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

Chapter One

Returning to Another Life

Three months later…

Leicester House, Mayfair

D espite the calendar claiming it was late September, winter was quickly replacing what little of autumn London could claim. A freezing rain tapped against the windowpanes of Leicester House, making a dreary, cold day even worse.

Charles stared out one of the study’s windows and shook at the memory of his last day on a battlefield. A battle lost, but a war won. Napoleon’s forces were defeated at Waterloo.

Although he had cursed the rain that had soaked most of the country prior to the fateful engagement with French forces, he supposed the wet fields had contributed to the defeat of Napoleon. The French cavalry had been unable to traverse the sodden ground.

His own horse had been slowed by the conditions, but Charles had arrived in time for Colonel Sinclair’s regiment to benefit from the missive he had carried.

Had he arrived a few minutes earlier, his leg might have been spared, and he could have returned to London much sooner.

By the time his leg had been set in a field hospital near the battlefield, infection had set in, and Charles not only suffered pain but a fever that robbed him of his desire to live.

He had been prepared to die. After all, what did he have to look forward to, given his leg would never work as it had before? The physician wasn’t even sure he’d be able to keep it.

“I’ll saw it off if I have to,” the surgeon had warned in a manner so droll, Charles was left wondering if the man was teasing. “But I think it will come around.”

“Oh, it will come around. You’ll see,” a soft voice had said from somewhere behind the surgeon. “You’ll be riding a horse before you know it, Captain Audley.”

Struggling to remember the other words that soft voice had said—words that had given him hope when he needed it most—Charles realized he had never been formally introduced to the nurse who said them.

The doctor and those wounded soldiers under her care always called her “nurse.”

Given the morphine fog he spent most of the time experiencing for those six weeks in her care, Charles could barely put a face to his memory of the voice. He spent another month on the Continent before he could make arrangements to return to London.

Although his older brother had greeted him with a huge smile as he limped down the gangplank from the ship that had brought a number of wounded soldiers back to British shores, Charles could only manage a wan grin. “It’s good to be home,” he had said, glad for the pair of crutches that helped him walk. Two others on the ship were forced to use wheeled chairs, their legs too badly damaged to escape the bone saw.

“Glad you think so, because now that you’re no longer an active captain in the King’s Army, I have a job for you.”

“A job?” he had repeated as James helped him into the Leicester town coach.

“You have to run the earldom for me. I’m off to Cambridge,” James replied as he stepped up and took the seat facing Charles.

“What’s in Cambridge?”

“My future wife, I hope.”

Charles gave a start. “I didn’t know you were courting anyone.”

James’s expression managed to convey his thoughts on the matter, but he still responded. “I’m not. It’s just that…circumstances this year have become rather dire. I need to marry for money, and Huntsford’s daughter, Lady Stephanie, seems to be my best hope for a decent dowry.”

“More crop losses?” Charles guessed, wincing at the thought of his brother being forced to marry for convenience rather than affection.

James nodded. “We had enough reserves to cover our expenses through last year, but my man of business has told me that this year’s crops won’t be much better than last year’s. Too much rain, not enough sun…if only we had coal on our lands,” he muttered, shivering in his seat.

“I’ll meet with the solicitor on the morrow,” Charles promised. He would need a distraction. Something to keep his mind off his new reality.

“There’s something else,” James said as the coach rumbled eastward, heading toward Westminster. “I’ve been looking into who owes us money.”

“And?” Charles prompted.

“There’s a debt going back to our father’s early days as an earl. I found the vowels in some of his papers. It’s possible you can collect on it.”

“Only possible?”

“Probable,” James amended as he bobbed his head from left to right. “The family was supposedly in good stead, but Colonel Lyon has since died. His widow inherited his house, which she’s converted into a rather lucrative gambling hell,” he explained. “Some say she runs a brothel, as well, but I’ve never been. Apparently, Mrs. Dove-Lyon is also a matchmaker.” The way he rolled his eyes whilst saying this last had Charles grinning.

“But you didn’t use her services to find this woman you’re considering to be your countess,” Charles guessed.

James inhaled and finally shook his head. “I doubt I could afford the stakes,” he finally replied, clearing his throat as if he were uncomfortable with the topic.

Charles wondered at the comment but let it drop. “You do realize that I cannot be expected to marry,” he announced.

Straightening in his chair, James frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“My leg, dammit. What daughter of the ton is going to want to marry a man who can barely walk? And then, only with crutches?” Charles asked as he gripped the end of one of the wooden crutches. “I cannot dance. I would look the fool at a garden party or a soirée limping about. I may as well be in a wheeled chair.”

James scoffed. “There are plenty of women who will overlook such inconveniences,” he claimed. “For a chance to be married to the spare heir of an earldom? A captain in the king’s army? You underestimate your appeal, brother.”

It was Charles’s turn to scoff. “Almost a former captain. And as soon as your first son is born, that will make me moot,” he replied.

Alarm showed in James’s eyes. “You haven’t resigned your commission, I hope?”

Charles shook his head. “Not yet.” His eyes widened. “Perhaps I could sell it,” he murmured, thinking of the blunt it might bring to help the earldom’s coffers.

James sobered considerably, which had him looking at least a decade older than his thirty years. “Don’t sell it. Not yet. And don’t lose hope, brother. I’m counting on you.”

About to ask James what had his mood darkened, Charles was prevented from doing so when the coach came to a halt. A quick look out the window had him grimacing.

The Leicester townhouse, its stucco once a pristine white, was covered in a layer of soot. The dark blue shutters were in need of a coat of paint, and the flower boxes at the base of the ground floor windows held only dead foliage.

“What the—?”

“Economies have had to be exercised,” James stated, well aware of what Charles was about to say.

“Mother would be appalled.”

“Then it’s a good thing she is no longer with us,” James said without apology as he stepped out of the coach.

Charles followed, but at a much slower pace. He was in no hurry to discover what other economies had been taken at the expense of the townhouse. Despite his brother’s warning, he was surprised when the door was opened by a footman rather than by the butler.

A rather disheveled footman.

Beyond him, an even more disheveled housemaid could be seen rushing across the front hall and into the breakfast parlor.

“Perkins,” James stated, a sound of rebuke in his voice. “The housemaids are not here for your edification.”

“Wasn’t my idea, sir.”

Ignoring the implication that it had been the housemaid’s idea to enjoy a tumble in the library, James rolled his eyes. “There’s a trunk that needs to be brought in and taken to my brother’s room,” he stated. “And have a tea tray brought to the study.”

“Right away, sir,” the footman said before he turned on his heel and hurried off to the back of the house.

“Where’s Franklin?” Charles asked, referring to the Leicester House butler. He saw to his own coat and hat, although he almost wished he hadn’t. It was cold in this part of the house.

“Had to let him go,” James replied, straightening his topcoat. “He received a better offer from another house, and I could not match it.” He led them to the study, where a fire in the fireplace had the room feeling far warmer than the hall. He indicated the chair across from the desk.

With the help of his crutches, Charles lowered himself onto the seat and felt annoyed at seeing his line of sight was lower than his brother’s. “When do you plan to depart for Cambridge?”

James absently plucked a missive from a silver salver, read the name of the sender, and then tossed it aside. “Before dawn. I want to watch the sunrise outside of London and see the sunset when I reach Cambridgeshire,” James replied. “With any luck, I won’t have to stay at an inn overnight.” He shivered in disgust.

A housemaid appeared with the tea tray and went about pouring the tea while Charles watched her hands.

They were nothing like those of the nurse who had cared for him whilst he was in the field hospital. Her fingers had been longer, her nails, perfect ovals. He remembered the feel of them as she re-dressed his wound every day. As she washed his arms and his chest, and who knew what else when he was delirious from the pain.

Then there had been that one night.

He clearly remembered the feel of the nurse’s hand as she lifted the blanket that covered him and then lightly placed her palm on his chest. He recalled how he held his breath as she smoothed her hand down the front of his body before gingerly lifting his semi-hard member, a state it frequently attained whenever she was nearby.

Then she began stroking it. In the dark, with only a single candle lamp lit somewhere behind her, her blonde curls took on the appearance of a golden halo.

“Are you an angel?” he remembered asking, his breaths coming in short pants.

“Would an angel be allowed to do this, do you suppose?” she had asked in a breathy whisper, her attention never leaving his manhood as her hand worked its magic. At least his cock had lengthened and hardened at her touch. Given his constant pain, he hadn’t given it much consideration since the battle.

“I should hope so,” he remembered whispering. Her ministrations had any thoughts of pain dissipating instantly. He could only hope he wouldn’t embarrass himself.

Although he wished to prolong the experience as long as possible, she had been startled by a sound from somewhere off in the distance. Her hand reflexively tightened its hold on him, and he was lost to a sudden surge he hadn’t experienced in a very long time. It had taken every bit of strength to suppress a loud groan of pleasure. Every bit of strength not to reach out in an effort to pull her head down to his so he could kiss her bow lips.

“You are an angel,” he whispered before sleep threatened him. Before his state of euphoria dissipated and allowed the pain to once again take root.

He had said something else as well. Something he had never said to anyone but his mother. Something he never thought to say to anyone for the rest of his life.

Even now, his chest contracted when he recalled how his angel had stared at him in awe before he succumbed to a night of blissful sleep.

“How do you take your tea, sir?” the maid asked, apparently for the second time.

Charles gave a start, sure his face was red with embarrassment at being caught daydreaming. He realized immediately why she asked—he didn’t recognize her—which meant she was new to the household since his departure for the Continent the year before. “Milk and…” He almost asked for sugar but thought better of it. Sugar was probably one of the luxuries that had been sacrificed in the name of economy.

“We still have sugar,” James whispered, his gaze suggesting he had noticed Charles’s momentary pause.

“Sugar,” Charles said, relieved his arousal wasn’t evident to the maid.

She finished preparing his tea, curtsied, and took her leave of the study as Charles returned his attention to his brother. “New maid,” he commented.

“Crandall’s salary is a pittance compared to Miss Holden’s,” James replied. “Holden left to work in another house in Mayfair, and the housekeeper insisted she be allowed to hire a replacement.” He paused and angled his head. “Where were you just then?” he asked in a voice filled with concern. “While Crandall was filling your teacup?”

Charles hoped his cravat covered enough of his neck that his embarrassment wasn’t apparent. “In the field hospital,” he admitted.

James furrowed his brows. “I suppose you have nightmares?”

Shaking his head, Charles said, “Not so much. But then, I don’t sleep enough for them to manifest,” he added. “Now, what else do I need to do whilst you’re in Cambridge claiming Lady Stephanie? Besides collect on that debt?”

James continued to frown at him, but after a time, he resumed their conversation. “If you’re a good gambler, we could do with some winnings,” he suggested.

Charles shook his head. “I win as much as I lose.” His brows furrowed. “Well, except for when I’m arm wrestling. I seem to do quite well at that.”

Scoffing, James said, “I rather doubt there’s a gaming hell that will accept bets on arm wrestling.” He leaned back in his chair. “I can’t even imagine it.”

Despite James’s easy manner the rest of that afternoon and at dinner, Charles couldn’t shake the thought that he wasn’t looking forward to his trip to Cambridgeshire.

But then, what was there for him to look forward to if he was expecting to marry a woman whom he hadn’t even met?

As Charles climbed onto his bed in his cool bedchamber, an image of the nurse came to his mind, and he fell asleep dreaming of her.