Page 5 of The Blind Lyon (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)

Mayfair, London

Allan didn’t wake until around noon the next day, for being at the Lyon’s Den so late the night before and realizing he’d been manipulated into marriage had left him shocked but not surprised.

Apparently, the rumors surrounding the owner of the gaming hell were true, and quite frankly, he wasn’t best pleased.

“Ah, I see you have rejoined the land of the living.”

Despite his general annoyance with life currently, he offered a small grin at the sound of his valet’s voice. “I was out far too late last night. That is not how I wish to live the remainder of my life.” Of course, he also didn’t want to be paired with someone vastly unsuited.

“Understandable, Your Grace. Do you intend to leave the house today?”

It was a fair question, for most of the time, Allan preferred to stay where he was most comfortable.

And safe. “I do not, actually. There is a call I must pay, and since time is of the essence, I should probably do it more sooner than later.” Did he want to call on Mrs. Dove-Lyon?

No, he did not, but the situation he’d found himself in was unacceptable and needed improvement.

“I trust the call is important?”

“It is.”

“Very well. I shall choose your clothing based upon that. Do you have a color preference?”

Ah, the days when he could see color and appreciate the nuances therein throughout the world he lived in. It was one of the things he missed the most, and it had been quite cruel of fate to take away his sight after twenty years of enjoying everything.

Perhaps he hadn’t properly appreciated it at the time.

“I have no preference, so I defer to your tastes. You know which ones turn me out to best advantage.” Out of all the people who occupied his small circle, Collins was one of the men he trusted the most, for he had been with Allan nearly from the first when the fever changed his life forever.

“Of course, Your Grace. And one more thing.” The slight note of surprise in the man’s voice immediately put him on edge.

“Yes?”

“Viscount of Ashbury is here to see you. Shall I tell the butler to put him in the drawing room, or would you prefer to see him here as you go through your toilette for the morning?”

That caused Allan to swing his legs over the side of the bed. He slept in the nude—after all, who was there to see him?—and he was confident in who he was as a person. Additionally, he was blind and a duke, so he would do what he pleased regardless.

“Have him sent up with a tea tray and perhaps something to eat. I’m famished, and I’ll wager this errand is going to require sustenance.” He felt about for his spectacles with the tinted lenses on his bedside table. “As soon as I do the necessary, you can help me dress.”

“I am well aware of how you like your mornings ordered, Your Grace.” There was a hint of teasing in Collins’s well-modulated voice.

“Thank you. I think, perhaps, I say words merely to fill the silence for myself.” That was one of the more unfortunate side effects of being alone, the incredible, and at times, crushing silence.

No doubt it had been one reason he’d learned how to play the pianoforte.

Of course, with a house full of servants, he wasn’t ever alone, not really.

Differently, of course, but still.

After he’d relieved himself in the chamber pot behind what he’d been told was quite a luxurious privacy screen of painted Chinese silk featuring cherry blossom trees and a reflecting pond, he moved to the wash basin, where he scrubbed his face, neck, and chest, then proceeded to brush his teeth.

The powder’s peppermint flavor was comforting in its familiarity, and Collins knew that he liked all his personal care items to be in the same place every day so that he could find them without fumbling about.

It gave him a sense of stability and control.

By the time Collins had him shaved, and Allan had donned breeches and a fine lawn shirt, the viscount entered the dressing room.

“Well, damn my eyes, you do live, Masterson.” A jovial tone threaded through Thomas Prestwick’s voice. “I was beginning to wonder, but then Pennington told me he’d gone to the Lyon’s Den with you last night, and I’m afraid I haven’t yet got over my shock.”

“Fuck off, Ashbury.” Yet he said it with affection, for the man had been a friend for many years.

Like Pennington and even Captain Huxley, those men formed a tight knot around him that provided protection and companionship, even though all three had recently found themselves wed.

He appreciated their presence in his life more than he could ever say, and without them, he might have given himself over to the darkness within, which was more frightening than being in the dark due to the loss of sight.

“Why have you come to call?” From what he’d heard of the viscount’s description, the man was of average height with blond hair and eyes the color of strong tea.

He’d had many challenges and heartbreaks in his past, but once he’d married—to an enemy, no less—that had been the catalyst for change with him.

Collins tapped his shoulder. It was a sign to lift his arms so the valet could put a waistcoat atop the shirt.

“To find out how you fared last night, and to make sure you were doing all right today.”

Allan nodded. “Fair enough.” When Collins began manipulating a length of silk about his neck, he stood still and let the valet work. “Pennington was bored last night. When he called and said he was headed to the Lyon’s Den, I decided to accompany him on a lark.”

“What a bammer.” Ashbury snorted with laughter. “I believe Pennington did call, but only to drag you out of the house with some nonsense that you are festering here.”

Heat crept up the back of Allan’s neck. “There is that.”

“So the earl and you spent a good bulk of the evening at the gaming hell. Did he wager on any of the games?”

“He did not. Or, at least not to my knowledge. We left around midnight, which isn’t late by London’s standards, but it is for mine.” Then he’d headed straight to bed, for the wagering and liquor hadn’t been a good combination.

“Yet you did.”

“I did.” Used to Collins’s ministrations, he continued to converse while his collar and cuffs were added. “On a ridiculous game Mrs. Dove-Lyon guided us to, with the added benefit that if one of the losers at drinking diluted poison had a daughter, I could claim her as my bride.”

“Well, she is sly and cunning in that regard… as long as you pay for the privilege.” Fabric rustled, indicating the viscount was either moving about the room or that he’d decided to sit in one of the chairs.

“It’s not so bad, that being matched.” He cleared his throat. “Or rather, it isn’t after a while.”

Allan shrugged. “The two women I had to choose from were… lacking in one way or another, and aside from looks—which are completely lost on me—if I do take someone for my duchess, I would at least like her to be pleasing and with an agreeable disposition. She will be who others come to with inquiries for us as a couple.”

“This is true.” He cleared his throat. “What are you going to do about it? Has Mrs. Dove-Lyon made you sign marriage contracts for one of the women?”

“She has not. I told her last night that I would call on her today and give her my choice of bride.” When Collins tapped again on his shoulder, he slipped his arms into the jacket the valet held, and from the feel of it, the man had chosen a garment of superfine fabric.

No doubt in the sapphire blue, as that was his preference.

“However, I am not of a mind to select either woman to jump into parson’s mousetrap with. I want a third option.”

“Which is what?”

He shrugged. “Who can say? I’m sure she’ll have some crafty answer that will cost me a fortune, but neither of her first choices will work.”

“Do you want company?”

“I wouldn’t mind it, especially if there is paperwork to peruse.” Another reason he relied so heavily on his friends. “Do you have the time to join me?”

“Yes.” Again, fabric rustled. Perhaps the viscount had gotten to his feet. “Olivia is currently abed, as she is not feeling quite the thing, and she ordered me out anyway.”

“Why? Is she ill?”

“Not quite.” There was so much excitement and anticipation in the other man’s voice that it made Allan suspicious.

“We have just discovered she is increasing. Due sometime in September.” Then concern flooded his tone.

“While we hope the babe will be healthy and perfect, there is the possibility it will have problems.”

When bid by Collins with the slight tap of a hand to his right knee, he inserted that foot into a boot the valet held.

“Put that to the back of your mind.” Allan well knew about the viscount’s by-blow who had been adopted due to her mental challenges.

“If you child does possess such things, you and Oliva will love it regardless. You have learned well from the mistakes in the past; the child is fortunate that it will arrive into loving arms and hearts.” Once he’d donned the second boot, he felt a modicum of relief, for he was nearly ready to go out and face the day.

His own heart, however, experienced a stab of envy. What would it feel like to have a babe of his own tucked in his arms? A little life that was dependent on him, that might be his heir someday? Thus, the reason he wanted to be quite selective regarding a woman he took to wife.

“Thank you for that, my friend. I suppose Olivia and I won’t know until the babe comes into the world.”

“Indeed.” As he submitted to Collins so his hair could be styled, he frowned. Let us hope that Mrs. Dove-Lyon plays fair today.

The Lyon’s Den

Cleveland Street

Whitehall

When Allan alighted from the closed carriage with Ashbury’s assistance, he took in a deep lungful of air then let it ease out. The slight misting rain didn’t bother him, for the overcast skies meant no overly bright light that hurt his eyes. Then he heaved a sigh.