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

Chapter One

September 1816

Goshawk Priory Estate

Cheshire

A spear of light, bright as the sun and quick as a heartbeat, pierced the darkness. The intensity of it dragged Edward from sleep, and he opened his eyes to an unexpected reality.

Where…?

Certainly not in his bed. Not even in his chamber.

Darkness obscured detail, but Edward sensed an open sky and a world without walls. He was on his feet, the soles bare against rough, wet stone. The incessant roar of flowing water filled his ears and barely muffled a distant rumble of thunder. The pungent scent of sodden earth, akin to that of a freshly dug grave, flared his nostrils. He feared what it all meant and braced himself against the inevitability of full awareness.

An instant later, lightning zigzagged across the sky, and in that instant, Edward knew where he was and what it signified. His stomach knotted.

Not again.

As the sky grumbled, Edward looked above and to his left, where the single limestone arch of the Devil’s Bridge loomed out of the night. The bridge was empty, but it wasn’t difficult to imagine a ghostly figure atop it, gazing down at him with sad, accusing eyes.

He blinked the impression away and brought his mind back to the present.

The footbridge spanned what was usually a spirited but gentle flow of water. Not tonight. Swollen by a spate of heavy rain, the river spewed violently over the rocks, creating a seething boil of foaming eddies, swirling and twisting as they hurtled along. Another flash of lightning lit the heavens, followed quickly by an angry rattle of thunder.

Edward’s throat tightened.

This was another encore performance, he thought. The resounding echo of an identical night from seven years earlier. Questions that would remain forever unanswered raised their ugly heads. As did an understanding. Edward had believed—no, he’d hoped— that he’d finally exorcised the ghosts of the past, or at least taken some control of their influence on his life. This damnable night indicated otherwise. He should not have come back here. He should have stayed in London.

A hand settled on his shoulder, the unexpected contact sending a shock straight down to his toes.

I’m not alone? Who…?

“Take a step back, my friend.” A man’s voice, familiar, and barely audible above the endless crescendo of rushing water. “Steady, now.”

Pendlewood? God, no. Damn it to hell.

Gathering his wits, Edward dropped his gaze to the dangerous torrent that hurtled past mere inches below where he stood atop the flat, slippery rock. A mistake. The rush of water provoked an attack of vertigo, which threw him off-balance. He gasped and shifted his feet to steady himself.

“Just a single step back. There’s a good fellow.” The voice, now fortified with an edge of urgency, startled him anew, and the grip on his shoulder tightened. “It’s all right. I have you.”

Edward obeyed, shrugging the hand from his shoulder as he turned to face his friend and houseguest. What the cost for a vow of discretion, he wondered, and then told himself it mattered not who knew about his nighttime wanderings. He’d long since stopped caring what others thought of him. Ah, but this was different, he argued silently. This cursed affliction represented a chink in his armor. A weakness few knew about. And Edward Alexander Fortescue, Viscount Eskdale, despised weakness. Especially in himself.

It would be best to underplay it. To make light of it as much as possible. Noting the pallor of his friend’s face, a pale mask in the dark, Edward offered as much of an apology as he could muster. “Didn’t mean to give you a scare, Pen,” he said, feigning nonchalance.

“A scare? ” Ambrose Michael Crossley, fifth Earl of Pendlewood, ran a hand through his hair. “Hell’s teeth, Eskdale, I thought you were about to end it all! Do you do this kind of thing often?”

Edward ignored the question and asked a couple of his own. “How come you knew I’d wandered off?” The skies lit up again, followed seconds later by a loud clap of thunder. “Were you camped outside my door?”

“It was pure chance, luckily for you,” the man replied. “Got up for a piss and just happened to take a peek out of the window on my way back to bed. Saw what looked like a damn ghost floating across the lawn. Then I realized it was you, wearing only your nightshirt. Didn’t know what to think but got dressed in a hurry and went after you. Almost lost you in the dark. I called your name several times, but you ignored me and just kept going. Most disconcerting, especially since I could hardly keep up. Only when I finally got here did I realize you were asleep. Asleep! Couldn’t believe it. Heard of such things but never seen the like till tonight. I’ll ask you again. Have you done this kind of thing before?”

Another flash of lightning drew Edward’s gaze skyward. “We should go before the—” A crack of thunder halted his comment. “—rain comes,” he finished.

“You have, haven’t you? Good God, man, you might have warned me. What if I hadn’t seen you? Or caught up to you in time? They’d be pulling your corpse out of the river come morning.”

Suppressing a shiver, Edward pushed past. “In case you haven’t noticed, Pen, the storm is upon us. We should get back to Goshawk.”

No sooner said than the skies opened like a sluice gate.

“Bugger!” Ambrose took off his coat. “Here, put this on.”

Edward’s mulish pride lifted its head. “I’m fine.”

“The hell you are, Eskdale. Far from it, I fear. Don’t be a stubborn ass. Just take the damn coat.”

He did so and not without some relief. “Thank you. What was the hour when you followed me?”

“Ungodly.”

Edward hissed. “Pen.”

“Not quite a quarter after three.”

Even the time was the same, Edward thought, blinking raindrops from his eyes. He sucked a breath through his teeth as a sharp twig gouged the arch of his right foot. “Shit,” he muttered, partly because of the pain but also because of his frustration. And, if honest, a semblance of fear. Would he ever be free of this madness that kept dragging him from his bed? Or was it a penance forever to be paid? The latter, he suspected. He deserved it, after all.

Another flash, another crack of thunder. Edward cast a glance skyward, where a seething mass of cloud was visible against the night. A turbulence, mirroring that of the river.

“Is there a reason you do it?” Ambrose, breathing hard, was undoubtedly struggling to keep up with Edward’s longer stride. “Did something terrible happen to you when you were a child?”

“Not that I recall.” Edward stifled a sigh of relief as they veered off the rough river path to cross the meadow. The cool, wet grass soothed his bare feet, which felt as though they’d been thoroughly flayed.

“Might it have something to do with your wife?” Ambrose continued. “Is that it? Was that the place where she drowned?”

Before Edward could respond, a spectacular spear of lightning streaked across the sky, illuminating the distant gables and turrets of Goshawk Priory. The sight of his family seat, no matter the circumstances, always stirred his soul. He’d been born to it, as had umpteen generations of his ancestors. Nobles, all. But if one looked past the opulence and grandeur, Goshawk was simply a home like any other. A custodian of memories, good and bad.

Bad, lately.

The subsequent crack of thunder lifted the hair on his flesh.

“Saints, that was close,” Ambrose said, going from a walk to a trot, “and I’ll take your lack of response to my question as an affirmative answer but expect to hear a full explanation once we’re back at Goshawk and dried out. Understood? You owe me that much, at least.”

Dawn light filtered through the windows of Goshawk’s impressive library. The skies, wrung dry by the storm, had settled into a quiet aftermath, the sparse clouds hinting at a pleasant day. Several flickering candles added additional light to the room. Edward, snug in his silk-lined banyan, eased into his armchair and gazed down, unseeing, into the depths of his coffee cup. Other than some tiredness and a particularly tender spot on his foot where the twig hadn’t quite managed to draw blood, he felt physically sound. The space between his ears, however, was still in some disarray.

He tried to recall when the last sleepwalking episode had occurred. It had been two years ago, at least. So why last night? Could the approaching storm have triggered it? And Pendlewood just happened to be looking out of the window, for Christ’s sake. What are the odds?

As far as he knew, few people outside Goshawk Priory had witnessed his nocturnal outings. Local rumor quietly declared the viscount to be possessed by some devilish madness, brought about by the loss of his wife and child. Consequently, he’d taken to wandering around the countryside in the middle of the night, wearing only his nightshirt. Local opinion was not far off, as it happened.

The exaggerated clearing of a throat pulled him from his musing.

Ambrose, seated nearby, had also changed into dry clothes and attained a more normal pallor. For the past ten minutes, he’d been attempting to pry more details from Edward, who so far had managed to sidestep every question.

The man heaved an audible sigh. “Come on, Eskdale. Stop hedging. It’s me you’re talking to. Or rather, not talking to. You owe me an explanation. And please don’t insult me by asking for my discretion. It goes without saying.”

Edward lifted his head and observed his friend—indeed, a friend he held in the highest regard. And, by God, he didn’t have many of those. To trust anyone completely did not come easily to him. Then again, since Ambrose had borne witness to the event, it was perhaps better to tell the truth than elicit speculation.

“Very well.” Edward drew breath. “Yes, what occurred tonight has happened before. Several times. Obviously, I’ve never taken that final step into the river, so I doubt you had anything to worry about on that score. I always wake up in that same place. In my defense, however, nothing like this has occurred for the last couple of years, so I assumed I was cured. My mistake. I certainly never meant to involve you in this miserable affair. And yes, it has to do with Julia.”

Ambrose’s eyes narrowed slightly, the chair creaking as he sat back, nursing his cup of coffee. “Go on.”

“It’s not terribly complicated, Pen.” Edward lifted a shoulder. “I hold myself responsible for Julia’s death, and that’s it basically.”

“But I thought you were away when she died? Is that not so?”

“Which actually makes it worse. In any case, the burden of guilt rests with me.”

Ambrose raised a brow, regarded Edward for a prolonged moment, and then sniffed loudly. “Well, I never,” he said.

“What?”

“The Fallen Angel of Mayfair actually has a conscience.”

Edward huffed. “That is a ridiculous pseudonym alluding to a reputation that has been fabricated by those who see only what they want to see. Truth is, I do no harm to anyone. I simply mind my own business and expect others to do the same.”

“Fabricated?” Ambrose’s mouth twitched. “You’re a merciless devil in the gaming hells, you’ve turned arrogance into an art form, and you have little discretion when it comes to your sexual exploits. Men regard you with either envy or distrust, while mothers steer their innocent daughters away from you at society events.”

Edward flicked a speck of lint off his sleeve. “I rarely attend society events. And may I point out that you, a peer of the realm and an upstanding member of society, are currently sitting in the alleged devil’s lair enjoying a cup of his excellent coffee.”

Ambrose peered into his cup. “Hmm, I have to say the coffee is very good. And while the devil’s blatant disregard for propriety often leaves much to be desired, I’ve never actually felt compelled to wave a crucifix at him when in his company. That said, I’ll admit I find it astonishing that the master of indifference carries a burden of guilt for what happened to his wife. After all, it wasn’t the master’s fault.” Eyes narrowing, he leaned forward. “Or was it?”

Edward ignored the question. Instead, he rose, went over to the small sideboard, and topped up his cup. “Are you hungry? It’s a bit early for breakfast, but I can have it served up now if you like.”

Ambrose snorted. “Breakfast can wait. Come on, Eskdale. I need to know what last night’s drama was all about.”

“I’m certain you know most of the story already,” Edward replied. “It’s common knowledge among the ton that my marriage was no fairy tale.”

“Gossip and conjecture only. You’ve always been adept at sidestepping any and all questions about the more sordid details of your union.”

“As I said, I mind my own business and expect people to mind theirs.” Edward cleared his throat as he took his chair again. “But since you are now involved, I’ll give you the sordid details. To be blunt, eight years ago, I failed to keep my prick in my breeches and got the Earl of Bardsea’s sister with child. Heartless rogue that I am, I had no compunction whatsoever to do the right thing and only fulfilled my obligation to marry her following a serious death threat from the earl himself. Believe me, Pen, if I could have wriggled off the marital hook, I would have. Julia’s dowry was generous, yes, but I felt nothing for her, and I’m damn sure she had no fondness for me. As things were, we both resented the marriage from the start. She had a delicate disposition, so being enceinte was not easy for her. Consequently she spent most of her time abed and in misery. She blamed me entirely for her predicament and with good reason. It got to the point where she couldn’t even bear the sight of me, and I couldn’t look at her without cursing my own arrogance and stupidity. Not quite six months into her confinement, she gave birth to a stillborn child.” Hand trembling, Edward set his coffee cup on a small table beside his chair.

An image emerged from the musty depths of his mind. A table in a shadowed corner. On it a plain wooden fruit box, the faded depiction of an apple painted on the side. In the box a small bundle, carelessly wrapped. They had not told him, and he wanted to know. He needed to know. He removed the bundle, cradling it in one hand as he gently peeled back the bloodstained linen.

“A girl,” he said. “I cradled her body in my palm. She was so incredibly tiny. So damn perfect .”

“Dear God,” Ambrose muttered.

Edward retrieved his coffee cup and took a sip. “Julia barely survived the birthing and was advised never to have any more children. Consequently, we were left with a worthless marriage that neither of us desired. All I wanted to do was escape but summoned up enough decency to wait till Julia was on the mend before I returned to London. She died four weeks later. Disappeared in the middle of a stormy night such as the one we just experienced, except it was in midsummer. They found her body beneath the Devil’s Bridge the next day.”

Edward felt suddenly tired. He’d never actually voiced the raw sequence of events to anyone before. Obviously those who’d been personally involved knew most of the details. The rest of the ton had feasted on scraps of rumor and speculation till they’d become old news. He’d been metaphorically tarred and feathered by most. Others, though only a few, had been more sympathetic. Hindsight, with the passing of the years, now had him tarring and feathering himself.

“Tragic.” Ambrose shifted in his seat. “Do you believe her death was accidental? I’m sure you’re aware that rumor has always suggested otherwise.”

“It was recorded as accidental, but we’ll never know for sure.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

Edward scrubbed a hand over his bristled jaw. “I want to believe it was an accident, but my suspicions, frankly, rest elsewhere. Julia had been in low spirits before the birth. Losing the child…well, it must only have added to her despair. I should never have left her, Pen. If I’d stayed, I might have been able to prevent what happened.”

Ambrose grimaced. “You might have, but there’s no way of knowing for sure.”

“Granted. But in any case, I hold myself entirely responsible for what happened, and the burden of guilt is mine to bear. I’m certain my bizarre nighttime excursions are a result of that burden. There. Now you have it.”

Ambrose appeared to ponder. “Maybe you should consider marrying again and having children,” he said at last. “Doing so might exorcise the ghosts. You have much to offer the right woman, and fatherhood might be the making of you.”

Edward shook his head. “Heaven forbid,” he said. “I’ve avowed myself to bachelorhood and all the devilry that goes with it.”

“But you need an heir, surely.”

“I have one.” Edward gave Ambrose a humorless smile. “A distant cousin who would love to get his hands on Goshawk. Besides, you’re a fine one to talk. I don’t see any sign of a leg shackle in your future.”

“But I’m at least open to the possibility. I just need to find a suitable bride. And I meant a direct heir. Perhaps a spare or two as well.”

“Perish the thought.” Edward stood and sniffed the air like a hound. “I do believe I smell bacon. We’ll have breakfast and then get ready to depart.”

“Depart?” Ambrose got to his feet. “Where are we going?”

“Back to London.”

“London?” Ambrose’s brows shot upward. “You jest, surely. I only got here a week ago! We’re not due to leave for another month.”

Edward glanced around the library, which had forever been his favorite room at Goshawk. The floor-to-ceiling oak shelves housed hundreds—nay, thousands—of intriguing volumes, their spines creating a mosaic of majestic colors across all four walls. But he did not have to open any books to become lost in ancient or forgotten worlds. Goshawk Priory, steeped in the history of his ancestors, had its own rich legacy. He could feel it as keenly as he felt the air in his lungs. It was an integral part of him. Yet the overall atmosphere of his home had dulled in recent years. Shadows no longer made way for the sun. Music and laughter no longer rang through the chambers and hallways. The legacy of Goshawk had been tainted by a tragedy of his making. “A change of plan,” he replied. “It was a mistake coming here.”

Ambrose scoffed. “Be reasonable, Eskdale. There’s no one of note in the city right now.”

Not that Edward cared a jot about that, but Ambrose did have a point. “A compromise, then,” he said. “I own a very comfortable hunting lodge on the edge of the Pennines. It’s a two-day ride. There’s some fine grouse hunting to be had at this time of year. How about we retire there for the next few weeks?”

Ambrose heaved a sigh and scratched his head. “As you wish, then. The lodge it is. But I feel obliged to point out that running away from a problem will never solve it.”

Edward groaned. “Spare me the sermon, Pendlewood.”

“No, I’m afraid I won’t.” Ambrose glanced about. “Abandoning Goshawk isn’t the answer, my friend, nor is it appropriate to let it fall into the hands of some distant relative. This is your family seat, deserving of your attention and respect. And, despite everything, you still love it. I saw it in your face just now when you were gazing around this rather remarkable library. You can’t ignore your demons. You have to confront them, defeat them, or find a way to put them behind you. What you should consider, in my opinion, is changing your path. Find yourself a suitable wife, someone with whom you can create new and happy memories beneath this roof. What do you think?”

For a few moments, Edward almost allowed himself to give Ambrose’s sermon some consideration. Almost.

But not quite.

“I think I’m hungry,” he said and headed for the door. “Let’s eat. Then we can be on our way.”