Page 10 of A Lyon’s Promise (The Lyon’s Den)

C aptain Coventry strode onto the main gambling floor in the Lyon’s Den, immediately aware that only half of the patrons were immersed in games of chance.

The other half were standing in a semicircle staring at the closed door to the private gaming room.

He had a feeling King was behind that door, facing God only knew what challenge the notorious Black Widow of Whitehall had come up with.

His lips twitched as he fought against the urge to smile. The woman had a fertile mind.

Making his way in and around the gaming tables, Coventry saw the widow herself walking toward him. From her determined stride as she walked toward the same closed door he was headed to, he knew the competition was over.

They met at the door. “Mrs. Dove-Lyon, a pleasure.”

“Ah, Captain Coventry. I take it you are here to witness the outcome of the second challenge Mr. King—”

She was interrupted by a god-awful retching sound Coventry was well acquainted with.

It had been a few years since he had held his wife’s hair as she bent over the chamber pot when pregnant with their darling Emma.

Longer still since he was aboard a ship during hurricane conditions and some of his normally stoic seamen suffered through a bout of seasickness.

The sound from the other side of the door was…almost harmonious, as it became apparent there were two men suffering.

“I believe we should wait just a few minutes more,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said. “I have my most trusted wolf inside, ensuring that no one had an advantage during my little wager.”

A few minutes later, all sound ceased.

“Are they dead, then?” a deep voice asked from the middle of the semicircle behind them.

“Probably shited themselves,” another man suggested, and was immediately shoved onto his arse by the man standing beside him.

“There is a lady present,” Coventry said, glaring at the two men. “Mrs. Dove-Lyon deserves your respect.”

No one—not even himself—brought up the fact that the widow had been known to curse like a sailor.

Whether it was the black eyepatch covering his empty eye socket, or the matching sling that he wore, the captain was never certain why some thought he would be an easy mark. The man who asked the first question sneered, “Who in the bloody hell do you think you are?”

“Coventry. Captain Coventry. London man-of-affairs for His Grace, the Duke of Wyndmere.” He paused to stare at the two men who were now standing side by side. “And you are?”

“Leaving,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon interjected. With a nod to two of her wolves monitoring the floor, she said, “Theseus, Egeus, see to it.”

“Aye.” Her wolves swiftly removed the men from the gathering.

Coventry noted that no one bothered to watch them leave—all eyes were riveted once more on the closed door, behind which silence reigned. How many wagers been placed on the outcome of King versus his competition for Lady Montfort’s hand?

“As two of your men are otherwise occupied, would you like me to enter the room first and report back to you?” he asked.

The widow seemed to be contemplating his offer when the door abruptly opened. Titan stepped through and quickly shut the door behind him. “Ah, Titan. Who is the victor?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Neither. I’ve never seen the like. Both men rose to meet your challenge. Neither flinched, though I may have when they raced one another to down the tankard of soured wine after imbibing the buttermilk.”

Someone at the back of the crowd started gagging, and Coventry snickered.

“Back to your tables, gentlemen,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said. “This is a private matter.”

Titan was openly sizing him up. Coventry was used to it, though he had the distinct impression it was not as an opponent. His supposition was proven correct when a moment later, Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s head wolf said, “Royal Navy.”

“Aye.” As Coventry wore a frockcoat in the same dark blue that denoted a naval officer, it was easy enough to discern. It left him to wonder whether Titan had fought for the Crown on land or sea.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon spoke before he could ask. “What of the third tankard of buttermilk?”

“Both men kept that down as well.”

“No small feat,” Coventry mumbled. “Though a man with a strong stomach should be able to keep that unusual combination in their gut, what was the rest of the wager?”

“Oysters.”

Coventry shook his head. Poor King—the man hated oysters. “How many?”

Titan shrugged. “A plateful.”

“Have they both passed out?”

“They were conscious when I left the room.” Turning to address his employer, Titan said, “The room should be ready for you to enter shortly, Mrs. Dove-Lyon. The servants are emptying all available pots and containers as we speak.”

She frowned. “What of my Aubusson rugs?”

Her lack of concern for the two men involved in the wager rubbed Coventry the wrong way. But, knowing the widow’s penchant for wagers that were nearly impossible to win, he kept his thoughts on the matter to himself. “I need a word with King.” He held up a sealed missive. “It’s urgent.”

Just when he thought the woman who refuse, she sighed and glanced at Titan. When he nodded, she acquiesced. “Very well, but no giving aid to King in the form of rum or whiskey.”

“You have my word.”

When she waved him toward the door, he quickly opened it, stepped over the threshold, and quickly shut the door behind him. Coventry had a strong stomach, but the pervading odor—a combination of vomit, buttermilk, and oysters—had him flinching.

He recognized Baron Wayne at once. The man was on the list he and King had supplied to His Grace’s guard, and would remain on that list for the atrocity he would have committed, had he not been prevented from entering Montrose House that night.

At the moment, he did not appear to be a threat to anyone, holding his stomach and moaning.

“You’re late.”

Coventry turned and met King’s bloodshot gaze. The man was standing close enough to the wall to be able to lean against it for support if necessary. Coventry held up the sealed missive. “His Grace asked that I hand-deliver this to you.”

King broke the seal, read the duke’s message, and raked a hand through his hair. “Thank you.”

The baron chose that moment to glance at them. With the slight movement of his head, King signaled to Coventry that they would discuss it later.

He silently agreed. The last thing King wanted was the baron made aware of the delicacy of certain matters involving Lady Montfort—most especially regarding the questionable character of Lord Montfort’s solicitors, and their involvement in the depleted state of Lady Montfort’s fortune.

The situation would be King’s to unravel—no one else’s.

He held firm in his belief that he was destined to not only to offer Lucretia the protection of his power and position within the ranks at Bow Street, but the added protection of his name when they wed.

The knock on the door had all three of them staring at it as it slowly opened.

He felt the baron’s gaze on him, but didn’t bother to look at the man.

King had more important issues pressing upon him.

The first of which was trying to convince the Black Widow of Whitehall that he’d had the edge in the competition.

Wayne had puked first, though Titan had declared it a draw.

“Gentlemen. We are faced with a quandary.” The tone of Bessie’s voice did not indicate that the fact bothered her. “Titan informs me that neither one of you failed the challenge.”

“Aye,” King and Wayne answered simultaneously. King ignored the baron’s glare.

When the other man opened his mouth to speak, Bessie held up her hand. “As this has never happened before, I can either call an end to the challenge for Lady Montfort’s hand, and select three more men to compete…or allow the two of you to continue on to another round.”

King wisely remained silent, while the baron argued about the unfairness of the challenge, the fact that he had beaten King, and therefore won the hand of the lady in question.

King was contemplating shutting the man up with a well-placed fist in the mouth when Titan spoke up.

“It was clearly a tie. Timed nearly perfectly, both men downed the contents of all three tankards, before swallowing every oyster on their plates. Even I was impressed, until the inevitable happened—they vomited… all of it.”

King did not need the reminder, and willed his stomach to settle. He wondered why Bessie did not seem to mind the lingering scent of vomit in the air, and whether her thick veil was a deterrent.

She chose that moment to turn toward him. “You’re quiet, Mr. King. Care to add anything to Titan’s summation?”

“I would thank you for the opportunity to compete for the hand of Lady Montfort.”

“You lost, and you know it,” the baron taunted him.

Without looking at the baron, Bessie warned, “One more word, and I shall declare King the victor.”

King prayed the man would say something— anything . Unfortunately, Wayne chose that moment to shut his blasted mouth.

“While I am of a mind to end this here and now,” Bessie continued, “I believe it would be an injustice to Mr. King, who has not once this evening complained. He has been the consummate gentleman.”

“My mum would be pleased to hear you say as much.” King had an odd feeling of warmth around his shoulders. Had his mother been watching from Heaven? The warmth lasted a moment longer and then gradually dissipated.

“I have decided,” Bessie announced. “The both of you shall face one last challenge—a bare-knuckle bout in fifteen minutes. That should give you enough time to recover.”

King held on to his laughter. He would prefer twice that, given what he’d just endured.

He was much older than the baron, who seemed to now be sizing him up.

King had no doubt that Wayne frequented Gentleman Jackson’s establishment.

Though as to how talented the man was with his fists, time would tell.