Page 1 of The Lyon Whisperer (The Lyon’s Den Connected World #79)

London, England 1812

Number 4 Marlborough Street

C olonel Lord Chase Culver maintained a mask of polite interest as Lord Benedict Duval, the Earl of Fallsgate extolled the virtues of his prized French brandy while doling out two hefty portions of same.

“No better way to cap off such a stimulating conversation, Colonel…shipment arrived only last week…specially formulated for me…aged in hundred-year-old French oak…”

He nodded his understanding and, hands clasped behind his back, wandered along the curved bricked wall of the earl’s private cellar. He studied the impressive array of wine and spirits on display and tried to refocus his thoughts on his cause, and the real reason he’d agreed to meet with the earl today in his uncle’s stead when the man’s late-night activities made it impossible for him to rouse from his bed.

One minute he prepared to launch into the very real need of veterans—his men—for support upon their return home from the war, support a powerful and influential man like Fallsgate could help assure. The next he found himself wholly distracted by the muted sounds of a conversation he could swear was taking place in this very chamber—which was impossible. Only he and Fallsgate occupied the cellar.

Yet, he’d caught—he thought—a woman’s hushed voice, the sound akin to someone whispering low in his ear. Something about her tone, the cadence of her words stirred all his senses to life in a way he had not experienced in a very long time.

He closed his eyes briefly, noting the chill air of the tall-ceilinged, narrow space, the faint whiff of wood, damp with fermented drink, the hard stone beneath his polished boots, and listened.

He heard nothing but liquid splashing into crystal, and the earl’s rumbling speech.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he credited his recent lack of sleep, thanks to the heavy demands of his and his uncle’s neglected estates, with causing his imagination to run wild.

He mustn’t waste this opportunity. Now, following his and Fallsgate’s in-depth discussion of his peninsular tour was the perfect time to beseech the earl to use his sway in parliament for the veterans, especially as he seemed particularly impressed with the moniker Chase had returned home with—the “Iron-Lion of Barrosa.”

Personally, Chase found the byname overkill. True, he’d served his country well, knowing instinctively how hard and how far to push his men, honing in on and exploiting their strengths before they knew they had them to achieve the stunning victory he had in Barrosa. But he considered that nothing more than being born to lead. Some were and some, like his uncle, weren’t.

“Here you are, then.” Fallsgate handed him a crystal snifter, warm from his hand. “Tell me what you think.”

Chase swirled and then held the aromatic liquor under his nose and inhaled deeply. “Oak. Caramel. And…orange blossom?”

“That’s it, man. Now roll it over your tongue.”

He took a small sip and let it sit on his tongue to absorb the flavors. As he did so, he moved toward the lone wood-paneled wall of shelves, topped with leather-bound tomes, carved mahogany boxes, and what looked to be cases of dried spice. The brandy tasted like…brandy. He swallowed and bent to read one of the faded titles printed in gold filigree.

“You naughty, dirty boy, Fergus,” came a muffled, distinctly feminine voice, followed by a gasp, then a peal of rich laughter.

Straightening, he allowed himself a small smile. He hadn’t imagined her.

He eyed the earl over his shoulder, considering.

The broad-chested, older man, currently engaged in recorking and storing the bottle of brandy, wore a benign smile. Completely oblivious to the audacious behavior taking place under his very roof, clearly.

That left Chase with a decision to make. Inform Fallsgate of his servants’ outrageous impropriety and potentially embarrass the earl or say nothing and let Fallsgate’s servants run roughshod over him with their blatant disregard for his authority.

He and Fallsgate were not friends, per se . Acquaintances, yes, and they’d enjoyed a lively conversation today.

Chase considered what he knew of the earl. A noted blue blood, the head of an old and distinguished line. A very vocal supporter of land-owner rights, the military, and, according to his uncle, a strict adherent of the social proprieties especially as concerned gender roles.

“Paws off, sir. Look what you’ve done to my dress, you devil, Roderick. Oh, that tickles.” It was the same woman’s husky voice, but… Roderick ? She entertained not one man, but two?

That settled it.

“My lord, if I may?”

The earl started in his direction, his brows arched in inquiry.

“There’s something I feel I should men—”

“I draw the line at kissing on the lips, sir. Oh, maybe just one.”

The earl stopped dead in his tracks. His face went instantly crimson. “Bah, it’s too fine a day to waste indoors. Let us away to the veranda. Anything you need to say, can wait ’til then.” He hastened toward the door.

Chase was momentarily shocked into motionlessness. Evidently the earl was aware of the strange goings-on amongst his servants. At least he did not look pleased. That was something.

Fallsgate halted at the open doorway. He sent Chase a severe frown.

Chase started to follow, then froze when a low rumble sounded behind him and the stone under his feet vibrated. He whipped around to see the entire wall of shelves turning on an axis to reveal what looked to be the manse’s drying room.

The layout made sense. The cellar was located toward the back of the manse, near the servants’ domain. A hidden entrance to the laundry and drying rooms on the main floor was not uncommon in these old, grand homes.

“Dear God,” Fallsgate muttered and stalked back toward the opening.

Two female servants peeked out from behind the wall, eyes wide as saucers. The men in their midst had evidently fled.

In addition to their shocked expressions, both women wore soaked aprons, and scarves over the tops of their heads to hold their hair back, he assumed.

One of the maids was…extraordinarily beautiful. He’d almost never seen eyes the color of hers. Blue, but not ordinary blue. Nearly violet. The lashes framing those wide-set eyes were thick and black as coal.

She was a bold one. Brazen enough to meet his stare with one of her own, even if she did look dismayed by the sight of them. She was the woman he’d heard purring into her lover’s ear, of that he had no doubt.

The earl cleared his throat, and she seemed to remember her place. She lowered her eyes and dipped an awkward curtsey before Fallsgate, murmuring an apology, as the other maid dropped her load and ran as if escaping the gates of hell. He heard a loud bang as an outer door slammed shut behind the escapee.

Only then did he note…puppies. Five of them, coats slicked from a recent bath. Two had the audacity to wiggle at his feet in ecstatic glee, and three jostled for position to poke their shining noses out of the apron of the lone servant left standing. She held it in front of her, knuckles turning white.

The awkward curtsey suddenly made perfect sense.

He wondered if now was a good time to offer his butler’s services in procuring some reliable servants for the earl.

“Dear God, can someone stop those beasts?” the earl bellowed as the two puppies the missing housemaid had off-loaded bolted for the door leading from the cellar to the manse.

Chase pointed at the two miscreants and spoke in his most authoritative tone. “You. Stop. Sit.”

The puppies sat at once, turning doleful brown eyes on him. Wait. Did one of them have—

“Father, I’m so sorry…”

His head whipped in her direction. Father? This housemaid was Fallsgate’s daughter?

“I had no idea you and your guest would visit your cellar. Sally and I—”

Grim-faced, Fallsgate held up a hand, palm out, staying her attempt to explain.

Meanwhile Chase found himself in the unfamiliar position of having to school his features. With an effort of will, he lowered his brows, closed his gaping mouth, and affected an expression of bland interest, or so he hoped.

He’d never have imagined the conservative old blue blood would permit his own daughter such hoydenish behavior.

“We shall discuss this later, Amelia. In the meantime…” He shifted on his heel, meeting Culver’s eye, his expression one of wary resignation. “Lord Culver, may I introduce my daughter, Lady Amelia Duval.”

He eyed her ungloved hands, still fisted on the corners of her apron, and clipped a brief bow. “Lady Amelia, Lord Chase Culver, at your service.”

“My lord.” That breathy, melodic voice again.

His insides reacted like someone ran a finger down his spine. What the hell was the matter with him?

As to his effect on the lady, he detected no discernible reaction. Certainly she did not appear intimidated as was often the case with young ladies of the ton upon meeting him. Uncle Harry chalked up his disquieting effect to his having the hard look of a military man about him.

Apparently, Lady Amelia Duval did not cow easily.

Though she darted furtive glances between him and her father, she no longer looked embarrassed at being caught in the act of such indecorous behavior. Rather, her furrowed brows and distracted expression seemed to Chase an indication of impatience.

Had she more important things to do, then?

A low whine sounded from the vicinity of the puppies he’d halted. He glanced over his shoulder at them and caught the eye—literally, one eye of a pup who had only the one, poor bugger. Thump, thump, thump.

The pup’s tail whacked the floor with barely restrained excitement. He seemed on the verge of launching himself toward Chase.

Abruptly Lady Amelia grinned at the two, and they rolled onto their backs as if in invitation to have their bellies rubbed.

She seemed to have forgotten both his and her father’s presence. Her face softened and lit up all at once. He’d thought her merely beautiful? Try stunning .

“Roddy seems to like you, Lord Culver. Father…” She sucked her plump lower lip in between straight white teeth.

His groin tightened as instant—and wholly unwelcome—awareness pulsed through him, as if he contemplated his next lover and not the Earl of Fallsgate’s daughter. Thank God he’d long ago mastered the art of concealing his reactions.

“I hate to ask, but now that Sally’s… er …been called away, I can’t manage all five of them without either closing the door, or another set of hands to help corral them back into the drying room. Would you mind terribly…” She lifted her chin in the direction of the door.

By God, the chit had just dismissed them.

“Oh, for pity’s sake.” Fallsgate stormed toward the door. “I don’t know what they’re doing here to begin with, much less inside the manse .”

When he reached the opening, he shouted into the corridor. “Baxter, I require a footman to assist my daughter in my cellar, immediately.” He shot a glare in her direction, then shifted his focus to Chase. “Lord Culver, if you’ll join me? We can leave my daughter to her—” He broke off, eyeing the puppies, evidently at a loss for words.

“Certainly, my lord. Lady Duval, it was a pleasure meeting you.”

Their eyes met.

“Lord Culver.” She sent him, then her father, a brilliant smile, evidently unmoved by her father’s evident disapproval—or so he first assumed.

Was it his imagination, or did her brave smile dim ever-so-slightly when the older man merely grunted and exited the room?

Chase nodded politely and followed Fallsgate out.

A footman hustled past him, entering the cellar. The servant wore a decidedly besotted expression when his gaze fell on the mistress of the house.

With all his wealth, all his acclaim, and all his enviable lineage, Fallsgate had Chase’s pity. Somewhere along the way he’d ceded control over his household to his daughter. When the rank in file ran the campaign, it was never a good thing.

The moment the heavy door closed behind Lord Culver and her father, Amelia released her mask of bravado. She pressed her lips together, fighting tears. She’d done it again. She’d embarrassed and disappointed her father.

“Madam? Should I…” Alfred, the footman, gestured toward the puppies on the floor. The two had begun darting about the cellar the moment Lord Culver exited.

The tall, dark-haired, dark-eyed man had assumed command of them in one second flat.

She had the distinct impression taking charge came to him as naturally as drawing breath. Certainly she could not imagine challenging an order issued by him.

But she was being fanciful. He was in no position to order her about, and Alfred awaited an answer.

She summoned a breezy smile. “Good afternoon, Alfred. I would be much obliged if you could help me gather them. I was about to sneak them, er , that is…” she cleared her throat, “… deliver them to my chambers.”

Alfred grinned and hastened toward Flora, who instantly rolled onto her back in submission. “Yes, ma’am.”

“And what are you about, young man?” Amelia demanded of Roderick.

He ignored her, choosing instead to paw at the closed door.

She shook her head. “Take these three, will you, Alfred? There’s a basket in the drying room.”

Flora held in the crook of one arm, he crossed through the opening behind the bookshelf and retrieved the basket.

“Ah.” She breathed a sigh of relief as she relinquished the three puppies she’d held for far too long thanks to the unfortunate encounter with her father and his guest.

An image of Lord Culver flashed through her mind unbidden. He looked so different from most of the men of her father’s acquaintance. Of her acquaintance, for that matter. Tall and broad shouldered, lean, and darkly handsome and… aloof ? No, that wasn’t exactly the right word.

She moved to the door and crouched, scooping Roddy into her arms. She gazed into his somber face. Precious little thing . The runt of the litter, he had the added misfortune of having been born with only one eye. Where the other should have been was only a furred-over, pinched socket. As a result, he always appeared to be winking. Lord knew he was the most mischievous of the lot.

She hated to think what would have become of him had word not reached her of the litter of pups, orphaned when their mother died after being hit by a passing carriage.

She had a soft spot for motherless creatures, no doubt owing to the fact she was one herself.

She drew him close and nuzzled his soft, still-damp head. “What’s out there that has you so bent on escape, young man?”

Of course he gave no reply. But for some odd reason, she felt he wanted to get to him.

“Made an impression on you, did he? He made one on me, too. I’ve got to tell you, I don’t think he’s overly fond of either of us, though.” Not if that black-eyed stare and sardonic twist of his full lips were anything to go by. If he weren’t so handsome, he’d be downright scary.

“Beg pardon, my lady?”

She glanced over her shoulder at Alfred and sent him a chagrined smile. “Afraid I got lost in my thoughts again, Freddy.”

“Not to worry, milady. I could stay here all afternoon with… er …helping you with your tasks.”

“Let’s get these tasks upstairs before my father returns.”

With any luck he’d be busy tonight, as usual. By the next time they saw each other, mayhap he’d forget the whole affair.