Page 144 of Eight Hunting Lyons (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)

A Summons is Received

Meanwhile, at Sinclair House in Westminster

S hedding her redingote and gloves into the arms of the Sinclair House butler, Amy shoved her suddenly cold hands into the pockets of her carriage gown.

For the entire trip from Havenhurst, she hadn’t felt the least bit cold. Captain Audley had provided enough heat to keep her comfortable even after the sun had nearly set. Heat from his hands. Heat from his body. Heat from the way he gazed at her. Heat from the scorching kiss he had bestowed on her just before the driver opened the coach door.

Leaving him had felt wrong somehow. Like she was escaping from a captor with whom she would have preferred to stay. He had done things to her she could have only imagined in her wildest dreams. Put a voice to words she had only dreamed he might one day say to her.

She pulled his handkerchief from her pocket, whispering a curse at having forgotten to return it to him. Spreading it out on her open palm, she regarded the fine white linen. His initials, CWA , were embroidered in one corner, and she tried to sort what name the W represented.

William , she decided. Charles William Audley.

“Evening, Miss Amy,” a housemaid said from where she stood at the base of the stairs. “I’m to inform you that Mrs. Sinclair will return later this evening.” She glanced about and then hurried to stand in front of Amy, pulling a missive from her pocket. “This was delivered by a young boy not an hour ago. Addressed to you directly. Gave him a farthing from the dish near the door,” she added, motioning toward the ceramic bowl where a number of small coins were kept to pay the postage for letters.

Amy’s eyes widened as she took the bright white note. “Thank you.” She pulled a farthing out of her pocket and offered it to the maid. “I take it my mother doesn’t know of this?” she whispered.

The maid shook her head. “She received one that looked very similar,” she replied, motioning to the study. “But both missives arrived directly after she and the major took their leave.”

Curious at hearing this bit of news—Amy hadn’t expected Major Culkins would bring her mother to Sinclair House before departing for wherever they enjoyed their trysts—she realized her mother must have required a change of clothes.

Amy tucked the note into her pocket. “Thank you, Cumberbatch. I appreciate you keeping this a secret.”

“Oh, of course, miss.”

Ducking into the study, Amy compared the writing on the note addressed to her mother against that of the one she had received.

They were identical.

Both were from Mrs. Dove-Lyon at the Lyon’s Den.

Slipping her thumbnail beneath the wax seal on the back—a lion’s head surrounded by something she couldn’t quite make out—Amy broke the seal and quickly unfolded the letter.

Dear Miss Sinclair,

I received the message you sent by way of a young boy yesterday. Your choice of suitor, although honorable, is not the only one interested in marrying you.

Arrangements have been made for your suitors to compete for your hand at the Lyon’s Den on the morrow at nine o’clock in the evening. Given the quality of those involved—one is a Scottish laird and one is a duke’s brother—the buy-in has been set quite high at ￡5,000.

Although I don’t recommend you join them on the gaming floor, you are expected to view the proceedings from the gallery above.

I look forward to seeing you tomorrow night, and may the best man win.

Regards,

Mrs. Dove-Lyon

Amy pressed a hand against her chest and let out a strangled cry.

Five-thousand pounds!

Was the matchmaker mad? Captain Audley didn’t have that kind of blunt. Although Amy might have that much in her accounts at Barclays Bank, she had no way of accessing the funds—no male relative who could act on her behalf to withdraw it.

She had half a mind to pack her trunk and order the driver to take her back to Havenhurst. Run away from London. Surely, she wouldn’t be forced to wed if they couldn’t find her.

A plan forming in her mind, Amy found she couldn’t complete it when her mother appeared outside the study, divesting her redingote whilst barking orders at the servants who attended her.

“Well, you look as if you’ve seen a ghost,” Margaret said as she sailed into the room and immediately went to the leather chair at the desk. She plucked a missive off the salver, but she didn’t open it when she Amy crying.

“What’s happened?” she asked as she settled into the chair.

Amy blinked. “Mrs. Dove-Lyon,” she spat out before she spun on her heel and left the study.

Opening the missive she held, Margaret grinned upon reading Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s words.

Suitors were going to vie for her daughter’s hand in marriage. Not just one, but apparently several. A duke’s brother! Someone named William Smith—that could be anybody—a Scottish laird, and Captain Audley.

She leaned back in the chair and allowed a sigh of relief. Just as soon as Amy was married off, she would be, as well.

At least, that’s what Major Culkins had implied when he had her bent over a table in his library, his broad hands gripping her hips as he saw to a quick release for himself and a belated orgasm for her.

Men were so predictable but so necessary in polite Society.