Eight Hunting Lyons (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)

Chapter Twenty

C oventry was waiting for him when he stepped down from the Moreland carriage. “Am I late?”

“No. I admit to being hesitant to see if there are any amendments to Harkwell’s wager.”

“Would he have had second thoughts and removed it?”

Coventry was quick to respond, “I doubt it.”

The viscount hadn’t placed many wagers before going to sea as a young man but had definitely wagered a time or two before becoming an officer. He smiled thinking of bets placed on a sailor’s head regarding the amount of rum a man could drink, whether or not he would knock half a dozen weevil larvae from a hardtack biscuit and eat them. In hindsight, the wager should have been how quickly the man would cast up his accounts after eating the weevil larvae.

His thoughts darkened remembering the last wager he’d ever placed—how quickly one of the new recruits could climb the rigging in the rain. He would never forget his horror watching the young man’s grip slip a heartbeat before he fell—the sound of the young man’s skull cracking, and the mind-numbing sight of blood and brains splattered across the deck.

“Something wrong?”

Viscount Moreland drew in one breath and then another. “Just a memory that surfaces from time to time.”

Their gazes met and held. “Battle will do that to a man.”

The viscount agreed. “I was recalling a wager years ago, when I’d first gone to sea—and the reason I have refused to place a wager ever again—the cost is too great.”

“Life at sea is many things; a learning experience about hardships faced when becalmed, the terror in the midst of a storm when a rogue wave threatens to sweep every jackman of the crew overboard.”

The viscount felt the knots inside of him ease. “And it’s the art of intimidation, a challenge tossed down like a gauntlet…and the wagers placed once the challenge has been accepted.”

“Not all captains were as invested in their officers and crew as we have been.”

The last of the devastating memory slipped away enabling him to leave it on the sidewalk outside of White’s. Clapping a hand to Coventry’s shoulder, he agreed. “We taught by example and left our marks on a generation of able-bodied seamen.”

Coventry paused at the door. “Let’s do the same with Harkwell, and those who would take advantage of those we have sworn to protect—the women we love.”

“Quite a bit of activity,” Viscount Moreland remarked after viewing the betting book and returning to their table. The acidity in his gut roiled. He controlled his anger and worry for Gemma with a will of iron.

“Harkwell is purported to be meeting with someone in one of the private back rooms.”

The viscount met the intensity in his friend’s gaze. “Let us hope the bastard drinks to excess. I want our conversation to be heard by all. Especially when he tosses my wife’s name about, giving me even more impetus to challenge him.”

They nursed their first and only glass of whiskey for over an hour before the man in question finally wove his way unsteadily through the tables scattered about the room.

Coventry nodded and the viscount shot to his feet, his glass tight in his grip. “Harkwell!” he barked.

The man stopped swaying long enough to squint up at him and snicker. “Well, well, if it isn’t the new viscount.” The man had trouble standing still but it didn’t stop him from spewing filth. “Need a whiskey after trying to bed your bride only to find someone else has already plumbed her depths?”

Moreland’s glass shattered. Shards sliced into his hand, while whiskey burned into the cuts. The pain helped him rein in his temper. He needed to exhibit the steely control he’d used to his advantage in his years as captain of the Britannia . Those gathered who fell silent at Harkwell’s taunt would remember Viscount Moreland as a man in control.

A linen handkerchief appeared in his hand. He’d thank Coventry later. Wrapping it around his bleeding palm, he met Harkwell’s worried glance. He nearly smiled. He’d been waiting for that particular emotion from the man. “Name your second, Harkwell.”

Glasses clinked and whispered words added to the growing din around them. He knew wagers were being placed. He’d counted on it. “I will avenge my wife, Viscountess Moreland’s honor.”

Harkwell mumbled a name.

He did not hear, nor did he care, who acted as second for the bloody bastard. “Chalk Farm. Dawn tomorrow.”

He did not wait to hear the man’s response. He glanced over his shoulder, pleased to note Coventry had moved to flank him. Head high, gray eyes gleaming with anger, Viscount Moreland strode for the door.

It opened before he reached for it. He looked up and met Garahan’s hard stare before the man noticed Moreland’s hand. “Best get yer hand looked to,” the duke’s man advised. “Ye’ll be needing it to hold yer pistol in a few hours.”

Incensed at the insult leveled at Gemma, and Harkwell’s added insinuation that she’d been with another man—when even a slow-witted landlubber would recognize her innocence after one kiss, he didn’t realize the coachman had pulled to a stop outside of Templeton House.

The door opened as Coventry and Garahan helped him down. Had he hit his head? It felt as it had the time he’d been tossed into the sea and swallowed half of it.

“…lost a lot of blood…”

“…Harkwell will pay for placing the wager…”

“…insinuated that the viscountess—”

“Where’s Gemma?” The need to see her and fold her into his arms, holding her to his heart had him weak-kneed.

“Your lordship!” Hanson’s voice sounded far away.

He felt himself being propelled forward. He would not lose consciousness in front of his friends—or the staff. Digging deep past the sudden pain in his hand, he noted the handkerchief was soaked with blood.

“Brandy!” Mrs. Pritchard ordered as he was pushed into a chair and his hand raised above his heart.

He felt the haze in front of his eyes clear. “Rum!” he countered. When he noted the silence in the room, he sighed. “Whiskey, then, but you’d best load in a supply of rum!”

The deep chuckle to his left had him holding on to his wits. “Garahan.”

“Aye?”

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“Aye, yer lordship. By yer side—by order of the Duke of Wyndmere.”

Moreland blinked as a short glass with barely a splash of amber liquid in it appeared in front of him. “Bloody hell,” he mumbled. Looking up, he met his housekeeper’s gaze. “Half a glass, if you would please, Mrs. Pritchard.”

The worry in her gaze had him adding, “If you don’t mind.”

She hurried over with the bottle she’d been about to return to Cook’s medicinal shelf. “Of course, your lordship.”

Coventry strode into the kitchen announcing, “Dr. McIntyre is on his way.”

The housekeeper and butler shared a glance before the cook appeared with two footmen in tow. “Here now, your lordship. We’d best clean that out, no telling if that glass had been washed out properly before they served it to you.”

“White’s is one of the finest gentlemen’s clubs in London,” he murmured.

“What do men know about sickness, binding wounds, and healing?” she grumbled.

Coventry cleared his throat. “Having last served as captain the HMS Polyphemus , and his lordship having served on the HMS Britannia , I can guarantee we have seen more sickness due to scurvy, lack of food, and storms at sea—”

“And bound up many a wound received in the line of duty,” Moreland added.

“I’ve been called upon to stitch more than one seaman’s wound before Trafalgar ,” Coventry stated.

“Drink up!” Mrs. Pritchard urged.

The whiskey went down smooth and easy. He was about to ask for another when a gasp echoed through the room.

“Colin!” Gemma rushed to his side. And held out her hand to Cook, nodding when the older woman handed to her a fresh linen.

“How did you cut yourself?”

His gaze met hers and she understood they would not discuss it now. She bit her lip. “Later?”

“Aye.”

“It looks clean,” she observed. “Did you cleanse it already?”

“The glass was clean.”

“Not taking your word for it,” Cook interjected. “If you don’t mind, Captain Coventry.”

He inclined his head. “I wouldn’t suggest otherwise.”

“Begging your pardon, your lordship,” Hanson said from the doorway. “Dr. McIntyre’s just arrived.”

“Please, show him in,” Gemma answered before he could.

The butler stepped aside to let the physician in. With a glance at the number of people gathered, he cleared his throat. “It has been a long time, Viscount Moreland.”

He tried to smile past the ache in his hand. “Five years, or has it been longer?”

The doctor chuckled. “Mayhap longer.” Without looking up from the blood-soaked linen wrapped around the viscount’s hand, he ordered, “Clear the room if you would, Mrs. Pritchard.”

“I’m staying,” Gemma stated loudly.

Her husband smiled and introduced her to the physician. “My wife, Viscountess Moreland.”

“I wish it could be under more pleasant circumstances, your ladyship.”

She blinked away the moisture gathering in her warm brown eyes. It wouldn’t do to have a weeping woman distract the physician while he would be plying a needle to the viscount’s flesh.

“Dr. McIntyre has been physician to our family for years. I trust him implicitly and would ask that you do the same.”

The light returned to her eyes, warming their depths as her gaze held his. “Of course,” she replied. “Whatever either of you need, you have but to ask.”

“Excellent.” The physician briefly smiled before turning back to the viscount. “I need to see how deep the gash is and if there are any shards of glass embedded in your hand, your lordship.”

Colin reached for her hand. He ventured she would deduce it was more for his sake. His grip belied the impassive look he’d plastered on his face. Blast it all, he would not faint no matter how thoroughly the physician probed the deep cut in his hand.

“No glass,” McIntyre finally announced. “Is the hot water ready?”

While the doctor tended to his hand, the viscount’s thoughts returned to the scene at White’s. Remembering every word out of that bloody bastard’s mouth, he vowed he’d put a pistol ball between the man’s—

“Bloody hell, McIntyre! That hurt.”

The doctor paused. “Unavoidable. The gash goes clear to the bone. Care to have a look?”

“I’ll leave it to you to examine it closely if that is what is needed.” He added, “Seen more than one aboard my ship. Compound leg and arm fractures were rampant—”

Gemma’s fingertips sweeping along the line of his jaw distracted him. He glanced up at her and noted her jaw was clenched as tightly as his. “Does the talk of injuries bother you?”

She blinked before answering, “ Your injuries are my concern. How did you cut your hand?”

He shrugged her question aside. The realization he would not be holding a pistol in that hand anytime soon filled him.

McIntyre worked quickly and efficiently. The pain was a living, breathing thing, but Moreland had his anchor—his wife…Gemma.

Cook whisked away the bowl and bloody pile of linens, handing them off to a footman. “Shall I call Mrs. Pritchard back to hear your instructions, Dr. McIntyre?”

“No need,” Viscount Moreland replied. “My wife will no doubt be following his instructions to the letter.” He lifted her hand to his lips and brushed a kiss across her knuckles. “Is that not right, my love?”

Gemma’s smile beamed like a burst of sunlight through storm clouds, lightening the heavy load he carried. Reconciled to the fact that he would not be in top form by dawn, he would ask Garahan’s opinion but already planned to delope . Fire his pistol into the air—part of the code duello, a signal to abort the conflict. He’d bloody well rather aim for Harkwell’s black heart.

“Do I need to write them down?”

“No need, your ladyship,” Dr. McIntyre assured her. “Your husband will need to follow a strict invalid’s diet—”

“I’m right here, and definitely not an invalid.”

“As I was saying, an invalid’s diet for at least three or four days. He cannot use that hand, nor can he immerse it in water.”

“What about infection?” Gemma asked. “When can the threads be removed?”

The doctor smiled at her. “I have a poultice that can be applied should infection set in, but I believe since apparently the glass in question held a fair portion of whiskey before it broke, the whiskey will aid in that regard.”

Gemma looked from the doctor to her husband. “Whiskey? How providential for your lordship.”

“Bloody hell, Gemma, I’ll tell you the whole of it later!”

She sniffed and raised her nose in the air. “I may not be interested in hearing about how you injured your hand—with a glassful of whiskey—later.” She turned to the physician. “Anything else, Dr. McIntyre?”

He held out a small brown bottle. “Yes, the proper dosage for laudanum.”

“No laudanum,” the viscount stated.

“If you change your mind—”

“I won’t. Thank you for your excellent care.”

“You’re welcome.” The doctor bowed to Gemma. “A pleasure to meet you, your ladyship. Send word immediately if infection or fever set in.”

“I will. Thank you, again, Dr. McIntyre.”

Hanson returned to show the physician out, while Cook glanced over her shoulder to advise, “I have the calves’ foot jelly warmed. Would you care for a bowl now?”

Viscount Moreland grimaced. “Mayhap a bit later, thank you.”

Rising to his feet, he placed his uninjured hand beneath Gemma’s elbow, steering her toward the door.

“Colin, I—”

He raised a hand to silence her, pleased when she acquiesced. Leaning close to her ear, he whispered, “Upstairs.”

She nodded and slipped her arm around his waist to steady him as they climbed the stairs together in silence.

He was not anticipating the conversation to come. How would she take the news of the wager? Should he keep it from her?

Walking toward their bedchamber, he wondered briefly if the earl and his wife had been delayed or they’d come and gone already. Were Coventry’s wife and son still in the sitting room waiting for Gemma’s return?