Page 11 of Lyon of Scotland (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)

He wanted to leave. Dare sat back in a damask-covered chair, a deuced uncomfortable thing, and watched a card game in play at a nearby table.

He had left a similar game, head swimming, headache brewing.

Rubbing his brow, he glanced at a clock on a mantel—the thing had stopped at ten to midnight.

He was certain those hands had not moved in the last hour.

He glanced up as John Lockhart sat beside him.

He was lean and good-looking in the plain and scrubbed way of a vicar or a scholar; Lockhart was the latter, a calm, pleasant fellow.

“I am beat,” he told Dare. “Like you, I am out of the card rounds. I cannot match the funds flowing back and forth.” He laughed.

“I may try my hand at darts for a bit, then leave with young Oliver. Will you stay or go with me?”

“Stay,” Dare said. “You and Huntly should go. I will get a hackney. I want to keep my eye on Dove. Curious rascal. Why did he bring us here?” He rubbed his brow again.

“Something reptilian about him. Perhaps it is the oiled hair and the pea-green silk of his waistcoat.” They both chuckled.

“I am beat as well,” Dare admitted. “I had a bit too much of the English whisky Dove pushed on us. He claims it is the very best, but it is not sitting well with me.” He felt dizzy and slightly ill, though he did not usually react quickly to strong drink.

“Grain-based English stuff. A bit harsh. Did you try it?”

“Aye. He pushed it on all of us. Not nearly the equivalent of a good Highland barley brew. But I would not tell Dove that. He’s proud of English make.”

“Grain makes a cheaper drink, and they do not age it very long, which means they can produce and sell in quantity. We nurture ours, age it, then have to smuggle it out,” Dare said. “New laws are being proposed that may help Scottish distilleries, with luck.”

“The smuggling will not stop soon, no matter the changes. There’s cheese and bread over there if you need to soak it up.”

“I might.” His stomach was not good and a bitter taste lingered on his tongue.

A woman came to the door of the large gaming room.

Dressed all in black with a translucent dark veil over her face, she stood in the threshold as if gauging the progress of the evening’s activities—table games, darts, chats, drinking contests, even arm wrestling—something was happening in each corner of the room and its center, too.

The noise was terrific. Narrowing his eyes against lamplight and candlelight, he scowled.

“Who is that charming spectre in the doorway?” he asked. “She looks like a haunt. I need to swear off drinking.” He had taken two drams, no, three. Not enough for this result. Cheap English brew, he decided.

“Proprietress,” Lockhart said. “She owns the place. I did not catch her name, but Dove said she is his cousin and gives him the run of the place whenever he likes.”

“I doubt that. She looks a stern taskmistress. Dove brought just four or five guests. Hardly taking over.”

Laughter burst out at a gaming table, then shouts as one fellow launched across the table at another, spilling cards, wine glasses, and a brown liquor bottle.

Some jumped back in their seats, while Oliver Huntly stood to hold the offending fellow by the arms, trying to calm the dispute, whatever it was. The woman slipped into the shadows.

“Good lad,” Dare said, watching Oliver negotiate between two men. “I like him.”

“And you like his bonny cousin very well, Scott says.” Lockhart tilted a brow.

“Your father-in-law is a blithe romantic,” Dare drawled. “Though I admit,” he said, lifting his glass to swirl it, “I am intrigued by Miss Gordon. That is all I will say.”

“I wish you both luck. I am off for the dartboard and then taking Huntly with me. Are you sure you will not come with us?”

“I will make my way back soon.” He wanted to let his head clear a bit, then he would get a hackney. He had seen two or three outside, waiting for late stragglers.

Alone again, he put the glass to his lips without thought, found it empty, set it down. Then looked up as a man loomed over him.

“Let me fill that again.” Dove held a brown glass bottle in his hand and poured a fresh dram into Dare’s glass. “This is another sort. Family brew. You must try it.”

“I have had enough,” Dare said with a narrow glance as the man sat beside him.

“Try it. My father’s make.”

“Made it in his cellar?” Dare asked as Dove shoved it in his hand.

“He had a distillery in northern England. I grew up making this stuff. Tell me what you think. To my father!” Dove raised his own glass, half full.

Dare sipped. “Good. But enough,” he said, as Dove filled the glass higher.

“One more, don’t be so proper. You are a Scot after all. This is as good as your stuff, and Lord knows you Scots know strong drink. Your friends are leaving,” he added.

Dare looked up, saw Lockhart and Huntly headed for the door. For a moment, he nearly stood to go with them. They waved, but he shook his head and waved them on. He would not leave until he knew something about Dove’s issue with Hannah Gordon. Here was his chance.

Dare sipped. He did not mean to take more, but Dove knocked his elbow and apologized as the stuff washed down his throat. Stifling a cough, he set the glass aside.

“Why do you hate the Scots?” he asked bluntly when the burn cleared. Dove blinked, drank, shrugged.

“I dislike them as much as any Englishman. Perhaps a little more. We English have a long memory. Centuries long, eh?” He poked Dare’s arm.

“Do that again and regret it,” Dare said. “The Scottish memory is long too.”

“Spoken like a Highland savage! Drink up. My father made his whiskey from grain he grew himself, then boiled, mashed, fermented, brewed, and bottled it himself, do you hear? I was raised to be a distiller.” Dove took a long swallow.

“It was a good business. Profitable. Much in demand. Then it collapsed.”

“Sorry to hear it,” Dare said.

“To aqua vitae!” Dove raised his glass, waved at Dare. “What is it you Scotch call it? Ooshkey-vah?”

“Uisge beatha. Your father makes good stuff.” He sipped. Truly it was harsh, and again he tasted an odd bitterness.

“My father is dead.” Dove downed the rest. “Distillery failed. The Scottish competition ruined him—barley brew takes more time to produce and the upper crust wants quality. It took a few years to sink us though. One night he confronted a group of Scots at the docks bringing their stuff in. It went bad. He was killed.”

“My God. Sorry to hear it.”

“So I came poor to London, instead of inheriting a business and fortune. Had to work to pay the rest of my school and make something of myself. But I did it. My son will do it too if I have to drag him upward. He has my father’s name but no backbone, that boy.

Artist,” he sneered. “Drink up! To my son!”

Dare sipped, thinking of Charles Dove with sympathy, and set the glass down. It had a strangely bitter taste and an odd effect on him. His head spun. He wavered. Dove’s voice faded, came back.

“Your son—does good work,” he managed.

“Hmph. An artist. He would marry an artist if he could. It will not happen. Pretty Miss Gordon would ruin him.” Dove sent him a sideways glance.

“Listen to me.” He stood, wavering a bit, looming over seated Dove. “Leave her be. You may dislike Scots, but that is not hers to bear. She has done nothing to you.”

“She owes me money. A good deal of money.”

That took him aback, so that he physically rocked back on his heels, being oddly off balance. “Money? Is that what this is about?”

“I work hard for every cent. I loaned it out and thought it would come back in spades.”

“The risk of moneylending,” Dare said.

Dove sipped. “My cousin keeps a stock of this whisky for her clients. But I imagine the stuff you are transporting is even better quality than this.”

So much better, Dare thought. “Highland whisky is exceptional.”

“Risky enterprise, a Scot shipping a quantity of whisky to London. I would buy the whole lot—give you a good price. Reduce the risk.”

Dare’s balance wavered. He folded his arms, locked his knees. “It is not for sale.”

“No? Give it to me and I will help you avoid trouble. You know what I mean.”

If he was hinting at smuggling, it was ridiculous. “I do not intend to sell it.”

Suddenly he felt sick. One knee buckled. Mustering his strength, he straightened. Dove rose from his chair. “Did your Highland relatives make that whisky?”

“They—” He lost his reply, forgot the question, felt ill.

Dove pushed at his shoulder with a single finger. About to hit back, Dare began to move his arm. Something was wrong. He was not sure where his arm had gone. His legs folded, and he fell to one knee, the floor tilting under him.

“Drunkard,” Dove called out. “Titan! Come get this fellow. Take him upstairs to lie down. Disgusting Scots—they drink too much.”

Struggling to rise, Dare managed to stand. The bitter taste rose again in his mouth, and he tried to recognize it. He had tasted such in the war when he was wounded and treated for pain—

The floor felt soft and hardly there as he fell into it.

The morning was gray and drizzly as Hannah walked past St. Paul’s and turned the corner at Godliman Street toward the College of Arms. She had shared Oliver Huntly’s carriage for a bit, then got out to walk the rest of the way.

She needed the cool October air to clear her head after the late evening at the theatre.

And this morning, she wanted the art room to herself to focus on her work before the others arrived.

Tugging at the brim of her black bonnet, hoping its pleated ribbons would survive the rain, she pulled her short black jacket closer over her dress of Prussian blue wool, long sleeved against the autumn chill.

She carried her largest tapestry reticule today to protect its contents, several sketches rolled in a leather cover.