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

Chapter Eight

E dward lifted his gaze from the paper and gave Mrs. Dove-Lyon a scathing look. “Please tell me that you do not believe a single word of this drivel,” he said. “It’s fabricated, all of it.”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon presented no visible reaction to Edward’s rant. “I take it you do not approve,” she said.

“No, I do not. He says here that his greatest pleasure is—I’m not sure I can even read this with a straight face—breeding horses. Knowing Varley, I doubt he could even breed rabbits successfully. And the thing he fears most is drowning. Well, that’s useful to know, at least. As for his greatest desire, ‘To find a good-hearted lady to share my life with.’ He was obviously foxed when he wrote that. And apparently his enemies would describe him as ‘trying to redeem himself in their eyes.’ What the bloody hell does that mean?” Edward tossed the list on the desk. “The man is an idiot.”

“I beg to differ, my lord,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon replied, her voice calm. “Mr. Varley has expressed a desire to curb his exuberant ways and is keen to marry. I believe he should be afforded a chance to meet Miss Hurst. Of course, Miss Hurst may refuse to meet with him, but she should at least be given the opportunity to decide.”

Edward clenched his jaw and tried to tell himself he was being unreasonable. Maybe Varley was serious about reforming himself. But it was doubtful, which begged the question, why was he pursuing Miss Hurst?

“Curb his exuberant ways,” he muttered. “What bollocks.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said.

Edward frowned. “Nothing. So what happens now? You summon Miss Hurst and then what?”

“If she decides she would like to meet Mr. Varley, I shall arrange for that to happen.”

“Where will this meeting take place?”

“That is yet to be determined.”

“I trust you’ll keep me informed of the location.”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon lifted her chin. “May I know why that is necessary, my lord?”

Damn the woman. Tamping down a thrust of annoyance, Edward shifted in his chair. “You may consider me as Lord Huxley’s replacement,” he said, “which means I have Miss Hurst’s best interests at heart. I’m sure he would have insisted on knowing of his sister’s whereabouts. And especially in this case, since a reformed Varley is, frankly, impossible for me to imagine.”

“I’m certain Miss Hurst will be chaperoned, my lord, but if it means that much to you, I shall do as you ask.”

Harriet had been summoned to the Lyon’s Den by means of a note from Mrs. Dove-Lyon, which came along with a completed character list that had been signed by the potential suitor.

The Honorable Mr. Varley, Christian name Hugh, eldest son of Baron Danforth.

The name was familiar, although she couldn’t quite place him. Certainly he sounded intriguing—assuming the answers he’d given were honest, of course. She paced as she read and reread them, eager for Joanna to arrive. While Harriet had already decided to meet the man, she still wanted her closest friend’s opinion.

Harriet had made arrangements to return to the Lyon’s Den that night. She placed a hand on her stomach, where the butterflies had immediately taken flight at the mere thought of the gaming hell. More accurately, the thought of who might be frequenting it.

Would Edward be there? Did she dare wander the halls on the off chance of bumping into him again? Be given the opportunity to apologize for her previous behavior?

No. Such fancies would remain safely in her head, where they had always been. She took a breath and turned her attention back to the list.

A tap came to the door, and Yates announced the arrival of Lady Shipley, who swept into the room shortly thereafter.

“Already?” Joanna squeaked, seeing the paper in Harriet’s hand. “May I see?”

“Good afternoon, Jo,” Harriet said pointedly.

Joanna wafted a hand. “Good afternoon, Harri. Give it to me.”

She did so, and Joanna’s reaction came but a moment later.

“Hugh Varley?” She lifted a wide-eyed gaze to Harriet. “No. Absolutely not. I can’t believe the woman has even recommended this man.”

Harriet blinked. “What’s wrong with him?”

“He’s a…” Her lips thinned as she appeared to muse. “He’s a bit of a fop. Tries too hard to impress and ends up looking like a fool. You can definitely do better.”

“His answers seem to indicate a decent enough person,” Harriet said, “assuming they’re truthful.”

“You have no way of knowing if they are or not. One or two of them sound contrived to me. And some of them…well, for example, his greatest pleasure is breeding horses. I fear that does not bode well for your wedding night, dearest. And you can forget about taking a boat anywhere, since his greatest fear is drowning. How do you feel about this? Do you intend to meet him?”

How did she feel about it? The way Harriet felt about everything had changed since meeting with Edward, as if something had sneaked in and taken over her soul. But despite all her efforts to expunge the dratted man from her thoughts, he obstinately remained.

“Yes, I intend to meet him. I don’t see why I shouldn’t. In fact, I’m going to the Lyon’s Den tonight to make the arrangements.”

Joanna winced. “I’m afraid I can’t come with you. Cedric’s brother and sister-in-law are coming for dinner. In fact, this is literally just an in-and-out call. I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right. I’ll take Rees with me.”

“You’ll keep me informed of anything new?”

“Of course.”

“It’ll all work out, Harri, you’ll see, though I suspect the horse breeder isn’t the one.” Joanna handed her the list and gave Harriet a peck on the cheek. “Consider Varley the rehearsal rather than the final performance.”

Later that night—much later—when the house lay quiet, Harriet lit a candle, wrapped herself in her mother’s shawl, and went to sit by her bedroom window.

She’d met with Mrs. Dove-Lyon that evening and agreed to rendezvous with Mr. Varley, for the first time, at the Lyon’s Den. Initially, the mere idea of meeting the man—any man—at a gaming hell gave Harriet the chills.

But as Mrs. Dove-Lyon explained, it was a discreet way to make an introduction with no obligation. She and Mr. Varley would simply talk for a while in one of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s private rooms, away from prying eyes. Harriet would, of course, bring a chaperone of her choice. Then, all being well, they might decide to meet in a more satisfactory and traditional sense. Despite her misgivings, Harriet told herself she’d come this far and had agreed to the arrangements.

Tomorrow night.

She had not seen Edward at the Lyon’s Den, but then, on this visit, she hadn’t taken to wandering the corridors. Still, she couldn’t help but wonder if he was beneath the same roof. Playing cards, perhaps. Or, less pleasant to think about, with a woman. The mere thought of him being nearby had made the butterflies dance in her stomach.

She closed her eyes.

“Consider Varley a rehearsal rather than the final performance.”

“You’re under no obligation, Harriet,” she whispered. “No obligation at all.”

But the final performance, she feared, would never be the one she truly wanted.