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

Chapter Two

M rs. Bessie Dove-Lyon was not a woman to be trifled with. She disliked having her well laid plans altered, even by something as unpredictable as death. To that end, she’d summoned the new Lord Foxmore to her demesne so that she might take the measure of the man she might offer to Miss Madeline Keyes. She felt a strong affinity for the girl she’d come to know through their brief letters and through the terrible vitriol of the gossip rags. For her part, Bessie hated those papers, but a woman in her line of work needed to know which gentlemen needed funds and which young ladies needed husbands. It was her stock in trade, after all.

Even in the gossip rags, there was a sense of unfairness in how Miss Keyes was being maligned. Even those writing for such trash, referred to her as allegedly promiscuous. It was so obviously havey-cavey in the way the sister had swooped in to snatch the groom—who was certainly no great prize. Of middling looks, middling fortune and aspiring to middling wit and personality, Edmund Wortham was hardly worth the trouble he had caused.

Seated at a small writing desk elaborately gilded and inlaid with mother of pearl, she might have passed for any lady of quality. Perhaps her cheeks were a bit artificially pinkened with rouge and her lips far rosier than a woman of her age ought to display. The décolletage of her black and gold gown might also have been rather alarmingly revealing but, in all, she painted a picture of wealth and decadence. As she should, given that she ruled a gaming hell like it was her own private kingdom and she a benevolent ruler. Bessie didn’t much care what others thought of her. She was content enough with what she thought of herself. She hoped and prayed fervently that, one day, Miss Madeline Keyes might find that same sort of confidence in herself. Buoyed by the fact that, even in the face of such public humiliation, the girl had not given up or given in, Bessie had hope for her.

A knock sounded on the door of her small salon. Immediately after, one of her most trusted servants entered. “The Earl of Foxmore has arrived, Ma’am. And a carriage has been dispatched to fetch Miss Keyes.”

“Excellent. Show Lord Foxmore in. I shall see him here rather than the drawing room,” she stated.

If the servant thought it odd that she was permitting someone to her enter her inner sanctum, there was no outward display. Only a solemn nod and a hasty exit to do her bidding.

Moments later, another soft knock, the same servant re-entered and announced with all the pomp and circumstance of a Master of Ceremonies, “Lord Oliver Easton, Earl of Foxmore, to see you, Ma’am.”

“That will do, Hinton,” Bessie said with a coy smile as Lord Foxmore stepped inside and the servant backed out of the room. To Lord Foxmore, she said, “So you are the younger son.”

“I am now the only son,” he replied mockingly. “My brother had an unfortunate turn of luck.”

“So he did,” she nodded sadly. “My condolences on the loss of the previous earl. Both of them. You were not even yet out of mourning for your father when your brother had the terrible misfortune to duel with someone whose temper was matched by his skill.”

“That is not the way of it,” Oliver said. “Sebastian could have bested him, but—”

“But?”

Lord Foxmore sighed. “The man had been a friend for many years. Sebastian allowed his tender heart and forgiving nature to lead him in what he assumed was an honorable act. He fired to the heavens and his combatant did not.”

“I see,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said. It rang true to her ears. Whether the events played out in such a fashion or not, the man before her believed they had. It was not her place to disabuse him of such notions regardless that she had heard otherwise. The matter was one where truth was determined by the allegiance of the speaker and the listener, after all. “And now you mean to take your brother’s place as bridegroom in addition to taking over as Earl of Foxmore.”

“I’ve no other choice,” he said. “Death taxes may well be the death of me if I do not. They have left the estate mired in debt. At this point, even selling off additional properties will only incur more taxes without providing the influx of income needed to maintain it. In short, we will lose everything.”

“And you are willing to take a bride that, in the eyes of society, is considered to be ruined in order to achieve security for your estate?” she questioned. It was best to put things baldly in such situations. Having one cry foul later or state they were duped would be bad for business.

“I care nothing for society or its denizens. I want to secure the family holdings and continue my work in horticulture,” he stated.

“Horticulture?” Bessie parroted. He might as well have said he wanted to train elephants for all the sense it made to her. A strapping, handsome and slightly rakish man who wanted to putter amongst his plants? It was a bit ridiculous to her mind. “You’ve a passion for horticulture?”

“It is more than a passion. It is my life’s work,” he replied.

“You are a nobleman. A peer of the realm. Work isn’t really the sort of thing one would anticipate for you,” she remarked. Was he really such a bore? Heavens, he was making Edmund Wortham appear positively alluring in comparison. “Not to mention, your name is not unknown to me. You’ve done your share of carousing. Horticulture seems a bit… well… tame.”

“I wasn’t aware that my virtue was in question,” he remarked. “Can a man not like all the things a man is supposed to and also like plants?”

“A man can like anything he chooses,” Bessie stated. “It just seems a departure. And if your new bride is the subject of gossip, what will you do?”

He graced her with a measuring look. “What I deem necessary. I cannot challenge every person who speaks ill of her, but I can and will do my best to defend her,” he answered. “I do not envision we will be much in society. Surely, if her position is as precarious as you state, she would not wish to rejoin its ranks.”

“On the contrary, that is rather the point. She means to show them all that she is not defeated and not guilty. If your bride is insistent that you join society? If that is a condition of her willingness to grant you access to her fortune through marriage? What will you do?”

“It was my understanding that she could not afford to be so particular.” The reply was flippant, as if he had no real understanding of what a woman’s reputation meant.

Bessie’s lips firmed. “I dislike your attitude, Lord Foxmore. This girl has been wronged. By her sister, by her former bridegroom, by society and now by your brother for behaving so carelessly when we had all but sealed the deal, as it were. You will not look down your patrician nose at her! I chose your brother for her because his position in society would aid her in righting a wrong and her fortune would enable him to set your family coffers to rights. Now, you are more desperate even than he was. And he was quite desperate already! Do not presume to think, my lord, that you are doing her a favor. Even under these extreme circumstances, the reverse is true. A bit of humility would go a long way at this moment.”

“With my prospective bride?”

“No, Lord Foxmore. With me. If I take you in dislike, you will never meet your prospective bride, much less reach an understanding with her. I’d advise you to tread carefully.”

Oliver was not used to being taken to task by anyone other than his often overly indulgent housekeeper. Even then, she hadn’t really done so since he was a boy. He wasn’t exactly chastened but he did re-evaluate his stance. It hadn’t occurred to him that the young woman in question might refuse him. It certainly hadn’t occurred to him that Mrs. Dove-Lyon might deem him unworthy of her endorsement. The notion of being beholden to anyone set his teeth on edge and was largely responsible for his current temper which was getting the better of him. Either way, he couldn’t afford to let his foul mood spoil the only opportunity he had to improve his situation. And as Mrs. Dove-Lyon stated, it was not the girl’s fault that he was in need of a wealthy bride. She should not be made to suffer for it.

“I am not my brother, Mrs. Dove-Lyon. I have never been one to play nicely in society. If this young woman requires that I attend various balls and fetes with her, then I shall do so. Though I cannot see that it will make her situation better. I’ve rarely found anything amongst the ton that would improve a person’s life.”

“You do not need to see it, my lord. She does. Men can do all manner of horrid things and society will still embrace them. If it is rumored that you seduced a woman, it does not harm your social position. It enhances it. It makes you more desirable rather than less because wickedness is its own appeal in your sex. Yet if a woman is rumored to have been seduced, she becomes a pariah. Unmarriageable. And by virtue of our status in this world, marriageability is the sum total of a woman’s worth until she has a husband.”

“And after she is married?” he asked, intrigued by the picture she painted.

“Her ability to produce children. Specifically, her ability to produce sons,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon answered. “How could you, as a man, ever understand what it means to be a woman in this world? I’ll forgive your impertinence as I think it is attributed only to ignorance in this instance. I will permit your introduction to my client, but it is on your shoulders to sway her to marriage. Until she arrives, you may avail yourself of libations downstairs in the gaming parlor. You will be summoned when the young lady has arrived.”

Dismissed, Oliver rose, sketched a bow to Mrs. Dove-Lyon and left her salon. He felt rather as if he’d just faced down a general. Bessie Dove-Lyon was a force to be reckoned with. And he liked her. He liked that she spoke her mind and gave no quarter. They were qualities he respected.

Taking the stairs down into the main salon, he surveyed the scene before him. He had no desire to join any of the tables. Gaming had never been an activity that he enjoyed, though he had engaged when required by social convention. The wild desperation that was so evident in many men as they wagered money they did not have left him very uncomfortable. So he asked a servant for a brandy and then surveyed the room.

A gaming hell was no place for a woman who wished to salvage her reputation. He very much doubted that his would-be bride would enter through the front door. She’d likely be ushered in through the back. So he watched the servants. He noted where they came and went from. And then he positioned himself to have a view of the long corridor tucked behind the stairs which led to the working areas of the gaming hell.

It wasn’t long before he caught a glimpse of her. Or so he assumed. Draped in a heavy velvet cloak that completely concealed her face, despite the relative warmth of the evening, she was ushered in through the rear door and up the back stairs. He wasn’t certain what it was that he’d hoped to accomplish by observing her from such a distance. Perhaps it was curiosity, perhaps he was hoping to see something that would cement or alter his course of action. But he was left with no clearer picture than when he’d first entered.

Uttering a mild curse, he removed himself to one of the settees in the main salon and waited for Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s trusted servant to come and fetch him. It appeared he had a date with destiny.