
through the market. Enticed by the fragrant flowers, she stopped at a stall to
admire the colorful array of flowers on display. Christina bent to sniff a
bouquet of roses when she was startled, and her attention was drawn to a nearby
commotion. She spotted a dashing gentleman a few steps away, gracefully
maneuvering through the crowded market.
Caught
off guard by his charismatic presence, Christina stared as he wove through the
crowd. Unable to pull her eyes away. She found him and the mischievous twinkle
in his eye quite compelling.
He
moved with an air of authority that seemed innate, his tall frame cutting
through the throng with an ease that spoke of his high birth. His hair, the
color of midnight, was styled away from a forehead that was smooth and
untroubled, suggesting a life untouched by common strife.
His
eyes, a deep gray like the heart of a storm, seemed to hold a myriad of secrets
and a history of both fiery passion and measured restraint. The sharp angles of
his face told a story of privilege, yet there was something in the set of his
jaw, a certain determination, that hinted at challenges overcome. Even from a
distance, Christina could feel the pull of his charisma, an almost tangible
aura that drew the attention and silent respect of those around him.
He
glanced at her with a charming smile and sent her a playful wink as he passed
by, leaving her breathless. After the brief contact, she let out a hearty laugh
that rippled through the air.
* * * *
Wolfton’s
smile broadened. The sound of the young woman’s infectious laughter stayed with
him all the way down Cleveland Row to Number 8. He took the two steps up to the
entrance in one bound and lifted the brass lion head door knocker.
“My
Lord, good afternoon.” Theseus, the butler at the gentleman’s door of the
Lyon’s Den, welcomed him.
“Theseus,”
Wolfton nodded as he gave the man his hat and gloves, the woman in the
marketplace already forgotten. Not needing any directions, he made his way
through the entryway to the gentlemen’s
lounge.
“Wolfton,
I didn’t expect to see you here this early.”
He
smiled at Lord Tarleton, a well-respected member of the House of Lords’ Financial
Affairs Committee. “Can I assume you’ve had a long night? Profitable, I hope.”
“Quite...long
and very profitable. Better than I had hoped.” Tarleton chuckled and gestured
for him to have a seat.
“Your
good fortune precedes you.” Wolfton raised his glass in salute. “I’ve heard
word that Falkenham was at your mercy. I thought he’d have better sense than to
play cards with you.”
“You
would think the man would be aware of his limits. Especially after the
significant losses he experienced during his trip to America, he would be more
frugal. I gave him ample choices to end the game. However, his spending and
gambling losses say otherwise. One would think he has a bank at his disposal.”
Tarleton rose. “You’ll forgive me Wolfton. I must leave. I’m expected at a
committee meeting.”
The
footman approached him. The man had the forethought to put a glass of his
favorite brandy in his hand. After several moments, Wolfton pul[AR1] [RS2] led an invitation from his coat and
stared at it.
“Is
something awry, my lord?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon looked down at him.
He
stood at once, putting the card back in his pocket. “Forgive me, Mrs.
Dove-Lyon. I was in my head and didn’t see you approach. Please, won’t you join
me?” He gestured to the seat recently vacated by Tarleton.
Mrs.
Dove-Lyon motioned to the footman for a cup of tea and to freshen Wolfton’s
glass.
Bessie
Dove-Lyon, the formidable proprietor of Lyon’s Den, carried herself with an air
of undeniable charm that defied the passage of time. Despite the years that had
gracefully settled upon her, she retained a striking beauty. Her expressive
eyes, a mesmerizing shade of hazel, held a wealth of experiences and a shrewd
understanding of the world.
Her
elegantly styled chestnut hair framed her face with a touch of sophistication,
and a few strands of silver were a subtle reminder of the challenges she’d
faced rather than the years. Of a moderate height, her slender figure radiated
a quiet strength that commanded respect. There was a subtle magnetism in how
she carried herself, a blend of confidence and resilience that drew people to
her.
“I
heard about your dismissal of Lord Falkenham’s daughter, Lady Grace Talbot. It
was gentle and polite. However, after you left, the poor girl was distraught.
She may still be in tears.”
He
was taking a deep sip of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s fine brandy when he nearly spit it
out, coughing.
“Oh,
dear me.” She stood and pounded his back. “My medical skills do come in handy
every so often.”
Wolfton
raised his hand, signaling he had recovered, and nodded. “I’m fine.” He stared
at her in disbelief. “She was distraught? All day? Surely, you exaggerate. Last
night, I spoke to her at the Croswell’s gala about…about…” His brows furrowed
as he tried to remember the lady in question but soon gave up. “I was sitting
after dancing with Lady…” He paused, recalling the awkward encounter. “The
woman thought my toes were part of the ballroom floor. I needed to sit and
recover when the dance was over. That’s when the girl sat herself next to me.”
“Lady
Grace Talbot, that’s the young lady’s name. And the woman who thought you were
part of the dance floor was the Duchess of Brassington. Lady Grace is under the
impression that you sat beside her and started the conversation.”
Wolfton
observed as Mrs. Dove-Lyon, who had already returned to her seat, waved the
issue away.
“Lady
Grace had gone on about you. She expected you’d join her at tea today. Her
father, Falkenham, was pleased at your attention.” She raised her eyebrows,
seeking some response.
“I
bumped into Wainwright this morning. You've been introduced to him, Lord St.
John’s friend. He told me I was on the books at Whites again. This time, the
wager was how long it would be before I brought the chit to tears. Falkenham
stopped me and warned me about the gossip. He wants me to speak to her and put
things right.”
“A
careful maneuver,” she said, dripping with sarcasm.
Wolfton
listened to her words, the edges of his lips twitching. He fought back a
chuckle. Her cynicism was a familiar blade that had nicked him more times than
he cared to admit. Those moments when her wit sliced through pretense were
etched in his memory. He didn’t miss them, no, not at all.
“I
wasn’t being noble,” he continued. “Lady Grace was more upset about people
thinking it was her fault. She wouldn’t be in this unenviable situation if she
hadn’t started the rumor. I told her to blame it on me. Everyone has already
labeled me a rake, so it would be much more believable.” He stared, smiling at
his brandy for several moments, his mind elsewhere, a private thought. Then, he
finished what was left in his glass and licked his lips. “I left her with a
smile on her face.”
Mrs.
Dove-Lyon gave him a half smile. “You can be a reasonable gentleman when you
want.” She picked up her teacup and sipped.
“You
look surprised. I can be rather pleasant when I…work at it. However, I prefer
not to show it off too often. People may think I’m…nice.”
“Nice?
You, my lord?” She paused. He watched her struggle to hide her smirk. “Never
nice. Perhaps a tease, or just tolerable. But never nice.”
Wolfton
gave her one of his irresistibly devastating smiles and put his hand over his
heart. “Madame, you wound me. How will I go on?”
“Why
don’t you tell me why you’re here? It’s early in the day, even for you.”
He
studied her, his gaze lingering on the subtle shift in her expression. Mrs. Dove-Lyon
was a master of transitions—from playful banter to unwavering focus.
He
leaned back in the plush chair, the Lyon family crest embroidered on the
upholstery. “Early indeed,” he replied, his voice low. “But some matters can’t
wait for the sun to set.” He took a deep breath.
“You’ve
found me out.” He took the invitation out of his coat. “You know that besides
my direct support, I am on the board of directors of The Society for the Relief
of Indigent Widows and Orphans.” He handed her the invitation. “As are you. I
am here to ask if I may accompany you to the event?”
An
arched eyebrow indicated her humorous surprise. “That is a lovely gesture, and
I’m sincerely honored with your invitation, but my lord,” she gently touched
his arm. “My presence would have the ton in an uproar. You’ve just put
one rumor to sleep. You needn’t start another.”
He
retrieved the card from her.
“But
it was a lovely thought. Now, are you telling me you have no one you can
invite? There is Lady Grace.”
“Madame,
that’s beneath you. I want to take someone that does not start a rumor.”
“And
you invited me?” Her peal of laughter made him smile.
He
continued once she had composed herself. “I invite you because you do not care
about rumors.” He gave her one of his dazzling smirks, adding a wink for good
measure.
He
bore her glare. “You think their barbs are any less sharp when they throw them
my way?”
“Not
at all. I think you have a tougher skin that lets the barbs roll off.”
“No
one plans these events as you do. It is a shame that you cannot enjoy the
fruits of your work.” There was a hint of sadness beneath his tone as he
acknowledged the injustice of the situation.
“I
have a wonderful assistant. Neither of us needs to be in attendance. Lady
Hazelton and her staff are more than competent to handle any situation that may
arise.”
“My
invitation was a spontaneous idea. The problem is every woman I spend even a
small amount of time with goes away with dreams of marriage.” He moved closer
to the edge of his seat. “I came here with the idea—” He put his empty glass
down. “You’re right, of course, it is a horrid idea. Please forget I even
mentioned it.”
Two
heartbeats passed before he continued, “I cannot go alone. That just aggravates
the situation. They flock around me. If you will not let me accompany you, I'm
not certain what to do. Perhaps someone obscure, not a member of the ton.
The more obscure, the better. I will tell her right from the beginning that it
is no use for her to fall in love with me, and that as lovely as she is, I am not
interested.”
Mrs.
Dove-Lyon bit her lips to stifle a grin. “Really. You think that would be
wise?”
“Of
course. I don’t want any misconceptions. I know it sounds pompous of me.
Perhaps if I find the right girl, you can tell her for me.” He gazed at Mrs.
Dove-Lyon. Besides being the Black Widow of Whitehall, she was the ultimate
matchmaker, an expert who brought people together for the right price. He
looked at her more intently.
“You
could find me someone to accompany to the Society’s events. I will pay all the
young lady’s expenses, including new gowns and accessories.” He paused. He
really hadn’t thought about this part of the bargain. “And I shall compensate
her for her time. Unfortunately, I will have to ask you what would be
appropriate recompense. I have no idea.” He waved his hand in the air as he sat
back.
“To
accompany you to the Society for the Relief of Indigent Widows and Orphans
gala?”
“Now
that you mention it, there are other events supporting the gala. I would need
her to be available tomorrow for the board luncheon, next Tuesday for the
patron luncheon, that Friday for the musical concert, and the gala the
following Saturday.” He paused. The more he thought about the idea, the more he
liked it. “You can do this for me, can’t you?”
“Are
you certain you don’t wish Lady Grace to accompany you?” She teased and
snickered as she observed him scrunch up his shoulders in horror.
“Absolutely
not.” He wished he had some more of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s special brandy. He could
use something to fortify him at the moment. The woman was unreadable. It was
exasperating.
“You
didn’t leave me much time to help you. Tomorrow. Really, Wolf.”
He
gave her a smile, the one that sent women’s hearts pounding. “Then you’ll find
me someone to bring to the Society events?”
Mrs.
Dove-Lyon nodded. “You are certain that every woman will fall at your feet.”
He
gazed at her as if she had spoken in another language. “They have up until now.
Why would I expect anything different? At one time, I thought it was my trust
account that they had their eyes on. I made it my business to ingratiate myself
to duchesses and marchionesses whose trusts were greater than mine. They were
the worst. So, yes. Women do fall at my feet. I would wager that no matter what
you and I do to discourage whomever you find to accompany me will fall in love
with me before the final event.”
As
he gazed at Mrs. Dove-Lyon, he noted an odd twinkle in her eye. “I will take
that wager,”
He
blinked at her unnatural calm, which she used to her advantage when she
wagered.
“I
don’t want to take your money,” he said with authority. “I don’t want to lose
your friendship.”
“You
are so certain.” She paused. Her lips puckered as she tried to prevent a smile.
“I’ll wager two thousand pounds that the woman I provide to accompany you will
not fall at your feet and certainly not fall in love with you.” There was a
fire in her eyes to add to the dare, for that was what this was. “And as for
friendship, you will not lose my friendship. I do not let business interfere
with my personal feelings.” After several minutes, when he hadn’t responded,
she added, “You are afraid you’ll lose. I thought so.”
“Not
at all. Two thousand pounds,” Wolf repeated, savoring the wager. He was no
stranger to calculated risks but matters of the heart defied logic. Love? It
was a game he had never played.
He
leaned toward her, his voice low. “And what if I win? What prize awaits the
victor?”
Mrs.
Dove-Lyon’s lips curved with a hint of mischief. “Ah, my dear Wolfton, the
stakes are higher than pounds or friendship. Should you lose, you’ll owe me two
thousand pounds and a truth—one you’ve guarded well.”
Truths—the
currency of secrets. Wolfton wondered which vaults she sought to unlock.
He held her gaze. “I’ll take your wager. Please, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
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