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

Chapter Two

“R ochdale is in over his head.” Thomas, Lord Braeton spoke sotto voce to his long-time friend Geoffrey, Lord Longford, as they watched seven gentlemen turn several different shades of pale blue.

“I suspect you are correct, Thomas.” Arms crossed over his chest, Geoffrey shook his head as one older gentleman went a deeper shade of purple.

“One minute, gentlemen,” a burly gentleman called out dispassionately. Called an escort by denizens of the house, his main function at the Lyon’s Den was to keep order when patrons at the notorious gambling house got unruly. Today, however, he had been pressed into service as the timekeeper for this wager.

Immediately, Lord Hovingham’s eyes rolled back in his head, and he slithered onto the floor.

“One down.” Geoffrey nodded to the patron whose face had gone deep blue. “Should someone try to rouse him?”

“He’ll come ’round soon enough.” Thomas gazed avidly at the six men still holding their breaths. The wager was a thousand pounds to the gentleman who held his breath the longest. Rochdale, Thomas’s brother-in-law, had asked him to come and stand witness to the wager, which Thomas had been reluctant to do, given its location. He’d met Mrs. Dove-Lyon, owner of the establishment, previously. It had not gone well. “I think Rochdale’s a goner. His face resembles a plump blueberry right now.”

The man in question shook his head violently, almost dislodging the footman who’d been assigned to hold Rochdale’s nose. Each of the seven men who’d accepted the challenge had been furnished a footman to clamp their noses shut so the only way to get air in was through their mouths, which would disqualify them.

Another gentleman gave a violent push to his footman. The man staggered backward as the short, blond gentleman whose nose he’d been holding gasped in air, breathing noisily. “God’s teeth.” He wheezed for several minutes until his lungs finally got enough of the air they craved. “Who’s going again?”

“You haven’t finished this wager, Fyfield. Catch your breath before you go again.” Thomas shook his head. He knew only too well the fire such wagering could put in a man’s belly. He only wished this wager would play itself out quickly. There were better things to do on a Monday afternoon than make sure Joanna’s husband came to no harm. Although other gentlemen were betting on the outcome of the wager, he’d had no intention of doing so. Encouraging such frivolous behavior was not something he condoned. Thomas glanced into the next room where several tables of card games were in play. More to his taste, granted, but he and Geoffrey were heading to Tattersall’s to look at some cattle if this wretched wager would ever end.

“A minute and a half.” The timekeeper, whose name was apparently Demetrius, called out.

Two more gentlemen, by now ghastly shades of blue, gasped and swatted at their footmen’s hands. That left Rochdale and one other fellow, both of whom seemed close to death.

“You may be about to lose a brother-in-law, Thomas.” Geoffrey motioned to Rochdale, whose eyes had rolled back in his head as he went limp in the chair.

“Christ.” Darting forward, Thomas grabbed the man by the arm and shook him, slapping away the footman’s hand. “Rochdale!” Damnit, the man still wasn’t breathing. Thomas grabbed a glass of wine from the hand of an onlooker and dashed it in his brother-in-law’s face.

Rochdale gasped at last, drawing in a torturous breath, and sat up abruptly. “What happened?”

“You nearly made my sister a widow, jingle brains. Here.” Thomas commandeered another glass of wine, from a passing footman this time, and put it to Rochdale’s lips. “And you now owe this chap a thousand pounds, if he is indeed still alive.” A glance to his right showed Thomas that the gentleman who had lasted without air for almost two minutes was passed out in his chair, his footman still stubbornly holding his nose, even though the man was now moaning and breathing through his mouth. “Utter foolishness.”

The front door flew open, letting in a glare of light, and a wild-eyed figure looked frantically around the room. “Honoria! Honoria Quinn, where are you?”

“God, what now?” Thomas muttered, quickly taking in the measure of the man. A gentleman, both by his clothes and the way he carried himself, but frenzied, with a look in his eyes like a spooked horse. Trouble with a capital T . “Here.” He shoved the glass of wine into Rochdale’s hand. “Hold this.” Thomas straightened and moved slowly toward the newcomer who stood in the center of the room, turning back and forth, searching for someone.

“Honoria! I know you’re in here. I saw you come this way.” The gentleman’s voice rose alarmingly. Everyone in the house must hear him, which was unfortunate for this Miss Quinn. Perhaps he could stem the tide before this got out of hand.

“Honoria!” Bellowing, the distraught man made as though to mount the staircase.

Thomas reached him a step before Demetrius. “Allow me.” He waved the escort away. “Can I help you, sir?” Christ, it was Danford from White’s. He scarcely recognized the gentleman; he was so altered from his usual appearance. His face was blood red, he staggered around and puffed out his cheeks as though he’d been running a marathon. His clothing was pulled askew to the point his cravat was in danger of unraveling. “Danford? What’s the matter, man?”

“What is the meaning of this outburst?” The imposing figure of Mrs. Dove-Lyon, shrouded in her accustomed black, materialized as out of thin air.

Her appearance took Thomas by surprise. He stumbled back a step as did Danforth. Despite Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s veil, which obscured her facial expression, Thomas couldn’t help but imagine her intense gaze blistering Danford’s soul.

“Lord Danford!” Her raised voice finally penetrated the frantic man’s brain, and he swung around to face the proprietress. “Why are you disturbing the Lyon’s Den in this shameful manner?”

“I’ve got to find her.” Danford leaned toward Mrs. Dove-Lyon, his face contorted as a gargoyle’s. He grasped the woman’s shoulders in a cruel grip. “I know she’s—”

Before he could finish his sentence, Danford was torn away from Mrs. Dove-Lyon by Demetrius, who hoisted him up into the air as though he weighed no more than a ragdoll. “Shall I dispose of him, madam?”

From the man’s tone, Thomas wasn’t quite certain if he intended on merely throwing Danford out of the establishment or actually killing him. The escort was certainly capable of either action.

“A moment, Demetrius.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon held up a finger. “Lord Danford, who is it you are seeking?”

“Honoria Quinn. My mother-in-law’s companion.” Danford dangled from Demetrius’s hand, amazingly unconcerned about his precarious position. “I know she’s here. I saw her. You’re hiding her from me.”

Cocking her head, Mrs. Dove-Lyon appeared perplexed. “And if she were here, what business would it be of yours? As I remember, you already have a wife and therefore have no need of another.”

Danford’s mouth worked comically, opening and closing as he tried to fashion an answer that would be even somewhat acceptable. “We were in conversation about a business proposition.”

“A business proposition?”

Inwardly, Thomas groaned. That could mean only one thing. An offer to become Danford’s mistress. Poor woman. With her name shouted to the rafters here she might have no other choice now. Once Lady Danford heard of the matter, Miss Quinn would be out on her ear and everyone in London would know why. Even if the woman had done nothing wrong, her means of livelihood had just been snatched from her.

Danford twisted, trying to free himself from Demetrius’s grip, but in vain. “Yes, but she must have not understood what I was offering her because she jumped out of the carriage and ran into the Lyon’s Den.”

“I suspect she understood your proposition all too well, my lord.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon shook her head. “I have no knowledge of the woman’s whereabouts, but I will inquire of Hermia and Helena if they have admitted anyone. Meanwhile, my lord, you will await me in my private room.” She nodded to Demetrius, who lowered Lord Danford to the floor and marched him toward the back of the house. “Lord Braeton, you will accompany Lord Danford? I believe your presence may be required.”

“I am sorry, Mrs. Dove-Lyon, but I have nothing to do with Danford or his interest in this Miss Quinn.” Considering how the scene had played out, Thomas had quickly come to regret his attempt to interfere in Danford’s spectacle. The whole affair reeked of scandal, and Thomas had no patience for such things.

“But you did witness Danford’s defamation of the woman.”

“Everyone within earshot of him did, ma’am. That hardly makes me a party to the matter.” More than anything, Thomas wanted to simply turn and exit the Lyon’s Den without a backward look. His previous dealing with Mrs. Dove-Lyon still rankled. If he didn’t miss his guess, the woman was up to the same trick, namely attempting to marry him off to one of her dubious clients. He didn’t see how she planned to entrap him, but something in the back of his head told him to beware.

“Will you turn your back on this woman, Lord Braeton?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon was pulling out all the stops it seemed.

“I’ve never even met the wretched woman.” Here came the pitch he’d been expecting.

“Miss Quinn is in dire need of a champion. She is on the brink of a scandal that could ruin her for the rest of her life.”

Closing his eyes, Thomas clenched his hands into fists. He should have minded his own business, kept his mind on his brother-in-law, and he’d have been free of this debacle by now. But the woman was right. Miss Quinn was in urgent need of someone to salvage her reputation.

When Lady Danford discovered her husband’s transgression…well, no woman wanted it gossiped about that her husband had pursued his mother-in-law’s companion in public—loudly and in a place such as this. The first thing she would do would be to send Miss Quinn packing, quietly at first, to be sure. However, later, in insidious ways, Lady Danford would let her friends and acquaintances know that Miss Quinn was tainted. Thus, would the innocent companion be thoroughly ruined in the eyes of Society.

“What is it you think I could do?”

“Be an advocate for the woman. Persuade Lord Danford to give up his pursuit of Miss Quinn.”

“He seemed more than a little obsessed with her.”

“You are a very persuasive man, Lord Braeton. I have faith in you.” The veiled figure nodded. “Help Miss Quinn leave London quietly. That way there may be little or no scandal attached to Lord Danford and, subsequently, little to Miss Quinn.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon gently touched his arm. “Society might never have to know a thing.”

The devious woman’s softened tones should have sent up a flare of alarm, but Thomas could see some merit in her suggestion. If this whole episode could be downplayed, Miss Quinn might escape with her reputation intact. “Lady Danford will know something is afoot when her companion does not return to the house, although perhaps Danford can spin some sort of plausible tale.” With a sigh of defeat, he nodded. “Very well, I will join him.”

Thomas looked back into the room where the survivors of the breath-holding wager were now all sitting up and talking. A fleeting pang of regret that he hadn’t remained in his place assailed him. But thank God, no damage seemed to have been done to any of the wagerers. He caught Geoffrey’s eye and motioned to him.

“Is everything well, Thomas?” Geoffrey looked askance at the black-draped figure of Mrs. Dove-Lyon.

“It seems so. I must be a mediator for Danford in a delicate matter. Can you put Rochdale in a hack and send him home?”

“Of course.” His friend nodded but paused. “Shall I wait until you have completed your business?”

On the tip of his tongue to say no, Thomas instead nodded. “Please. If it ends quickly enough, we may yet make it to Tattersall’s today.”

“Splendid.” Geoffrey smiled at him, then sobered and bowed to Mrs. Dove-Lyon. “Your servant, madam.” He straightened and headed back to the gambling room, where the wagerers were finally disbanding.

Thomas turned to the woman beside him, convinced she was smiling broadly under her blasted veil. “Very well, ma’am. Lead on.”

They couldn’t put a quick enough finish to this Drury Lane drama to suit him.