Page 14 of Lyon of Scotland (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)

“Lord Lyon, welcome.” A woman sat behind a large desk, figure and furniture silhouetted against a tall window.

She wore all black, even to the smoky-black veil that skimmed over her head and face.

Despite his fuzzy brain and aching head, Dare recognized her as the woman he had seen last night surveying the gaming room.

The pieces were coming together slowly. This was not the Dove house, as he had thought at first, but the gaming house he had visited with the group last night. And because of the drug, he had slept here, more or less, beside Hannah Gordon.

A man stepped out of the shadows near the desk. Seeing Sir Frederic Dove, Dare narrowed his eyes. A shiver crossed the back of his neck in some instinctual warning.

“Sir, we are pleased to see you. Do sit down.” The woman indicated a chair.

He inclined his head and went to the chair, but declined to sit. Resting his hands on the wooden trim above the upholstery, he waited, wary.

“Lord Lyon,” Dove said, “allow me to introduce my cousin, Mrs. Elizabeth Dove-Lyon.” Dare frowned, hearing the curious name again.

“Lyon of Scotland, is it?” Her voice was low, calm. “A Scotsman, judging by your costume.”

“It is no costume where I come from.” The room spun. He tightened his hold on the chair.

“A Highland man? We rarely see them here. My cousin tells me that Lord Lyon is an important title in Scotland. I wonder if we could be related through my late husband.”

The woman’s neutral tone became eager. In the heraldry office, Dare had heard that same ripple of excitement—the hope of finding a family connection to a notable name.

“Lord Lyon, King of Arms, is an honorary title for the head of the heraldry office in Scotland, madam. Lyon, as a name, came to Britain with the Normans. Perhaps your husband descended from a French line.” The facts came to him almost without thought.

“Perhaps. Then why is a Scottish official called Lyon?”

“For the lion on the Scottish flag, madam. It is simply the ancient spelling. Many have held the title over the centuries. Otherwise, I am Sir Alasdair Drummond, Viscount Strathburn.”

“Viscount! Equally impressive. You brought me a notable gentleman, Freddie.”

“Brought me here? Please explain what is going on here. Now,” Dare said.

“Do sit, Lord Lyon.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon waved a hand.

“I will stand, thank you.” He slipped a hand behind his back, fisting and unfisting.

“My lord,” Dove said, “we have a problem and you can help us solve it.”

“You have a problem, Freddie,” the woman clarified. “It is not my dilemma.”

Dove shrugged. “Nonetheless, Lord Lyon will help, and we will all benefit.”

“Dilemma?” Dare asked, locking his knees to maintain his wobbly balance.

“You can solve my dilemma, sir, or watch yours grow far worse,” Dove said.

“You had best explain,” he growled.

“What do you recall from last night, my lord?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon asked.

“Not as much as I would like. Where is this house?”

“Cleveland Row, near St. James Park. It is my home and my establishment.”

Dimly, he remembered a burly man at the door, a younger woman oddly dressed in masculine attire; a raucous crowd of well-to-do men, gambling, drinking, joking, arguing; and Dove refilling a bitter-tasting grain whisky.

“I know we came here after the theatre,” Dare said. “Sir Frederic was with us. I had some whisky, and I think I was dosed with something. Laudanum, I believe.”

The woman drew a sharp breath. “If you had that here—my reputation is everything! Freddie!” Her voice was low and angry. “You said he was foxed and would sleep it off upstairs.” The glare she sent Dove could have stripped away the wallpaper.

“I thought he was,” Dove muttered.

“And the girl, was she dosed too? You and I will talk about that! Go on, Freddie. Explain the rest to Lord Lyon.”

“Aye, do that, Freddie,” Dare snarled. “Tell me about the girl.”

Dove shrugged. “Simply, Hannah Gordon owes me money. It must be repaid, and I want her packed off to Scotland as soon as possible, never to return here.”

“Absurd. Why would she owe you a penny?” His brain was sluggish. Pieces were falling into place but a central part was missing.

“Quite a few pennies, as it happens. Months ago, she signed a promissory note but has not met the agreement.”

At the theatre, Dare had witnessed Dove’s rude manner toward the Gordon girl. Did it have to do with this loan? “Such things are easily resolved,” Dare said.

“Either she satisfies the debt or she will be consigned to debtor’s prison until it is repaid. You will help to resolve it.”

“By right of cessio bonorum, debtors can be released from such a place after thirty days,” Dare said.

The legal facts came quickly to his misty brain, though he struggled to recall everything that had occurred last night.

“Do you require a solicitor? Is that why I am here? I am a trained lawyer, but no longer represent clients.”

“A lawyer as well as a viscount and official? Oh my…” Mrs. Dove-Lyon sounded as if she had discovered treasure.

“I am also a solicitor,” Dove said. “I need no advice from a Scottish lawyer.”

“In the north, we practice Scots and English law both. Surely you know that.”

“Then you can follow my thinking. You are here, in part, because I think you care what happens to Miss Gordon.”

“I would care about any young lady bullied in the manner you showed last night. At the moment, I care about a girl upstairs who is ill and needs a doctor.” His head spun, his stomach roiled, and he gripped the chair for balance.

Hannah’s name, the very thought of her, reignited a memory of holding her, kissing her. Wanting to protect her.

He had best find a vicar as well as a doctor, he thought.

“She will be seen to.” Dove waved his hand. “Your dilemma is as serious as hers.”

“My only dilemma is in finding out why I was drugged and detained here, and what the devil you want from Miss Gordon and me.”

“Your dilemma, sir, is that cache of Scotch whisky that you expect to arrive in London. Transporting whisky from Scotland is illegal, as you surely know.”

He felt a cold chill at Dove’s implication. “That cargo is completely legal.”

“Smuggling is a serious offense. When your cargo arrives in the Port of London, it will be confiscated. I have alerted the Thames police to watch for it. You could end up in prison or even hanged, as any Scot knows very well.”

“The taxes have been paid.”

“I want proof of that.”

“I owe you no proof. The whisky is a gift and the cargo is not smuggled.”

“It is if you sell it.”

“I have no intention of selling it.”

“No? You were quite drunk last night and offered me a price. I accepted.”

Dare frowned. He would never sell the stuff, though he remembered that Dove had asked about the whisky, and might have offered a price. For some reason, Frederic Dove seemed determined to take down Dare and Hannah Gordon too. But why?

Then it came back to him. Last night, while pouring drams of a harsh grain whisky, Dove had talked about his father and blamed the Scots for his death.

If Dove despised Scots and held a poisonous resentment for them, perhaps he wanted to make Gordon and Lord Strathburn, Scots newly arrived in London, a target of his wrath.

If so, the wisest action, Dare thought, was to take Hannah away from here quickly.

But he did not want wisdom; he wanted to take the man’s head off.

But in his current wobbly state, that was perhaps not the best plan.

Realizing that Dove intended to hurt Hannah made him seethe, and he rounded on the man, though his head spun.

“I would never take money from you,” he snarled. “I told you that whisky is a gift to the king from the Scottish government.”

“So you claimed…until you tried to sell me your illicit cargo.” Dove folded his arms and leaned a hip on the desk. “I want no involvement in a crime.”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon leaned forward and smacked her fan across her cousin’s shoulder with a thwap. “Freddie! You said nothing of this. You promised to bring me good Highland whisky for my clients. Now you would cheat Lord Lyon and accuse him of a crime?”

“All part of the arrangements, Bessie.”

“Scheme,” Dare corrected.

“Purchase,” Dove grunted.

“I am inclined to agree with Lord Lyon,” the woman said. “Scheme.”

“Nonetheless, the cargo will be confiscated when it arrives,” Dove said with a smug smile. “Scottish whisky-runners will find no welcome in English harbors.”

Transporting whisky out of Scotland was no crime if taxes were paid, Dare knew; he also knew the kegs intended for the king were safe on a steamship that would soon arrive in London.

Once the cargo reached the notoriously busy Port of London, he would claim it personally.

Then he and Sir Walter Scott would convey it to Carlton House and present it to the king in a brief audience.

But if Dove grabbed the cargo and leveled smuggling charges, that would be serious trouble.

The kerfuffle would not just jeopardize Dare and the Highland distiller, but involve the Scottish government as well.

King George, easily annoyed, loved Highland whisky but was not overly fond of the Scots.

If he took offense, the historically fraught relationship between England and Scotland could suffer.

That whisky could not fall into Dove’s keeping.

A chill went through him at the thought of Dove’s blackmail attempt; it could succeed. But Dare suspected there was more. Why wrap Hannah into this?

“What is it you want?” he growled.

“Do what I ask, and I could overlook the blunder of attempting to sell illegal goods to a member of the law profession.”

“I did nothing of the kind. Mrs. Dove-Lyon can attest to that, or find another witness.” He saw the lady shrug beneath the dark sheen of her veil. “Go on.”