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

Prologue

Lord Aaran Graham chuckled at his brothers’ antics.

Even though they were all in their twenties, when they were together they reverted to being the same competitive youths they had been since they were untested boys under the care of Lord Macdonald Duncan.

Each of them had come to live with Duncan when they were still wet-eared youths—when they were young boys in danger of losing their lives and the right to their earldoms. They had all been fortunate, with him being the most grateful of them all.

For his “brothers,” there was never a doubt of Orson’s, Thompson’s, Beaufort’s, or Marksman’s rights to their respective earldoms. However, Aaran’s rights were “created” by Lord Duncan, and Aaran had paid every day for his audacity in claiming such a rich and prominent earldom, which in Scotland also meant he was the head of one of the septs of the Graham clan, just as was Duncan of his clan, though neither of them spoke much of their status within their communities, at least, not while in England and serving in the United Kingdom’s Parliament.

Aaran’s history with Duncan was assuredly a checkered one.

Aaran’s actual mother had come from a family of gentlemen farmers, what was called the “gentry” in England, not of the nature of a tenant farmer eking out a living on a path of land actually owned by a lord or master.

Miss Bellton’s family had at one time found its roots in Leicestershire in places like Belton, the name coming from the Old English meaning “bel” for “beautiful” and “tūn” for “enclosure of land.” Duncan often said the “bel” referred to dry ground or marsh.

The Belltons were definitely not of the status of the Grahams, whose name was engraved in Scottish history.

Realizing his brothers and Duncan intended to stand, for it was time to call an end to their celebration, Aaran took another sip of his drink before shaking off the memories of his mother’s betrayal.

It seemed to him that he would never be free of her abandonment.

It never seemed to leave him, even when he should be sharing memories with those who did wish for him in their lives.

With a quick shrug of his shoulders, he declared, “We will know a depth of emptiness, Hartley, 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 know where the paper can be found. ”

“Hear, hear,” the others at the table said together as they raised their glasses in a final salute to Justin Hartley’s service.

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,” Richard Orson, the eldest of Duncan’s sons said with a laugh, “or you might be visiting the Tower of London with a permanent room just for you.”

Duncan warned in his customary seriousness, “You still have three weeks before your departure and much to accomplish before then.”

“Yes, sir,” Hartley responded as he sat straighter. Aaran smiled widely, as did his brothers. They all recognized that gesture, for when Duncan used a particular tone, even the Prime Minister sat straighter.

The camaraderie continued and the teasing increased while they all stood to depart. Graham quickly reached to sign the accounting over the protests of his brothers. “We may settle on Sunday at our weekly supper,” he told them.

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

“I know where each of you live,” Graham retorted good-naturedly.

He was a wealthy man. Only God knew why He had blessed Aaran with what many called the Midas touch, but Aaran was known to invest widely and reap the profits.

Theoretically, he could probably name the woman he wished to marry, but he did not want the current London beauty, but rather a woman who would love him for more than his wealth.

He wanted a woman who would not be ashamed of a man whose steps were hampered by a twisted leg or who brandished a scar upon his cheek.

She should love him, even if he was not perfect. Love him for his heart, not his wealth.

As a group, they crossed the Lyon’s Den’s dining room, making their way past the gentlemen’s smoking room towards the exit, 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 politely as they bowed.

Aaran was never one to gamble or to seek out an encounter with a woman for the evening.

He had also never kept a mistress. He had wanted what Duncan and Lady Elsbeth modeled for their family—not necessarily a perfect family, but one whose hearts were open to love and forgiveness.

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

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

Benjamin Thompson was the first to respond, purposely denying the fact they had all agreed beforehand to permit Hartley to win enough so he could afford more comfortable quarters when Duncan’s aide reached India.

“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 said with what sounded of a smile, as she nodded to each of them from behind the veil she wore in respect for her late husband. She turned to Duncan. “If you have a moment, Lord Duncan, could we speak briefly?”

Benjamin jovially said, “Perhaps a lady of the ton wishes a proposal from your lips.”

Duncan responded before any of them could add their own quips, “Not likely,” His Lordship declared, emphasizing both words. “I have known my one great love.” He presented each of them a warning nod not to keep teasing him. “Claim your coaches. I will be close behind.”

Orson and Marksman walked off together, chatting about the weather in the northern shires where they both resided. Benjamin suggested to Duncan, “As my coach is smaller than Graham’s, I will leave it for you.” To him, Thompson asked, “Do you mind seeing me to Cheapside, Graham?”

“Not at all,” Aaran assured. He enjoyed Benjamin’s company. Thompson always had a different perspective on a variety of subjects.

As they left the gaming hell, they were still talking over each other. “Good evening, Titan,” Thompson said as he and Aaran walked out together.

“Good evening, my lords,” Titan responded with a smile.

Aaran did not know the Lyon’s Den’s manager well, but he had always respected the man who had made a bold choice when he returned to England by making his own way in the world.

There were rumors the man known as Titan held his own aristocratic title, but no one knew the fact of the matter with any confidence.

Thompson explained to the man, “I am leaving my carriage for Lord Duncan, who is speaking with your mistress. It is further along Cleveland Row. Might you have someone see His Lordship safely to the coach?”

“Absolutely, my lord. We often provide such services,” Titan assured.

Aaran warned, “Duncan will not approve of your caution.”

“I am too old for him to take a switch to my legs,” Thompson retorted with a silly grin.

“Lady Elsbeth’s silence when she disapproved,” Aaran said softly in remembrance, “was always worse than any punishment Duncan could conceive.”

Ahead of them, the others were talking over each other as they crossed the open space before the gaming hell. Benjamin hurried to catch up when the group paused, and Aaran had to hustle with his uneven lope rather than to be left behind.

Thompson asked as they all drew together again, “Would it not be something if some woman wanted an arranged marriage with Duncan?”

“Soften all his hard lines,” Aaran suggested as he came to a standstill with the others.

Beaufort teased, “Would he discipline her as he did us?”

They all had had enough drinks to be a bit foolish, laughing when things were not truly so amusing, finally pausing when they came alongside where the walkway and bricked entrance to the Lyon’s Den met so they might say their final farewells before crossing to their waiting carriages.

It was then that a tall boxy-built man stepped up on the curb and strode purposely through the middle of their loosely formed circle.

Not around them, but directly between Beaufort and Hartley, and the stranger even bumped Marksman’s shoulder as he walked steadily towards the Lyon’s Den’s entrance, ignoring where Thompson and Aaran had come to stand together.

Marksman growled in protest. “What the devil!”

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

Incensed by the stranger’s audacity, Beaufort’s shoulders shifted as if preparing for battle, and he declared, “Needs his arse kicked, and I may be the man to do it.”

He started off after the rude man, but Thompson caught Beaufort’s arm to reason with him. “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 a second look at the man who had dared to offend them. At that very moment, Duncan stepped from the gaming hell and raised his hand to catch their attention. “Wa…!”

Before any of them could call back or even raise their own hands to signal they had heard their adoptive father, a man who had skillfully guided each of them into manhood, the stranger’s hand jerked upward, his finger already tugging the gun’s mechanism before any of them recognized the fellow’s intentions.

The stranger’s aim was well taken—too well taken.

When the smoke cleared, they all looked on in horror as Lord Duncan’s form pitched forward to lie prostrate upon the bricked entranceway.

For a matter of several critical seconds, Aaran and his brothers were held in place in disbelief.

In horror, they all looked on as Duncan slammed into the ground and did not stir.

However, the gunman had not tarried. He was a good thirty feet ahead of them before Hartley and Beaufort thought to give chase.

Their movement sent Marksman circling the Lyon’s Den on the side of the house where the female entrance was located.

Aaran started off to where Duncan still had not moved, but much to his frustration, Thompson and Orson overtook him and had begun gingerly to roll Duncan over, as Aaran took up sentry duty to keep the onlookers pouring out of the Den from moving too close.

He was as capable as the others in assisting Duncan, but he had not responded quickly enough.

If a one-handed soldier can assist in tending to Duncan, my two hands would be twice as useful, he thought, but they all knew what was expected of them before they reacted.

“Is he dead?” more than one of those exiting the gaming hell asked.

“Duncan cannot be killed by a mere man,” Aaran growled, though he knew his words were foolish beyond willing Duncan to live. His retort was ridiculous, but he believed the words. “Only God can claim him!” God had decided upon the day of reckoning for each of His creatures.

Behind Aaran, Benjamin Thompson was reassuring Duncan. “I am here, sir. Do not bite your tongue as I turn you over.”

Titan was assisting Benjamin. “Never seen anything like it!” he declared.

“We’ll require Rheem’s expertise,” Thompson barked.

Aaran thought to volunteer to fetch the surgeon, but Orson responded quicker and raced away. In Aaran’s opinion, Orson should have stayed, for he was more agile and possessed a more commanding voice than did Aaran.

“Keep everyone away, Graham!” Benjamin barked.

“Theseus! Egeus! Assist Lord Graham!” Titan ordered, and the Lyon’s Den’s bouncers began directing everyone away from the scene.

“We must slow the bleeding,” Benjamin growled.

Aaran glanced to where Benjamin held his cravat over Duncan’s wound, but the cloth was red with Duncan’s blood. Aaran began to loosen his own neck cloth, while Benjamin asked someone to fetch his medical bag from his coach, and Titan sent Puck to locate Benjamin’s coach.

Almost immediately Mrs. Dove-Lyon appeared with two men carrying a door.

“I have a door. We should move him inside. You sent for a surgeon?” the lady asked as she assisted Benjamin in switching out his own cravat for Aaran’s before ordering, “Titan, have Lysander and Philostrate, as well as Demetrius, carry Lord Duncan into the ladies’ parlor, and send Hermia for my medical bag. ”

“Yes, ma’am.” Titan turned away to do his mistress’s bidding.

Aaran heard the woman say, “My mother and I followed the drum,” she explained as she knelt beside Benjamin.

He did not hear a reply from his brother, so Aaran offered his gratitude. “We appreciate everything you are doing, ma’am.”

Benjamin gave orders to the Den’s bouncers on how they were to lift Duncan onto the door.

His brother spoke softly to Duncan, “You had no idea when you paid for my Edinburgh education that you would one day require my assistance.” Then Benjamin presented his own orders.

“We will lift him on the count of one and bring him towards me on two. Set him down again on three.”

Aaran used his cane to support his weight so he, too, might kneel beside Duncan’s body. Claiming Duncan’s hand, he said, “If you do not mind, I wish to offer a quick prayer.”

“Assuredly,” Benjamin said as they all paused.

“Heavenly Father, we lift up Macdonald Duncan for your notice, as we ask for your healing touch. Please restore His Lordship’s health, ease his pain, and grant him both the strength to undergo what is necessary, as well as comfort during his recovery.

We trust in your loving care and the steady hands of his son, Benjamin. Amen.”

“Thank you, Aaran,” Benjamin said in apparent gratitude. “Now, let us move Duncan inside. I would be proud to have you assist me, if Rheem cannot be found. It would do Duncan well to know you are near. You have been in his life longer than any of us.”