CHAPTER FOUR
Oliver thought it most strange that a girl or lady was peeking into the drawing room at the Greenwich House during tea.
Could she be a younger sister? He didn’t think the earl had four daughters.
One would think three was enough. Was it a maid?
When his eyes found her, a warmth spread through his body.
It was most unusual. All he could make out were pretty green eyes and auburn hair.
The same color as Lady Emma’s, making him think she must be a relation.
When he saw her again as he was leaving and their eyes met, he’d have sworn he knew her, even though he didn’t know how. She was much too young to have been out when he married his first two wives. Perhaps not the third, but surely he would remember those eyes and that hair.
Putting the visions of the young lady aside, the afternoon was a waste of his time.
The earl may have wanted him as a son-in-law, but the true head of the house, the countess, did not.
She had the gumption to say so to his face.
“I cannot, Your Grace, allow one of my daughters to become your wife. I would miss them terribly when they die by the curse that haunts you.”
He nearly spat out his brandy as he sat in his drawing room, waiting for his carriage to be brought around, at the audacity of the woman. Not that he blamed her. He knew everything whispered about him.
But tonight, he hoped to resolve his duchess problem. He would take the advice of Meyers and Cambridge and visit the Lyon’s Den. How hard could it be to get help from Mrs. Dove-Lyon and her matchmaking skills?
“The carriage is here, Your Grace,” announced his butler.
“Thank you, Edwards.”
Right before he entered his carriage, he told his driver, Hebert , “Take me to the Lyon’s Den on Cleveland Row in the West End.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Aside from a frown, Hebert didn’t seem shocked to be taking him to the Lyon’s Den.
Which made him wonder, as the carriage wheels rolled on, what sort of place the Lyon’s Den was besides a gambling hell.
Well, he was on his way, and he supposed he must trust that Cambridge and Meyers knew what they were talking about.
If not, what could happen? It wasn’t as if he had a reputation to protect.
He had no reputation. No, not true. He had a bad reputation, and it couldn’t get any worse, only improve, or so he hoped.
When the footman opened the door, he stepped out and faced a blue, weathered building with the first floor occupied by a closed jewelry store. Two large footmen stood at the entrance, holding lanterns. “Wait nearby. I don’t know how long I’ll be.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Hebert said with another frown, this one deeper than the last. Was Hebert afraid he would drown his sorrows in gambling? Become a degenerate gambler and lose everything he had? Not bloody likely.
He walked toward the enormous footmen, who were most likely guards rather than footmen. They led him inside and pointed to a staircase leading up. The one with a black eye patch said, “Welcome to the Lyon’s Den.”
“Thank you,” Oliver said.
He ascended the stairs and entered an entryway. A butler stood at attention, ready to take his jacket, hat, and gloves. “Welcome. May I have your name?”
“Thank you. Yes, I’m the Duke of Barrington.”
If hearing his name shocked him, he didn’t move a muscle on his face. “I don’t believe you have been here before.”
“No, I haven’t. Is that a problem?” Oliver asked, suddenly feeling as if he were being judged or put on display at Tattersalls.
“Not at all, Your Grace. Come in, and please enjoy yourself. If you need female companionship, the third floor is the place to be.”
“Thank you,” he replied. As much as he could use the release, since it had been ages since he had bedded a woman, he would not start visiting light-skirts now. He had never done so in the past and didn’t plan to do so in the present or future.
He made his way to a large room with numerous round tables. Each table had a dealer. His curiosity was piqued when he found one table who had a dealer with a mask on, and he headed that way. He sat in the one empty chair out of four. “Deal me in.”
“Yes,” the dealer said, in a feminine voice that surprised him. “The opening bid is ten guineas.”
Oliver placed his money pouch on the table and removed ten guineas.
Brag wasn’t his favorite game, and he hadn’t played in a long time.
It didn’t matter, since he was determined to lose.
Each player was dealt three cards face down.
Three communal cards were dealt face up.
Oliver studied his three cards and decided to swap one for a communal card, though he’d been dealt three tens.
The play went on until the person beside him, whom he didn’t know, knocked on the table.
He upped the ante. Oliver matched the bet, as did all but one other player at the table.
The man placed his three cards face up on the table.
Three Jacks. He won. For the next hour, this went on.
Oliver didn’t want to look like a totally inept player, so he allowed himself to win several hands.
Yet the majority of the time, he maneuvered so that he lost. During the final hand he played at the table, a man approached, bent down and whispered, “Your Grace, Mrs. Dove-Lyon would like to see you in her office right away.”
Oliver hid his smile as he placed his cards down, stood, and followed the large man with a pronounced limp down the hall to an office where a small woman in widow’s weeds and a black veil sat on a settee, a china cup and saucer in her hand as she sipped what he presumed was tea.
The man escorting him said, “The Duke of Barrington.”
“Thank you, Puck.” He shut the door as he left. “Your Grace, please have a seat.” Her hand indicated a chair facing her.
“Why have you sent for me, Mrs. Dove-Lyon?”
“Oh, come now, Your Grace. I believe it is you who hoped to meet me.” She sipped her tea, her pinkie out perfectly.
He played dumb. “Why do you say that?”
She eyed him through her veil. “According to my dealer, you were deliberately losing.”
He leaned back in the chair and placed one foot on the opposite knee, pretending to be relaxed when, in truth, his insides quaked. “Fine. I admit defeat. According to two acquaintances of mine, you are a matchmaker for the ton. I need your help.”
“This is most unusual for a gentleman of your social status. You’re a handsome, wealthy duke. Surely young ladies are lining up to be your duchess?”
He coughed into his hand. “Not at all.”
She rose from the settee, set her cup and saucer on a sideboard, and poured what looked like brandy into two glasses. She handed him one. “Forgive me for not offering refreshments sooner.”
“No need to apologize,” he said as he took the glass and downed half in one take. “Very nice.”
“I serve only the best here.” She sat back down and sipped her drink. “So you are here for my matchmaking skills?”
“Yes.”
“This is not the usual way I go about this, but I will make an exception for you.” She produced a piece of paper and handed it to him.
“This is my fee. Normally, a lady who has fallen out of Society’s graces pays me to find her a husband.
This will be the first time a potential husband pays me.
That is, if you are agreeable to the amount for my services? ”
He opened the small, folded piece of paper, read the amount, and handed it back to Mrs. Dove-Lyon. “Yes. I will send the funds tomorrow.”
“Very well. Tell me your story.”
***
While the duke explained his three marriages and the reasons for their deaths, Bessie studied the handsome duke. He was charming, to be sure, impeccably dressed and handsome beyond reason. It should be easy to make a match for him. Except for three things. Three. Dead. Wives.
When she was made aware that the Duke of Barrington was in her establishment, she quickly gathered all the information she could about him.
It wasn’t a difficult task. Through one discussion with Mr. Huntsman, she’d learned all about the Duke of Doom.
As far as Mr. Huntsman knew, Barrington had no troubling vices.
He was kind, generous, and not a gambler.
His servants were loyal, and so was his one and only close friend, Lord Hudson.
He had no family. No one to inherit the dukedom if he didn’t produce a male heir.
She didn’t want to feel sorry for him and his predicament, but she did.
Sometimes it was hard to keep her emotions from interfering with her matchmaking and the people involved.
Sitting with him now, she saw no reason for him to be called the Duke of Doom.
Well, except for the fact that he’d buried three wives.
He may present a serious challenge. She had two young ladies paying her for her matchmaking skills right now, but they were wrong for him, and he was not right for them.
So how did she go about finding him a wife?
She would, because there was one thing she hated: failure.
She had never failed to make a match, and she wouldn’t start now.
“It may take me a bit of time to find your suitable match, but trust me, I will. You explained how your wives died, but is there anything else I should know? What do you require in a wife? What characteristics do you like? Personality? Anything at all that will be helpful in my quest?”
“I would like someone with a kind nature.”
“That is a good trait to have and something I can start with. I will be in touch soon.” She rose, and the duke stood. She walked to the door and opened it, revealing Puck standing in the hall, his large arms crossed over his chest. “The duke is leaving. Please escort him out.”
“Yes.”
The duke paused at the open door and dipped his head. “Thank you, Mrs. Dove-Lyon, for seeing me.”
“Good night, Your Grace.”
Once he left, Bessie sat behind her desk and scribbled a list of potential ladies who were on the cusp of ruination without a gentleman to come to their rescue. Of course, the Season was just beginning. The list was likely to grow exponentially in the coming days and weeks.
***
During the ride home to Barrington Hall, Oliver contemplated his conversation with Mrs. Dove-Lyon.
When he spoke with someone, he liked to look them in the eyes.
It revealed one’s nature, secrets, and lies.
She wore a black veil that shielded her eyes from him.
He had to rely on her tone and words to gauge whether she spoke the truth.
He believed she did. She didn’t seem bothered by him being called the Duke of Doom.
She seemed to take it as a challenge, one she appeared up to. He hoped so.
When he arrived home, he went to his library and had a glass of brandy before going up to his chambers, where the emptiness always stabbed him in the heart. Tonight was no different.