A Lyon for Luck (The Lyon’s Den: Connected World)

Prologue

Fletcher Quill, the only recently named Lord Aldwyn, stared at the solicitor for the longest moment.

Staring was the only response he could manage because he hadn’t the ability to form words.

The full impact of what had been relayed to him was simply beyond comprehension.

Finally, after the longest moment, when the silence had stretched to the point of discomfort, did he manage, “My apologies… could you repeat that please?”

“The estate—well, beyond the family seat which is entailed—is mortgaged, my lord, very heavily. Just to pay the interest in arrears that is owed would require no less than a thousand pounds… and the coffers are quite empty. Your uncle was a spendthrift, and he was also possessed of remarkably poor judgment when it came to investments and business partners. And, of course, there are the death taxes which must also be paid. Alas, he did not prepare well for his impending demise… and predicted as it had been by his physician, I cannot begin to imagine why.”

Because like everything else in his life, his uncle Lucien had chosen risk over security.

He’d wagered and lost but was no longer present to pay the marker.

Shaking his head, Fletcher stated in an almost bemused manner, “I’m impoverished now.

Fully. Before, I was simply poor, which I think may have been preferable.

I was an untitled gentleman with no land, no money, and no problems…

No prospects either, for which that wasn’t entirely without benefit.

But now I’m a titled gentleman, with no money, land that is taxed and mortgaged, and a list of debts longer than my arm,” Fletcher observed.

“Is there any asset that isn’t encumbered in some way? ”

The solicitor, lacking humor and an appreciation for the absurdity, nodded in agreement.

“That is quite the way of it, my lord. And to the second part, no. All additional properties aside from Avelynd Hall were mortgaged together as a parcel of properties rather than as single estates, I’m afraid.

In truth, most of them do not qualify as estates.

There’s the hunting lodge near Nottingham and then the townhouse in Bath.

There is Denhurst Abbey outside York, though it is in shambles truly.

The last report from the steward indicated that enough of the roof remained to render the property taxable but not inhabitable. ”

“Naturally,” Fletcher said, nonplussed. If there was one thing he could count on, his utter lack of luck was consistent.

The solicitor continued, “I am not unsympathetic to your plight, but I think perhaps the best thing to do is to get yourself a wealthy bride.”

Fletcher laughed. He couldn’t help it. “What woman in her right mind would marry a man who not only cannot support her but must have her support him? I have nothing to offer a woman beyond an estate that is on the verge of being confiscated by the Crown and a collection of heavily mortgaged properties that are apparently all but in ruins. Quite frankly, given the history of terrible luck that has been dogging my family for generations, any woman foolish enough to entangle herself in the mess I’ve inherited would only be fit for bedlam. ”

The solicitor sighed. “I understand your predicament, my lord. I do. And, again, I am not without sympathy. But your creditors will not wait. And if your assets are seized—at that point it will be too late. You can be impoverished and find a bride. You can be scandal ridden and find a bride. You cannot be impoverished, homeless, and scandal ridden and expect to find one.”

Fletcher was well aware of all that. Anyone who’d spent even a single evening amongst the gossip hungry ton was well aware of it.

“Where is this wealthy and desperate bride located, Mr. Thompson? If you tell me where to find her, then I shall go and do so immediately. Last I checked, heiresses are—by definition—rarely desperate. Nor are they precisely abundant in number,” Fletcher stated pointedly.

The solicitor was quiet for a moment, contemplative.

Then he pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed heavily before stating, “There is someone who can help. Someone who specializes in making just these types of matches… Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon. If you wish, I will consult with her on your behalf. I have no doubt that she can find a bride who will meet your particular requirements.”

“You mean my creditors’ requirements.” He had no requirements for a bride. He’d never even permitted himself to entertain the notion of taking one. After all, he had no means with which to support a wife and therefore any thoughts of ever having one had been pointless.

Thompson’s lips firmed in a hard grim line. “Just so, my lord. Just so.”

Fletcher was trapped. He knew it. They both knew it. “Arrange a meeting with this matchmaker of yours, then. As soon as possible—there’s little point in delaying the inevitable.”

The solicitor nodded. “A most wise decision, my lord. As it stands, I have a meeting scheduled with the woman this afternoon. We often… work together. You may join us as your situation is much too dire to delay. It is at three this afternoon. Arrive on time, my lord. Promptly. Mrs. Dove-Lyon frowns on tardiness. She is a very busy woman.”

Fletcher blinked at that, taken aback by the command in the small man’s voice. “By all means, Thompson, one should never offend the delicate sensibilities of a shrewd businesswoman who runs a notorious gaming hell. Delicate creature that she must be!”

With that, Thompson gave a curt nod, gathered his paperwork, and left.

Alone in his study, half the furniture still covered in holland cloths and everything coated in a heavy layer of dust, Fletcher drummed his fingertips on the inlaid top of the desk.

If he had more time, he could take himself to the tables and possibly earn enough money to keep the wolves from the door.

But there was no time. He had thirty days with which to bring the owed interest on the estate current.

The sum was positively astronomical. Predatory, even.

“What were you thinking, Uncle Lucien?” Even as he uttered the question aloud, he knew the answer.

His uncle hadn’t thought. Lucien Quill had made his way through life robbing Peter to pay Paul and being charming enough to be forgiven for it.

Fletcher did not have that charm. A matchmaker would be his only hope because if he had to woo an heiress on his own, he’d fail dramatically.

Perhaps even comically. Well, comically for everyone but himself.

“May she be as comely as she is wealthy,” he muttered, pouring himself a brandy. “But, God above, don’t let her be a termagant.”