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

Chapter Twenty-Six

A Match Made from an Arm

Later that night…

The Lyon’s Den, Cleveland Row, Westminster

T itan regarded the growing crowd on the gaming floor of the Lyon’s Den and allowed a grin of satisfaction. A small wooden table had been moved to the center of the room, and chairs were positioned on either side. The overhead gas chandelier had been lowered to illuminate the middle of the table, which left the surrounding gaming areas darker than usual. Until the night’s featured match was to start, the chairs would remain empty and the table, unmanned.

Meanwhile, gamblers were enjoying the other offerings at the Lyon’s Den. The dealers, all men—well, except for one young woman who passed herself off as a man by wearing a half-face mask—were overseeing their games of chance. Faro, whist, and vingt-et-un required deft-handed card dealers, while the dice games of hazard and queek required keen eyes and quick hands to prevent cheating.

Once the dinner hour passed, the number of players on the floor increased. Normally ensconced at the front door to act as a dunner, Titan welcomed the opportunity to act as the arbiter of that night’s featured match—arm wrestling.

He flexed his hand, wincing at the thought that at one time, he had been a master at the sport, and not because his arms were particularly muscular. He had won his matches with quick wits. As soon as possible after the arbiter cried, “Ready…go,” Titan would change his initial grip on his opponent’s hand by employing a top roll of his wrist, applying pressure on the other’s fingers. Once their hand opened, Titan gained the leverage to take down their arm and pin their wrist to the table.

A few wins were usually enough to cover his expenses for an evening. A few more, and he’d have enough blunt to last a week or more. In the army, the stakes weren’t as high—a soldier’s pay didn’t allow for it—but it was an entertaining way to spend an otherwise boring night.

“Who do I see about the arm-wrestling match?” a young man asked in a thick Scottish brogue.

Titan regarded the red-headed, freckle-faced Scot for a moment before he said, “The buy-in is five-thousand pounds.”

The man pulled a thick pouch from his waistcoat, and he arched a brow. “That’s what the proprietress told me this morn’. Right here. Name’s Keefe.”

Glancing up at the gallery overhead, Titan spotted his employer gazing down on the gaming floor. He gave a wave to attract her attention and then pointed to the Scot. She nodded and then disappeared from the railing.

“The proprietress will be with you in a moment,” Titan said.

“Well, I’ve arrived.”

Titan turned at the sound of the familiar voice. Supported on a pair of crutches, Captain Charles Audley stood with a shorter man, who Titan immediately recognized. “O’Riley?” he asked in disbelief.

“Aye. Good to see you again,” the valet replied, careful not to call the man by a name he might no longer be using. “I’m the captain’s second,” he added before he shook Titan’s good hand. “Who’s holding the purses tonight?”

“I’ll take that,” Bessie replied, snatching the leather pouch from the valet. She grinned when she saw Captain Audley staring up at the gallery.

Or rather at Miss Sinclair.

The young woman, who had arrived only a quarter-hour earlier, had looked as if she might be sick. Her face had been pale, her features pinched. Now she was the picture of health, her expression one of relief and adoration.

Mrs. Sinclair, who stood to Amy’s right, appeared worried.

Bessie turned her attention back to Captain Audley. “There is still one more contestant who hasn’t yet arrived, but we’ll begin promptly at nine o’clock. I shouldn’t want tonight’s match to interfere with the other games overmuch.”

“Of course not,” Charles replied, wincing at the thought that the woman he wanted as his wife might end up with someone else. Somewhere else. “I suppose arm wrestling isn’t a lucrative sport at a gaming hell.”

Bessie gave a shrug. “I suppose we’ll find out.”

Charles did a double-take. “Why did you choose it?”

Giving him a quelling glance, Bessie said, “ You chose the means by which you’ll either gain or lose Miss Sinclair’s hand,” she replied.

About to argue, Charles was prevented from responding when a bald-headed, beefy brute of a man stepped up and gave a wad of banknotes to Mrs. Dove-Lyon. “Sorry for being late, ma’am,” he said. “Egeus didn’t believe me when I said I was here for the girl.”

Bessie glanced up before she accepted the blunt. “Well, don’t let it happen again, Lord Robert, or I shan’t let you participate in the future.”

“Won’t need to,” Lord Robert replied. “I intend to win this one.”

“That’s what you said last week,” the proprietress replied before she turned and gave a nod to Titan.

The final competitor arrived and paid his fee, which made four in total.

Finally, Titan returned Bessie’s nod and held up his arms. His attention went up to the gallery. “Ladies,” he called out before lowering his gaze to those who stood around him. “And gentlemen. Our evening’s premiere event is about to begin.” He pulled several sticks from his pocket and held them in his good hand. “Contestants, draw your straws,” he ordered.

Charles reached over and snagged one. He was quickly followed by the Scot and the other two. Charles’s straw was short.

So was the one held by the Scot.

“Short straws go first, long straws second. The winner of each round will compete for the girl.”

The overall noise in the gaming hell suddenly died down, and several gamblers left their games of chance to watch the proceedings. Purses appeared from waistcoat pockets as two of the dealers collected bets.

“Our first match will feature Captain Charles Audley and Laird William Keefe,” Titan called out. “Gentleman, take your seats and square up your shoulders,” he added. “Feet on the floor. At least one of them must remain flat on the floor, or you will be disqualified.”

“Laird?” Charles asked as Keefe took the chair farthest from the entrance. He had wanted that position—he didn’t like having his back to the door—but he was prevented from moving quickly enough given his crutches.

“Aye,” the Scott replied. “Got lands just north of the border. Thought to take me an English wife.”

Charles blinked. “How do you know Miss Sinclair?”

Keefe shook his head. “I don’t. But I want a wife, and I thought the daughter of a military man would suit me.”

“Let the cripple win!” one of those in the gallery called out.

Wincing, Charles settled into his chair and placed his good foot flat on the floor. He set his elbow on the table, his hand up and ready to grasp Keefe’s.

The heat from the chandelier, only a couple of feet above them, seemed to swallow up the available air.

“Square up your shoulders, gentlemen,” Titan instructed.

The Scott frowned. “Wait,” he said, sliding forward on his chair. He grunted and then looked down. “This is a rather high chair,” he commented, his short stature apparently causing him to have difficulty with placing a foot on the floor. He finally nodded to Titan and then gripped Charles’s proffered hand.

“Ready… go !” Titan yelled.

Charles immediately hooked his wrist over Keefe’s hand, forcing the Scot’s wrist to bend backward at an awkward angle. Only a second later, the laird’s fist was on the table.

A round of cheers went up throughout the room accompanied by a few sounds of disgruntlement. Banknotes were exchanged, coins clanked, and Charles shook Keefe’s hand. “No hard feelings, I hope.” He glanced up at the gallery and nodded when he caught Amy’s gaze.

“Our next match features…” Titan consulted the paper Mrs. Dove-Lyon had given him. “William Smith and Lord Robert.” He directed a look of anger at William Smith, realizing almost immediately the man had provided an alias—he did not appear a man from England.

Murmurs increased around the table as bets were placed, and the two men took their seats.

Smith, far taller than Lord Robert but leaner, had removed his topcoat and rolled up his sleeves to reveal long arms and long fingers. Lord Robert, on the other hand, displayed forearms that appeared as if he had been working in his duke-for-a-brother’s fields. There was nothing about him that suggested he was a member of the aristocracy.

Titan reminded the two men of the rules, glanced down at their feet, and then called out, “Ready…go!”

Although Smith’s long arms might have given him a slight advantage—he could more easily roll his wrist or hook it over Lord Robert’s—his opponent employed his strength to simply keep his arm upright no matter the position of his wrist.

The two stared at each other as the crowd began shouting. The arms went first one way and then the other. More money was exchanged as the noise increased in the gaming hell. Beads of sweat broke out on Lord Robert’s head while a grimace slowly developed on Smith’s face, contorting his otherwise elegant features.

Watching from the side, Titan made sure to glance beneath the table to ensure the men had at least one foot on the floor. When Lord Robert’s elbow lifted from the table, Titan called, “Foul!” and the two men turned to stare at him.

“What?”

“Elbows must remain on the table,” Titan stated. “In the pocket.”

The two repositioned their elbows and Titan called out, “Ready…go!”

This time, Smith’s hook had Lord Robert’s wrist at an extreme disadvantage, and his arm went down hard. Lord Robert yelled in pain, his wrist apparently suffering a sprain.

A round of boos erupted from those who watched when Titan pointed to Smith as the winner.

“He cheated,” Lord Robert argued, his good hand holding his sprained wrist.

“Unfortunately, he did not,” Titan said in a quiet voice. “I would have preferred you to have won,” he added before his gaze found Charles. The captain was removing his uniform coat and handing it to his valet.

A flurry of bets were taken or paid off, and the noise increased as Charles and Smith took seats at the table. This time, Charles managed to grab the chair that faced east, and he quickly rolled up his sleeves before he glanced up to the gallery.

Amy wasn’t at the railing. Neither was her mother, which had him wondering if the excitement was too much for them.

Nonsense , he thought. Amy had a spine of steel. Fortitude. She would be worried, but not so frightened she couldn’t watch.

It was then he heard shouts. A woman’s voice yelling quite loudly somewhere upstairs.

Mrs. Sinclair. What would she have to be upset about? Him possibly winning, or did the stranger Smith make her unhappy?

Charles sent a beseeching glance in Titan’s direction, but the arbiter had his attention on their feet. Placing his elbow on the table, Charles held up his hand and waited until Titan gave them the nod to grip hands.

Wincing at seeing the length of Smith’s forearms compared to his own, Charles realized he couldn’t employ a hook and probably not even a roll to overcome the other’s wrist. He might have to use brute strength to keep his own wrist straight.

Before he had a chance to consider what would be best, Titan called, “Ready…” He paused and glanced back down at the floor, pointing to one of the dealers to come forward. “Watch their feet,” he ordered.

The dealer nodded and moved to the other side of the table before he bent down.

“Go!” Titan yelled.

Caught off-guard, Smith didn’t have a chance to employ a hook as he had with Lord Robert. Charles had sensed Titan was on his side and was determined to make the best of it.

Despite the other’s longer fingers, Charles managed to keep his grip firm, his fingers digging in lest Smith attempted to roll his wrist back.

Charles was oblivious to the roar of the crowd. To the rivulets of sweat that dripped down his temple. To the odors of cologne and musk and desperation that permeated the gaming hell. He ignored the pain in his lower leg, in the foot he kept firmly planted on the floor. In his elbow as it seemed to dig a hole in the wooden tabletop.

His only thought was of Amy. Of what might happen to her if Smith prevailed. Of what their life would be like should he win.

She would be his wife. A nurse. The mother of his children.

The thought of a son—his son by way of an angel—seemed to infuse him with a strength he had never felt before. Empowered, his forearm veins bulging with his effort, his arm had that of Smith’s bending backward to a round of shouts and jeers. Smith countered, but Charles kept the pressure on until finally, slowly, his opponent’s wrist was nearly to the table.

Cursing in a language Charles didn’t recognize, Smith must have lifted his foot from the floor in an effort to gain an advantage, for the dealer watching their feet called out something.

His attention momentarily diverted, Smith struggled to regain control, but Charles took advantage and slammed his wrist onto the table.

The ear-splitting roar that filled the gaming hell had Charles giving a start. Having held his breath for the last few seconds, he gulped in stale air and then took another breath. He had been deaf to the sounds around him until the moment that Titan cried, “Winner!” and lifted his spent arm.

All he wanted to do was to wrap that arm around Amy’s waist. Pull her against him and kiss her senseless. Propose marriage.

Struggling to come to his feet without the help of his crutches, Charles looked up to the gallery and grinned when he found Amy’s face among the line of women paying witness to that night’s spectacle. A smile lit up her lovely face.

O’Riley was suddenly at his side, holding his crutches and his uniform coat. “Congratulations, Captain,” he said as he held the coat open.

Charles absently pushed his arms into the sleeves and allowed the valet to finish pulling it on and buttoning it as Charles saw to his crutches. “Thank you, O’Riley.”

Several gamblers patted his shoulders, wads of banknotes clutched in their hands. They moved off to the various gaming tables, resuming their dice and card games. Meanwhile, the table and chairs were removed, and the chandelier was lifted by its pulley to its regular position above the gaming floor.

Determined to get to Amy, Charles headed toward the stairs. His path was impeded, though, when Mrs. Dove-Lyon appeared in front of him.

“Congratulations, Captain Audley,” she said as she held out a leather pouch. O’Riley reached over and took it.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“You did far better than your brother,” she commented as she crossed her arms beneath her ample bosom.

Charles furrowed a brow. “Oh?”

“He was eliminated in the first round when he attempted to win a wife about a month ago.”

His eyes rounding, Charles asked, “Was there a one-thousand-pound buy-in?”

She seemed uncomfortable a moment before she replied, “Yes, but we had over a dozen competing that night for a dowry worth forty-thousand pounds.”

“You provided him the stake,” Charles said, realizing why his brother owed the Lyon’s Den a thousand pounds.

“Which I have taken from your winnings. You can take up the debt with your brother since he’s apparently set for life.” She allowed her gaze to sweep over the gamblers who had lost interest in the winner and were back to playing dice and cards. “It seems arm wrestling is a far more compelling sport than I thought,” she admitted.

“The house did well tonight, then?” Charles asked, deciding he couldn’t be too angry with the matchmaker.

“Indeed. And it seems I might owe you my life,” she added before Amy appeared behind her, breathless from her descent down the stairs.

“Amy,” Charles said, barely able to get the word out before she ran to him. He gave up his hold on his crutches to embrace her. A round of applause erupted from those nearest to them as O’Riley struggled to catch the crutches.

“I knew you would win,” Amy whispered, her lips close to his ear.

“You were crying,” Charles accused with a grin, pulling away when he realized they were being watched by several gamblers and by Mrs. Dove-Lyon. “Let’s get out of here. I’ve something to show you.”

“Charles,” Amy scolded softly, her face reddening with embarrassment.

“Oh, not that,” he whispered hoarsely. “My townhouse. Where we’re going to live.”

“You have one?”

“Indeed. In Park Lane, and…well, and now some blunt, too,” he replied, indicating the pouch O’Riley held.

“What’s this about Park Lane?” Mrs. Sinclair asked when she joined them. Major Culkins was still several steps behind her, shouldering his way through the crowd.

Amy immediately stepped away from Charles.

“Mrs. Sinclair,” Charles said by way of acknowledging her arrival. “I am honored you’re allowing me to take Miss Sinclair as my wife.”

Caught off-guard by the comment, Mrs. Sinclair appeared as if she was about to say something when the major stepped up and offered a hand. “Congratulations, Audley. I think it best you see your betrothed home. This is no place for a young woman.”

Sensing the major was doing him a favor—and giving him the sort of permission only a father usually did—Charles asked, “Will you see to it Mrs. Sinclair makes it home safely, sir?”

“Of course,” Culkins replied, one of his hands already gripping that of the widow’s to lead her toward the stairs.

Although Mrs. Sinclair looked as if she wanted to say something unpleasant, she was prevented from doing so when she was whisked away.

“Let’s get you two out of here.”

The words were spoken by Titan, who had joined them in an attempt to disperse the crowd. “I shouldn’t want you robbed before you make it out the door.”

“Much appreciated,” Charles replied. He turned to Amy. “Do you have a wrap of some sort?”

One of the employees stepped up, holding out her redingote and hat. Charles nodded his thanks and helped Amy into the coat. Moving to the edge of the staircase, he descended as quickly as his leg would allow, and a moment later, Titan had them at the rented coach.

“Thank you,” Charles said as he offered his hand.

“You’re welcome, Captain. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I do hope I never see you here again.”

Charles chuckled. “I’ll stay as far away as possible.”

With O’Riley’s help, Amy stepped into the coach, and soon, Charles and O’Riley followed.

“What were you saying about a townhouse in Park Lane?” Amy asked once the town coach was in motion.

Sitting next to Amy, Charles wrapped an arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. “You’ll see it for yourself very soon.”