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

Chapter Nine

H ugh Varley regarded the woman seated across from him and asked himself, for the hundredth time, how the heck he had got himself into this situation. He knew the Lyon’s Den had a reputation for unusual games and bizarre bets, but this was something beyond the reaches of his comprehension.

Signing his name to a list of questions, the responses to which had been written by someone else? Playing suitor to a young lady who knew nothing of the duplicity? Pretending, basically, to be someone he was not?

“I can’t do this,” he’d said when propositioned. “Find someone else.”

“You can do it, and I’ll tell you why.” A smile had appeared on Pendlewood’s face. “Brighton, two years ago. Lady Dalton’s ball. The conservatory.”

Varley had felt the blood drain from his head. “You wouldn’t.”

“Yes, I would.” The smile had disappeared. “You’ll be charming, Varley, and more importantly, you will behave appropriately at all times. Miss Hurst is a gently bred young lady who is in search of a husband. You are not a candidate. You are merely the bait intended to attract a candidate—namely, Lord Eskdale. Your first meeting with the lady will be at the Lyon’s Den tomorrow night at eight o’clock. Providing Miss Hurst agrees to see you again, there will then be at least three subsequent outings, the details of which we will provide.”

Varley saw a way out. “What if she doesn’t agree to see me again?”

Pendlewood’s smile had returned. “Let’s just say it is in your best interest that she does.”

So here he was, sitting in a room with a young woman and her maid, who, if looks could tear flesh from bone, would have already flayed him to death.

As for Miss Hurst, he couldn’t imagine the likes of Lord Eskdale being attracted to her at all. Though not too painful to look at, the girl was no beauty. The spectacles did nothing for her, of course, though her eyes were actually quite pretty. Varley preferred fair-haired women, so Miss Hurst’s chestnut curls did not appeal. Her breasts were small as well. Varley was drawn to women with large…

The maid cleared her throat, making Varley realize where his gaze had been. He lifted his eyes to the wretched woman’s deadly glare and then back to Miss Hurst’s face.

“Do you have any special interests, Miss Hurst?” he asked. “Do you play an instrument, perhaps?”

“I play the pianoforte, Mr. Varley,” she replied. “Passably, at least. What of you? What pastimes do you enjoy?”

None that you would approve of , he thought, and felt the heat of the maid’s glare on him once more. Gads, could the damn woman read his mind?

“I enjoy grouse hunting in season.” He cleared his throat. “And reading.”

“Ah.” Miss Hurst’s face brightened. “I like to read also.”

Things continued, in a similar fashion, for another half hour. At the end of it, Varley actually felt a smidgen of pride. He’d done reasonably well, he reckoned, though the expression on the maid’s face screamed otherwise. But Miss Hurst didn’t appear to be revulsed in the least. Neither was he, truth be told. The lady was actually quite pleasant.

This silly game might be enjoyable after all.