The Scarred Lyon (The Lyon’s Den)

Chapter One

Bamford Park, Essex

“You have done what, exactly?”

Duncan Richard Bamford, the Duke of Allenby, stared at his stepmother in stunned silence. He couldn’t believe he’d heard her correctly.

“I have made initial inquiries with Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon in London, on Cleveland Row, to be exact, about a possible arranged marriage for you.” Laura Bamford scooped a generous tablespoon of Dundee marmalade and spread it on her crumpet.

A slow burn of annoyance raced through him. Duncan rarely showed anger toward Laura; besides being his stepmother, she was also a close friend. But this was beyond the pale. To contact a complete stranger about something as personal as marriage?

“I am well aware of the Lyon’s Den,” he said, his words ending in a growl. “I attended the place a few times in the past until I became aware that the gambling establishment was a front for a rather brutal matchmaking service. I’ll be damned if I would become caught in that particular sticky web.”

“I understand what the place is, Duncan. In most cases, the men who were caught in a marriage trap entered into it willingly, and it all ended fairly well for them—or so I assume. Women use the service to find husbands.”

“What kind of women?” Duncan could well imagine.

“Women who can afford the exorbitant rate, I suppose,” Laura replied.

“Why not make yourself available to be one of these men?” She bit into her crumpet and chewed thoughtfully.

“It is not as if you need a wealthy wife as some do, but you certainly would want one who was brought up in society. Or so it is expected.” Laura sighed.

“On a minor note, I must admit it’s been lonely here.

I wish for a little company, and Christmastide is not far off. ”

“If you find Bamford Park barren of amusements, you have a long-standing invitation from Anna to stay with her family in Upper Canada,” Duncan grumbled.

“My daughter is kind, and I long to see them, especially my grandson, but I abhor such extended travel, especially by sea. Which reminds me, Anna says you owe her a letter.”

He owed his half sister more than one letter, but when one locks oneself away, eschewing all society, there was not much to write about.

I changed the oil in the lamp today.

Duncan was sad to admit that this constituted the entirety of his present existence. But the choice was his, and his alone. Regardless, he missed Anna as well. She had moved to Upper Canada with her soldier husband five years ago.

“I shall write to her soon.” Duncan crossed his arms, still annoyed. “Still, this is my home and I rule this estate as I see fit. I am a duke, after all. If I choose to remain unattached and alone, that is my decision.”

“I’m not suggesting this matchmaking scenario just for my own needs. You never wanted to be a duke, Duncan. Remember?” Laura sipped her tea, giving him a questioning look.

Since his cousin and best friend, Jonathan Bamford, the heir apparent, died in April 1813 during the American War in Upper Canada, and his uncle, the Duke of Allenby, had also passed away shortly afterward, Duncan’s life had been in turmoil.

These untimely deaths had forced Duncan’s father to become the duke, making Duncan next in line—the right of primogeniture and all that rot.

When his father died two years ago, Duncan had unceremoniously been given the title, whether he wanted it or not.

And he had never wanted it or coveted it—never dreamed it would come about.

It drew unwanted attention his way, prompting him to self-isolate at Bamford Park.

To hell with the House of Lords and any other societal duties.

Because of his service in the British army, Duncan was an ugly, scarred bastard who didn’t want pity, or worse, horrified looks from anyone.

That included women who might or might not be potential future duchesses.

“I remember. But I am one now, devil take it. I will use the power it grants when it suits me. And that includes selecting a wife.” He sipped his tea, tempted to hurl the bone china toward the opposite wall.

His temper often got away from him for no reason since his life-altering injury, but Laura’s soothing presence calmed the beast within. To a point.

He glanced sideways at his stepmother. Duncan’s mother had died in childbirth when he had been only ten years old.

Without warning, his father had brought home a pretty, fresh-faced young lady just two months after burying his first wife and announced that they would be married.

Laura had been twenty-one at the time and the daughter of a bank president.

A brother to a duke marrying someone so far beneath him?

It had been the talk of society for months.

With only an eleven-year age difference between them, Duncan and Laura became fast friends immediately and remained so to this day. Duncan was aware of the salacious gossip regarding their living arrangements. A son shouldn’t live with his widowed stepmother, especially if she was attractive.

To hell with them all.

To him, Laura was more than a stepmother; she was a mother figure and a cherished friend, all rolled into one.

Duncan wouldn’t have survived his disfiguring injury in the fiery Battle of York in Upper Canada or his adjustment to inheriting the title without her kind, loving support.

Therefore, he owed the duchess more than he could ever express.

“Yes, you are now the Duke of Allenby,” Laura continued. “Because of that, it is your duty to continue the line. You know this. You cannot put it off any longer. You are forty years of age.”

“I am thirty-nine,” he replied peevishly.

“You will turn forty in a matter of weeks,” Laura said.

“No one will have me. Look at me!”

“Duncan, the scars are not all that horrible. Not at all,” Laura reassured, her voice brimming with understanding and compassion.

“Only because you have grown used to them. I never will.” His pride and ego, once his allies, had become a terrible curse. He had once been quite handsome, never lacking for female company. Now he lumbered through Bamford Park like a wounded beast, snarling at everyone and lamenting his loss.

Laura set her cup on the saucer. “Your injury could have been far worse. You could have lost an eye or an ear, your nose, or part of your jaw. I have read about the horrid wounds soldiers received from the various recent wars. I say this not to lessen the impact of your war wounds but to point out that you do not have to hide yourself away. Your face is intact.”

Duncan brushed his long hair aside from his left cheek, turning slightly toward Laura.

“You think I would be welcomed into a ballroom with this mass of scarred and mottled skin?” Not to mention the numerous scars inside, but he kept those to himself.

His recently developed quick temper stemmed not only from his disfiguring injury but also from the guilt he carried.

For better or worse, he had survived the American war.

His cousin and best friend, Jonathan, had not.

“There are masks,” Laura said. “You own a few. The gold one covers your cheek and lower chin very well.” She handed him the platter of sausages.

Duncan took it, speared two, and put them on his plate. “I am not some highwayman or masked thespian.”

“No, you are the Duke of Allenby, and no one would dare make a remark to you. We can notify the staff at the Hyde Park Corner residence to prepare for your arrival. Keep in mind that it is only a skeleton crew of servants, but they can attend to you quite readily.”

“Blasted London town houses. Why do I even need one, let alone three?” Duncan grumbled crossly.

“It was wise of you to sell one and invest the money. It’s already paying handsome dividends. Besides, a duke needs a residence or two in town. It is the done thing.”

“I am thinking of renting the Hanover Street house.”

“Another source of income. Very wise,” Laura replied, buttering the other half of her crumpet.

Duncan took a bite of sausage, contemplating Laura’s words.

Grudgingly, he had to admit she was correct on all counts.

He had brooded long enough. He must marry.

There was no other option. There was an unspoken obligation to continue the lineage, or at least to attempt to do so.

The Allenby dukedom dated back centuries, to the time of Henry V.

Duncan’s knighted ancestor had received a special arming sword and a dukedom for heroism at the Battle of Agincourt.

The sword hung above the fireplace mantel in his study.

To let it all end here because he sulked over the loss of his good looks…

Well, he could not let that happen. Still, it galled him to present himself to eager women as if he were a stud stallion at Tattersall’s.

“What exactly did you write to Mrs. Dove-Lyon?” Duncan asked warily.

“I was very frank in describing your current situation. I assumed you did not wish for some young lady barely out of the schoolroom.”

“No, I do not,” he agreed as he sipped his tea.

“But not past childbearing years, either,” Laura continued.

“This conversation is rather disturbing,” Duncan muttered, popping another piece of sausage into his mouth.

Laura sighed. “It truly is. But this is the state of aristocratic marriages, I am sad to say—a business transaction with mutual benefits, but most of all, for the title. It’s a cold prospect, but it doesn’t have to be.

Instead of attending numerous balls or other social events to meet ladies, Mrs. Dove-Lyon can eliminate all that tedium and present you with a suitable choice.

She doesn’t usually take on men as clients, but she has agreed to your case. ”

“Just how long ago did you write? So I am a case? And I am supposed to trust this woman’s candidate? I thought Mrs. Dove-Lyon picked from among the men gambling in her establishment, forcing them into marriage contracts whether they wanted to or not?”

“First, I wrote her a few months ago. Regarding the men, most want to be trapped because they understand the Lyon’s Den’s secondary function. Some need a wealthy bride, or, like you, they need an heir. Mrs. Dove-Lyon requests that you come to Cleveland Row to play a few games of chance. For show.”

“To keep up appearances? For whom? The proprietress or the lady paying for a husband?” Duncan was inwardly appalled by the entire scenario.

“Both, I imagine. I would also bet large amounts.”

Duncan raised an eyebrow. “A de facto fee?” Laura shrugged. “Did you inform the Lyon’s Den’s proprietress of the particulars?” Duncan asked.

Laura buttered another crumpet. “Yes, of course. If you mean by particulars, your war injury, then yes.” Her look softened. “As I said, it is not as terrible as you seem to think.”

Duncan scoffed. “Only because you are used to the ugliness.”

Laura shot him a warning look and bit into her buttered crumpet.

The more Duncan thought about it, the more Laura’s suggestion made sense. It would eliminate the need to socialize and to browse the marriage mart. “What is the potential bride’s background? Is she suitable to become a duchess?”

“Any woman of strong character and intellect is suitable. I managed it, even though I was a duchess for only three years.”

“You are still a duchess. Even if I get married, you would become the dowager duchess.”

Laura sighed. “Fate is, indeed, strange. Upon my word, to have had all those deaths within four years.” She reached for his hand, and he took it. “And we nearly lost you in ’13 as well.”

That he didn’t want to think about or discuss. Giving her hand an affectionate squeeze, he then released it and reached for his teacup. “Very well, I will travel to London. But only if you accompany me.”

Laura smiled. “I was hoping you would ask. I want to do some shopping at the Soho Bazaar. I read about it in the newspaper. It’s a popular indoor market.

And I want to meet the young woman. Promise me you will keep an open mind, Duncan.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon said you can talk with the lady in question privately in one of the retiring rooms on the third floor. ”

Duncan snorted. “Isn’t that where the supposed brothel used to be? Wasn’t Mrs. Dove-Lyon a reputed courtesan?”

“So the rumors say. Does that matter in the scheme of things?”

“And what a scheme. What if this chosen woman does not suit?”

“I have instructed Mrs. Dove-Lyon to compile a shortlist, which we will meticulously review. We will find you a suitable bride, Duncan. Never you fear.”

“Am I to interview them as if I were hiring an employee? A housekeeper, perhaps?”

“Yes. Which you are. Let us be completely honest.” Laura picked up her teacup and sipped it. “We can only hope the lady you choose is able to have children. If not, at least you attempted to carry on the title.”

This entire discussion left a chill in his midsection.

His just-eaten breakfast churned like a ship caught in a storm on the North Atlantic.

Duncan could refuse and spend his few remaining years alone, allowing the crown to take possession of all entailed money and properties after he died.

Other peers had done so. The stark truth was that he wanted children and, hopefully, a son to carry on the title.

Given his advancing age and circumstances, he had no choice but to take this course of action.

“Then, make arrangements for travel as soon as possible.”

Laura clapped her hands together. “Brilliant! You will not regret it, Duncan.”

The devil he wouldn’t. This had all the earmarks of a complete disaster.