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

Chapter One

I t never worked to compete with Prinny.

Lord Daniel wandered the early morning streets of London because he’d won again against the Prince Regent and was now paying the price. He was an art dealer. He scoured the world for interesting pieces of art and sold them to rich people. Prinny was a dabbler who liked to sponsor artists then encourage his court to buy indifferent works of art.

And sometimes they stumbled upon the same piece of work, the same artist. A smart man would withdraw his interest the moment the prince got involved. Daniel knew better than to challenge a royal. But he and the Prince Regent had developed a friendly kind of rivalry. Who could find the best talent, the most intriguing pieces of art? And who held the record for the piece sold for the highest value?

Last night, Daniel had won in the highest sale contest. His favorite artist had sold a painting of a child at the beach for an exorbitant two-thousand pounds, whereas Prinny’s favorite had chosen a vainglorious image of the Prince Regent on a horse. The work was excellently done, but who wanted yet another picture of him? So Daniel held the current record, and Prinny had cast him out of Carlton House in a fit of pique.

It happened, and Daniel knew that eventually the Prince Regent would forgive him. Unfortunately, he’d been staying at Carlton House and now had nowhere to lay his head. Everything he had in London—including his horse—was currently under Prinny’s control. So he meandered the city streets with a sore head while waiting for the hour to advance to a respectable hour. He had a friend who would house him, but only after noon.

So it was that he landed in Hyde Park shortly after dawn. Few people were about to enjoy the morning color show, but he could admire it. After all, God made the best paintings. Man merely tried to copy.

Man…and apparently woman. A lone woman sat in a tucked away corner of Hyde Park. She was near enough to the trees so that her body was in shadow, but he could see her dress and the loose chignon of her curls. Better yet, she was close enough to the light that he could see her canvas clearly.

It was exquisite.

And it was entirely original. He’d travelled the world in search of art and had never seen anything like it. The woman had long elegant fingers that held a single brush. She painted in black ink, nothing more, but the dark slashes of black amid shades of grey suggested an expanse of color that robbed him of breath. She worked on paper, he now saw, not canvas. And she free-handed a London dawn, somehow investing the image with growing hope even while done in one single color.

He stood transfixed as she finished the work. It obviously didn’t please her because she pulled the paper off the easel and dropped it to the muddy ground.

“No!” He lurched forward, intending to catch it before it was ruined in the muck. He was too slow. Half the image was destroyed by the time he grabbed it.

She gasped in surprise and recoiled. Of course, she did. She was a woman alone and he’d just bumped her backwards as he grabbed the painting.

“My apologies,” he rushed to say. “But why would you throw this away?”

She gaped at him, and for the first time, he got a good look at her face. Good God, she was Chinese! What an idiot he was! He thought he’d travelled the world over, but the truth was he’d only learned the artists on the continent and a little in Africa. There were whole portions of the world that painted and sculpted but were wholly outside of his experience. And she was part of it.

Certainly, he’d seen a little Chinoiserie. It was all the rage lately, but nothing compared to what she’d done. And even more shocking was that the artist was as beautiful as her art.

Clean lines of bone and flesh, swept upwards in every way. Her chin and cheekbones lifted her face. Her eyes drew upward, and even her nose seemed to lift to the sky. Or perhaps it was because he had straightened up to his full height and she looked up at him.

He saw now that her hair was darker than coal, but her eyes were a warm brown as she gazed at him. He meant to say something. He needed to beg her pardon, to step back, to do something to ease the sudden tightening around them. Not just in his chest which was now squeezing the breath from his lungs, but also in the air around them. As if all had grown silent as the world squeezed close to see her face.

Her mouth opened, and he felt his cock swell at the round O her lips made. Her breath was sweet when she exhaled, and the images that surged through his mind horrified him. She was an artist, and he could think of nothing but bedding her.

He stepped back, belatedly realizing that he now pressed the muddied painting to his chest, thereby smearing her ink and his shirt. He cared nothing for his shirt, but the damage to her work was irreparable.

“Oh damnation,” he cursed as he looked at the ruined art. Then he felt his cheeks burn in embarrassment. She was a woman, and he generally watched his tongue around them. And yet, he never watched his words around artists. They were routinely a foul-mouthed lot. So the conflict in his mind between woman and artist had him stumbling over himself. Until his outrage over the wasted work won out.

“You cannot throw your work away!”

She didn’t respond except to grab a satchel filled with her supplies. He’d frightened her when that was the absolute last thing he’d wanted to do.

“I beg your pardon,” he said. “Please, I would very much like to speak with you. What’s your name?”

She shook her head, refusing to answer.

“I’ve never seen work like you’ve done here. It was extraordinary. Why don’t you use colored inks? Do you have any other work? I’d love to see it. I’m sure I could sell it for you.”

His questions came out faster and more desperate the more she ignored him. Her head hunched behind delicate shoulders as she turned away. He tried to reach for her satchel. He meant only to carry it as she walked, as a gentleman would for a lady, but she reacted as if he meant to steal it.

“No!” she gasped, the single word banging against his sore head like a hammer. She was obviously terrified, and he needed to step back, but he feared to lose her completely.

“I mean you no harm!” he cried, much too loud.

She flinched at the noise. He regretted it as well, given the pounding in his head.

“Who are you?” he asked again, this time keeping his voice low, but it was too late. She was already rushing away. He could chase her, of course, but that would only frighten her more. So he stood still, waiting long enough for her to feel as if she’d escaped. Only after she had disappeared around a bend did he rush to follow her.

He wasn’t equipped to slip through early morning shadows, but he managed well enough. As London was waking up, he hid behind fruit carts and morning hawkers. And he ran to catch up to her.

There she was! A small dark woman carrying an easel and satchel. She moved with lithe precision, slipping in and around the flow of humanity as easily as a fish gliding downstream. But then she took an unexpected turn. He’d thought her wealthy given the quality of her paintbrush and the paper on which she painted, but she headed into a rowdy corner of town.

Then she disappeared into the side of a building. It took him a moment to figure out his location, but then he was more confused than before.

The Lyon’s Den . A gaming hell with a lurid reputation. It specialized in all the normal games plus wagers that took a bizarre turn. Who could juggle the most cricket balls, who could seduce the most redheads, who could eat the most bizarre meats. There were upstairs ladies to service the clients, of course, but the mysterious painter couldn’t possibly be a common lightskirt. Her manners were too refined, her fear too palpable, and her art too exquisite.

He stood outside the hell as he considered the possibilities. In the end, he had more questions than answers. There was a secret here, and he was determined to ferret it out. It shouldn’t be hard. All it would take was a meeting with the owner—Mrs. Dove-Lyon—and then he would know all. Hopefully, it wouldn’t involve anything more than a few pounds’ bribery. But more likely, the lady would encourage a livelier kind of game. It was said that was her favorite entertainment.

But the end would be the same. He would get his hands on the art and use it to get back into Prinny’s good graces.