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

Chapter One

Three Weeks Later

“T here is nothing left, my lord.”

“Surely that is an exaggeration,” Oliver offered dismissively. How could there be nothing, after all? Their father had not made the best of business decisions, but surely even in his incompetence, he had not been able to squander the entirety of the family fortune. And Sebastian had assured him, prior to his untimely passing, that things were well in hand.

“Your father’s investments were very costly,” the solicitor said. “They all but emptied the family coffers. The taxes levied on the estate upon his death were also… problematic. You might have been able to rebuild the accounts over time, with that alone. But now, close on the heels of his passing, your brother has passed as well and those taxes, my lord, will be due again… and as the estate is passing from sibling to sibling this time rather than father to son, the tax rate will increase! If enough remains in the accounts to cover such an amount, it will leave you entirely penniless. Or near enough to it that it will not matter.”

“And if there is not enough in the accounts?” Oliver asked, the stark reality of his situation hitting him with the full force of its severity.

“There is always Rosehill,” the solicitor offered. “It could be sold off, though that will incur additional taxes, as well.”

“Rosehill has been my grandmother’s home for decades. And when she passes on, my Aunt Clementine will continue to reside there. I cannot—I will not—simply sell that estate out from under them!” It had been his mother’s home, after all. The place where he’d spent his only truly happy moments in life.

“There is the inheritance from your grandfather that is yours contingent upon your marriage. Alone, it would cover most of the costs, but it would not provide true solvency.”

“And who would wish to marry me? As you have said, I am hovering on the brink of impoverishment,” Oliver quipped. “Death taxes and the toll they take are not unknown to the ton . The merest hint that I am looking for a bride will have me labeled as a fortune hunter and quickly eliminated as an option for any young ladies of fortune!”

“Then you must come up with another solution and do so quickly, my lord.”

“Sebastian stated that he had everything in hand… that he’d taken steps to secure the future of the family’s holdings,” Oliver prodded. “Do you know what he meant by that?”

“Perhaps he did, my lord, but if so, he never disclosed his plans to me.” With that, the solicitor offered a curt nod and left, likely to report to all the gossips that the new Earl of Foxmore had pockets to let and begin scouting for new clients.

Leaning back in the chair, Oliver scrubbed his hands over his face and sighed heavily. There had to be some clue in Sebastian’s things that would tell the truth of whatever his plan of action might have been. It was that thought which spurred him on, which had him tearing the study apart systematically. Every book, ledger and journal was searched. Every drawer in the desk. But it yielded no results. It wasn’t until his own frustration got the better of him and Oliver kicked the desk angrily that the letter was dislodged from its hiding place beneath one of the drawers and fluttered toward the floor to land lightly upon the Aubusson carpet.

Picking up the missive, he caught the faintest scent of a woman’s perfume. But he didn’t dismiss it as a love letter. Sebastian would not have taken such pains to hide such a thing. Opening it carefully, he read the note penned in the most precise hand he’d ever seen.

Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon had agreed to act as a marriage broker for his brother, to find him a wealthy bride, on one condition. He could not be choosy about the bride’s reputation or the manner in which they were to be wed. It was all thinly veiled to hint that, perhaps, if he was willing to overlook the idea that his firstborn might not actually be his firstborn, there were rich brides for the taking.

It was a solution. One that would permit him to take advantage of his own small inheritance and whatever settlement the bride brought with her. It was bloodless and cold, certainly, but effective. Could he live with that? A greater question might be whether or not he could live with the outcome if he could not.

Oliver considered it. He didn’t care one way or another, he decided. It was a matter of priorities. He needed to save the estate. He needed to save Rosehill for his grandmother and aunt. He needed to save it for himself, though he’d likely never cross its threshold again. A glance around at the elaborate library of Easton House brought a sigh to his lips. He needed to save it, as well. It housed his conservatory and the years of work that were enshrined within its glass walls. Priorities.

Rifling through the destruction he had created, he found ink, a quill and a sheaf of parchment. Taking a seat at the desk, he penned a letter of his own, informing Mrs. Dove-Lyon of his brother’s death and of his intention to seek a bride in his brother’s stead. He also expressed his willingness to adhere to her conditions. Dashing it off quickly, he called for a footman. “Have this delivered to the Lyon’s Den… directly to Mrs. Dove-Lyon herself.”

“Yes, my lord. Shall I send for a maid to right all of this?”

“No,” Oliver said. “It’s a mess of my own making. I will sort it out as best I can. Get that letter delivered immediately.”

When the footman had gone, Oliver did just that. He replaced the books on the shelf. He tidied the items on the desk. It didn’t feel like it was his, he realized. As the second son, he’d accustomed himself to the notion of living on his brother’s charity forever. But Sebastian had been generous to a fault with him, with their grandmother and with their aunt, Clementine. Sebastian, in short, was perfectly suited to the role of Lord Foxmore.

“I’m not,” he whispered to the room. “I’m distracted and obsessed with my passion for plants and I’d rather talk to flowers than people most days. Damn you, Sebastian, why did you ever accept that challenge?”

A simple game of cards had erupted into a bitter argument where Sebastian had been accused of being a cheat by a man who was embittered by his own losses. That fateful night had altered the trajectory of his life while snuffing out Sebastian’s with terrible efficiency.

“I will make it right,” he murmured. “Whatever I have to do, I will make it right and will be certain that your plans for the estate are carried out.”

Madeline stood in the center of the morning room as the household staff bustled around her. The entire house was being closed up, everything packed. Her father acted as if they would never set foot in London again. Though she suspected that could well be true for him. He had determined that they would leave London and its vicious society matrons behind and make for more hospitable company in Edinburgh. Never mind that the gossip rags of London were distributed all across the country and her name would be as well known to Edinburgh society as it was to the matrons of London. Never mind that her mother hated Edinburgh, that she disliked living so far north and that she had no friends or family in Scotland.

“If you aren’t going to help, Madeline, perhaps you could at least take yourself to the garden where you would not be in the way,” her mother snapped.

“I’ve done nothing wrong. You’ve no reason to be cross with me!”

“We are embroiled in scandal! We barely had a toehold in society before and now we’ll have no welcome at all,” her mother uttered between clenched teeth.

“Perhaps you should address that complaint to your other daughter,” Madeline stated. “Had she not uttered such vicious lies about me—”

“Were they? Were they lies, Madeline?” her mother asked.

It shouldn’t have hurt. Years and years of constantly being belittled, of being disbelieved, of being doubted and questioned at every turn while Coraline’s word was treated as gospel—it should have left her immune to such things. “Of course, they were lies.”

Her mother lifted her hands in dismay. “Well, it doesn’t matter now, does it? What’s done is done and we must all live with the aftermath.”

Madeline bit her tongue to avoid saying what she really wished to. It was always “what’s done is done” and water under the proverbial bridge when Coraline was the one who had done wrong. Her mistakes, real or fictional, were never allowed to be forgotten. Instead, she softly added, “It’s a mistake to leave. If we run away that only lends credence to Coraline’s accusations. It will be viewed as an admission of guilt and we will be ruined in London forever.”

Her mother sighed, dropping her hands into her lap as her shoulders slumped in defeated frustration. “Perhaps it is. Perhaps the bigger mistake was drawing out your betrothal to Edmund for nearly four years! Had you consented to an earlier wedding date, then this all might have been avoided!”

It hadn’t been her choice. It had been Edmund’s. And the more time she’d had to think about it, the more she had realized that the entire scene at the church had all been staged. Edmund had known what Coraline had planned. His mother had likely known, as well. Why, after all, would he have not had her given name on the license? And why, with such a long betrothal, when the banns had posted anyway, had he elected to obtain a Common License? Because he had wanted to be able to replace her with Coraline. No doubt the dramatic method in which it had been undertaken had been entirely Coraline’s doing. But Edmund was not innocent in the fiasco. Of that, she was certain.

Saying so to her mother, however, would not make it any better. In fact, since the entire debacle had occurred, her parents had alternately blamed her and bemoaned the fact that they would now, forever more, be responsible for her. Of course, pointing out that most of her fortune came from mother’s brother and was in a trust that would see to her care for the rest of her life would not have helped matters either.

Madeline moved away from the writing desk where her mother was checking off lists of household items. But as she did so, her hip bumped against a stack of linens the housekeeper had sent in for inspection to determine whether they should remain in rotation for family use or be repurposed.

Her mother let out another sigh, heavier than the previous one and infinitely more exasperated. “If you cannot make yourself useful, then at the very least try not to get in the way… or make a mess of anything else. Heaven knows you’ve done enough of that already.”

Her pride stinging, Madeline straightened the stack of linens. There was no point in fighting with any of them. After all, it was a pattern of behavior she ought to be used to. For years, she’d been the scapegoat in their home, always the one to bear the brunt of anger even when Coraline was the one who had misbehaved. Perhaps it was that her emotions were still so raw from everything that had occurred, or perhaps she had simply reached her limit. Either way, her eyes stung just a bit and the urge to stamp her feet and demand that she be treated with some modicum of respect was overwhelming. But she pushed it aside, not because it wasn’t true, but because she knew it was unlikely to change anything. “I’ll be in my room,” Madeline said and swept from the morning room. She’d just reached the stairs when the butler approached her.

“There is a letter for you, Miss,” he stated. As always, his voice was filled with both sympathy and regret.

Madeline smiled in thanks and accepted the correspondence. The servants, at least, understood what had occurred. But they’d all suffered Coraline’s moods and petty vengeance for years. “Thank you, Thompson.”

“Yes, Miss,” he said, and then backed away to once more take up his post near the door.

Madeline watched him rather sadly. It was an empty gesture as they’d had no callers in nearly three weeks. There had been a few in the days immediately following—curiosity seekers rather than true friends. What a terrible muddle it all was! Perhaps leaving London would be for the best, Madeline thought. But there was only one course of action that would reverse her current status as a ruined woman and that was getting herself a husband. The likelihood of doing so if she left the city were slim to none. It was that which had prompted her to act on a whispered rumor amongst the young ladies of the ton … a rumor about a woman who operated a gaming hell and could find a husband for anyone. Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon.

Reaching the sanctuary and privacy of her own chamber, Madeline opened the missive. She expected it to be another disappointment. In the two weeks since she’d contacted Mrs. Dove-Lyon, two gentlemen had refused her, not by name but by circumstance. They didn’t want a jilted bride who was presumed to have done the unthinkable, and with a servant no less.

But it wasn’t disappointment that greeted her. It was an invitation. A gentleman in possession of a title but little fortune was interested in meeting her to make a match.

A title.

Madeline had never set much store by such things. Titles were all well and good, but she’d never set a goal for herself of marrying into one. But she wasn’t so naive as to dismiss the importance of it in squelching the rumors about her and reclaiming her position in society. In short, if she had any hope whatsoever of recovering from the destruction her sister had wrought, she would need a husband with a title. Then of course, she needed a husband period and as there seemed to be a limited number of takers, it would behoove her to put her best foot forward. Even if he was a fortune hunter.

Crossing the room to her wardrobe, she surveyed the contents. Directly in front was the heavy brocade gown she’d worn on what was to have been her wedding day. A wave of intense rage washed through her and she ripped that garment from its peg and began tearing it at the seams. When one gave, the fabric rending with a satisfying sound, she didn’t stop. By the time she was finished and her anger, for the moment, abated, the dress was lying in shreds on the floor. Such destruction should not have made her proud. Yet it did. Staring down at the tattered remnants, she felt stronger, better and perhaps even slightly vindicated. The dress, after all, had been selected for her by her mother and Mrs. Wortham. No one had asked her.

Stepping over the debris, she retrieved a pale green ballgown bedecked with silver embroidery. The color had always proven a perfect foil for her dark hair and her dark eyes. She would need to look her best.