Page 9 of Lyon of Scotland (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)

“The play should be excellent, especially with Mr. Kean playing the main part,” said Sir Walter Scott, seated beside Dare in the darkened theatre box. “It is an Elizabethan play, very old. A raucous comedy, I hear.”

Dare nodded, glancing around from his chair in the Duke of Gordon’s box. Two others had joined them that evening—John Lockhart, Sir Walter’s son-in-law, and Dare’s good friend Lord Linhope. As the others spoke quietly, Dare studied the program.

“A New Way to Pay Old Debts,” he read, “by Philip Massinger. Kean plays Sir Giles Overreach. That tells us something right there,” he told Scott.

His friend laughed. “Another character is called Justice Greedy. The play involves a debt-collector’s scheme. Debt makes a treacherous slope! My friend Lord Byron once told me it puzzled him greatly that those who loaned him money actually wanted it back.”

Dare chuckled. “Why would they expect that?”

“Look there—the box opposite ours. That is Sir George Naylor. And one of the young ladies is Miss Hannah Gordon, I believe.”

Glancing at the box on the opposite wall, across the span of the audience, Dare saw Naylor and the others illuminated in the golden light of flaming candelabras overhead.

His heart gave a leap to see a vision in soft pink and gold sitting beside a dark-haired young lady.

“Miss Gordon, aye. I saw her at the College of Arms this week. She is doing some heraldic art for Naylor.”

“A heraldry artist! Just the lass for you.” The twinkle in Scott’s eye was mischievous. “Perhaps you could hire Archie’s girl in Edinburgh. But she is engaged, is that not right?”

“I understand that has broken off.”

“Then that presents a chance for an eligible Scottish bachelor.” Scott grinned.

“Possibly.” Dare watched Hannah Gordon, seeing her clearly in a pool of flickering candlelight from chandeliers being adjusted by the snuff-boys in the shadows using ropes and pulleys.

The light lent a soft, warm glow to her face and form in the pink gown.

She was gently beautiful. The sight of her was like nourishment for the soul.

“Do you know the others in the box?” he asked Scott.

“The young beauty with Miss Gordon is Georgina Gordon-Huntly, a natural granddaughter of the Duke of Gordon. This is her grandfather’s box, but apparently the young ladies are Naylor’s guests this evening.

The young gentleman with them is the girl’s brother, Oliver Huntly, newly called to the bar.

Ah, and the gentleman entering the box now is Sir Frederic Dove, also from Naylor’s office. ”

“I met him this week,” Dare said curtly. He narrowed his eyes, convinced that Hannah Gordon wanted nothing to do with Dove.

“The play is starting.” Scott stirred in his seat with vibrant eagerness. Dare sat back and settled as the heavy velvet curtains swayed open.

The play was enjoyable, if archaic and stilted. Kean’s performance was exuberant, a comical villain who made Dare chuckle and Scott guffaw. But throughout, Dare’s glance drifted toward Hannah Gordon.

She did not laugh, and sometimes lifted a gloved hand to her face. One might think she watched a tragedy. When Frederic Dove, seated just behind her, leaned forward to murmur to her, she angled away as if uncomfortable. That caught Dare’s attention. He sat forward, intent.

Linhope, a friend of many years, leaned toward Dare. “What is going on over there, across the way?”

“Nothing I like,” Dare said. “That is Archibald Gordon’s daughter.”

“The girl from the College of Arms? You should go over there. You always had an interest in her, as I recall,” Linhope murmured. Blond hair gleaming in the candlelight, he sat back.

“I do,” Dare said quietly. He was very tempted to interfere; Linhope had guessed correctly, knowing him so well.

He had been friends with Arthur Hay-Stewart—not yet Lord Linhope then—since their days in Perth High School; after they had each studied law and medicine, they had reunited in the 42nd Highland regiment, called the Black Watch.

On the field at Quatre Bras five years earlier, their regiment took a bloody beating in a field of rye.

When Dare burned his hands pulling a soldier free of a brush fire, Arthur Stewart’s skill in a makeshift hospital tent had saved him.

While he recovered, he had helped Arthur and the camp surgeon, now Dare’s brother-in-law, tending patients.

He would always be grateful for their help and friendship.

He nodded understanding to Linhope, and turned as Scott now leaned close.

“What do you think of Sir Frederic Dove?” The poet, too, had noticed.

“I cannot say I am fond.”

“Forward fellow. He will not leave the young lady alone.”

“So I see.” Dare watched as the girl visibly cringed as Dove spoke to her. Fisting a hand, he stood, ready to make his way over there. Hannah Gordon looked frightened of Dove’s sly, aggressive behavior. Dare could not tolerate that. He wanted to grab the man by the cravat and drag him out of there.

“Are you going over there?” Scott asked.

“I am,” he said. Just then, the actors concluded the scene and the heavy curtains drew closed. The interval between acts, when audience members could walk around, chat, and take refreshment, had begun. “Please excuse me,” he told his companions.

Feeling compelled and urgent, Dare strode through the crowded foyer to reach the door leading to the other side of the theatre.

Miss Gordon’s situation might be none of his business, but he was concerned.

At the least, he had witnessed an older man pestering a young woman.

Yet he needed no excuse. He felt protective and indignant.

Wading through theatre-goers eager for refreshment and conversation, he edged down the darkened aisle until he saw Miss Gordon with Frederic Dove. The gentleman towered over her, all but backing her to the wall.

“Lord Lyon!” He heard his name then and turned to see George Naylor waving.

“My lord! I hoped to see you here tonight. Excellent play! I would introduce you to my wife, but she went in search of the sugar biscuits and lemonade being served in the anteroom. I am hoping to find something stronger, perhaps a good Scotch. Will you join me?”

“Soon. I see Miss Gordon there and mean to ask if she wants refreshment.”

“Of course. You are friends from Edinburgh.” Naylor glanced that way. “She is with Dove. They will be along shortly.”

Hannah Gordon, listening to Dove’s low monologue, raised a gloved hand to her throat. The gesture sent a spike through Dare. He took a step toward them.

“Sir, a warning.” Naylor set a hand to his arm. “Dove is easily offended, and frankly not fond of Scots.”

“I do not much like his manner with the young lady.”

“I suspect he is unhappy because his son Charles is taken with her—a Scottish girl. Dove would find that unsuitable. One can hardly blame the young man for liking the girl. But his father is cut of different cloth.”

“I do. I believe I shall intervene,” Dare muttered.

“If you must.” Naylor walked away, as if glad to be quit of the situation.

Dare walked through the crowd toward Miss Gordon and Dove, and caught part of their conversation. He tilted his head to listen before he might be seen.

“Miss Gordon, I have squandered time and patience on you and your worthless fiancé. Pay what is owed or be summoned to court. If you refuse—”

What the devil? Dare thought, pausing his step.

“You gave me more time,” he heard her say.

“Did I? You can be assigned to Fleet Prison, where your Scottish relatives in London could visit you.”

“Please, there must be another way!”

He had heard enough. As Dare pushed through the crowd, two women bumped against him, blocking his way. “Excuse me, ladies.”

“A Scotsman!” one said, staring up at him. “In a kilt!”

“Oh, very nice,” the other replied. “So authentic!”

Dare bent toward them. “Ladies,” he said, “if this were authentic, I would have twice as much tartan wrapped around me. I would carry a great sword, a pistol, a shield, and a terrible grudge against the English. But I see my lady over there and must go. I hear the sugar biscuits are very good tonight. Enjoy them.” He walked past.

“Ooh! His young lady is very lucky,” one of them said.

Staring up at Frederic Dove, Hannah lifted her chin and pulled at the tartan shawl sliding off her shoulder. “You did promise me more time.”

“I am not inclined. If you do not want prison, I may have another solution.”

She dreaded the threat of prison, knowing he might act on it.

Edging back, she pressed against the wall as he hovered over her.

Glancing around frantically, she glimpsed a dark-haired man, taller than most, coming toward them.

Strathburn! Easing to one side, she tried to avoid Dove as he took her arm.

“Pretty enough, but Scottish, God save us. Still, my cousin might agree to help.”

“You mentioned your cousin,” she said. “I do not want that sort of help.”

“Pay the debt, or Mrs. Dove-Lyon will have to assist. Mr. Whitworth spent many an evening in her gaming establishment. Young men with money and connection frequent the place.”

“Gambling? Oh! He did mention the name, but I thought she was a friend of his family in the city.”

“Your ill-chosen lover lost his fortune there with his friends. He was not very bright when the drink was on him. I lent him money to save him from disgrace. But he had you sign the note, and he escaped London. I do not know where he is. Do you?”

“No,” she said. “And I told you I did not sign.”

“Forged or not, I am still owed. I thought he was good for the funds, being heir to an estate. So I made some enquiries. Did you know he was disinherited for his behavior? No? Never told you, did he.”

“I did not know,” she whispered. She saw even more clearly how foolish she had been. Charmed, wooed, lured—perhaps he knew he had lost his fortune; perhaps he thought her wealthy father would pay.