The Lyon’s Alliance (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)

Epilogue

Sunday, May 6, 1821

I n the early hours of the morning at The Lyon’s Den, Mrs. Dove-Lyon cradled her cup of tea, her smile a silent celebration of a successful alliance.

“Your guest has arrived, madame,” Theseus, the butler announced, his voice a soft intrusion.

“Please, show my guest in,” she replied, her satisfaction undiminished.

Her guest entered with a quiet presence, an air of completion about them.

“May I offer you some tea?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon asked, the teapot in hand, ready to pour.

“No, thank you. Time is precious today,” the guest declined, their voice carrying a note of finality. “I must confess, I had my reservations about our alliance, but your expertise is unparalleled. I should never have doubted you.” Her guest extended a leather wallet, a token of the pact fulfilled.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon let out a contented sigh, gently refusing the wallet. “I cannot accept payment. The match was not completed.”

The guest insisted their resolve was evident. “A promise was made, and you’ve more than delivered what I sought. Though our paths may diverge, they will cross again.” With those parting words, her guest turned to leave.

“The ton is still abuzz trying to identify where the London Chronicle got all its information. Everyone has their own theory, as do I.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon reached for her teacup. “You do?”

“The only people who had all the information were you and possibly Mr. Hughes.” The words lingered, unclaimed and heavy, in the silence that followed.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon said nothing. She simply smiled and sipped her tea as her guest nodded and turned to leave.

“By the way,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon called after her guest, a twinkle in her eye, “the title of Viscountess Wolfton becomes you, Lady Grace.”

“That remains to be seen. We’ve decided to wait. It is my hope that it will not be too long.”

“Then take the payment.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon pushed the wallet toward Grace. “I think in a month or so, three at the most, you’ll need to travel to Milan.”

Grace shook her head. “I will not follow him like some dog in heat. That is not what he craves. When he is ready, he will return to London. And perhaps I’ll still feel the way I do now.” Grace paused. “One more item, if you please.”

“Yes? Have I left something out?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon smiled, waiting for the question she had expected to hear.

“My father never arrived home while Wolf and I…”

“Didn’t he? I believe that was the afternoon that went well into the evening. He was here with Mr. and Mrs. Paulison as well as Mrs. Martin playing cards. If I’m not mistaken, he had a winning streak. It seems so, do you? There is no doubt that Wolf proposed because he wanted to, not because you both were compromised. Now go, get ready for your wedding. You will make a beautiful bride.”

Lady Grace’s departure left a quiet space in the salon, and Mrs. Dove-Lyon took a moment to appreciate the morning’s calm. She allowed herself a small, satisfied smile. The alliances she had helped forge—subtle yet significant—promised new beginnings. And as she thought of the futures she had helped shape, her heart felt full. It was the knowledge that, in bringing people together, she had sparked not just matches but the chance for true companionship, happiness, and yes, love.

THE END