Page 8 of A Lyon’s Promise (The Lyon’s Den)
All of his attention was centered on the lovely lady he had vowed to protect the night he delivered the devastating news to her.
King had fought against his gut-deep need to hold her within the circle of his arms that night.
Had he done so, he would be as familiar with the faint, tantalizing scent of her as he would be acutely aware of the way her fulsome figure would feel against the hard planes of his body.
He called on every ounce of his steely control not to react to the image that had plagued him in the middle of the night when an unsolved case rattled around in his brain.
By finding Hughes’s body, he felt he had failed her, unable to prevent the lord’s murder.
Unaccustomed to the feeling, he’d been protecting her ever since…
without her knowledge. The missive from Bessie, coupled with the wager in White’s betting book, and news of the suspected fraud perpetrated by Lord Montfort’s solicitors, demanded he take action.
He would succeed tonight. Lucretia would be his wife!
“This way, gentlemen—your first challenge will begin in the gardens.”
The baron jolted to a stop. “Surely you jest.”
“I’m not going to dig in the garden,” Ainsley declared. “This ensemble cost a fortune!”
Given the hideous color and combination, King did not doubt it had. He did not bother to add his opinion on beginning the challenge in the garden. He was used to getting his hands dirty.
He walked beside Mrs. Dove-Lyon, leaving the others to keep up. When they reached the open doorway to the gardens, he offered his hand to her. “Watch your step.”
She paused, and he could feel her studying him, though her gaze was obscured by her veil.
Accepting his aid, she descended the three steps before releasing his hand and thanking him.
Head held high, she led the trio to three huge potted palms grouped together, ten or so paces from the doorway, and easily visible to anyone inside the gaming room, should they care to observe them.
“I do like to keep my clientele on their toes and change up the wagers and challenges to ensure everyone will be on equal footing—and, of course, provide entertainment to those here for other reasons.”
King knew it to be true, though he did recall a few instances when she had leaned a bit toward ensuring former military men—especially those who had been injured in battle—had a slight edge.
Though no one spoke of it aloud. It was understood that would always be the case and at her discretion…
and Bessie knew of his military background.
Ainsley reiterated his claim from a few moments ago. “I cannot possibly dig in the dirt without the proper attire.”
Bessie turned to the baron. “Do you have any further comments to add?”
The baron narrowed his gaze at the three plants. “Depends on what the challenge is.”
“What do you say, Mr. King?”
Before he could answer, the baron complained, “Why do you bother referring to this commoner as ‘Mr.’ King?”
Without missing a beat, she replied, “My house. My rules.”
“But Society demands—”
King interrupted, “Mrs. Dove-Lyon has been gracious enough to add you to those of us competing tonight for the hand of Lady Montfort. I would suggest you change your tone to one of gratitude and show her proper respect and appreciation.” When the baron remained silent, King added, “Titan has ejected more than one man from the premises recently. You would increase the odds in Ainsley’s and my favor if you leave Mrs. Dove-Lyon no choice but to boot you out on your arse. ”
He heard the soft snort of laughter and was encouraged. Bessie confirmed that he’d chosen his words wisely when she said, “Are you so easily cowed that you wish to bow out of the competition so quickly? Imagine what they will say at White’s later this evening.”
Wayne squared his shoulders and glared at King. Immensely pleased by the reaction, he turned his attention to their benefactress. “I am ready to meet your first challenge.”
“Excellent! You may go first, Mr. King, and show these two how it is done.”
King nodded. “I gather you wish these potted plants moved to another location.”
“I do. I’d like you to move the one on the end.”
He noted that it was the largest of the three and the outside of the container was covered with clumps of wet dirt. “Where shall I deposit it?”
“To the left of the door to my private office.”
The activity on the main gambling floor had slowed, but not stopped.
King noted half of the participants were watching Mrs. Dove-Lyon and the men through the wide doorway.
A rather short distance, in his opinion, halfway across the room.
He speculated that the weight of the container was more of a deciding factor in the challenge than the distance.
Did Bessie consider that the others would hesitate, given the prospect of soiling their clothes?
King walked over to the palm, bent his knees, braced himself to expect the weight, and lifted the container.
He had guessed correctly. The bugger was heavy, the palm having recently been watered.
Ignoring the strain on his deltoids and abdominal muscles, he carried the plant as directed, set it down, and did not bother to brush the dirt from his clothes.
He turned and smiled at Bessie. Raising his voice to be heard over the noisy crowd, he asked, “Shall I wait here, or rejoin you?”
Little by little, the gaming room quieted until all eyes were on him.
Good—he wanted as many witnesses as possible to see that he was equal to any challenge levied at him.
He brushed the dirt off himself, convinced he would arise the victor tonight.
The difficulty would come later, when he would need to explain his reasons to Lucretia.
She deserved to know what had precipitated his entering the Lyon’s Den and challenging for her hand.
Bessie turned toward King. “Move closer to the steps into the gardens, by that faro table.” She did not watch to see if he complied—Mrs. Dove-Lyon rightly assumed King would move to where she had bidden him to wait. “Ainsley,” she said, “it is your turn. Either plant will do.”
The next plant in the group was in a pristine container, but had loose dirt around the base of the palm that would easily spill onto the man when he picked it up.
Ainsley hesitated, glanced at the other plant’s container—it had clumps of dirt on the outside—then bent to lift the plant with the loose dirt.
His grunt of surprise, and murmurs of the men close by, had King holding back his smile.
Though it would not do to appear overly confident, if Ainsley could not lift the plant, King would only have to defeat one man—the baron.
“Surely that pitiful-looking palm is not all that heavy,” Wayne remarked. “Here, let me show you how it is done.”
“Not so fast, Wayne. Ainsley has yet to say he cannot move the plant.” Bessie turned to address Ainsley. “Are you going to attempt to move the palm or forfeit?”
King watched Ainsley’s expression and was surprised by the man’s determined look.
He had no intention of quitting. King wondered what was behind the man’s bid for Lady Montfort.
To his surprise, and cheers from the men at the gaming table closest to him, Ainsley lifted the pot.
His fierce frown had King admiring the man who had not wanted to get dirty.
The pot looked unwieldy in Ainsley’s grasp, and one of the men closest to King called out a warning as man and plant approached the steps.
Ainsley tripped, lost his grip on the container, and dropped the plant, spilling dirt over his chest.
He lay there for a few moments, obviously stunned.
“Bad luck, Ainsley,” another man in the group near King called out.
A voice from the next table over said, “There will be other wealthy widows.”
A few more men commented while Ainsley shoved the plant off him, slowly stood, and brushed the dirt from this frockcoat, trousers, and waistcoat. He did not say another word as he walked past King without acknowledging him and strode toward the hallway to the rear entrance and disappeared.
Interesting . King had expected the man to grouse and complain about the dirt, the pot, and Bessie’s choice of challenge.
He’d surprised King by walking away. Not used to being wrong in his estimation of a man’s character, he wondered if something more nefarious was afoot.
He would do well to keep a sharp eye out.
He searched the room. Where in the bloody hell was Coventry?
A few moments later, the baron appeared carrying the last plant, setting it down on the opposite side of the door to Bessie’s office. He narrowed his eyes and glared at King. “Challenge accepted and met.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon rejoined them. “Gentlemen, your next challenge will be in the private gaming room.” Her head wolf was already standing by the door. “Is everything ready for the wager, Titan?”
“Aye, Mrs. Dove-Lyon.”
“I shall explain once we are inside.” The muttering flowing through the main gambling floor showed everyone’s interest was piqued. Bloody hell, King hoped it did not involve anything he would be expected to eat. God help him if she know about his aversion to oysters.
Wayne pushed past Titan, ahead of Bessie.
King waited for her to enter first. As the last one in the room, he knew the woman’s contacts had indeed discovered his intense dislike for the slimy creatures piled on the two plates on the table in front of them.
He swallowed the rush of bile threatening to choke him.
Conquering his body’s immediate reaction, he met her curious glance. “Challenge accepted.”
“She has not informed us of the rules for this challenge,” Wayne reminded him.
The man was not as uninformed as King had thought, if he suspected there was more to this challenge than swallowing the foul shellfish that had become so commonplace, they were sold on the streets of London.
“Precisely,” Bessie replied. “Now then, you will note there are three tankards placed alongside each plateful of oysters.”
King’s gut knotted as he waited to hear the rest. He glanced at Wayne, relieved to see the grimace on the man’s face.
“You will drink the tankard to the left of your plate first—it contains buttermilk—before moving on to the tankard in the middle.”
King could handle the buttermilk. He did not bother to look at Wayne, and wouldn’t, until he succeeded in besting the man.
“The middle tankard contains soured wine. You must finish every drop before you move on to the last tankard, which is again filled with buttermilk.”
“Are you mad ?”
Wayne had voiced what King was thinking. It would be a miracle if either of them managed to empty the tankards and move on to the oysters. Don’t, he ordered himself, look at the disgusting mass of slime on the half shell.
“After you finish all three, then you must eat every last oyster.”
“That’s it?” the baron asked.
“It is,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon replied.
King could do this! She had made absolutely no mention of successfully keeping either the drink or the vile creatures in their stomachs. He nearly asked if there was a time limit, but again the baron put the question to her first.
“I had not thought of that.” Her smug tone belied her claim as King wished the other man had kept his mouth shut. “I believe I’ll wait to see how well you two do with the buttermilk and soured wine.”
“Bloody hell.” King finally looked at the baron.
Their gazes met, and it was understood that the playing field was even—neither man relished the challenge.
He could even detect similar reservations in the depths of the other man’s eyes.
He hoped there were large enough containers to hold what they would no doubt soon be spewing up.
Wayne nodded, and for the first time King sensed the man was worried that he would not arise the victor. King would use that to bolster his confidence. He would be victorious…he had to be!