The Dandy Lyon: The Lyon's Den Connected World
Chapter One
London
Late April 1820
T he murky London streets exuded an air of dank unpleasantness, much like the scene Marcus Dandridge anticipated as his carriage rolled swiftly toward St. Giles and the Copper Penny, the first gaming hell he’d opened ten years before. The Penny had made him a fortune during that time, but it had always been the roughest of his gambling concerns, so Marcus had scarcely raised an eyebrow when Mack, the Penny’s manager, had sent him a cryptic message, penned in a frantic hand: Bartlow’s back . Upon reading it, Marcus had sighed and called for his carriage.
Over the years, Hiram Bartlow’s frequent gaming sessions at the Penny had always been fraught with loud arguments, accusations of cheating, and almost always some sort of physical altercation. Marcus had tolerated the man despite the disruptions simply because his pockets were deep and his skill at gambling slight. The fact that Bartlow was a bruiser—over six feet tall and built like a bull—had made for some rough evenings for the hell’s staff and patrons alike. As the fights had become more frequent and violent—and Marcus’s wealth had become great enough that he could afford it—last year he’d finally banned Mr. Bartlow from entering the establishment. Twice since then he’d had reports of Bartlow’s attempted entry, but the beefy blokes who guarded the door had been successful in turning him away. Tonight, Marcus assumed, they had failed at their assignment. Another matter he’d have to deal with once Bartlow had been dispatched.
Turning the corner into Earlham Street, the carriage slowed as it came toward the Copper Penny, and for good reason. A crowd of onlookers milling about had spilled into the street, blocking the horse-drawn traffic. All seemed to be craning their necks, peering at the entrance to the alley that led to his gambling den. Faintly, Marcus could hear shouts and curses echoing along the street, even through the walls of his conveyance. With a shake of his head, he rapped on the trap. “Stop here, Fitch. We can’t get closer.”
The carriage stopped abruptly. With a growl, Marcus climbed out, slammed the door, and strode quickly toward the gathered masses. His annoyance must have been apparent on his face, for the eager crowd took one look at him and parted as if he were Moses crossing the Red Sea. Voices dropped to a hushed murmur as he passed, hurrying across the worn cobblestones, around the corner and down the dark alleyway. As he approached, the sounds of a monumental fight became apparent even before he came upon Joe Henson, one of the guards usually posted outside the den, huddled on the cobbles outside the Penny clutching his head, a trickle of something dark and thick oozing through his fingers.
“Explain.” Marcus stood over the wounded man, glaring down at him. Henson had been a good enough cove until now, but being caught out like this couldn’t happen if the Penny were to be run at a profit.
“Bartlow came up to me and Sim, like he’s done a time or two before, so we squared up to tell him to shove off.” Henson tried to stand, almost got his legs underneath him, then they skittered outward and he slipped down to sit on the pavement once more with a groan.
“And?”
“He pulled a length of lead pipe on me. Near about bashed me brains in.” Henson winced as he moved his hand for Marcus to see the ugly gash, large enough to be visible even in the poor light. “Sim tried to settle him, but the clinker floored him and pushed his way in. I dunno what’s happened since.”
“Where’s Sim?” Marcus had his hand on the door handle, ready to enter the fray that now sounded like an all-out brawl but needed to know if his other guard had fled the scene or not.
“Picked himself up and went in after him.”
Good. At least he might be able to retain one of the addlepates tonight. Without another word, Marcus pushed the door open and waded into what could only be described as hell on earth.
The Copper Penny, formerly a tavern called the Cock’s Crow, looked and sounded like a battleground from the late Napoleonic wars. Her main room, where four hazard tables filled the area that used to house trestle tables and stools, now lay in shambles, the gaming tables flipped on their sides, legs broken here and there, one dangling by a sliver of wood. The bar, previously stocked with all manner of pint glasses and pitchers, now lay littered with piles of glass shards where presumably Mr. Bartlow had wielded his lead pipe once more. The bar itself had a series of holes bashed in it, as if the man had been practicing his golf swing.
In the moments it took for Marcus to gauge the depth of the destruction of his property, the ongoing brawl between Bartlow, the patrons, and the staff had escalated, wreaking havoc with what was left of the gambling den. Bartlow stood in the middle of the floor, swinging his pipe viciously at anyone who tried to approach him.
“Get back, the lot o’ ya,” he yelled, wielding his weapon like a medieval broadsword. An unwary patron inched too close and took a blow to his shoulder. The man reeled back, shrieking.
Damn, but he needed to put an end to this now. Marcus stared at the burly man who hadn’t seen him yet. Slowly, he crept forward until he was poised to tackle Bartlow, when someone from the back yelled, “Watch out!”
Bartlow whipped around, raising his pipe as he turned, and would have brought it down on Marcus’s head, likely killing him. But years of street brawls had taught Marcus well. He lunged forward, taking Bartlow out at the knees. The man flew backward, his pipe dislodged from his hand was flung into the crowd, landing a meaty thwack on someone. Immediately, Marcus was up on his feet, standing over the dazed Bartlow. Without thought, Marcus planted him a facer with such force the man’s nose cracked and blood flew. Bartlow, now out cold, lay sprawled amidst the shambles of what had been one of Marcus’s more lucrative enterprises. Marcus afforded him a vicious kick, and heard ribs break. A very satisfying sound.
“Sim, call the constable. Have him cart Bartlow to the jail. Tell him I will appear tomorrow to swear out a warrant for the destruction of my property.” Marcus shook his hand, which ached from that last blow.
“Yes, sir.” Sim looked Marcus in the eyes. “Bartlow don’t got no money to speak of now. Heard tell he lost what he had gaming at Hell’s Bells. You won’t get tuppence from him, Mr. Dandridge.”
“We’ll see about that.” The man had always been flush when he’d come to the Penny to game. If there was blunt somewhere— coin, belongings, property—Marcus would be sure to take every penny he could find. “What set him off, Sim?”
The guard shrugged. “Search me. He come up to the door and Henson and me could tell he was in his cups. We tried ta wave him off, but he fetched Joe a right blow that broke his head, then tossed me out of the way and just barged into the Penny like he owned it, Mr. Dandridge.” Sim shook his head. “Didn’t say why he were angry, he just was.”
“Very well. Run get the watch and constable. It may take all three to carry the blighter to jail.” Marcus stepped away from the supine body, resisting the urge to kick Bartlow once more. This night was going to cost him a pretty penny, but hopefully the tale of the brawl would travel with tomorrow’s earliest on-dits and drum up a bit of sympathy for him, or at least for the Penny. He’d call in the carpenters he kept on hand tomorrow to get this mess cleaned up and rebuild the Copper Penny better than before. “See to it, Sim.”
The lanky man hurried away, pushing past the crowd that was peering in the door.
“Show’s over,” Marcus growled and the onlookers melted away. Rubbing his knuckles, he continued out the door to the waiting carriage and told the coachman to return him to the Dandy. If the carpenters were quick about it, the Penny should be able to reopen day after tomorrow. It wouldn’t be pretty, but the gaming hell’s clientele wasn’t looking for spotless tablecloths or great masterpieces on the walls. As long as there were walls, and tables for the patrons to sit at, he’d be fine.
The carriage deposited him back at the Dandy, where he retired to his office and poured himself a drink. Easing down into his tall-backed leather chair, Marcus blew out a breath of relief, then sipped the excellent cognac, savoring the smooth taste and the initial burn that traced its familiar path to his stomach. His first sip ever had been stolen from an unattended glass as he’d waited for his employer—the former owner of the Copper Penny in fact—to send him off on an errand. He’d been thirteen, eager to experience everything the rich coves did because he’d been determined even then to become one of them. That first drink had earned him a cuff across the cheek, but it had also spurred him on with the promise to himself one day to be able to buy all the cognac, and anything else, he wanted. Marcus eyed the glass in his hand and swirled the honey-colored spirits around and around. He’d achieved that goal, to have anything he desired, with the exception of just one thing.
A tap on the door and Snipe, the butler, entered. “Lord Hamilton would like a word with you, Mr. Dandridge.”
“Show him in.” Marcus pulled himself upright in his chair and downed the rest of the cognac.
Lord Hamilton entered, a tall, imposing gentleman, considered the epitome of an aristocratic gentleman by the ton . A titled man with a perfect family, pillar of Polite Society, respected voice in the House of Lords—and in debt to Marcus for almost five thousand pounds due to a particularly bad run of luck at the hazard tables a couple of weeks ago. A few discrete inquiries had revealed Hamilton didn’t have the ready money to pay the debt and was in the process of selling one of his matched pairs of cattle to help raise the sum. A situation Marcus had found interesting in the extreme. He’d made a request of the earl earlier this week and hoped against hope the answer he sought was at hand. “Good evening, Dandridge.”
“It’s hardly been that, but the prospects may be looking up.” Marcus caught the older man’s puzzled gaze and shrugged. “You have news for me?”
“I do.” Lord Hamilton pulled a small cream-colored card from his inside coat pocket. “I had a devil of a time convincing my wife to issue this without telling her the real reason.” He sighed and extended the card toward Marcus. “In the end I told her it was a favor for Lord Somersby which, knowing his reputation, explained it tolerably well.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Marcus took the card, holding it reverently as though it was the Holy Grail. “I am in your debt.”
“As long as I am out of yours, Dandridge.”
Marcus chuckled and opened the desk drawer. Carefully, he stowed the card in a safe corner while at the same time withdrawing a piece of paper with the letters IOU scrawled across it and Lord Hamilton’s signature. “There you go, my lord.” He handed the earl the equivalent of five thousand pounds and deemed it money well spent.
“Much obliged, Dandridge.” Hamilton tucked the paper into that same inside pocket, bowed and turned for the door. “I suppose I’ll see you next week.”
“I am very much looking forward to it, my lord.” The earl left and Marcus took the card out of the drawer, rubbing his finger along the edge, careful not to smudge the pristine invitation that read “Mr. Marcus Dandridge is requested to attend the ball at Lord Hamilton’s Townhouse on Friday, 5th of May current, at 8:00pm.”
Oh, yes. If this invitation ended up procuring for Marcus the last thing his heart desired, it would have been money very well spent.