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

Chapter One

The Lyon’s Den

London, England

August 1817

L ucas Lyon did not know how anybody could stand London in the summer months. The only thing worse than being in the midst of the sweltering heat and incredibly foul odors emanating off the Thames was to be in the midst of it while at the Lyon’s Den having morning tea with Bessie Dove-Lyon. By outward appearances she seemed harmless, but Bessie was no sweet, doting aunt. She was a distant family relation, also known as the Black Widow of Whitehall because of the infamous gaming hell she ran and its equally profitable side business of matchmaking.

Lucas smacked his hands on his thighs and rose, unwilling to be her next bachelor victim. “Well, Aunt Bessie. It has been a delight.”

“Must you leave so soon, dear boy? We have hardly had time to catch up.” She set down her cup of tea and cast him an all too genial smile.

He returned her smile with a wary one of his own, eager to escape the aptly named Lyon’s Den. “Alas, I must be on my way.”

It was not the heat making him sweat so much as the knowledge that Bessie was plotting to match him with some lovely young thing. He had purposely avoided visiting this gaming hell during his weeks in London, for the games played and wagers placed were not quite the ordinary ones to be found in most establishments of this sort.

Wagers of the heart were made here along with the usual games of faro, dice, and an old Persian card game gaining popularity called poque in England, or poker in the colonies.

He and his brothers Cheyne and Matthew excelled at these card games. Their minds seemed to retain details of what was dealt and discarded, and could often pick up “tells” on the faces of those playing at their table.

Card games were easy, but he sensed Bessie did not give a fiddle about them right now. She was about to involve him in one of those dangerous games of the heart. Why else invite him to call upon her just as he had concluded his London business and was about to leave town for his home in Edinburgh?

Not that he was averse to keeping company with lovely young things. Indeed, he had enjoyed the comforts provided by some of the loveliest ladies in London society during his stay. It was the matchmaking part that he was not so keen on, that ’til-death-do-us-part vow he was not yet ready to pledge.

But Bessie had a glow in her eyes that he did not like at all.

Hence his desire to be on his way. “I am truly sorry I canno’ stay longer. But Lord MacGlory is awaiting my report and expects me back in Edinburgh within the fortnight. I dare not delay the start of my journey. As it is, I will be traveling at breakneck pace to make it back in time.”

Her smile was beatific, putting him all the more on edge. “Of course, dear boy. I would not dream of delaying you. I fully understand your need for haste. Even the fastest mail coach takes ten days to complete the journey.”

“Aye, it does.”

“And I am sure you are eager to apprise Lord MacGlory of the successful conclusion of your business. He is your employer, after all, and most important to your continued rise in prominence.”

He rubbed a hand across the back of his nape, tensing as the door to her office slowly opened and a young woman popped her head in. “Your butler…um, valet…er, man told me I should come straight in. But I see you have company, Mrs. Dove-Lyon. I do apologize for interrupting you.” She started to back away. “I shall wait in the foyer.”

“No, lass…er, Miss…” Lucas shook his head, wondering what was wrong with his tongue suddenly. “Do come in. I was just leaving.”

“Leaving for Edinburgh?” A dozen expressions played upon her enchanting face.

“Aye,” he said with a nod.

Her eyes brightened, and she cast him a genuinely warm smile. “Oh, thank goodness. Are you my escort? I apologize for delaying you. My bags are all packed, and I believe your coachman is loading them into your carriage right now. I cannot thank you enough, Lord Lyon.”

His hand was still at the nape of his neck, and he was now rubbing it furiously. “Thank me for what? And why are yer bags being loaded into my carriage?”

Damn you, Bessie.

Aye, the girl was beautiful. But he still had no intention of taking her to Edinburgh or anywhere else with him.

It did not matter that she had a timeless, delicate loveliness, the sort captured in masterpiece paintings that would endure for centuries, he realized, unable to stop staring at her. She had a graceful face framed by dark hair and anchored by blue-gray eyes that reminded him of a Highlands sky. Not a cold, proud face but one made warm and approachable by the deep dimples in her cheeks when she smiled.

Her body was splendid and not to be believed. He would not call it voluptuous, nor was it too slender. It…she…was softly curved in all the right places and simply breathtaking.

But what did all of this matter? He was not going to escort this lass anywhere. “There must be some mistake.”

Her smile faltered. “Oh, I do beg your pardon. By Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s description, I assumed you were my Lord Lyon. Are you not Lucas Lyon?”

“That I am, lass. But I cannot possibly take ye with me. Surely ye understand that to be caught with me would ruin your reputation.” He turned to Bessie with a frown. “What is this about? Ye know I am on my way home as soon as I leave the Lyon’s Den.”

Bessie rose and walked to the young lady’s side to give her hand a comforting pat since she was still standing by the door and had not dared venture deeper into the office that was set up more like a lady’s receiving parlor than a place of business.

A line from an old story Lucas had once heard came into mind.

Come into my parlor said the spider to the fly.

It was he, not the lass, taking on the role of the fly.

He had no intention of being Bessie’s next victim.

“Lucas, you have done nothing but talk about your need to depart from the moment you arrived,” Bessie grumbled. “You are welcome to be on your way, although I do believe you are being quite rude to Beatrix. Nor do I think Lord MacGlory will be pleased by your behavior. It is not chivalrous of you at all.”

He shook his head, his gaze fixed on Beatrix because he simply could not stop staring at her. However, he addressed Bessie. “All right, come clean now, Aunt Bessie. This is a joke, right? Did my brothers put ye up to it?”

It was not the sort of thing they would ever do.

No, his brothers would never meddle in his personal affairs, even though they had been successfully matched by Bessie. Those matches had been inadvertent and unplanned since neither one of them had intended on giving up their bachelorhood, but they were both quite happily married now, Cheyne to his Jennifer and Matthew to his Danielle.

The lovely young thing by the name of Beatrix began to fret her luscious lower lip. “Did you not know about me?”

“No, lass. No one mentioned a word. I do believe the chivalrous thing for me to do is not to take ye where ye are going. I am no proper chaperone.”

She shook her head and laughed softly. “Dear me, I expect you would better be described as the fox guarding the henhouse. You would be a dreadful choice. Which is why my aunt is traveling with us to Edinburgh.”

“Yer aunt?”

She nodded. “And her dog.”

Bollocks.

“Excuse us a moment, Beatrix.” He drew Bessie aside, although even when whispering, he expected the girl could hear him.

Since he could not ask her to cover her ears, he sighed and turned the full force of his irritation on Bessie. “I am no’ marrying the girl, so ye can forget yer schemes and give her back whatever payment she advanced to ye for me.”

Beatrix gasped and crossed the room to approach him. “You think I bought you? As if I ever would! You are quite full of yourself, aren’t you? I am so sorry, Mrs. Dove-Lyon. You were ever so kind to me and extremely helpful. But this arrangement will not work. My father will have to wait a little longer for my return. Poor Aunt Harriet, this trip is already wearing on her nerves, and we have yet to get underway. I am confident we will find someone else to escort us. Someone less boorish. Mark my words, Lord Lyon. My father shall hear of your behavior.”

He glanced at Bessie, who had a smug smile on her face.

Her glee made him most uncomfortable.

What did she know that he did not?

“Beatrix, ye are a lovely lass, and I am sure we would have gotten on well. But dinna toss yer father at me as some sort of threat. First of all, I am a Scot, and not one of us cares if we anger some Sassenach lord. In fact, we like to make a sport of it.”

She tipped her chin up. “Is that so?”

“Aye, lass. Regretfully for ye, that is so.”

“If you detest the English so much, then why are you here?”

“I dinna detest them, but neither will I be intimidated by them. I came to London to conclude important business on behalf of Lord MacGlory. You may have heard of him. He is one of the most powerful and important men in Scotland. So is my brother, the Duke of Mar, for that matter. So dinna think to make me cringe at the thought of angering yer Sassenach father.”

“Who said my father was English?”

“Dinna pretend that he might be Scottish. And what of you? Ye haven’t a brogue. Yer accent is cultured English.” But he felt contrite for behaving brusquely with the lass. “I am sorry ye were caught up in Aunt Bessie’s matchmaking plot. It obviously leaves ye in difficulty having to make new plans.”

He reached into his breast pocket, took out his full money clip, and attempted to hand her some of his pound notes.

Her eyes began to blaze when she realized his purpose. “You are buying me off?”

“Beatrix…um, is it Miss or Lady? Ye canno’ travel with me. I hope this will help make yer trip, when ye do take it, more comfortable.”

She shoved the notes back at him. “My father will certainly hear of this!”

“Tossing his name at me again? And again, I tell ye, I dinna care who yer father is.”

Bessie cleared her throat. “Lucas, I think I have let you go on long enough. Be quiet now and behave yourself. You are taking Beatrix and her aunt with you to Edinburgh, and I will not hear another word of protest. Nor will her father.”

He rolled his eyes. “Him again? Unless he is a cousin of the royal family—”

“He is not,” Beatrix said.

“Then unless he is Lord MacGlory himself, this discussion is at an end.”

Beatrix tossed a questioning glance at Bessie, then turned to him with a triumphant smile.

Oh, hell. Hell. Hell.

It is not possible and cannot be.

“Delighted to be traveling with you, Lord Lyon.” The lass held out her dainty, gloved hand as though expecting him to bow over it. “I do not believe we have been properly introduced. I am Lady Beatrix MacGlory. Your Lord MacGlory, head of the Royal Bank of Scotland, and the man who can kick your arse from here to Edinburgh and back, is my father. Rest assured he will get an earful from me as soon as you deliver me to him.”

Lucas was rarely caught by surprise.

He stared at her.

She still had her hand held out.

Numbly, he bowed over it.

Why had he never heard of her?

Although her resemblance to Lady MacGlory was undeniable.

“As for shackling yourself to me,” Beatrix said in a huff, “the proper question to ask is, why would I ever want to shackle myself to a boor the likes of you?”