Page 6 of Lyon of Scotland (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)

Dare entered the art room with Naylor, recognizing the space where Hannah Gordon had ducked earlier.

Flooded with sunlight, the large room was lined with shelves and cupboards along the walls, with tables and work desks filling the central area.

Two artists, a young man and a young woman, sat working at slant-top desks.

Hannah Gordon looked up and smiled, sunlight glinting over her blonde hair and illuminating her deep blue eyes. Dare nodded, but she glanced away shyly.

“An excellent space for artists to work,” he told Naylor.

“It is. Let me introduce you,” Naylor said. “Lord Lyon, this is Mr. Charles Dove. His father is Sir Frederic Dove, who handles legal claims and disputes for us. Lord Lyon, King of Arms in Scotland,” he told the young man, who stood.

“Sir, it is a privilege,” Dove said.

“And this is our newest painter,” Naylor said. “Miss Hannah Gordon.”

She looked up, one hand resting on a page that showed a meticulous design of a lion, a harp, and a horse on a shield with a crown above. She stood quickly, gracefully.

“Miss Gordon.” Dare met that blue, blue gaze and saw her cheeks go pink.

“Lord Lyon. Thank you for taking the time to visit the art room.”

“I would not have missed it. Good to see you again, Miss Gordon.”

“You know each other?” Charles Dove’s voice squeaked in surprise.

“Miss Gordon and I are acquaintances in Edinburgh,” Dare explained.

“Lord Lyon knows my father,” she added.

She barely reached his shoulder, and though she looked sweet and gentle, her eyes were like the hot blue glow at the base of a flaming wick.

Dare felt a shiver run through him as he sensed a quiet fire of earnestness and allure.

Her brows were dark arches, her hair dark gold.

Her cheeks dimpled when she smiled. She was a confection, and he felt struck to his core each time he saw her.

But he sensed a current of sadness or trouble in her gaze. She glanced away as if to hide it from him. He frowned, tipping his head, wondering.

“Charles, perhaps you will show Lord Lyon some of your designs,” Naylor said.

“Of course, sir.” The slender fair-haired fellow pushed up his spectacles and went to a side table to fetch some pages, then returned. “If I may, these are some new drafts.”

“Fine work,” Dare said. He murmured his approval over the ink sketches, almost afraid to frighten the young man, who seemed shy and uncertain, barely out of his university years.

As Naylor looked through the sheaf of documents, young Dove led Dare to a table to look at some finished pieces arranged there—brightly painted crests on creamy paper, small painted wooden shields, a silk banner decorated in glossy colors.

Dare found Charles Dove knowledgeable and surprisingly confident in explaining the various works, and Dare made sure to express admiration over each meticulously crafted piece.

But his gaze strayed to the girl at the other desk.

She distracted him—he had always thought her attractive—and he was impressed to see that here, in the smoky heart of London, her plaid shawl was a quiet testament of Scottish pride.

It seemed a deliberate choice, just as he had made with his kilt and kit.

While Naylor and Charles Dove spoke, Dare stepped away to speak with her.

“Beautiful work, Miss Gordon,” he said. “Your father would be pleased to see it.”

“He knows little about it,” she said, standing again as he came near. “You mentioned out in the hallway earlier that you spoke to him recently?”

“Aye. When he learned I was heading to London, he asked that I look in on you to convey his affection. He was about to head into the Highlands.”

“Thank you.” Her smile was quick and genuine. “I am glad he thought of me. He has been so busy. His annual painting sojourn can stretch to weeks and months. This time, my sisters went with him.” She looked down and her voice became small and sad.

“I am happy to share his regards. Tell me more about your work,” he said.

She touched the sheet on her desk. “This is a design for one of King George’s new royal crests.”

“English, I see. Rather, British, since it includes Wales and Ireland.”

“Exactly. I am making ink sketches, and will add watercolor. Then we will do final designs on finer quality paper and frame them in paperboard for approval.”

“Very good.” He bent close to study the details, his hand resting close to hers, her shoulder brushing his arm. He straightened. “Your work is skilled and elegant.”

“There, you see, Lord Lyon,” Naylor said, coming toward them, “we have a capable Scottish artist here. I may let Miss Gordon work on the king’s new Scottish crest.”

“Ah.” Dare stepped back. “Miss Gordon, I know you do lovely portraits, but I did not realize you were trained in heraldic design.”

“I was always interested in it, and…Sir George offered me a chance to do some work here. I am fortunate, and I—I love the work,” she added.

He heard a tremor in her voice. “I see.”

“A privilege,” she insisted, but looked away again, cheeks fire red.

Something troubled the lass. Dare frowned. “A pleasure to see you, Miss Gordon. Perhaps our paths will cross again before I leave the city.”

“Perhaps,” she said softly. He saw what seemed like pleading in her limpid blue eyes.

Strangely, he sensed fear there, with some silent message.

Her brow wrinkled. A plea? What did she need?

If she wanted to leave London, he wondered if she could do some work in his Edinburgh office.

Knowing it would be poor form to appropriate an artist from the College of Arms, he dismissed the thought.

“A pleasure, miss,” he repeated. He felt a strong, instinctive urge to ask what was wrong. But just then the door opened and a gentleman entered, beckoning to Sir George.

Dare noticed that Hannah Gordon’s eyes widened in alarm. She sat quickly, turned her back, and picked up the pen to resume her work.

“Miss Gordon,” Dare murmured, “is something amiss?” She only shook her head.

“Lord Lyon, sir! Let me introduce you to our lawyer,” Sir George said.

Dare joined them by the door. “Lord Strathburn is the new Lord Lyon, King of Arms in Scotland,” Naylor explained to the other man.

“My lord, this is Sir Frederic Dove, who watches over some important matters, as you can imagine. You met his son, Charles Dove, just now.”

“Ah. Pleased to meet you, Sir Frederic.” Dare tipped his head.

“Lord Lyon, a privilege. Welcome. I am sure you can learn something here in the College of Arms to benefit your northern office.” The big gray-haired fellow had a decided sneer in his voice, which Dare decided was either by habit or simply reserved for Scots.

“Our office is small compared to this one. Everything seems well in hand here,” Dare said. “I am familiar with a lawyer’s duties, sir, as I served as solicitor in the Scottish heraldry office for several years before my current appointment.”

“Perhaps I can aspire to a greater rank here.” Dove laughed and looked at Naylor.

“You are too valuable in other ways, Sir Frederic,” Naylor chuckled.

“Solicitor, eh?” Dove went on. “I thought you looked familiar. Have we met?”

The man did look familiar. Dare narrowed his eyes, but the thought eluded him. “I believe we met a couple of years ago when Lord Kinnoull and I came here.”

“There is another interesting coincidence,” Sir George said. “Lord Lyon and Miss Gordon are acquaintances in Edinburgh.”

“Ah.” Dove nodded, then glanced at Hannah Gordon, his gaze curiously dark and flat. Assessing, somehow. And something about it made the girl uncomfortable, for she tensed her shoulders high and lowered her head as she worked.

A chill of warning slipped down his spine. As he left the art room with the others, Dare could not shake a lingering unease. Only when Dove bid them farewell did he relax.

Over the next few days, Dare met with Naylor in the College of Arms and accompanied Sir Walter Scott and his son-in-law, John Lockhart, on outings.

He was pleased to see his close friend, Arthur Hay-Stewart, Lord Linhope, a Scottish physician and friend from school days and the war on the Continent as well.

With Scott and Lockhart, they visited the newly organized British Museum to see the ancient artifacts that formed the bulk of the collection, and attended a few suppers among Scottish acquaintances in London.

Yet in keeping with his work in London, Dare spent hours in the dusty archives at the College of Arms studying armorial books and rolls of arms preserved in old, fragile documents and hefty bound volumes.

Taking notes and making small sketches as he went, he considered asking Hannah Gordon for help in adding her precise hand to the notes he needed to bring back to Scotland.

But he suspected that too much attention just now from Lord Lyon might cause issues with Naylor.

Dare would not jeopardize the girl’s position here—and he hoped to discover what bothered her.

Perhaps he could help in some way. Remembering what he had seen of Dove and the girl, he felt sure something was amiss there.

Each time he encountered her, she was in conversation either with Charles Dove, the young artist, or with Naylor over some detail.

Passing them in a hallway or elsewhere, he murmured a greeting and felt his heart gave a little lurch.

He was always looking for a chance to speak with her, until finally, he decided to do something about it.

The time had come to step past whatever barrier he had placed around himself for years, find out if the lass had indeed ended her engagement, and if she would welcome his interest.