The Lyon’s Last Chance (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)

Chapter One

B eckett didn’t have time for Timothy Rincon, but Timothy Rincon had set his sights on making Beckett happy.

It was perhaps the most annoying thing about his friend, even more than the fact that Timothy had grown into his buckteeth and now had a winning, toothsome grin that made an appearance far too often.

Timothy had attached himself to Beckett in their school days, and while they had lost touch for the length of a season here or there, Timothy had rebounded into their acquaintance with a force that Beckett found bewildering.

He considered that Timothy may have sustained brain damage during his continental Grand Tour.

But his belief that he could make Beckett’s life better was only one piece of the irritating puzzle.

Timothy had a full-time occupation of his father’s lapdog, and their congenial relationship was downright nauseating.

Beckett had not had a poor relationship with his father, but it was an aloofness that was common in their circles.

After the age of seven, he saw his father quarterly, until he reached the age of thirteen, when he was permitted to dine with his father during quarter-term breaks.

Their conversation during those meals were of the same ilk any man had with a stranger.

Beckett: How has the estate fared since [whatever season it happened to be]?

Father: Fine. And how was your term?

Beckett: Fine.

Father: Good.

End Scene.

And Beckett’s conversational skills had not improved past this point, as there was never more to say to anyone. Had Beckett been nearby for his father’s death, no doubt his last words would have been:

Father: I am dying now.

Beckett: Are you in pain?

Father: I’m fine.

Beckett: Good.

Father: [dies]

Beckett inherited the estate, and a title, and an adequate income for the times.

He had a sister, with whom he was no less polite than his father, and she had a son, who was Beckett’s heir.

As far as Beckett was concerned, he needed only to not ruin the estate or besmirch the title overly much, and then he could die whenever the moment seemed opportune.

Not for some years yet, of course, as his nephew was but a child.

But Beckett had no need of marrying or begetting an heir when the lineage of the earldom was secure.

Then his adorable nephew whose name was likely to be…

Bartholomew? He couldn’t remember. Anyhow, once his nephew was of age, he too would go off to school, learn how to be an earl, and then Beckett could kick off at his convenience. It was a solid plan.

“That’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard!” Timothy cried one night, which only cemented Beckett’s belief that dark rum was the devil’s own spit. Never had Beckett said such things aloud before, and certainly not to Timothy bloody Rincon.

The fair-haired, blue-eyed man was so confounded that any reasonable passerby would have thought him the village idiot.

Sadly, Timothy Rincon, in addition to housing the most irritating of good natures, was also the owner of a prodigious mind.

Though, it never occurred to Timothy to bend it towards criminal escapades, interpersonal manipulation, or wooing women.

He was the most virtuous, kind, smart arsehole that walked the planet.

Which was the third most annoying thing about his person.

“You can’t possibly mean ‘at your convenience’ about dying. That sounds like suicide!” Timothy took another drink from his cup, only to discover that there was nothing left in it.

“I’m not interested in suicide,” Beckett explained, believing in his head that he sounded his usual bored, adroit self, but knowing that he was likely slurring his words and listing to the side.

“I’m merely explaining that I have a plan in place that doesn’t require me. It’s a simple relief, is all.”

“We’ve got to get you a wife, man,” Timothy said, reaching across the small table and clapping his hand on Beckett’s shoulder.

“What for?” Beckett asked. He had never wanted one. He didn’t need an heir, so what was the point?

“What for, he asks me.” Timothy also indulged in the lunatic habit of speaking as if he were in a play. At some point, Beckett was going to have to break him out of an insane asylum. That is, if he hadn’t gotten him committed in the first place.

“To give you something to live for!” His friend gesticulated wildly in front of Beckett’s face.

“I can’t live for someone who I don’t think has a reason to exist.”

Timothy reared back. “Who doesn’t have the right to exist?”

“My wife.”

“You have a wife?” Timothy’s eyes were wide again, looking exactly like a simpleton.

Beckett squinted across the table. “I do not have a wife. I’m saying that any future wife I had.”

“Your future wife wouldn’t have the right to exist?” Timothy’s pale eyebrows drew together.

“No, I’m saying that you, oh Jesus Christ. Never mind.

You’re drunk,” Beckett said, standing, though forgetting why he had done so.

He took a moment to look around the pub, enjoying the delayed, floating sensation of the movement.

His coachman was leaning against the wall near the entrance.

Insouciant fellow. But given that the pub was virtually emptied of patrons, they ought to make their way as well.

It had been a run at their school days, drinking in public like this. As if they weren’t members of exclusive clubs that were better settings for men such as they. Men who could pull strings. But now, the outing had run its course, and it was time to depart with grace.

“Come on, Timothy.” Beckett pulled the man to his feet.

“If you are looking for companionship, there is a lady in the corner there,” Timothy slurred, scrabbling to get his feet under him.

Beckett could still pick him up. The real reason why Timothy Rincon, unreasonably wealthy, smart, fair of feature, was still without a wife was that he was terribly short.

Beckett was not. And the two of them looked like they would perform at Covent Gardens stages when they stood up. All they needed to do was juggle.

“Nobody wants to see my ugly mug above them,” Beckett said, practically pushing Timothy out the door. The coachman had already spun out the door to bring the carriage around.

“Aha! So you do want a wife!” Timothy shouted, pointing his finger up at him.

“That’s not what I said.”

Timothy made an exaggerated sad expression at him. “I regret to inform you, Beckett, but I manipulated you just now. There was no lady in the corner.”

Beckett would have rolled his eyes if he didn’t think the motion might cause him to somersault across the room. “It’s fine, Timothy. Let’s get two old men home.”

“Where?” Timothy asked.

“Exactly,” Beckett said.

They piled into the carriage. Bloody hell, was it always this bumpy?

Despite the lush, comfortable interior, the carriage was an older model that didn’t have the best spring shock absorbers.

Beckett would put that on the list of things to buy.

If he could remember. He rarely took a carriage anymore.

He’d thought Timothy asleep, but then the man reared up, like Lazarus.

“I know the perfect place!”

“I do not wish to drink another drop,” Beckett said, wanting to rest his eyes, but the jolts from the London potholes kept him from his pleasure.

“Not for liquor. Gambling!” Timothy was smiling too widely. It was very off-putting.

“I’m not letting you gamble when you are inebriated. It would be irresponsible. Your father would be appalled.”

Timothy waggled his finger too close to Beckett’s face. “It is gambling, but not with money!”

Beckett shook his head. “That sounds even worse.”

They pulled up to what looked like a beautiful home, painted in the most arresting shade of blue. An oddity, but to each their own.

“You are so tiresome,” Beckett said as he exhaled a drunken sigh. “You go on. I’ll sleep here.”

Timothy smacked his shoulder and then bodily pulled him out of the carriage. The coachman did nothing to aid Beckett, and he wondered if that could be considered dereliction of duty.

When Beckett finally stood on terra firma, Timothy dragged him inside the house by the arm, sputtering words and phrases to the effect of whether you like it or not, and I wish I didn’t have to resort to such measures.

Beckett thought for a moment of trying to make a pun about Timothy’s height and his use of the word “measure,” but was too drunk to think of anything clever, so he left it alone.

They were admitted and bid wait in a sitting area and offered more liquor for their refreshment. But as Beckett waved away the thought of a beverage, Timothy was already consulting someone on placing a wager.

“What is your sport, Timothy?” Beckett asked, his toes delightfully warm and snug, and his hands feeling over large, like he was wearing three pairs of woolen mittens. He would love to be crawling into a bed right about now.

Timothy turned to him, his eyes seeming glassy. Or was that Beckett’s vision making them appear so?

“Come on, then,” Timothy said, scampering off behind someone, beckoning him to follow.

The world tilted funnily this way and that as Beckett tromped after his friend. The place was ornately decorated and the carpet was very plush. It caught his soft, fuzzy feet and held them just so. He could sleep here happily.

Timothy stood at a table, facing another man. They stared each other down.

“What is happening?” Beckett asked, but he was shushed by someone standing on the other side of the table. Insulted, Beckett made a vulgar gesture back. The other man returned it.

“How dare you!” Beckett hissed, and then both men looked to him.

“I win!” Timothy yelled.

“Wot?”

“That’s cheating, that is!” cried the man who had shushed him.

“How did you win?” Beckett asked.

“Staring contest,” Timothy said, swigging at a glass near his elbow. He exhaled with vigor. “I won.”

“You kept me from my bed for a staring contest?” Beckett could sock the man dead in the nose.

“No,” he said, turning his bright expression toward him. “I kept you from your bed to win a wager.”

Beckett blinked, his vision bright and tilting again. “What was your wager?”

“That if I win, you court a lovely widow of the proprietress’s choosing.”

Beckett frowned. “I’m not courting anyone.”

“You will now. We shall have her name forthwith.” Timothy’s expression was darker than Beckett had ever seen it. Or at least, it seemed that way. Beckett was too tired to care at this point.

“No, I bloody well won’t,” Beckett insisted, ready to dig in harder than any mule.

“You will, or I forfeit my entire fortune,” Timothy said, catching Beckett’s eye.

Beckett stared at him, ignoring the commotion that surrounded them. Timothy was not joking. And, damn him, did not at all appear to be as drunk as Beckett was. The cad! “This is unreasonable. This is not something that any sane person would agree to do, and if I say I will not, I mean it!”

Wordlessly, a woman came around and showed where Timothy had signed his name, guaranteeing the bet. This was a terrible bargain.

“This is a terrible bargain,” Beckett repeated, aloud this time.

“Not for me it isn’t,” Timothy said, handing the quill back to the woman with a flourish and a bow. “Now let’s get you to bed.”