Page 1 of A Lyon’s Promise (The Lyon’s Den)

G avin King sat behind the dark mahogany desk he had occupied for nearly two decades.

It wasn’t highly polished; it was riddled with scars.

Deep scuff marks where a bootheel had kicked it.

A gouge left behind where a knife, aimed for his hand, missed and plunged into it.

He was comfortable spreading out the paperwork for his cases across the top—and glaring at anyone who interrupted him while he worked. He had a reputation to live up to.

His time with the Bow Street Runners had left him with a heavier caseload each passing year, and barely enough time to go home at night to catch more than a few hours’ sleep.

Most often he fell asleep with his head on his desk and an empty flask near his hand.

Lately, he’d begun to wonder if he should delegate more of his duties to his top four men: Thompson, Jackson, Franklin, and Greeves.

If he did, he might have the time to do something about his abysmal social life.

He sighed. His reputation preceded him wherever he went, due to the last few years working closely with Captain Coventry.

The Duke of Wyndmere’s London man-of-affairs was the liaison for the sixteen men comprising the duke’s personal guard, who handled the plethora of threats, accusations, and slanderous claims against the duke and his family—and extended family.

King had handled discreet inquiries for the current duke’s father and had admired the fourth duke.

Not so the fifth duke, the current duke’s elder brother, because of the man’s penchant for gambling in the stews of London accompanied by women of questionable reputation.

Thankfully, the sixth duke was a man cut from the same cloth as his father—a man King could admire.

Lately, it seemed that every few months another man in the duke’s guard married, which seemed to precipitate another round of threats, slander, and, most recently, the need for King and Coventry to act as mediators.

He shook his head. One of His Grace’s distant cousins, Viscount Chattsworth, and one of the duke’s men, Seamus Flaherty, had nearly dismantled the foundation of the guard.

Thankfully, matters had been resolved to everyone’s satisfaction, including the duke’s.

King would rather be jumped in a dark alley by four thugs armed with cudgels and blades than have to intercede between one of the hardheaded Irishmen protecting the duke, and the noblemen they reported to.

The knock on his door had his thoughts returning to the open file on his desk and the lack of proof needed to bring the accused in for questioning.

His stomach rumbled and his flask was empty.

It was too early for any of his men to report in.

King thought about ignoring whoever it was, then decided against it.

He’d left strict orders not to be disturbed—if someone was knocking, it was important.

“Enter!”

One of his most recent hires stood on the threshold, as if unable decide to step into the office, or state the reason for the interruption from the doorway.

King couldn’t fault the young man—it was widely known that King’s bite was far worse than his bark, though he hadn’t resorted to using his fists to get anyone’s attention in quite some time.

He wondered when the head of the Runners would stop sending men without whiskers— or bollocks —to work for him.

It was widely known that he only accepted those highly skilled with all manner of weapons—preferably retired military men with unusual talents.

The men who worked for King were highly regarded, and envied.

King’s Runners had the reputation of being the best of the best, with the most cases solved, bringing miscreants and blackguards to justice.

Unlike the other Runners, King’s men had been in the military, blooded in battle, defending king and Crown.

It changed a man… It had changed him . He used his skills, honed during his time in the king’s regiment, to right wrongs and protect the innocent.

His blade and pistol had long been an extension of his right and left hands.

King wielded them defending victims from those who had no respect for the life or limbs of their quarry.

He snapped back to the situation at hand and didn’t bother to keep the irritation from his voice. “What is it?”

“This urgent missive just came for you, sir.”

King rose from his seat and skirted the desk, hand extended. “Who delivered it?”

“A tall man who held one arm close to his side, not using it. My guess is that he could have served in one of His Majesty’s forces.”

Impressed, King nodded. “Excellent observations. Why military?”

“The way he held himself—shoulders squared, chin up, ready for anything. Does that make sense?”

“Aye—bloody hell, what is your name again?”

“McDevitt, sir.”

“Is he waiting to speak to me, or for a reply?”

McDevitt shook his head. “Handed me the sealed note, said it was urgent, turned, and left.”

“Thank you. Dismissed.”

The young man left, closing the door behind him.

Alone, King broke the seal, read the note, and pounded his fist on his desk. What in the bloody hell had happened? Lucretia had been sequestered in her town house since her fiancé’s murder.

He closed his eyes and brought up the image of the brave woman who had touched his heart.

Honey-blonde hair. Darkly lashed, big brown eyes.

Full lips and fuller hips. His mind switched to firelight, and the dream he’d often had featuring Lucretia tangled in his sheets—before he reminded himself that it had not, and most likely would not, happen.

Lady Lucretia Montfort had trusted him to find her fiancé.

He had, and it was a damn good thing she hadn’t had the stipulation that when he found her fiancé he would still be breathing.

Out of habit, he reached into his waistcoat pocket and withdrew his flask. He opened it, tipped it back, savored the last few drops, and shoved it back in his pocket. He’d replace the bottle he kept in his bottom drawer tomorrow. He read the note again:

Gavin:

White’s betting book has a new wager regarding Lady M. Her financial situation is dire, and she has engaged my services. We must speak at once!

Bessie Dove-Lyon

King grabbed his frockcoat off the back of the chair, shoved his arms in the sleeves, and headed out the door. McDevitt was hovering in the hallway. King nodded to the younger man. “I’ll return within the hour.”

What in the bloody hell had Lucretia been thinking?

The last communication from the men assigned to watch her had mentioned a meeting with her late husband’s solicitors.

Was there an issue with the stipend she received as Montfort’s widow?

Had Bancroft and Sons mismanaged her inheritance?

If not, then why in the bloody hell would Lucretia pay the Black Widow of Whitehall to find her a husband?

He should have taken the time to verify the rumors about her sizeable inheritance.

If she entered the Lyon’s Den, she ran the risk of ending up with a fortune hunter—or a licentious rake who did not deserve a fine woman like her!

Do you ?

He ignored the voice in his head and strode down the hallway. Rushing through the door, he inclined his head to the runner standing guard, and hailed a hackney. The driver pulled up in front of the building. “Where to?”

“Cleveland Row.”

The driver’s face showed no expression, though his eyes widened. It was well known that the Lyon’s Den was located on Cleveland Row. “Aye, sir.”

King needed to come up with an argument to dissuade Bessie, or if that failed, a plan to ensure that Lucretia would not suffer from the indignity of waiting to hear which lucky man won whatever idiotic test Bessie came up with for those challenging for the right to win Lucretia’s hand.

He bloody well hoped he would not be expected to hang from a rope four floors above the pavement as he clung to it, making his way hand over hand across the alley to the building across from the Lyon’s Den.

He’d have to remember to pay a call on Earl Stansbury the next time the earl and his wife were in London.

A short while later, he stepped down from the hack, paid his fare, and entered the Lyon’s Den.