Lyon in Disguise (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)

Prologue

Lord Navan Beaufort leaned back in his chair and stifled the sigh rushing to his lips.

He most assuredly had had better meals and better wine, though the fare at the Lyon’s Den was known to be fine cuisine, but he rarely knew better company.

This was his family—the only family, the ones who had well earned his loyalty.

His true family had been slaughtered when he was a young boy.

Only those at this table knew the depth of his despair with that event.

Those remaining in his actual family—those in Ireland—still bickered among themselves, but none of them any longer stood against him as the earl of the Beaufort lands in either Ireland or England.

Naturally, there had been a time when peace was both bought and sold at the drop of a coin.

When his uncle’s men had rampaged his father’s manor, Lord Domhnall Beaufort had instructed Navan’s mother to shove Navan behind a moveable wall, into an area large enough for one person and to close it before Ruxart Beaufort and his men overran the manor house Navan called home.

In the end, as part of his position with the Home Office, Lord Macdonald Duncan led a contingent of British soldiers to fight Ruxart’s efforts, but Duncan’s maneuvering had been too late to save Navan’s father and mother.

Duncan had gently removed Navan from his hiding place and led him from the house with instructions, “Do not look upon it, boy, for the image will never leave you. Just remember, first and foremost, your parents loved you enough to secure your life above their own, and, second, my wife and I will protect you until you may claim your father’s title and know such was his last wish. You will be the third of my sons.”

Lord Duncan had proven himself a man of his word, and, though Navan returned regularly to Ireland to keep the family estate fit and prosperous, Beaufort Court had never felt of home, not as did the house he had shared with the men sitting around this very table in the Lyon’s Den, one of London’s most famous gaming hells.

He owed each of these men his life. They had become his family—five once wayward boys and Lord Duncan’s only child, Lady Theodora.

Yet, guilt often plagued him for not being a better Irishman, having been, in his service to both the United Kingdom and to Duncan, often placed in a position where he had put Irish interests second to those of the British union.

“We will know a depth of emptiness, Hartley,” Lord Aaran Graham declared, “but I imagine Duncan will miss you most. It will take another decade before Duncan can say, ‘Where is…’ and your replacement will not only anticipate Duncan’s needs but also know where the requested paper can be found.”

“Hear, hear,” the others at the table said together as they raised their glasses to Hartley.

Hartley declared good-naturedly, “It is part of my master plan to rule the United Kingdom someday, for no one else will know in which file I hid the country’s secrets.”

“Do not say so with such conviction,” Orson ordered with a laugh, “or you might be visiting the Tower of London with a permanent room reserved just for you. Are you prepared for India’s heat?”

“Absolutely… not,” Hartley said with a grin.

“You still have three weeks before your departure,” Duncan said, “and much to accomplish before then.”

“Yes, sir,” Hartley responded while sitting straighter, and Beaufort found himself smiling. Each of his “brothers,” along with Navan, knew that gesture of sitting straighter when Duncan used a particular tone.

“But not tonight.” Navan had leaned forward to speak sotto voce. “Tonight, Hartley may choose one of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s ladies, if he likes. I will pay the necessary fees.”

Hartley spoke through his obvious embarrassment.

“I will choose my own bed tonight.” They all knew Hartley’s parents understood the young man’s unusual hours as part of Hartley’s service to his country, but they would never approve of their son lying with a paid partner.

Lord Robert Hartley was previously a vicar, a “Mr. Hartley” in a parish in Devon, but had recently been made baron with the unexpected passing of his elder brother, who had no sons.

However, the new baron still spoke as if he remained a vicar at heart.

In fact, Lord Hartley would never have provided his son permission even to dine at the Lyon’s Den. “Though I thank you for the offer.”

Duncan shook his head at their antics. “It is time we all call it an evening.”

Graham accepted the accounting set before them. “You do not need to pay for all of us,” Marksman said with a frown.

Graham claimed, “We may settle on Sunday at our weekly supper at Duncan Place.”

Orson questioned, “I thought you were on assignment on Sunday.”

“I know where each of you live,” Graham retorted in his customary understatement.

Knowing Graham would not budge, Navan and the others rose.

They all felt quite warm and mellow from the drink as they stood together and made their way across the gentlemen’s smoking room and the lounge towards the entry and exit designed specifically for men, only to be brought up short by the appearance of the Widow of Whitehall, herself.

“Good evening, my lords. I hope each of you enjoyed your evening,” she said as they politely bowed to the woman.

“Matchless,” Duncan declared. “Our Mr. Hartley has earned an important posting in the British embassy in India. Though we will be sore to lose him.”

“Did you each permit Mr. Hartley to win a few rounds so he might enjoy the pleasures of India?” the woman asked boldly.

Navan thought it amusing how he had already offered Hartley a taste of the flesh and been denied.

Thompson declared, “Hartley must have the ability to read through the back of each card, for he won more than he should.”

“Very good, Mr. Hartley,” the woman declared with what sounded of a smile, but it was impossible for any of them to tell, for she wore a black veil covering her face, reportedly in respect of her late husband, but, as the late Colonel Sandstrom Lyon was known to have left his wife smothered in debt, Navan questioned her true feelings for the man.

In Navan’s opinion, we all possess one face we present to society and another as our true self.

As an Irishman, Navan knew enough of so-called grieving widows and wailing widows and also of revenging widows. No matter how much a woman loved a man, the reality of surviving on nothing could leave a permanent bitter taste in one’s mouth.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon nodded a farewell to each of them, but asked to speak privately for a moment with Duncan.

“Perhaps a lady of the ton wishes a proposal from your lips,” Thompson said as he jovially slapped their adoptive father on the back. All present knew Mrs. Dove-Lyon was known to serve as a matchmaker for women of society.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon did not react to Thompson’s jest; however, Duncan predictably remarked, “Not likely. I have known my one great love.” Even so, Duncan nodded to each of them and excused them for the evening. “Claim your coaches. I will be close behind.”

Orson and Marksman walked off together, while Thompson agreed to ride with Graham and leave his coach behind for Duncan.

Navan instructed, “Come, Hartley, I will see you home safely.”

They were still talking over each other as they exited the Lyon’s Den together, bidding the Den’s manager Titan a good night.

Thompson laughingly called as they crossed the open area before the gaming hell, “Would it not be something if some woman wanted an arranged marriage with Duncan?”

“Soften all his hard lines,” Graham suggested.

Navan remembered the first time he laid eyes on Lady Elsbeth Duncan.

A Scot to her roots. For longer than he cared to admit, he had despised her, for she was not his own mother.

As the Duncans’ third son, he was expected to adore the woman as did both Richard Orson and Aaran Graham, but Navan did not, for the memory of his own mother’s sacrifice to save him seemed important to keep locked away in his heart.

Orson’s mother had essentially neglected him, while Graham’s had not only abandoned him, but maimed him.

They were easily replaced, but Navan’s mother had been perfect in every manner, and he could not so readily accept the loving attention that Lady Elsbeth Duncan offered.

It took him more than a year under the Duncan roof and more than a few encouragements from Orson and Graham to realize Lady Elsbeth and Duncan had never once attempted to replace Navan’s parents or any of the parents of the children brought to live with them.

They simply modeled what a family should be and permitted the five young men and their own daughter to view what the word family meant.

Navan would be forever grateful to Macdonald Duncan in that manner.

The others had all broken into laughter at Graham’s suggestion, and Navan claimed his part of the jest by saying, “Would he discipline her as he did us?”

Nearly bent over in foolishness and drunken laughter as they crossed the open area, when they reached the step down where they would cross to their waiting carriages on the opposing side of Cleveland Row, a large boxy-looking man walked purposely through their loosely knit circle.

“What the devil!” Marksman growled as the man bumped the young earl’s shoulder.

As a group, they had turned to stare with derision at the man, who wore a long, dark wool coat that nearly reached his boots. Not dressed as a gentleman, Navan thought. Countrified to the roots of his hair. But Beaufort did not vocalize his opinion.

Thompson growled, “Who the hell does he think he is? A bloody duke or a prince?”

Incensed by his friends’ similar anger, Navan declared, “Needs his arse kicked, and I may be the man to do it.”

He started off after the rude man, but Thompson caught his arm. Though they all knew great umbrage, Thompson urged, “Just drunk. You know how a man deep in his cups attempts to walk straight. Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s man Titan will settle what is what.”

They all turned for another look at the stranger who dared to offend them. At that very moment, Duncan stepped from the club and raised his hand to catch their attention. “Wa…!”

Unbelievably, Duncan did not finish his command, for a gunshot rang out in the night’s stillness. A flock of ravens took to the air as the sound ricocheted within the spaces between the buildings along the street.

Though they were all cognizant that the strange man was running away, tossing aside his gloves and hat, for a handful of heartbeats, none of them moved. The tableau of watching Lord Macdonald Duncan collapse onto the bricks before the gaming hell held them stock-still.

Navan was the first to respond. “Hartley, with me!” he called as he darted off after the shooter, around the left side of the building and in the direction of the garden and kitchen.

Duncan’s assailant had proven he was not drunk as they first had expected, for the man was adept on his feet and was making his way to the back of the building before any of them had responded.

Dragging his gun from his inside pocket, as he chased the man, Navan’s mind kept reciting, “Duncan cannot die! Duncan cannot die! Not this way!”

When Navan reached the back of the building, he pulled up quickly, as Marksman appeared on the other side of the Lyon’s Den.

He was not surprised to view the young earl, but Marksman’s sudden appearance had brought Navan’s step to a quick halt.

Both he and Alexander were out of breath and frustrated as hell. “Where did he go?” Navan called.

Hartley, who knelt beside Navan, ordered, “I am going back to check the garden. Beaufort, follow the path to the adjoining streets. Marksman, see if the man went inside.”

Unfortunately, the crowds from inside began to pour out of the Den from every exit, which were numerous, as this building had at one time been a residence. Despair arrived quickly, for every empty pathway was now filled with hundreds of suspects.

“Look anyway,” Marksman ordered in what sounded of desperation. “Look in niches and behind every bush and door!”

Navan knew his friend was correct, but his mind kept announcing that their search would prove fruitless.

All Duncan’s attacker had to do was to remove his coat and blend in with the others escaping the chaos.

Only when Marksman growled, “Duncan cannot die! You and Graham and Orson all promised Lady Elsbeth that you would protect him!” did Navan again take up his search with a vow to view Duncan’s shooter hanging from a noose for the man’s audacity.

As he raced away, Navan said a prayer for God to spare Lord Macdonald Duncan, for, though they were all trained agents for the Crown and under Duncan’s tutelage, they were merely the body, while Duncan was the head and heart of the family.

As odd as it was in concept, but as successful as it had proved, a body cannot continue to exist without its head.