Lyon on the Loose (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)

Chapter One

London

The carriage clattered to a halt at the road junction, then rocked alarmingly as someone yanked the door open and flung themselves into the interior.

The Honorable Roland Chetwynd automatically reached for his lion-headed cane, a gift from Mrs. Dove-Lyon, with which to defend himself.

Too late. There was an ominous cracking sound as the unwelcome intruder lost their balance and collapsed onto his lap.

An interesting twist to an already disastrous day; his carriage was now full of rain-drenched young female, and his new walking cane had been snapped in two.

He also now had mud on his trousers whilst a trail of water dripped enthusiastically from the woman’s bonnet onto the toes of his carefully polished Hessians.

His coachman, apparently unaware of the new arrival, set the carriage lumbering off once more. Speechless, Roland glared at the damp young lady as she seated herself opposite him and shook the rain from her hooded cloak.

“I’m most awfully sorry, sir, but I was in dire need and your coach stopped in the street at just the right moment. I promise you needn’t take me far—I only need to travel a few blocks to make sure he can’t find me.”

Usually of a sunny disposition, Roland found himself feeling particularly ungentlemanly today.

He was currently boasting a black eye following a set-to with his old enemy Henry Sutton.

He’d also discovered that there was a book set up against him at White’s, a further blow to his rickety self-esteem.

Rescuing bold young ladies from unwanted suitors—or whomever—was not what he had in mind right now.

A few games of cards, a harmless wager or two, and a very decent Canary wine awaited him at the Lyon’s Den gambling club, and he had every intention of making his way straight there.

He had no desire to become entangled in somebody else’s affairs—the last time he’d come to the aid of a damsel in distress, it had not gone well.

The young woman was subjecting him to a sober perusal, and he wondered what he must look like to her, dressed to the nines, his jacket tailored as tightly as Beau Brummel’s, his unruly blond hair well-suited to the windswept style, and a swelling eye.

Part of him wanted to inform the young lady at once that he hadn’t been the loser in the battle with Sutton, and that he had every intention of evening the score, but why should he care what she thought of him?

This was his carriage, his ghastly day .

. . and she wasn’t likely to make it any better.

When she pushed her water-blackened hair back from her face, he noticed a pair of intelligent blue eyes peering out from an elfin face with a determined chin. “Oh, I am desolated,” she exclaimed. “I’ve broken your beautiful cane.”

“Never mind that. Coachman!” He rapped on the roof of the carriage with what remained of the lion-headed cane. “Halt!”

The woman glanced fearfully through the window and pulled her cloak tightly about her neck. “Please, no, sir! He’ll see me if you set me down now. Please—can we not just go a few more blocks? I cannot allow him to catch me.”

Roland raised an eyebrow as the coach slowed. “Who exactly is this ‘he’ you’re so eager to avoid?” Not that he was interested, but she owed him an explanation, didn’t she?

“I’d rather not tell you. I noticed the Earl of Aylsham’s coat of arms on your vehicle. Is that you? The reputation of your family is such, my lord, that I knew I would be safe with you.”

Roland snorted. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Miss . . .?”

Her eyes darted away from him. “It would be better if you didn’t know who I am. I find myself in difficult circumstances, and I’m sure you understand how delicate a young lady’s reputation can be, and how valuable.”

A damsel in distress? A reputation at stake?

All very intriguing. The old Roland Chetwynd would have doffed his hat and taken the fleeing young lady wherever she wanted to go, no questions asked.

The new Roland Chetwynd, however, was trying to make something more of himself and had, to that end, become something of a spy.

He had found it useful to make it his business to know what was afoot in London.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon, proprietor of the Lyon’s Den, and a renowned matchmaker to the upper echelons of the ton, had become his patroness.

He had felt almost useful. Until today’s misfortunes . . .

“If you don’t tell me your name, I shall eject you this instant.” He did his best to look fierce, and the young woman blanched.

“Very well. But you must promise not to set me down yet.”

Roland didn’t see why he should have to bargain with somebody who had invaded his territory in so dramatic and damaging a fashion, but there was a hint of stubbornness about her dainty chin. He tapped the roof of the carriage to indicate they should continue on their way, then inclined his head.

“They call me Lissy.”

He waited. “Is that all?”

“That’s all I’m prepared to reveal for now, sir. Don’t forget that you are a gentleman and I am a lady, and we have not been introduced. There are rules, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

He laughed openly at this. “You don’t strike me as a person averse to breaking rules. I think we’ve passed the point of formality, since you have already been in my lap and are currently sitting unchaperoned in my private conveyance.”

She tilted her chin at him. “Perhaps I was wrong in suggesting that you’re a gentleman. Just because there is a coat of arms on the door does not mean knightly behavior can be expected within.”

Roland lifted an eyebrow. The damp damsel in distress was rapidly becoming a combatant, and curiously enough, he had no objection to a bloodless battle. It matched his mood, the chill air, and the smoky London skies perfectly.

“You may not have realized it, but I am not the Earl of Aylsham—I’m his younger brother.

I may not be as exemplary as he, but I consider myself deserving of a similarly untarnished reputation.

” His voice caught on the word reputation, thinking back to the bet he’d uncovered at White’s.

Some wag—he had yet to find out who—had laid down five guineas that the Honorable Roland Chetwynd would never make a respectable marriage, and if he were to wed at all, it would be to avoid a scandal.

Those who felt this wager was a good idea apparently included some of his friends, who would no doubt assert that they thought it a fine joke.

But rather than take anyone to task about it, he’d vowed to prove them wrong.

He was still young enough to marry well—after a proper courtship—and lead a stainless life.

It stung that Society should already think of him as a lost cause.

“I wonder what is said of your reputation, Miss Lissy Whoever-you-are.”

“Well, at least my reputation does not precede me, since you can’t identify me from my Christian name. How refreshing it is not to have one’s name on the tongues of the tittle-tattles, or the wastrels who frequent the sort of gentleman’s club with which you must be familiar.”

Aha! A direct attack! But why should he pay any attention to her opinion of gentlemen’s clubs? She was far too young and fresh looking to have ever seen the inside of one, let alone associate with the members.

“A wastrel? Me?” That might have been true a few weeks ago, but he had hoped that the ton was now prepared to reevaluate the Hon. Mr. Roland Chetwynd.

He held her gaze. “I resent that assertion. Don’t judge every fellow you meet by those with whom you are already acquainted. I include the unwanted suitor who pursued you through the Metropolis and made you invade my privacy.”

Her cheeks reddened charmingly. “How dare you assume that I’m running away from a suitor! My business is far more important. Do you really think that unwanted attentions are the greatest fear of every young lady? You can hardly call yourself a man of the world if you believe that.”

Lissy Whoever-she-might-be was evidently a bold young person who held strong opinions. Not a fashionable or a marriageable trait, which she ought to be aware of. Nonetheless, it was refreshing to cross swords with such a woman.

“Trust me—I know exactly what problems and difficulties assail young females currently. I’m very closely associated with some admirable women who have survived adversity.

They could knock a chit like you into a cocked hat.

Now, stop trying to insult me and tell me where to set you down.

I’m not in the mood to be harangued any further. ”

“I apologize. Perhaps I could exclude you from my view of Pinks of the ton, since I don’t know you personally. But everyone has a reputation, do they not?”

He leaned forward. What had she heard about him? Did London Society in general have the same view as the members of White’s? Did nobody expect him to amount to anything?

He pressed his fingers against the splintered top of his cane as it came to him that they probably didn’t expect him to amount to much.

Even though he’d recently found gainful employment to supplement the allowance from his older brother, nobody knew about it.

Nobody could know about it. When one was carrying out espionage on behalf of London’s premier matchmaker, Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon, it was best to keep it quiet.

“I shall neither defend nor deny my reputation. Instead, I shall assert that you must be new to Town, since I’ve never seen you before.

You have clearly not yet learned what sort of behavior is acceptable for young ladies and what is not.

Consider yourself fortunate that you threw yourself into my carriage and not that of some ne’er-do-well who wouldn’t think twice about taking advantage of you. ” He speared her with a glance.

She met his gaze unblinkingly. “Had you been one of those sorts of rogue, I would have leaped out of the coach and looked for another one.”

“How simple you make it all sound.” There was something charming about her na?veté, but it was irritating, too.

He had more important things to do than enlighten foolish young women in the ways of the world and the mores of Society.

He had to work out how he was going to avenge himself against Sutton and stop the fellow from revealing secrets that could damage the entire Chetwynd family.

He’d have to give the matter serious thought as soon as he’d won his argument with Miss Lissy Whoever-she-was.

“I wonder why you dislike gentlemen’s gambling establishments so much.”

“As I understand it, the gentlemen engage in dares and attempt to either undermine or impress one another. It sounds terribly childish, even if there are prizes to be won. Gambling is no way to make a living, because every penny a gambler earns is one that somebody else has lost. My brothers don’t gamble. Mama has been far too strict.”

The woman’s cheeks flushed again, and she glanced through the carriage window.

She could not have seen anything to alarm her, for she turned her attention back to Roland and continued, “The best way to make money is by hard work, utilizing one’s skills.

The inheritance of money and titles turns men into fops and fools who care about nothing but their own selfish desires.

Except for my brothers, of course. But no, I’m being uncharitable. Gentlemen do care about one thing.”

He held his breath in anticipation.

“They care about ‘ensuring the succession.’ They’re more than willing to bring up litters of selfish brats in their own image.”

What had inspired such a dim view of the English upper classes in this pretty young female?

“Ah!” He pressed his fingers together. Of course—she was describing the gentleman from whom she was escaping! An unwelcome suitor because all he wanted was a wife and heirs. Such a fellow would be missing a great deal if he didn’t appreciate Lissy’s character or enjoy her outspokenness.

Dash it—he was starting to feel sympathy for the woman. This would not do at all. He had important business to attend to, a gentleman’s business.

“Novel as it is to listen to your sweeping, unfounded opinions, we must part company. The Lyon’s Den awaits, which—before you lecture me again—is not at all what you deem it to be.

Well, it is a bit, but not all the time.

Anyway, some of the most powerful men—and occasionally women—in the land frequent the place, and I feel no guilt whatsoever at stepping through its portals. ”

Miss Lissy-of-the-pert-opinions snapped her mouth shut and her eyes, like bright-blue sapphires, bored into his. He stared back, unmoved, and waited until she had torn her gaze from his to the window.

“Very well. You can tell your coachman to stop now. I can find my way home from here.”

Roland immediately did so, grateful to continue his journey without further disruption.

He did not help Lissy down; he did not wish her well; he did not offer to call upon her in the future to see how she fared.

He just watched her a moment as she scurried off down an alley like a demented mouse, pulling her hood up over her sodden bonnet, looking neither left nor right.

With a sigh, he ordered the coachman to continue on for the last few blocks before Cleveland Row.

The encounter with Lissy had exhausted him; he felt as if he’d just been attacked by a small, maddeningly buzzy fly.

Oh, well. It was all part of life’s rich pattern.

He could, perhaps, have been a little better behaved, although he wasn’t certain she deserved it.

What he was sure of, however, was that he would make inquiries after her and then make sure to avoid her at all costs.

And if he were to find out which Unfortunate it was who had lost their head over her and was in pursuit of her hand in marriage, he’d be forced to act.

He would take said fellow aside and tell him in no uncertain terms that he’d be making a very foolish mistake if he were to wed such a termagant as she.