Page 11 of A Lyon’s Promise (The Lyon’s Den)
Coventry chose that moment to speak up. “I think both men could use a swig or two of rum or whiskey first—with your permission, Mrs. Dove-Lyon.”
She readily agreed. “Titan, please see to it.” Turning to face the baron and King, Bessie announced, “Titan will show you to the middle of the gardens where occasionally competitors cross swords, though tonight, we will hold a bare-knuckle bout.” With a glance in Coventry’s direction, she added, “I will allow an additional ten minutes so two of you can anesthetize your throats with your choice of beverage. Do not be late.”
With that, she spun around and swept from the room.
Titan waited for the room to empty before leading the way to the hallway that connected to the smoking lounge.
But he didn’t stop there—he led the men through the room into the gentlemen’s lounge, where a selection of brandy, whiskey, and rum in crystal decanters awaited them on the sideboard along one wall.
King thought it strange that the room was empty. The door leading into the main gambling floor was closed. Before he could rationalize why that would be, he realized that nothing should appear odd to him in Bessie’s establishment.
Titan waved a hand toward the glassware and decanters. “Pick your poison.”
King did not have to be told twice. He noticed the baron going for the brandy and nearly snorted, but managed to control the urge. He was reaching for the whiskey when Coventry said, “I’d go with the rum. It has settled more than one crew member with an uneasy gut over the years.”
King chuckled. “That would be your remedy. Mine’s whiskey.
” He poured out a scant amount, lifted it to his lips, inhaled, and sighed.
The familiar scent was a balm to his pride and calmed his aching gut.
He downed it and then poured three fingers more into his glass. This time he sipped the whiskey.
Titan rumbled, “You still have the last challenge.”
King turned to reply, but the man was speaking directly to the baron, who ignored him, drinking the brandy like he was dying of thirst.
Coventry mumbled something beneath his breath. King only heard one word, mistake , and wholeheartedly agreed. Setting his glass down on the tray with other empty glassware, he asked, “Shall we head to the gardens?”
Titan moved to the door, opened it, and stepped aside. King did not want to appear as if he were currying the wolf’s favor by speaking to him, so he merely nodded—and stepped into chaos.
King’s gaze swept the room. “What in the bloody hell is going on?”
Theseus was once more in the main gambling room and had been guarding their door. “One of tonight’s wagers was on the outcome of your last challenge.” He nodded toward a group of men who were patting the man in their midst on the back, congratulating him.
King recognized the man as one rumored to be a card sharp and had to laugh. “He wagered it would be a draw?”
“Aye,” Theseus replied. “Those gathered by the musicians are placing their wagers on the outcome of your next challenge as we speak.”
King would win. He did not intend to let Wayne get in a blow beneath his guard.
Lucretia’s future depended upon him. Once they were wed, and after the duke’s timely intervention—and that of His Grace’s trusted solicitors—King would finally be able to sort out the fraud committed by Bancroft and Sons.
He would personally see to it that she was repaid every bit of coin stolen from her.
He could not ignore the terrible injustice and crime the crooked solicitors had committed.
He would see to it that they apologized for lying to her all these years.
Though if they had not interfered, would he and Lucretia be on the verge of marrying?
He’d like to think that it had been the Lord’s plan all along that he and Lucretia would meet.
He would treat her like a queen and give her everything in life she had been missing.
Of course, that would only occur after they had had that particular conversation, and she had confided what that might be.
King had received the duke’s written permission to speak to his solicitors, Clayton and Carlton Roxbury, via special messenger.
Not only had they agreed to handle his affairs once he wed Lady Montfort, they’d also agreed to set up an account for her funds that she alone controlled.
Never again would she be beholden to anyone—not even King—for one penny of the money that was rightfully hers to spend as she saw fit.
The last thing he would ask of the Roxbury brothers was to purchase a particular, modest home for him near Grosvenor Square and Coventry’s building on Hart Street.
He was about to plan their first night together when Coventry called out, “Moreland! What are you doing here?”
The former sea captain strode over to join them, pounding Coventry on the back and offering his hand to King. “I’m here to aid in the judging of your bare-knuckle bout.”
King masked his surprise. “I thought Titan or one of the other wolves would be in charge of that.”
“Normally, aye,” the viscount replied. “Apparently Mrs. Dove-Lyon thought it best to have an extra set of eyes on this evening’s bout.”
“Did she?” King asked.
“Aye, and if I noticed a foul being committed against her rules, she knew my voice would be heard above the noise of any size crowd.”
Coventry snorted with laughter. If King hadn’t been thinking of the bout ahead, the punch he planned to lead with, and the blows he would follow up with, he might have laughed too.
“Are you ready?” Moreland asked him.
King’s head snapped up. “I’m ready to win.”
Wayne’s sardonic laugh was loud enough to be heard above the small crowd gathered. “You won’t.”
King glanced at the knowing expressions of a few of the men in the crowd, then stared at his opponent. There was an unholy light in the baron’s eyes. He knew about King’s weak chin!
Mrs. Dove-Lyon approached them. “Viscount Moreland, thank you for agreeing to stand in as one of the judges.” With a glance at the combatants, she asked, “Gentlemen, shall we be begin?”
King passed the frockcoat he had draped over his arm to Coventry. “Aye.”
Wayne kept his coat on. “Ready.”
Moreland held up a hand. “Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s rules are simple, but few, and to be obeyed.
No hitting below the belt. No exceptions.
If either of you reach a point where you wish to end the bout, go down on one knee and raise your right hand.
The bout will immediately end and whoever remains standing shall be declared the winner.
” The viscount stared at the baron and then King. “Understood?”
“Aye,” King replied.
The baron hesitated. “Why would anyone wish to end the bout early?” Moreland stared at Wayne long enough that he admitted, “Unless of course he is wise enough to know when he is beaten and to give up.”
“Do you understand Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s rules, Wayne?”
The baron frowned at the viscount, but finally inclined his head.
Moreland lowered his hand and stepped back, signaling the start of the bout.
Balanced on the balls of his feet, King led with a solid right cross that snapped the baron’s head back. The man quickly recovered and punched King in the eye. His vision blurred, but he was undeterred.
The crowd’s enthusiasm grew with each blow traded.
King knew he’d guessed correctly—his opponent’s familiarity with the sport indicated that he was more than adept and had been practicing.
When the man evaded King’s blow and landed a jab too close to his chin for comfort, King decided it was past time to use every movement and combination of blows in his arsenal to bring an end to the bout.
He was sweating now from physical exertion combined with the recent bout of sickness brought on by the last challenge.
Concentrating on the precise placement of his blows, for maximum impact, he landed an uppercut that again snapped the baron’s head back.
Satisfied that he’d gotten beneath the man’s guard, he followed with a left cross.
Feeling confident, knowing he would defeat his opponent, he doubled down on his vow to win. Thinking of Lucretia, he connected with a series of blows that stunned the baron, until the man staggered back and went down on one knee, raising his hand in the air.
“Do you cede the bout to King?” Moreland asked.
The baron tried to stand, and fell on his backside. “Bloody hell, I do!”
Moreland raised King’s hand in the air and boomed above the crowed, “King is the winner.”
Elated that his plans were about to come to fruition, King heard a commotion from the rear of the main gambling room—immediately followed by a woman’s scream.
He leapt over the baron and rushed toward the sound in time to see Lucretia being tossed over a man’s shoulder, while she kicked and screamed.
King whistled for Snug as he shoved men out of his way to get to her. He arrived in time to see Snug block the door while Lucretia pounded on her captor’s back a moment before she stilled, then bit him in the shoulder.
The man howled and made the mistake of letting go of her. King stepped forward and caught her in his arms. “Snug! Take her.” Passing her off, he turned to face the enraged man. Recognition clicked. “Johnstone! You will face charges for attempting to kidnap Lady Montfort.”
Johnstone sneered. “I have the backing of someone more powerful than any of the higher-ups on Bow Street or your sketchy connection to the Duke of Wyndmere.”
King knew Prinny had many connections within the ton , a number of whom had questionable reputations themselves.
King didn’t give a bloody damn—he yanked Johnstone’s left arm and spun the man around.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the spare cravat he’d started carrying after hearing the number of times the men in the duke’s guard had used one in place of a rope.
He quickly bound the man’s hands behind his back and grabbed hold of his arm.