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

Chapter Eight

Discussing the State of an Earldom

Meanwhile, at #32 Oxford Street, London

A ndrew Barton, Esq., regarded his caller with narrowed eyes before he noticed the limp and the cane.

“I have one just like that,” the solicitor said as he lifted his silver-topped cane from where it rested against his cluttered desk. “It appears you earned the right to use one as well.”

“‘Earned’ is a good word for it,” Charles agreed, glad he had elected to use a cane rather than the crutch when making his way into the solicitor’s office.

He had been concerned about first impressions and now realized he didn’t need to be. The solicitor was by no means high and mighty. “It will never be right,” he added, referring to his leg. He inhaled as if he was girding his loins for what was to occur in the solicitor’s office. “My name is Charles Audley. I’m here about the Leicester earldom.”

“Have we met before?” Barton asked as he moved to stand with the help of his cane.

Charles furrowed a brow. “Not that I recall. My apologies for not having sent word ahead of my intent to pay a call.”

“It’s not a problem. Have a seat while I pull the file. What is this regarding?”

Charles winced at the thought of what he had planned. Although James hadn’t been specific about what he expected Charles to do in his absence, Charles knew he had to take drastic steps—a marriage to Lady Stephanie wouldn’t be saving the earldom from financial ruin if she was marrying someone else. “My brother has tasked me with seeing to the earldom’s solvency,” he stated.

“Well, if it’s any consolation, there are others who are worse off.” He leaned down and opened a drawer in a wooden file cabinet.

“My father never would have allowed the earldom to go into debt,” Charles claimed. “He worked too hard to bring it back from the brink when he inherited.”

“Well, gamblers do tend to skip a generation,” Barton murmured, pulling a pasteboard folder from the drawer.

“I beg your pardon?” Charles asked, alarm skittering down his spine.

Barton returned to his desk and carefully lowered himself into his worn leather chair. “The fourth earl left a string of vowels all over London. The fifth earl—your father—saw to putting everything to rights. Now the sixth earl—your brother—seems intent on undoing all that, although…not all of it is his doing. The poor weather has contributed more to the debts of the aristocracy this past year than bad wagering.”

“He’s gambling?” Charles asked, anger rising so quickly, he realized he had to take a breath and settle back in his chair or take out his anger on the poor solicitor.

He knew how to quell the anger quickly. He simply had to think of his nurse in the field hospital. Think of her halo of blonde curls and her sunny smile and her gentle words of encouragement. Within seconds, his pounding heart would slow, and his breathing would return to normal.

“Leicester has taken some risks when it comes to investments,” Barton stated as he pulled a sheet of parchment from the folio. “Not all of them have failed, and a couple of them may still pay out after another five or ten years—”

“Five or ten years?” Charles repeated. If the debt continued to grow, the earldom might not exist in five or ten years. The crown would take it back.

“In the meantime, he’s managed to run up a bill at the Lyon’s Den,” Barton said as he handed over an invoice for nearly one thousand pounds.

Charles blinked. “The Lyon’s Den? But… I was just there this morning. To collect on a debt owed to my father,” he murmured. “Mrs. Dove-Lyon didn’t say anything about this.”

“Perhaps she did not remember your brother’s debt,” Barton suggested, but his furrowed brows said otherwise.

About to agree, Charles suddenly moaned. “I rather doubt it. Mrs. Dove-Lyon seems far too sharp to forget—or forgive—anything.”

The solicitor chuckled as he paged through the papers contained in the folio. “Or she conveniently forgot because she has plans for either you or your brother to be a groom.”

Charles’s eyes rounded. “Whatever do you mean?”

Barton leaned back in his chair and shrugged. “She’s a matchmaker as well as a gambling den owner. Her matchmaking clients are usually women. Women of questionable repute or young ladies who have been ruined. But they’re rich, and they want a title or…or the means to rise in Society.”

“Do the men know all this?” Charles asked, once again alarmed.

“Oh, yes. But a man in debt will do whatever he must for blunt. Marrying a woman who merely wants a title is usually the easiest way back to solvency for a poor aristocrat, and sometimes a man will discover he rather likes his new wife. Maybe even falls in love with her.”

Charles stared at the solicitor a moment before he sighed. Had James attempted to land a wife using Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s services? Or had he wagered nearly one thousand pounds in a game of chance? Charles was about to ask if the solicitor knew when Barton continued his explanation of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s business.

“Unfortunately, there are always more poor men than there are rich women in need of a husband, so Mrs. Dove-Lyon has invented unusual games to help determine the outcome,” Barton explained. “I do believe she fixes the games so she achieves the outcome she’s after when it comes to matches, but…” He shook his head. “I cannot be sure.”

“And you think this why?”

Andrew Barton shifted in his chair. “Landed my wife by way of the Lyon’s Den some ten years ago,” he said in a quiet voice. “I’m not ashamed of it, either. Rather glad, actually, given I ended up with a gem for a wife.”

Charles felt a good deal of satisfaction at having guessed the solicitor was one of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s victims. “What did you have to do?”

“I played faro.”

Charles gave a start. “Is that all?”

“I had to play standing upright until all the others either quit or fell asleep on their feet.”

“What? How long was that?” Charles asked.

“Sixteen hours,” Barton replied proudly. “Most of my opponents—there were a dozen to start with—weren’t used to standing for more than a couple of hours at a time. I’d been doing it for most of my life, which is why I’m forced to use a cane now,” Barton explained. “So, I ended up flush with blunt to buy this office and the one next door, and with a young lady who turned out to be a wonderful wife and mother, God rest her soul. She gave me a son who will one day inherit this office.”

Charles stared at the solicitor a moment before he blinked. “Mayhap my brother participated in such a game,” he guessed.

“But didn’t win,” Barton murmured.

Giving his head a shake, Charles said, “He’s on his way to Cambridge. To the Marquess of Huntsford’s country house. He left this morning intending to ask for a lady’s hand, but I’ve since discovered she’s already accepted another’s suit. It’s far too late to send a courier to chase after him. He’s halfway there by now.”

Barton nodded his understanding. “Perhaps there will be a younger sister or another young lady associated with the family whom he can marry,” he suggested. “Unless he had his heart set on Lady Stephanie in particular.”

Charles couldn’t imagine his brother feeling affection for any young woman, but then he hadn’t been around James for over a year. “I’m not sure.” He took a deep breath. “In the meantime, are there any unentailed properties that might be available to sell? A townhouse, or a country manor, or a cottage on a cliff? Some sheep, mayhap?”

Barton paged through the papers in the folio until he reached the very last one. “Ah, yes. It seems you inherited a townhouse. About a year ago.”

“Me?”

“Who is Miss Adeline Audley to you?” Barton asked as he pulled a parchment from the folio.

Charles blinked. “She is my great aunt—”

“ Was your great aunt,” Barton corrected him. “She died last year. Bequeathed a townhouse, its staff, and furnishings to you along with some money for the upkeep and staff salaries. Instructions were such that your brother wasn’t to be told.” He looked up and angled his head. “Apparently, she thought your brother would try to sell it.”

Concern had Charles wondering what his brother had been doing while he was on the Continent. “So, James has sold the other unentailed properties?”

“Oh, your father did that a long time ago, I’m afraid,” Barton said. “But Leicester did stop by once to ask if there were any he could sell.”

Not surprised by the comment—he knew his father’s thriftiness had saved the earldom—Charles now wondered if he should do the same. “I can’t recall ever paying a call on Aunt Adeline at her house, although I think it had to do with my father’s disdain for his father’s recklessness when it came to the earldom,” he explained. “I met Aunt Adeline many times, of course. At soirées and such.” He had thought her a bit on the eccentric side, but she had always seemed pleased to see him. “I suppose I could sell the townhouse,” Charles murmured.

“If you want my advice, don’t. It’s in Mayfair. Very near the park.”

“But why ever not?”

The solicitor clasped his hands together. “If something should happen to your brother before he sires a son, you’ll be the new earl. You’ll be glad to have a property such as this. You can move to Mayfair and earn some blunt for the earldom by letting the house in Westminster. Or, if your brother does marry, you might choose to live there. It won’t cost you anything to do so. Your aunt saw to that.”

Shaking his head, Charles said, “I had better not inherit the earldom.” He indicated his cane. “I have no intention of subjecting some poor woman to marriage with a cripple,” he claimed.

Barton settled back in his chair and inhaled slowly. “From your lips to Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s ears,” he murmured as a grin touched his lips.

“I said the same thing to her,” Charles claimed.

This time, Barton chuckled. He handed the deed for the townhouse to Charles. “The Crown isn’t going to take the Leicester earldom—or anyone’s for that matter—anytime soon,” Barton commented. “And as I said, there are others far worse off. Go. Take a tour of the place, and if you should still wish to sell, just know that ready blunt is hard for most to come by these days. You’d be better off holding onto it.”

Charles nodded as he took the deed and then studied the address. “This is in Park Lane,” he said, astonishment in his voice.

“Which is why I recommend you keep it,” Barton replied. “Were you expecting it would be in South Audley Street?” he teased.

For the first time that day, Charles grinned. “Something like that,” he admitted. He had once asked his father if South Audley Street had been named for them. That’s when he learned it had been in existence for over a hundred years, its moniker taken from one Hugh Audley, a very distant relative. “I appreciate your time,” Charles said as he rose to his feet.

“Glad you stopped by. Saved me from having to contact you about the house,” Barton said.

Charles considered the comment. “Is there a reason you didn’t send a letter?”

For a moment, Barton grimaced. “As I said, your great aunt’s instructions were quite clear. Had I sent a letter to Leicester House, it’s possible the earl would have opened it.” He left the rest of his reasoning unspoken.

“I understand,” Charles acknowledged. He was about to take his leave when the solicitor held up a finger.

“Were you acquainted with Colonel Sinclair? Elias Sinclair?”

Charles blinked. “I was. I was with his regiment when I was nearly hit by a cannonball,” he replied, indicating his leg.

“I’ve just learned from his batman that his funeral will be tomorrow at his country estate. Havenhurst, in Kent,” Barton said.

“Funeral?” Charles repeated. “He died ?” The last time he had seen the colonel, Sinclair had been raising a sword and ordering his troops into battle against the French.

No, that wasn’t right.

He’d seen the colonel in the field hospital, checking on his troops.

Barton nodded. “He took an awful fever after the war was won. His batman has seen to returning his body to England. I handle his estate and thought you should know.”

Charles nodded. “Thank you. You say his funeral is tomorrow?”

“Indeed. I can provide directions should you wish to attend.”

Considering his brother would be in Cambridge for at least another day or two, Charles decided he could take the time for a quick trip to Kent. “I would appreciate that, sir.”

Barton dipped a quill into an inkpot and scrawled a set of directions on a parchment. “I’m not sure how many even know of his passing,” he said as he handed over the paper. He had added a crude map below the instructions.

“Has there been a mention of it in the London Times ?” Charles asked.

Barton shrugged. “I take The Morning Chronicle ,” he replied. “But there’s been nothing in there,” he added with a hint of disappointment.

“Hmph,” Charles said. “I’m quite sure he had a wife.”

“Perhaps you can represent his regiment,” Barton suggested. “And then move into your townhouse.”

“I plan to,” Charles replied, deciding then and there he would make the trip to Havenhurst. As for moving into the townhouse, he would eventually take a tour. “Good day, sir.”

He took his leave of the solicitor’s office feeling lighter than he had in the past year.