Page 2 of The Blind Lyon (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)

Pennington shifted his position and then nudged Allan in the ribs with an elbow, which jarred him from his thoughts. “When was the last time you were with a woman?”

“Over a year ago.” He shrugged, for there was no shame in that either. “It’s not a bad life. I keep busy. I have my friends, my piano, my cat.”

“Good God, man. We need to find you a wife, or at the very least, a mistress.”

Allan snorted. “Having a woman in my life for whatever capacity won’t work in the long term unless she has the capacity to accept me as I am. Besides, I don’t know that I wish to be married.” Despite his meandering thoughts.

“If that were true, you wouldn’t have stepped foot into the Lyon’s Den after you already know what happened to all your friends.”

“This is true.” He couldn’t help his chuckle. “Perhaps I’m desperate, then.”

Pennington drew in a sharp breath. “Well, damn. Mrs. Dove-Lyon approaches.”

“Interesting.” She was the owner of the gaming hell, and from all accounts enjoyed mucking up men’s lives. “What does she look like?”

“A form that will be matronly in a few years. She’s clad in an elaborate, glittering gown of a dark green with a black net overskirt.

It makes her blend with the shadows in the gaming room.

There are also heavy veils of black netting, and they obscure the upper half of her face.

” He lowered his voice. “Most disconcerting is the way her lips are stained as dark red as a tart cherry.” Then he cleared his throat.

“How wonderful to see you, Mrs. Dove-Lyon.”

“Stop with the charm, Pennington. I am immune to it.” Though a hint of amusement went through her tones, there was also a sharp note there that made Allan frown. “I am surprised to find you here, Your Grace.”

“We all must be somewhere,” he responded and tightened his hand on the head of his cane. “How might we be of assistance, Mrs. Dove-Lyon?”

“I know better than to fall for a pretty face and a cheeky grin.” She tsked her tongue.

“And I’m well above the age where a man can manipulate me, but I know things and can suspect others.

” A brief pause followed her words. “However, if you are here, Your Grace, you might be a touch desperate. Perhaps you should put a wager down on a game that’s happening in the garden, hmm?

It could be interesting… for all of us.”

Of course. This was how she trapped a man at the tables or into marriage. “I’m not averse, but what if I lose?”

The notes of her laughter weren’t unpleasant but the hairs at his nape quivered with warning. “You will either owe the house an exorbitant fee, or I might ask you for a favor.”

That didn’t bode well. “What sort of favor?”

“Oh, I can’t tell you that, for I don’t know what I’ll need or when I’ll need it.” There was almost a predatory grin in the tone.

This woman was dangerous. “What if I win?”

“Then the prize is even more compelling.”

Pennington snorted and elbowed him in the ribs again. “She means she’ll match you.”

“Ah.” Allan’s frown deepened. “Is that your true quest then, Mrs. Dove-Lyon? How you truly make your fortune?” He remembered what Captain Simon Huxley had told him about having to spend a king’s ransom in order to be matched, and even then, love hadn’t been guaranteed.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, Your Grace.”

“Mmm.” He trusted her about as much as a wild tiger who hadn’t eaten in days.

When she moved closer, the cloying scent of honeysuckle wafted to his nose. “Are you up for a game of my choosing?”

Pennington nudged his shoulder. “What say you, Masterson?” Teasing wove through the earl’s voice. “Want to chance being matched to a woman you don’t know and might not even get on with?”

“Uh, I—”

“I never knew you were such a coward, Your Grace.” Then Mrs. Dove-Lyon sweetened the pot.

“If you happen to bet against someone who can’t pay and he has an eligible daughter, fantastic.

But over the last year or so, I’ll admit that some of my matches haven’t gone as well as I would have liked.

There have been… problems, and a few have ended in horrific, scandalous divorces that I’ve taken quite badly and to heart. ”

“Ha!” The earl snorted. “Such gammon. You enjoy watching men suffer.”

“Quite astute of you, Pennington. I do, but that doesn’t mean I always hope all my matches will succeed. Love, when done well, is magnificent. As you well know, unless I miss my guess.”

A chuckle came from the earl. “Touché.”

Allan resettled his hand on the head of his cane. “What if a match made tonight isn’t what I wanted?”

The rustle of fabric indicated she might have shrugged. “There are opportunities to select a different match, but only once… and for a price.”

“Of course, but it’s a risk.”

“Everything in life is, Your Grace. Surely you know that.” Her tone suggested he might be an imbecile.

Despite the urge to grumble or argue, deep down he knew she was correct. Instead, he nodded. What the hell? He could use a bit of risk in his life. Sometimes a good prod was needed to convince him to do something daring. “Come, Pennington, let us away to the garden.”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon laid a hand on his arm. “I shall escort you there personally.”

He made no protest, but Pennington uttered a low grumble of dissent beside him as they walked through the gaming room.

Then he was obliged to veer toward the left.

“Just through this door, Your Grace,” the gaming hell owner said, with strained excitement in her tone. “Have you been in the garden before?”

“I have not.”

“Oh, it’s a beautiful space. I rather enjoy time to myself out here during the daylight hours, but during the night, it’s like a fairyland with lanterns in the trees, candle holders clipped to the shrubberies, night-blooming flowers trailing over the bricked walls.”

“It sounds lovely.”

“Indeed. There are ornamental fruit trees that give the space a mysterious elegance and the elusive sweet fragrance of the blooms that will grow into fruit in the summer. The evergreen shrubberies along with holly bushes hide nocturnal animals from being trampled beneath men’s shoes.

My flower beds tucked into all the corners are just now bursting forth with blooms; it is one of my guilty pleasures, watching the handiwork of my gardening staff break into a riot of color.

” She briefly tightened her fingers on his sleeve before releasing him.

“Stone benches rest throughout if you find yourself fatigued; it is quite a festive atmosphere out here.”

“It sounds noisy.”

“It can be, but tonight, there are ten men assembled for this game. They stand in a semi-circular arc in the middle of the garden.”

“Doing what?”

“Well, that is the game. It’s quite simple.”

“Mmm, eye of the beholder, I’d rather think.”

Beside him, Pennington snorted with laughter.

“Before we go forward, if you choose to participate, you will need to sign a voucher that gives permission for the club to withdraw the requisite coin from your bank account.”

“To wager on this game?”

“That, as well as for the privilege of delivery and possession of a possible bride.”

He huffed out a breath. “As if the woman is a parcel or sack of potatoes without feelings, thoughts, or her own plans for the future.”

“It is a transaction from my viewpoint, a gamble from yours. Such is life.” When he nodded, she snapped her fingers. “This is Mr. Able, one of my most trusted associates. He will guide your signature on the paperwork.”

At that point, Pennington interrupted. “I’m afraid I’ll need to insist upon reading said document before my friends drops his signature. It’s only fair, and I don’t want you to swindle a blind man.”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon inhaled sharply. “You were a pain in my arse over a year ago before you wed. It doesn’t appear anything has changed in that quarter, Pennington.”

“I would tell you that you are quite right, Mrs. Dove-Lyon, but I have changed. In all the ways that matter.”

“Ah, then it is with me that it doesn’t. Why am I not surprised?”

“Might it be because we can’t trust you?” The teasing was clear in the earl’s voice.

“Do shut up, Pennington.” Fabric rustled again. “Mr. Able, please let His Lordship look over the paper so His Grace can sign his consent.”

“Of course, Mrs. Dove-Lyon.” That came from the assumed gaming hell owner’s lackey.

“Thank you,” Pennington said, clearly in possession of the contract.

Allan stood quietly by, but gratitude filled his heart for having friends who wished to protect him, especially here.

Eventually, the earl said, “This seems quite reasonable and legitimate. Much like the document I was forced to sign. However, on the duke’s behalf, I reserve the right to cry foul and demand a replacement bride if the first doesn’t seem up to the task of duchess on paper.

I refuse to have him matched with a woman who won’t make allowances for his circumstances. ”

“That isn’t necessary,” Allan said in a quiet voice. “Everyone possesses different strengths. Obstacles can be overcome.”

“Quite true, but even you must admit that you can—and possibly will be—taken advantage of, especially here.”

“Yes, of course,” Allan said with a nod. “However, consider where we are. Every man here, regardless of whether they can see or not, is often taken advantage of.”

“Excellent insight.” Soft laughter came from Mrs. Dove-Lyon. “Very well. So it shall be written. Will you sign, Your Grace?”

“I will.” He let himself be pulled to a nearby table, where the earl put a pen into his hand and guided him to where the signature line was. After he scrawled his signature, he left everything on the table… hopefully not literally. “Now what?”

Again, Mrs. Dove-Lyon snapped her fingers. Footsteps sounded throughout the garden, and a low murmur of male voices floated on the air as those gathered voiced surprise and concern at what was unfolding. “There are six gentlemen in this garden, and all have paid to enter into this wager.”

“What will they do?” Allan couldn’t help but ask. Despite his misgivings about the Lyon’s Den, he was curious.

“All six men will be given vials of various poisons that have been diluted. Your job is to wager on which of them will retch or pass out first.”

Beside him, Pennington gasped. “Is there a physician nearby?”

“Yes, of course.” Annoyance wove through her voice. “I am not a monster, Pennington.”

“What are they competing for?” Allan wanted to know.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon tsked her tongue. “I cannot reveal the details of someone else’s contract.”

“Fair enough.” But there was always something, and the owner wasn’t always truthful.

The earl leaned close as the sound of footsteps drifted to Allan’s ears. “Footmen are passing out vials of the poisons. Which of the six do you bet on?” Then he spent a few moments explaining what each man looked like, how he was acting, and even what he smelled like.

“I’ll lay my coin on the man second from the right,” Allan said, and hoped to God he’d made the correct decision.

“Drink the full contents of your vials, you lot,” Mr. Able said, from Allan’s other side.

Pennington tapped Allan’s arm. “They’ve all taken their measures of poison. Now, we wait.” Then he snorted. “Well, that’s one down.”

“My man?”

“No.” The earl huffed. “There goes another. He’s twitching a good bit on the ground.” A chuckle followed. “Ah, there’s the doctor, forcing him to drink water. Nasty business in those vials, it seems.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said, with a measure of pride in her voice. “I don’t do anything by half, and if a man wishes to be careless with his coin, he’ll pay for it.”

“Damn,” Pennington said as he rested a hand on Allan’s shoulder. “Two more just slid to the ground. One is foaming at the mouth. The doctor will do God’s work this night.”

Allan kept his own council, for the thought the games that were played at the gaming hell as ridiculous as the buy-ins charged to the gamblers. A silence fell over the garden. He couldn’t stand it any longer. “Have the last two fallen?”

“They have not.” The earl squeezed his fingers on Allan’s shoulder. “In fact, they look perfectly fine. Not acting poorly at all.”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon clapped her hands. “It seems we have two winners.”

“Meaning?” Even to his own ears he heard the strain in his voice.

“Gentlemen, since you have survived the game with no side effects, so I hope you have the funds to pay up… since you did sign the contracts.”

He waited with a fast-beating heart for the men’s answers. “What is happening?”

Pennington cleared his throat. “It seems both are in dun territory. Both had hoped to be the last man standing… literally, and win the pot, but that is not to be.”

By design, no doubt. “And?”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon giggled. “As luck would have it, they both have marriage-aged daughters!”

Allan bit back a groan.

In short order, both men were encouraged to tell him about their daughters so that Allan could choose between them.

And it was the devil’s own work, honestly, for he was being forced to pick a bride from two horrible choices.

Apparently one young woman was spoiled beyond measure that she’d become a brat, was never satisfied and critical, but she wanted a title, while the other woman, older than the other, had a face like a horse with a tendency to snore.

Pennington chuckled. “A good thing you’re blind, eh?”

“But I’m not deaf, and I’m certainly not willing to be bullied or have no sleep for the rest of my life.” Good God, why did I do this?