The Lyon’s Pretty Pugilist (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)

Prologue

Nicolas Wentworth, the heir to the Shiredale Earldom, placed his journal on his nightstand and extinguished his bedside candle.

Folding his hands behind his head, he lay back against the pillow and stared into the dark as the whistling wind beat on the walls of his family’s four-hundred-year-old home.

Pinging droplets bombarded the roof and branches scraped against the windows, the strident cacophony akin to malcontent animals clawing their way through stone and timber.

A flash from the lightning shot through the room, illuminating a gilded portrait of one of Nicolas’s long-dead ancestors. Seconds later, thunder echoed.

Nicolas sighed, anticipating yet another sleepless night.

It was impossible to relax while this violent storm unleashed its fury on the countryside.

Obsessing over his brother George’s tragic death a few months prior didn’t help matters.

Another dead ancestor to be framed in gold.

And then there was Nicolas’s porcelain-smashing tempest of an ex-fiancée.

Damn her to hell for ending their betrothal days after his sibling’s death and adding to his restlessness.

Three successive raps on Nicolas’s chamber door startled him.

Jolting upright, he chuckled as he reminded himself that his jumpiness was unwarranted.

It was probably one of his terrified staff seeking comfort.

Mrs. Simmons and her dashed story about the first Earl of Shiredale’s ghost roaming the estate had the entire household on edge.

Although who could blame the poor woman since their once majestic family seat had deteriorated around them, fueling the gothic stories?

Nicolas crawled out from beneath his warm blankets to open the door. Light from the butler’s lamp cast shadows over the man’s already sharp features, elongating his nose and chin. “Forgive me for waking you, sir,” Perkins said. “But her ladyship is requesting your presence in the drawing room.”

Doing his best to focus, Nicolas rubbed his tired eyes. “In the middle of the night?”

“This time, Mrs. Simmons saw the specter outside the kitchen window. She awoke the countess. Her ladyship was quite distraught and awoke his lordship. Your father has joined everyone in the drawing room, although he…” Perkins clamped his lips together.

Nicolas’s father was probably stewed and utterly useless. He pinched his nose, trying to keep the pounding in his brain from becoming a full-blown megrim. “Please tell my parents I will be down in a moment.”

“Yes, sir. I apologize again.”

Perkins marched away, leaving Nicolas staring into the black corridor.

If he was to get even an hour or two of sleep, he needed to deal with this nonsense here and now.

Grumbling, he backed into his chamber and navigated the darkness to his nightstand.

Feeling around, he eventually found the flint box.

Taking his time, he struck the steel against the flint until a spark landed on the char cloth.

He blew until a tiny flame ignited. Moments later, the beeswax candle emitted enough light for him to check his timepiece, one of the few precious possessions he had left.

Unfortunately, morning would be here too soon.

Picking up his pace, he shoved his feet into boots and slid into his greatcoat.

“Perfect. The future Earl of Shiredale is as mad as his forefathers,” he growled to the portrait of his great-great-great-grandfather. “Caught roaming his estate in his nightclothes like all five before him.”

Exhaling in frustration, Nicolas grabbed the candle and then traversed the unlit corridors.

No wonder their staff was terrified. The house had become much too dank and gloomy.

Due to his family’s dwindling wealth, they no longer burned the hallway sconces at night.

Even Nicolas, who prided himself on his common sense, imagined all sorts of horrors hiding in the dark corners.

Nicolas entered the drawing room and winced.

The smell of whale oil hung heavy because someone had lit a half dozen lamps.

All of this illumination cost them money they no longer had.

Was he the only one who noticed or cared?

He snuffed his candle, saving a pittance.

But as he often told his family, “It all adds up.”

His mother lay on the settee, her forearm across her eyes, her other hand wildly fluttering her fan.

His father sat in a wingback, drink in hand, his gaze as haunted as their house was rumored to be.

Mrs. Simmons, two chambermaids, a footman, Cook, and Perkins surrounded them, their expectant gazes glued to Nicolas.

“I swear to the good Lord above, Mr. Nicolas, I just saw him again.” Shivering, Mrs. Simmons wrapped her arms around her torso. “He was at the kitchen window lookin’ in at me. He had wild eyes and sharp teeth. And I think there were more ghosts behind him.”

“Maybe an army of undead comin’ to kill us all,” Cook said.

Moaning as if even the effort of moving was more than she could bear, Nicolas’s mother sat up. “And my husband refuses to do anything about it.”

His father brought his drink to his mouth and gulped.

Damnations, Nicolas missed George. Not only was he a good brother, but he had also handled their parents with such ease, it was as if he was a puppeteer and their parents, marionettes.

Unfortunately, three months earlier, George had over-imbibed and met his end in a tragic riding accident, leaving Nicolas the heir.

Meanwhile, their father, who had spent the past few years in a pathetic state of unproductiveness, took the final leap, succumbing to the familial madness of drink and melancholy.

Since then, large sums of money, jewels, and silver had disappeared.

Even the London townhouse had been sold off.

After Nicolas received his never-serious sister’s very serious missive, and despite his ex-fiancée’s insults about his desire to take care of his family, he’d immediately booked passage home.

Even now, months later, he could recall the heartbreaking message word for word.

Nicolas,

I am crying as I pen this letter, because our dear brother passed away after tumbling from his horse.

Mother and Father have fallen into a state of melancholy.

Father has not stopped imbibing, no surprise there since he has been over-indulging for years.

Please, please come home. I need you more than ever.

Your loving sister,

Bridget

Nicolas rubbed his temple. “Mrs. Simmons, what were you doing in the kitchen in the middle of the night?”

Her eyes widened, and then she wailed. “I couldn’t sleep with all the thunder and lightning. And then I got hungry, I did. I ain’t in trouble, am I?”

“No.” Nicolas shook his head. “I was simply worried you were working when you should be sleeping.” He had no desire to distress the head housekeeper.

Although she had a fanciful imagination, she was a good woman.

It wasn’t her fault Blue Cliff Manor had fallen into a state of disrepair.

She was under tremendous stress running the household with the small staff of six that remained.

“I am sure that what you saw was simply a shadow from the lightning,” Nicolas said. “The wind is also howling, which can be quite frightening.”

“I know a ghost when I see a ghost,” Mrs. Simmons said as the rest of the staff nodded their agreement.

“Another ghost sighting?” Clad in her white dressing gown and looking a wraith herself, Bridget entered the drawing room. “Why did no one wake me for the midnight fête?”

“Bridget, this is no laughing matter,” their mother said.

Bridget placed her candle on the side table. Nicolas fought the desire to blow it out, as the words “waste not, want not” nudged at him.

Sitting beside their mother, she wrapped an arm around her. “Of course not, Mother. Forgive me.” Bridget sent Nicolas a pleading look.

Nicolas cleared his throat. “Mrs. Simmons, mayhap ’twas a hungry fox peeking in at you.”

“Or an angry spirit,” Cook said, unhelpfully. An angry spirit was potentially more frightening than a ghost, after all.

His silent father downed another gulp.

Bridget held up a finger. “Mayhap it’s Great-Great-Great Grandfather, angry about the state of our decaying estate.”

“Indeed.” His mother glared at his father.

Although he massaged his forehead, the megrim still hit Nicolas with the force of a barreling cannonball. Even squinting didn’t ease the pain. If only they still had a groundskeeper.

“I will explore the grounds,” Nicolas said.

“You are not going out there alone.” His mother pointed her fan at his father. “George, go with him.”

With an expression void of emotion, his father stared into his glass.

“No, Father, please remain here and keep everyone calm,” Nicolas said.

Firstly, the notion of his father helping in any way was laughable. Secondly, the last thing he wanted was their foxed patriarch stumbling about the estate, falling over a rock, and breaking a leg. Or worse. They certainly didn’t need another angry spirit added to the mix.

“Silas, will you please accompany me so her ladyship doesn’t fret?” Nicolas asked.

Blanching, Silas, their lone footman, murmured a timid, “Yes, sir.”

It seemed that Mrs. Simmon’s fanciful tales had even disturbed the young man.

Unless Silas had paled because he didn’t want to tramp through the mud, searching for a phantom that didn’t exist. Not that Nicolas blamed him in the least. But if he was ever to get sleep—or attempt to—he needed to placate both his family and their staff and prove once and for all that there were no spirits peeking in the windows.

Nicolas motioned for Silas to follow him. “Grab one of the lamps.”

“Sir?” Mrs. Simmons gasped. “What if the ghost kills you and eats your brains?”