Page 3 of The Lyon Whisperer (The Lyon’s Den Connected World #79)

T he only sound in his uncle’s den in the big house on Raymond Street was the sound of the clock on the mantle. Tick, tick, tick.

In dumfounded disbelief, Chase stared at his uncle, slouched on the sofa across from him, looking as chagrinned as he’d ever seen the man.

Finally, he found his voice. “I’m sorry, my lord, but…” He huffed out a disbelieving laugh. “It sounded as if you just blithely announced you’d arranged my marriage, to take place in less than a fortnight, to a woman not of my choosing, because of a wager you lost at a gambling hell.”

“N-no, not exactly, m’boy. In point of fact, I lost a wager, yes, but then I proposed another. Hence, your wedding.”

Chase rose and paced from the sitting area to the oriel window. Annoyed by the cheerful garden view, he turned to glare at the man who’d taken him in after his father’s death, a man he cared for like the father he wished he had. “My wedding,” he said softly. “Uncle?”

“Yes?”

“Are you out of your ever-loving mind ?” he bellowed, his voice increasing in octave with each word. “I thought I made it clear when I returned to England that I would assume control of the Culver estates, take charge of your nonexistent investments, and manage yours and Aunt Francine’s allowance in order that I might right what you so abominably mismanaged in my absence—for your sakes, and that of your tenants—”

Uncle Harry sprang to his feet, his expression placating. “And because you’re so much better at it than I am, naturally.”

“Flattery does not become you, Uncle, nor will it sway me.” Though he managed a normal tone, his ire had not dissipated in the least. “I said I’d do everything I could for the estates and you, under one condition. Do you recall that one condition?”

His uncle twisted one corner of his mustache. “I had to release the reins of the estate to you.”

“And?”

He sighed. “And I agreed to subsist on a strict allowance.”

Subsist. Normally he’d chuckle over his uncle’s overdramatization. Instead, he kept his expression stony and let the silence stretch several seconds.

“By placing a bet beyond the scope of your ability to pay, were you abiding the terms of our agreement?”

The older man wrung his hands as if squeezing a towel. “You don’t understand. I had a straight. A straight. How could I have predicted Fallsgate’s royal flush?”

“You couldn’t. That’s why it’s called gambling .”

The viscount dropped onto the sofa as if in defeat. “You’re right, as usual.”

Chase meandered back to the armchair he’d vacated, massaging one temple. “The whole idea of me marrying would be laughable were the situation not so infuriating. I haven’t the slightest interest in marriage, and do not anticipate that changing anytime in the foreseeable future.”

Harry frowned. “What? Whyever not?”

Chase ticked points off starting with his thumb. “All our liquid funds are invested in the estates, leaving no money with which to woo, marry, and support a wife. I’ve no time for the business. My every waking minute is tied up, between dealing with the lagging estates and my duties to parliament. The recent fires in Copsham alone have me up all hours.”

Harry waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “None of those reasons seem adequate to deny yourself the joys of wedded bliss.”

Wedded bliss? Talk about the ultimate gamble. The institution of marriage was a hazard at dice at best.

Uncle Harry and Aunt Francine managed quite nicely. However, he need only reflect on his parents’ tumultuous union to shudder at the notion for himself until such a time as siring an heir became a necessity. Not that he intended to explain his rationale. He did not wish to spur his uncle’s misplaced guilt which always surfaced when reminded of the chaotic upbringing Chase had endured prior to his mother leaving, and his father’s subsequent decline.

“I disagree. Regardless, the point is, you had no right meddling in my private affairs. Why on earth would you dare? Oh, yes, to protect your own hide.”

He’d have to set his uncle to rights, of course. He could never leave Harry and Aunt Francine to hang in the wind, especially after they’d stepped in all those years ago, offering Chase the home and security his own parents had denied him. But to shackle himself for a lifetime to someone to satisfy a bet—

His uncle’s words cut into his thoughts. “This time is different, or I’d never have overstepped. This time helping us helps you.”

Chase slanted him a leery glance. “How?”

“You ask the wrong question.”

“Which is?”

“Who you’ll be marrying.”

Chase sent his troublesome, well-meaning, beloved uncle a cool smile. “Because it does not signify. I will not do it. Not this time. You ask too much.”

His uncle made a pretense of inspecting his nails, clearly biding his time, waiting for Chase to bite.

Chase cursed his too-curious nature. “Very well, who?”

Harry’s interest in his manicure vanished in a heartbeat. “Lady Amelia Duval.”

Chase’s expression did not alter but remained carefully neutral. He knew it did because he’d long ago mastered the art of feigned indifference. It was an essential skill when managing a regiment of men facing life and death situations.

Or dealing with an overset parent.

“Lady Amelia Duval,” he said as if testing the name against his memory. “The Earl of Fallsgate’s daughter?” Otherwise known as the black-haired vixen with the violet eyes and honeyed voice currently haunting his dreams.

For days he’d scoured his brain for a legitimate excuse to call on the earl in the hopes he’d cross paths with his audacious daughter once more. He was sure his memory, likely a result of having ingested the earl’s prized brandy prior to laying eyes on her, had exaggerated the woman’s appeal, and he could think of no other way to set the record straight.

His uncle’s dark eyes, so similar to his own, glittered with shrewd understanding. “The earl’s only daughter,” he said with feeling. “I couldn’t help but notice your attempts to manufacture a reason to visit the earl again.”

He stiffened, his hand gripping the armrest of his chair. Good God, had he been that obvious?

“You got the idea the earl’s support might be your best chance at getting your measures passed concerning the veterans—and you’re absolutely right, m’boy. Fallsgate’s support would assure your success, and marrying his daughter is sure to garner his support, if you see what I mean.”

So he hadn’t given himself away. Not entirely.

“The earl would make a mighty ally.” Chase rose and moved back to the window. He stared out at the manicured garden and courtyard, recalling the money he’d raised recently to pay off the designer. A pretty penny. “But this makes no sense. Why would Fallsgate feel the need to foist his daughter off on any man? She is the daughter of an earl, and not exactly hard on the eyes.”

Behind him, his uncle cackled with glee and slapped his thigh. “Not hard on the eyes? Noticed, did ya’? As for the rest, apparently she has a few seasons under her petticoats with nary a husband to show for it.”

Chase glanced over his shoulder at his uncle. “And?”

“And, well, that brings us to the second part of this arrangement.”

Chase narrowed his eyes. “Go on.”

He smiled benignly. “Come, sit. I’ll pour us a drink and explain everything. If you do not agree this marriage is in everyone’s best interest when I’ve completed my tale, you’re free to walk away and abandon your aunt and me to the workhouse.”

Chase snorted. Uncle Harry could have trod the boards.

He strode back to his armchair and prepared to be enlightened.

At three-thirty p.m. the following afternoon, the gleaming black carriage emblazoned with the Fallsgate crest, a goat dressed in a coat of arms, arrived at number 7 Dove Street, the home of the widowed Lady Harriet Oglethorpe and her good friend, Ms. Margaret Sheridan.

The distinguished-looking townhome was the usual meeting place for the members of the Ladies’ Literary Society of London, affectionately, the LLS. But today’s was not an ordinary meeting. Today, an emergency gathering had been called.

Not bothering to wait for the carriage step, and the time it would take for the coachman to place it, Amelia leapt to the pavement and sent a cheery wave to the man seated atop the box.

“See you in two hours’ time, Daniel?”

“Aye, milady,” he replied with a bright smile and a shake of his head. “You should have let me help you, ma’am. Sally would have my hide if I brung you home with a turned ankle.”

“Brought,” she corrected, adding with a faux -conspiratorial whisper, “It’ll be our secret.”

She grasped her skirts in gloved fists and marched up the broad stone steps.

The heavy front door opened before she could take the brass knocker.

“Good afternoon, Lady Amelia. I understand we’ve a crisis on our hands,” said a grave-faced Mrs. Humphry, Lady Harriet and Margaret’s housekeeper.

“Indeed we do, Mrs. Humphrey,” Amelia replied, equally grave, and crossed the threshold.

She followed the housekeeper into the parlor where she found most of her expected friends, club members all, already convened.

Lady Georgina, more familiarly known as Georgie , curled atop the window seat, her trusty journal in her lap, scrawling away. Likely she worked on another of her romantic novels.

Miss Charlotte, a relative newcomer to their group and the niece of a nearby neighbor, perched on the sofa holding a steaming cup of tea and eyeing a plate of biscuits on a tray beside her.

Lady Harriet, a regal-looking woman, sat at her large, leather-topped desk perusing the newspaper.

The petite Margaret hovered behind her, scanning articles over her shoulder, as usual—something Lady Harriet, the matriarch of their club, generally detested.

“Good afternoon, everyone,” Amelia said warmly.

Everyone glanced up with a ready smile of welcome.

“Excellent,” Lady Harriet said. She folded her newspaper, slanting Margaret a peeved look. “Only Mrs. Floyd’s yet to arrive.”

As if conjured by her name, Mrs. Floyd—Nancy—burst into the room on a wave of vitality. She had not stopped to strip off her bonnet in the foyer and now untied it with a flourish. “I’m so glad Mr. Floyd and I returned from Oakley Manor last night, instead of waiting several more days as we originally intended. What’s this about an emergency?”

“Let us get settled before we dive in to all that.”

Murmured greetings ensued as everyone gathered in the large sitting area, each taking her customary place.

“Now then,” Lady Harriet began.

All chatter ceased.

“We’re here today to discuss a very important matter concerning our own dear Amelia.” She sent Amelia an encouraging smile. “I turn the floor over to her. Go on, dear.”

Amelia met each of the ladies’ eyes in turn. “Papa informed me last evening—” She broke off, swallowing over a dry throat. “I’m to be married.”

“Married?” Georgina aped, her eyes huge behind her gold-wire spectacles.

“Informed you? What do you mean, ‘informed you’? You never mentioned a suitor,” Charlotte said with evident concern.

“Is this a bad thing?” Nancy, the only currently married woman among them, asked, drawing all eyes to her. “Well, is it?” she asked again, albeit with less verve. “I rather like being married.”

“Yes, but you’re in love with your husband,” Charlotte pointed out.

Exactly, Amelia thought.

“Whether or not it’s a good thing depends on several factors, love being the primary one, of course,” Margaret answered, exchanging a meaningful look with Lady Harriet.

Lady Harriet nodded her head sagely. “It depends upon the man, and Amelia’s feelings toward him. For instance, upon investigation, the first two suitors Amelia’s father accepted were totally unacceptable for many reasons, not the least of which included that Amelia hadn’t any particular affection for either of them.”

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the room.

Amelia licked her lips and considered her feelings toward Lord Culver. She did not know the man, but, in all honesty, she couldn’t say he didn’t inspire a certain breathless awareness. She’d never experienced anything like it.

That did not mean she wished to marry the man.

“Thank Heaven your source alerted us to her former suitors’ nefarious ways in time, Lady Harriet. Do you think she can be persuaded to investigate Amelia’s current suitor’s background?” Charlotte asked.

“Assuming he’s anything like them, can Amelia not employ the tactics she used to rid herself of those miscreants?” Georgie sent Amelia an encouraging smile.

Dismay had Amelia wringing her hands, until she noted the gesture and made herself cease. “The thing is, I fear Papa won’t be dissuaded this time, regardless of what Lady Harriet’s source uncovers.”

Margaret’s dark brows puckered with concern. “Why do you say that, dear?”

“Because he informed me the marriage will take place in a fortnight.”

A collective gasp sounded.

Lady Harriet patted the air in a silent request for order. “As it happens, Mrs. Dove-Lyon has already spoken on the subject of Amelia’s soon-to-be betrothed. Apparently…” She glanced around the room, a bemused expression on her face. “He has nothing in particular to disqualify him. More to the point, he has a stellar reputation to recommend him.”

Collective oohs and aahs sounded.

“I don’t understand. How on earth can she know whether or not he’s a worthy husband, Lady Harriet? I haven’t yet given you his name.”

Lady Harriet smoothed her coiffured head of light-brown hair laced with silver and gave a one-shoulder shrug. “The missive came in shortly after your note arrived. I’m only relating what she said, not the mystery of how she comes by her information.”

“I see,” Amelia said. An odd burst of relief shot through her. Whether it owed to Lord Culver having received the gaming hell patroness’s stamp of approval, or because he had not merited a bad report added up to the same thing. She had no reason to deny him.

She should be more anxious than ever, not pleased. She decided to keep her reaction to herself.

“Who is this man?” Georgina asked, pushing her spectacles up her nose. “Have you at least met him, Amelia?”

Amelia nodded once. She could see his dark eyes, fixed on her, as if he stood before her now. “His name is Lord Chase Culver. He’s heir to his uncle, Lord Harry Culver, Viscount of Everston, and also the recently named Baron of Sidford.” She swallowed. “He’s also known as the ‘Iron Lion of Barrosa.’”

Six sets of rounded eyes blinked in her direction.

Lady Georgina spoke up first. “I’ve heard of him. My, ah …” she cleared her throat and straightened her spectacles for no discernible reason, “ friend mentioned him to me in one of his letters, as I recall. He claims Lord Culver is a military mastermind, and hard as steel.”

Charlotte practically bounced on the couch. “I’ve heard talk of him, as well, at a garden tea my aunt hosted. She and her friends say he’s handsome as Lucifer.”

Margaret nodded her agreement. “We saw him once, Harriet, in the park, riding a large black stallion that suited him to a tee. He made quite an impression on the ladies promenading, as I recall. He was the recipient of many stares, though, it did not seem to signify to him.”

“Wait, now I remember something my brother told me. He was once engaged, or nearly so, and there was some sort of scandal,” Georgina said, brows furrowed in concentration. “Yes, yes, that’s right. My brother rather liked Lord Culver—Mr. Culver, then—and felt sorry for what happened to him.”

“What exactly was it that happened?” Nancy asked before Amelia could.

“He was a young man, barely out of Oxford, of an age with my brother, Stephen. He had not yet purchased his officer’s commission. He was engaged, or nearly so, to—oh, I can’t recall her name—only that she was the banker’s daughter. And then, one day, she surprised everyone by turning up married to Lord Gavin Huxley. The next thing anyone knew, Culver had joined the army and departed London.”

“That would be Lady Millicent Huxley, Countess of Tully now,” Lady Harriet said.

“I see,” Amelia said. “One can hardly hold a broken almost-engagement against the man.” Especially as she’d had two of those herself. “I have never met Lady Tully.”

“ Mm . Lucky you,” Lady Georgina put in under her breath.

“Well, dear,” Lady Harriet said to Amelia. “What is your impression of the man?”

She eyed each of her friends in turn. “I’m not sure. He is handsome, and he does have an undeniable presence. But that is not to say I have any notion of what sort of husband he might make.” Although he did have one recommendation which she trusted implicitly. “There is one thing. Roddy likes him immensely.”

“Roddy?” Margaret asked.

Amelia smiled. “The runt of the recent litter of puppies Georgina and I rescued from the stews several weeks ago.”

“I see,” Lady Harriet said, looking impressed with this bit of information. “Be that as it may, I have a few suggestions that you may wish to make use of prior to agreeing to your betrothal.”

Amelia sighed. “That’s just it. I have no say in the matter. Father insists the marriage will take place. He’s threatened to ship me off to a convent should I attempt to refuse.” She shook her head sadly. “Not that I considered doing so. No matter how hard I try, I can never please the earl. I try to be an obedient daughter, I do. But time and again, my heart rules my head and I end up doing something or saying something that embarrasses or disappoints him or both.” She broke off, her chin trembling as she fought back the tears that threatened. “It doesn’t matter. I said I’d marry the man and marry him I shall.”

Her friends said not a word, but their compassion-filled eyes spoke volumes.

Finally, Margaret reached over and squeezed Amelia’s hand. The small kindness proved too much for her control and several fat tears coursed down her cheeks. “Lord Culver can not possibly know of your decision, darling Amelia. Listen to what Harriet has to say.”

As the tall clock in his den chimed twelve, Chase closed his accounts journal and leaned back in his chair, cleaning the nib of his pen with the soft cloth he kept on hand. He rolled his shoulders, stiff from pouring over the books.

He’d done what he could for tonight. Best to head to bed now and make an early start of it.

He set the quill in its stand and pushed up from the massive desk, contemplating the credenza housing the brandy carafe. Why not? He poured himself a couple fingers of the aromatic liquor.

When the Crown had bestowed the barony on him a year ago, he’d been gratified by the gesture. He’d had no notion how neglected the small estate had been under the previous, late Baron of Sidford. Luckily he’d had previous experience digging an estate from the mire of mismanagement.

Snifter in hand, he sauntered to the sofa and dropped into a half sprawl, stretching out his legs. Using his free hand, he untied his cravat and tugged it off, then undid the top buttons of his shirt.

He drew the snifter to his lips and sipped. The liquor melted over his tongue and slid down his throat like silk. He didn’t imbibe often or overly as a rule, but if he bothered, he bothered with the best. It was one of his rules.

A scratch sounded at the closed door.

Eyes gritty with fatigue, he closed them briefly in mute frustration. “Come.”

His butler, Harold, poked his dark head inside. “I beg your pardon, m’lord, but there’s a lady here to see you, by the name of Lady MacIvor. She claims the matter is urgent.”

Chase did not know any Lady MacIvor, though the name was vaguely familiar. What urgent matter could an unknown caller have with him, especially after midnight?

He contemplated telling Harold to toss her out. No respectable lady would show up unannounced at this time of night. Alas, the soldier-turned-butler’s lack of experience meant Chase would have to instruct him on how to accomplish such a feat.

Easier to manage the business on his own. “Show her in.” He rose and moved back to sit behind his desk.

A moment later, Harold opened the door and ushered the woman inside. Slight and of average height, she wore a dark pelisse and black cap with a net that covered her face.

The woman turned toward Harold before he departed. “Thank you, sir…”

Chase got to his feet. He knew that voice. Husky and slightly breathy, it had haunted his dreams of late. Even now it sent a thrill over his skin and caused his stomach to clench. With an effort of will, he forced himself to absorb her actual words while batting back his body’s unwitting reaction to her tone.

“…and I apologize again for pulling you from your slumber.”

Harold, the war hardened veteran Chase had hired to replace his recently retired butler, sent Lady MacIvor a broad smile. “Please, milady, it was my pleasure to serve you.” He shifted to face Chase, like a soldier snapping to attention. “Milord, may I assist you in any way? Shall I have a tea prepared?”

Chase resisted the urge to eye the plaster ceiling. He reminded himself he knew when he employed the man he wasn’t getting a seasoned butler. “No, Harold, that will be all. Goodnight,” he added when the man made no move to quit the room.

He bobbed his head and, with evident reluctance, closed the door, leaving Chase and the lady alone.

His fatigue vanished as a simmering awareness of the woman stirred all his senses to high alert. So much for his theory that the first time had been an anomaly.

He rounded his desk to approach her. “Lady Duval, I presume?”

She uttered a small sound of surprise and untied the ribbon under her chin. “How on earth did you know?” she asked, pulling the cap from her head.

He took the cap and gestured for her to turn so that he might help her out of her pelisse. Her scent, a combination of the brisk night air and something floral and fresh, wafted up at him. Another shock of awareness swept through him.

“Shocking, indeed, when any number of ladies of my acquaintance might call on me at this hour.”

She appeared not to notice his intentional sarcasm. “Indeed?”

“No,” he replied. “I apologize that my butler did not divest you of these.” He indicated the cap and outer garment he held.

“Oh.” She sent him a warm smile. “Please don’t blame him. He did offer, but I wanted to wait to remove them until…” She let her words die. The tip of her pink tongue darted out to dampen one corner of her rose-colored lips.

“Until the two of us had privacy?”

She seemed pleased by his grasp of the situation. “Precisely. I thought it prudent no one but you know of my late-night visit.”

“Prudent. I see.” He sent her a long look meant to convey his disapproval.

She gazed straight back at him, brazen as a courtesan. Only the flush staining her pale cheeks hinted at anything other than confidence. Then again, the flush could be due to exertion.

“You did not, by any chance, ride here?”

“It was rather a straight shot,” she hedged.

By God, when his uncle had shared her father’s concerns about her behavior, he’d thought the man exaggerated. This woman was out of control. What in hell had Uncle Harry gotten him into?

He set her items on the inlayed table near the closed door and contemplated the sitting area he’d vacated, close to the low-glowing hearth. He had not stoked the fire for some time as he had planned to retire, and the room had a distinct chill.

“Would you care to sit and perhaps share with me why you called at this ungodly hour, sans chaperone?” He gestured for her to proceed him.

“Thank you,” she said, settling in one of the armchairs. He had hoped she’d deny his statement concerning her lack of a chaperone.

The woman had ventured out on her own, in the dead of night, traveling on horseback, no less, to see him.

He crouched before the hearth, adding a log to the coals before dropping into the armchair opposite hers.

She wore her black hair back in a ruthlessly tight bun. Not even a tendril graced her temples. Her face was pale as moonlight, and her eyes shone like liquid pools, reflecting the golden firelight. He could not make out their unique violet color. The lack did not signify. She was damned beautiful.

He wondered if she used her beauty to her advantage. Women did, as he well knew.

He sent her a tight smile. “To what do I owe the honor, my dear?”

She licked her lips again.

The small movement captured his attention completely. It took a moment for him to realize he was staring—at her mouth. Annoyed with his own lapse of control, he tore his gaze from her face and regarded the fire.

“My father informed me we are to be married.”

His gaze slid back in her direction. For the first time, it occurred to him to wonder exactly what her father had told her. Did she know of the wager between him and Chase’s uncle?

“And you wish to discuss that eventuality with me at this particular juncture because…?”

She lifted her chin, affecting a show of bravado. The rapid pulse vibrating the delicate hollow at the base of her throat told a different tale, however.

“I have some conditions I’d like to make clear before I agree to go forward,” she said.

Intrigued despite himself, he felt the corners of his mouth hitch upward. “Do you? By all means, share them with me.”

She sent him a grateful smile, and his own pulse kicked up a notch. Irritation—with himself—flashed through him.

“First, I belong to a club. The Ladies’ Literary Society of London.”

He shrugged.

She went on. “I insist my membership be allowed to continue. Furthermore, I will read whatever I choose. That is, whatever the club decides, at any given time.”

He rose and retrieved his brandy. “Would you care for one?” he asked, lifting the snifter.

She shook her head. “No, thank you. Did you hear what I said?”

Impatient little thing, wasn’t she? He arched his brows in a challenging manner that made grown men quake in their army boots, but which she appeared not to notice. He didn’t know whether to be impressed or annoyed.

He strode back to the armchair and lowered into it, stretching out his legs before him. “I did. Frankly, I do not envision your reading material being any sort of issue for me.”

“Nevertheless. I require your agreement.”

“Very well. Is that the extent of your conditions?”

“Ah…no.” She hesitated. “We shall marry rather swiftly, my lord. At least, that is what my father informs me. Have I, perhaps, misunderstood him?”

He could not miss the hopeful note in her voice. Her question told him another thing, as well. She knew nothing of the wager.

“You have not.”

She lowered her eyes, and her thick fringe of black lashes cast shadows over her fair cheeks. “I see. My father’s doing, I suppose?”

Uncertain how to reply, he said nothing.

Evidently, she did not require an answer. She went on. “As we are to be married before having spent any time getting to know one another, I wanted to ask…” She broke off and her cheeks flamed scarlet.

Ah. A strong inkling of where she was going occurred to him.

She squared her shoulders and met his gaze. “I’d like some time to become acquainted before we…you…claim your marital rights.”

As he suspected. “Exactly what did you have in mind?”

She blinked. “I…until we become better acquainted?”

He scraped his hand over his stubble covered jaw. Images of his mother, taunting his father, sounds of doors slamming and fists pounding on said doors flooded his mind.

“Do you agree, sir?”

“I have no intention of forcing myself on you, if that is your concern. Neither do I intend to have a marriage in name only.”

“No, of course not.”

“How long do you anticipate this…period of getting-to-know one another to last?”

“Several weeks? A month?”

A month? The way his body responded to her mere presence, he could look forward to a very frustrating beginning to this marriage. But he would not chase after her like a hound.

No. He would have her come to him, a willing participant.

She would.

“I will agree to a brief period of time, madam, if that is your desire.”

She sent him a tremulous smile. “Thank you, Lord Culver. You’ve greatly relieved my mind.” She rose to her feet. “Well, then. I suppose I should get—”

“A moment, Lady Amelia. As long as you’re here, and we’re speaking frankly, I have some stipulations of my own.”