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

Chapter Six

“Y ou are not yourself tonight, my lord.” A manicured fingernail drew an invisible line down the center of Edward’s naked chest. “Did you lose at the tables, maybe?”

Edward placed his hand atop that of his female companion, halting its progress. “No,” he said, a command for her to stop her exploration more than a response to her question.

There followed an exaggerated sigh as she dragged her hand free. “Then what is wrong? You’ve hardly said a word to me all evening, and we have made love but once. Do you tire of me?”

Edward tried to ignore a niggle of impatience. Miriam, with her undeniable talents, had long been a favorite of his at the Lyon’s Den. Lately, though, she’d taken to overstepping the boundaries of familiarity between payer and payee. Most of the time, he humored her. Tonight, for some reason, her petulance rankled.

He rolled away from her and sat on the side of the bed. “I do not pay you for conversation,” he said, reaching for his clothes.

“And now you are leaving me?” she squeaked.

“As I always do.”

“But never this early in the night!” It came out as a whine. “This has something to do with that woman, I think. The insolent lady you met in the corridor who called you by your Christian name. Who is she to you?”

“This has nothing to do with her.” Edward stood and fastened his breeches. “And who she is to me is none of your business.”

Miriam’s suspicion, did she but know it, had actually hit the bull’s-eye.

Edward’s encounter with Harriet Hurst, both physical and verbal, would not leave his mind. It had unsettled him, and in several different ways.

First, she was Oliver’s sister. Edward had not recognized her, of course. Not initially. Hell, he hardly remembered her at all. She, however, had recognized him immediately. She’d even whispered his name.

Edward.

And by all things arousing this side of damnation, no one had ever spoken it in quite that way before. It had been uttered quietly but with undeniable longing. As if she’d been making a wish.

He’d found himself gazing into a pair of captivating blue eyes that had been displaying obvious shock behind their unflattering glass lenses. And a strange, fleeting thought had passed through his mind.

How can such beautiful eyes possibly be defective?

At that point, he’d given himself a shake, blaming his silly, fanciful thoughts on the amount of wine he’d consumed that night. They’d been merely a stranger’s eyes set in a stranger’s face. An unremarkable face at that. Only when she’d announced her name had he recalled the memory of the small, bespectacled girl in Oliver’s household, who’d often made her presence known with a sneeze.

The mention of Oliver’s name, meanwhile, had only served to ruffle Edward’s guilty feathers. Despite his best intentions, which still left much to be desired, he had not attended the funeral. And he couldn’t even remember why. God’s teeth, he’d probably been holed up in a gaming hell somewhere—maybe even this one—throwing money away and licking wounds that refused to heal.

Worse, a subsequent apology for his absence, to his shame, had never been issued. Neither had a letter of condolence. To make excuses and apologies at this late stage, and under these circumstances, would have been almost insulting. Nothing could be said this belatedly without it sounding feeble and insincere.

So he’d merely expressed his sorrow without elaborating further.

As much as he’d felt ashamed at that moment, he’d also felt oddly charmed. Harriet Hurst, stepping out of his past, had served as a conduit. One that sent him reeling back through time to the first summer of a new century. Then, he’d been a fifteen-year-old boy on the cusp of manhood. Invincible. Arrogant. Carefree. Those six weeks at Huxley Manor had been one of the happiest periods in his life. Little had he known how swiftly things would change. He’d known his father was ill but had refused to believe the man might die. The shock had been immense. Since childhood, Edward had been groomed to take his father’s place at Goshawk, but the burdens and challenges had come far sooner than expected. The assumption of the title, combined with his grief at losing his father, had been the beginning of Edward’s descent into a less than commendable lifestyle.

In hindsight, his several weeks at Huxley seemed to have occurred in another lifetime. A time before responsibilities and obligations. Before Julia. Before their sham of a marriage. Before he’d held the tiny body of his stillborn child in his hands.

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

Delving into another person’s private affairs was something Edward usually avoided. There was surely a reason for the old adage about curiosity and the dead cat. No matter the business, if it didn’t affect him personally, he generally had no inclination to intrude. But damn it, a question pestered him endlessly, demanding an answer.

What had Miss Hurst been doing in London’s most infamous gaming hell?

Another question quickly followed the first. Why should it matter to me?

He’d asked her the first question, and she’d quickly put him in his place, sneeze and all. Some things, apparently, had not changed. Miss Hurst’s eyesight had not improved, and her propensity for sneezing continued as ever. Had her impertinence always been there too, hiding behind her unassuming, little facade? He found himself wishing he’d paid more attention to her when he’d been at Huxley.

“Will you not stay a little longer, my lord?”

Miriam’s plea pulled Edward from his musing. He tucked in his shirt and draped his cravat carelessly around his neck.

“Not tonight.” He reached for his boots and sat to pull them on. “There’s something I have to do.”

“Whatever it is, it cannot be that important,” she wailed. “Can it not wait?”

“No, it cannot.” He picked up his jacket, hooked it over his shoulder, and headed for the door.

“If you leave now, my lord,” she countered, “I shall refuse to entertain you ever again.”

Edward turned to see Miriam sitting up in bed, her ample breasts on full and unabashed display. “I doubt that, my dear,” he said, a corner of his mouth lifting. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

The look she threw at him would have frozen the Thames.

Intent on getting to the bottom of Miss Hurst’s presence in the Lyon’s Den, Edward headed downstairs in search of the establishment’s notorious proprietor. It was well known that Bessie Dove-Lyon arranged marriages for ladies facing ruin. Was Miss Hurst in search of a husband? Had she been compromised in some way?

For reasons he couldn’t fathom, seeing Harriet Hurst alone in that dimly lit hallway had bothered him. A woman like her did not belong in such a place.

Maybe it had something to do with the fact that she was Oliver’s sister. As for her insolence, it simply proved that appearances could be misleading, for she did not present as audacious. He recalled what she’d said, choosing to pay more attention to the positive than the negative. It seemed, as a child, Harriet Hurst had held a flame for him, and oddly, he found that pleasing.

His search for Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon ended in the viewing lounge overlooking the main gaming hall.

“Lord Eskdale,” she said, acknowledging him with a single nod. “Did Miriam throw you out?”

He didn’t give her the satisfaction of an answer but instead stood beside her and looked down at the tables. “A busy night.”

“Yes, very.” She regarded him through the ever-present veil. “It appears you wish to ask something of me.”

Edward turned his eyes to the tables below. “I understand Harriet Hurst came to see you tonight.”

She remained silent for a moment. “May I know who told you that?”

“No one. I bumped into her in the corridor.”

“Ah. You’re previously acquainted with the lady?”

“Not precisely. I knew Lord Huxley, her brother. The last time I saw Miss Hurst, she was just a child. I didn’t know who she was tonight till she introduced herself.”

“I see. So what is your interest in her?”

“I want to know why she was here.”

“With respect, my lord, that is none of your concern.”

“I suspect she’s looking for a husband. Am I right?”

The woman smiled. “I must ask again, my lord. Why the interest? Are you looking for a wife?”

“Good God, no.” He ignored a brief twitch of unease and scratched his jaw. “But if the lady is looking for a husband, I’d like to be kept informed about her choices. Discreetly, of course.”

Again, Mrs. Dove-Lyon fell silent. “An odd request, Lord Eskdale,” she said at last, “and one I will not discuss here. Please follow me.”

They retired to the lady’s office, where Edward spent a few minutes admiring the somewhat scandalous artwork. “These are remarkable,” he said. “I recognize two—no, three—of these women. Who’s the artist?”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon chuckled. “He is the nephew of a rather powerful duke, and that is all I am permitted to say. They are for sale if any of them interest you. Or if you have a mistress and would like to have her portrait done, it can be arranged. Absolute discretion is assured.”

“I shall keep that in mind,” Edward said.

She acknowledged his words with a nod. “Please make yourself comfortable, my lord. Would you like a drink? I have an 1811 cognac you might enjoy.”

“A fine vintage.” Edward settled into a chair. “I’d be a fool to refuse.”

“So you want to be involved in Miss Hurst’s quest to find a husband,” the lady said, pouring the drinks. “As I stated, I find your request rather unusual. I assume there is a reason for your interest in her.”

He took the proffered glass and cradled it in his hand. “Thank you,” he said. “And yes, there is a reason. I owe her brother a debt and would like to repay it by offering my protection to Miss Hurst, should it be required, as well as my insight into those seeking her hand. Discreetly, of course.”

The woman laughed softly. “Protection? If you’ll pardon the pun, Lord Eskdale, I’m not about to throw Miss Hurst into a lion’s den. Believe me, I am kept well informed about my clientele. All of them. As for insight, I am not without my own. I’m very good at telling an innocuous sinner from a counterfeit saint. And the latter, in my experience, is far more dangerous.”

Edward frowned into his glass of cognac.

Well done, Eskdale, you arse. You’ve offended her.

And it didn’t do to offend the Black Widow of Whitehall. He assumed what he hoped was a remorseful expression and lifted his gaze. “Please accept my sincere apologies, madam. I meant no offense.” He heaved a sigh. “Regretfully, I have a hereditary affliction commonly known as arrogance. You’ve probably heard of it. It is usually mentioned in a sentence along with my name.”

The woman gave another soft laugh and shook her head. “You’re doing this because you owe a debt,” she said, “to her brother.”

“Yes.” He took a sip of cognac. “This is incredible.”

“The best,” she said, taking a sip also. “Would it not be easier to simply settle this debt with Miss Hurst directly?”

“The debt is not monetary,” he explained. “It is more the repayment of a favor.”

“I see. And that is the only reason you wish to do this.”

He shrugged. “What other reason could there be?”

She pinned him with her veiled gaze, saying nothing for several moments. Edward also remained silent but wondered what was going on in that head of hers. She was assessing him, no doubt.

“Very well, my lord,” she said at last. “I will agree to your request but with conditions. You have already offered your discretion, and I will hold you to that. Miss Hurst must not know of your involvement unless I decide otherwise. Also, should you have concerns about any of my choices for the lady, you will discuss them with me— only me—first and foremost. And I, not you, will have the final say. Do you agree?”

“I do, madam.” He savored another mouthful of cognac.

“Good.” She opened a drawer, removed a leather folder, and pulled out a paper. “Miss Hurst presented me with these and asked that I have them completed by any potential suitors. An unorthodox approach, and I doubt I shall need them, but since you’re involved, I think it appropriate that you should see what she has written. You may keep this copy.”

He took it, a smile playing around his mouth as he read her questions, which he couldn’t help but answer in his mind.

“It is a rather charming approach,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said. “She’s actually a charming young lady. I only hope I can find a man deserving of her.”

Edward grunted. “It’s somewhat na?ve of her to expect honest answers.”

The lady clucked her tongue. “Are you suggesting men lie, Lord Eskdale?”

“Only those with a pulse,” he replied, which garnered another laugh.

“Well, I’m sure between us, we can separate the wheat from the chaff and find Miss Hurst a suitable husband,” she said, raising her glass.

Edward raised his also. “I’m sure we can,” he said, remembering how Miss Hurst had whispered his name earlier that night.

He shifted in his seat and considered returning to Miriam’s chamber.

Later, after Lord Eskdale had left, Bessie Dove-Lyon wandered back to the viewing lounge, looking for a particular patron. When she didn’t see him, she summoned one of her most trusted security guards to her office and handed him a letter.

“I want this delivered to Lord Pendlewood’s house tonight,” she said, “and if he is still awake, you will wait for a reply.”

The man nodded his understanding and left.

Bessie removed her veil, poured herself another cognac, and settled into her chair. She sipped her drink, savoring the flavors that rolled around her tongue, and then smiled to herself. It seemed a game was afoot. A game brought about by a remarkable and unforeseen coincidence. Then again, maybe there was no such thing as coincidence.

It would require some discreet manipulation to get things moving. The number of players had yet to be ascertained, the finer details yet to be finalized. In any case, the game would merely be a precursor to the inevitable. But in the meantime, it would be fun to watch it play out.

Undoubtedly rewarding.

Bessie had learned long ago that one could not choose whom to love. Love generally pleased itself. Sometimes it arrived uninvited, taking the heart by surprise. Other times, it crept into the heart unnoticed, making its presence known in a gentler fashion. And then there were occasions when it was more devil than saint, swooping in to steal heart and soul, leaving both bereft of hope.

Whatever the case, love was an entity that made its own choices. And if her instincts were correct, Lord Eskdale’s choice had already been made.

He just didn’t know it yet.