The Scandalous Lyon
By
Maggi Andersen
Chapter One
London, March 1814
Through the mist, Lord Jason Glazebrook strolled toward the distinctive blue house on Cleveland Row in Whitehall. Inside there would be warmth and life. The levity of alcohol-inspired revelry, contrasting starkly with the dismal exterior of the night was a perfect distraction for a man whose world had fallen apart.
The Lyon’s Den, one of the most successful gaming houses in London, offered many attractions and was efficiently run by Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon, whose past was mired in mystery. Rumor had it that she’d been a courtesan; others said that she was well-born. She’d married young, and well. Her husband, Colonel Sandstrom T. Lyon from a respectable family, was much older than she and died only a few years after they wed. The enterprising Dove-Lyon had then converted her house into a well-paying business, catering to gamblers, those looking for games of an unusual sort, and those willing to pay a good sum to marry into a good family.
The matchmaker’s age was a matter of conjecture; she always wore black and never appeared without a veil. Jason didn’t know of anyone who had seen her face. He’d studied her neat form, however, and judged her to still be in her prime.
His brother, Charles, Duke of Shewsbury, disapproved of the Lyon’s Den, but then he disagreed with almost everything, of late. Now the head of the family and a stickler for correctness, he had become far too stuffy in Jason’s opinion and interfered too much in his life. Perhaps Charles would cease to annoy him after he married Lady Cornelia, although Jason wasn’t confident.
Before their father died last year, he had arranged Charles’s marriage to the Marquess of Dountry’s daughter, Lady Cornelia, whom Charles had yet to meet because a family illness had kept them from London. That might account for Charles’s bad humor, although his brother wouldn’t admit it, nor discuss it when Jason tentatively broached the subject.
Jason stepped into the gentlemen’s entrance of the Lyon’s Den where fashionably attired men and women in fluttering silk dresses dallied.
“Good evening, my lord.” The attractive cloakroom attendant smiled and bobbed a curtsey as she took his coat, cane, beaver, and gloves.
Jason winked at her, shrugging away his brother’s dampening influence. Mrs. Dove-Lyon employed many women, and some, including this one, were a feast for the eyes.
Rubbing his hands together at the night ahead, he passed through the men’s smoking room where a couple of gentlemen of his acquaintance were blowing a cloud of smoke, and then entered the main gambling floor. He nodded pointlessly at the silent woman whose face was always hidden as she bent over an abacus in her cage. Faro and Basset were in play, the faro-banks presided over by decorative ladies, the rattle of the dice in the roulette wheel punctuating the strained silence.
Jason stepped into the private gaming room as a loud cheers went up. A friend, Will Denning, his voice raised above the din which centered on Derek Ponsonby, explained how the lucky fellow had just won a handsome wager. He’d bet against Frederick Calvin’s ability to ride his horse backward in the saddle in Hyde Park from the main gates to the Serpentine in less than twenty minutes. Ponsonby had failed when he’d become unseated. He’d claimed a foul because he’d been accosted by a park attendant who unnerved his horse, but despite that was now cheerfully paying up.
A footman offered Jason a champagne flute from a silver tray. As Jason took a hearty sip of the chilled wine, Stopford, one of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s staff, appeared at his elbow. “Mrs. Dove-Lyon asked to be informed when you arrived, my lord. She requests an interview with you.”
“Oh? Now, why would that be? I don’t believe I’m in arrears.”
“Madam is in the women’s parlor.”
Mildly curious, Jason tossed back his drink, replaced the glass on the footman’s tray, and left the ruckus behind.
The ladies’ parlor was a room he’d had no cause to visit before. Three ladies were seated on the couches. He tugged at his cravat, suddenly wary. The chamber was furnished in too feminine a fashion for his comfort.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon stood to welcome him, dressed in her usual black, and inscrutable as ever behind her veil.
“If you will allow me a moment of your time, my lord,” she said in her usual measured tones, “I should like to introduce you to a young lady whose attractive appearance and sweet demeanor is sure to charm you. Mrs. Crabtree, Miss Beverly Crabtree, allow me to present Jason Glazebrook.”
“How do you do.” Wondering what bee had got in Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s bonnet, he bowed to the ladies. Was the woman matchmaking? Jason was amused. He was hardly a good candidate; he would be sailing close to the wind for over two years until he turned twenty-five and came into his inheritance. He had no estate beyond a property in Dorset, and it was extremely unlikely he would ever be duke, with Charles planning to set up his nursery after he married. He would make his excuses after a few minutes and leave.
His gaze settled on the young lady in question. She was dressed in a sprig muslin gown with a ribbon sash beneath her full bosom. Luxuriant golden-brown ringlets peeped from her bonnet, and green ribbons were tied in a bow at one side of her chin. Extremely fine brown eyes surveyed him coolly from beneath gently arched brows. His interest quickened.
“Please be seated, my lord.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon gestured to an armchair. “Miss Crabtree is in London for her Come-out. She confessed that she saw you at Lady Fellsham’s card party and has expressed a wish to meet you.”
Jason took the chair and arranged his long legs over the flowery rug. He didn’t flatter easily because he knew his worth, or lack of it, on the marriage mart. He wondered why he’d been singled out. Preferring male company among the ton, he rarely attended parties. But he did drop in for a game of cards at Lady Fellsham’s, although he had no recollection of Miss Crabtree. Odd that; he was sure she would not have escaped his notice.
Her mother, a thin-faced woman who lacked her daughter’s beauty, smiled at him. “Having learned that you are a member here, I gave in to Beverly’s wish. I’m afraid I indulge my daughter, my lord. But she asks so little of me, how could I refuse her?”
Miss Crabtree reddened and murmured a denial. She placed a gloved hand on her cheek, which looked soft as a rose petal, and peeked at him from beneath dark lashes. An extraordinarily pretty girl, Jason decided. Even more so if she smiled.
“Some wine, my lord?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon gestured to a footman who waited at the door.
“Thank you.” Jason took the glass of wine the servant offered, while his eyes remained on Beverly.
“My daughter has been strictly brought up in the country,” Mrs. Crabtree said. “Beverly finds London society a little overwhelming. So, my good friend, Mrs. Dove-Lyon, suggested she might be more comfortable meeting gentlemen in less formal circumstances.”
The flush faded from Miss Crabtree’s cheeks. Her eyes shyly met his. His gaze dropped to her fascinating mouth. The upper lip, almost as full as the bottom, made him want to kiss her.
“Perhaps we might slip away and allow these two young people to converse,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said unexpectedly.
“For a few minutes only,” Mrs. Crabtree said with a slight frown. She addressed Jason. “Mrs. Dove-Lyon has promised to show me a new painting she has acquired. I am an art enthusiast and love to see new works.”
The door closed behind them.
Surprised to find himself alone with her, Jason leaned back in his chair and twirled the stem of the wineglass in his fingers. Just what was being offered here? He smiled, his gaze roaming over her, from her excellent figure to her pretty face. “What part o
f the country do you hail from, Miss Crabtree?”
“Horsham, in Sussex, my lord,” she said politely, her voice melodic and pleasing.
“Your father is in London with you?”
“No.” Her fingers threaded through her pearl necklace. “Papa is not in the best of health and could not accompany us. He was the magistrate in Horsham, but has recently retired.”
My, but she was damn fetching, Jason thought again as she nibbled her bottom lip. The action might have been meant to invite a kiss. It threatened to stir a part of his anatomy, and he crossed his legs. Some debutantes played flirtatious games; others were unaware of the effect their beauty had on a man. He suspected Miss Crabtree was the latter. As marriage was years away, he had purposefully given the young girls who flooded London for the Season a wide berth. Consequently, he was more used to the company of a different kind of woman, one who knew what was what. But this was not a drawing room, it was a gambling club. Which was a different matter entirely.
He bent over to take a small wine cake from the plate. “Horsham? I haven’t had the opportunity to visit that part of the country.”
Her eyes warmed. “Oh, but you would like it very much, my lord. We live near the river and not so far from Brighton.”
“Do you have any siblings?”
“A brother and sister, but both have left home. I am the youngest.” She dabbed her lips with a napkin. “You have a brother, I believe, my lord.”
“Yes.” He disliked Charles’s name entering the conversation. “Do you ride, Miss Crabtree?”
She nodded and finally gifted him with a dimpled smile. “Indeed, I’m most fond of the pastime.”
Jason popped the rest of the cake into his mouth. He enjoyed the way their conversation animated her; she seemed more at ease. She clasped her hands against her bosom, unconsciously drawing his gaze there.
“Would you care to join me in a ride in Hyde Park one afternoon?” he asked. A few hours in her company could do no harm, a mild flirtation if nothing more. “Your mother, too, of course.” He considered it a gamble worth taking, as he’d noticed Mrs. Crabtree tended to limp.
“We keep no horses in London, but we might hire a hack. I’m sure Mama would agree to it, although she doesn’t ride. My chaperone, Miss George, will accompany me.”
He had not considered the possibility of a chaperone. “Excellent. Shall we meet at the park gates next Saturday at five o’clock?”
“I should like to ride,” she said. “I didn’t expect to be able to here. I find London a little restricting after the country where one has so much freedom. I do hope Mama agrees.”
“Shall we ask her?”
Voices outside the door alerted him to the women’s return. Jason rose.
Miss Crabtree’s request was quickly granted by her mother, who professed her disappointment not to be able to join them.
He bowed. “Saturday then, Miss Crabtree. I look forward to it.”
“As do I, my lord.” She smiled, the fascinating dimple appearing once again.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon stood near the door. “You are leaving us so soon, my lord?”
He wished she’d remove that damned veil so he could see her eyes. “Yes, forgive me,” he said. “I am promised for a game of faro.”
He made his way back to the gaming room, where two men were considering a game of Russian roulette.
One of the beefy, former army bouncers strode over to them. “Sirs, Mrs. Dove-Lyon prefers you play that game elsewhere. She wants no damage done to her premises or her reputation by one of you blowing the other’s head off.”
“Insolent fellow,” a participant in the game muttered. He wove a rambling path toward the door, followed by the other, with the bouncer right behind them.
Jason sat at the table with the three other players as a fresh pack of cards was opened. While the dealer shuffled them, Jason cautioned himself not to imbibe too much. The wine here was always of an excellent vintage, but it tended to creep up on a fellow. Best not to try his luck at Basset. Not with Charles as prickly as a hedgehog.
He forced himself to concentrate as the cards were dealt. His brother would come down on him like a ton of bricks if he was forced to request an advance. He glowered. It was a low blow when his father had made Charles trustee of Jason’s inheritance.
***
Shewsbury Court, Mayfair
Some hours later, Jason was admitted by a footman, the porter having retired. His good intentions had somehow come to naught; he was slightly foxed as he mounted the stairs. His attempt to creep along the corridor was thwarted when the door to Charles’s study opened. His brother emerged, his hair as black as Jason’s and neatly combed, dressed in a silk damask banyan, his firm jaw smoothly shaven by his zealous but disreputable Irish valet, Feeley.
Jason leaned against the door and ran a hand over the stubble on his chin. Curse him, why was Charles at his books at this time of night? He could think of several better ways to spend an evening. He pulled himself up to his full height and stood there indignantly swaying, awaiting the reprimand. “You still awake, Charles?”
“I have not long risen from my bed,” his brother said crisply. “In case you’ve missed it, that light at the window is the sun, having risen from the east.” His brother’s blue eyes observed him with distaste. “You don’t consider sleep necessary?”
Jason’s hand went to his disordered cravat and discovered a missing button on his waistcoat. Now where had that got to?
“I do. I shall now, and like all sensible people, I intend to sleep well past noon.”
“No, you won’t,” Charles said bluntly.
Jason eyed him. “I won’t?”
“You may sleep for precisely two hours. We are to travel to the country later this morning.”
Jason groaned. A tediously long carriage ride to Shewsbury Park in Leicestershire. His stomach roiled. “Oh, Lord, no!”
“As you have been told, Mother expects us.”
“Mama won’t miss me when she has you there. You are her favorite.” He was still bruised by her disappointment in him. “She only seeks an ear in which to relate her latest philanthropic ventures and glean the London gossip, although she makes no attempt to come here and discover it for herself. Tell her I’m under the weather.”
“That will bring her post-haste to London,” Charles observed.
Jason raked his hands through his hair and yawned. “I fear you may be right.” Turning, he waved a hand at his brother. “But I’m not about to waste the few hours I do have discussing it.”
“You haven’t lost deeply at Bassett?” Charles called before he’d quitted the room. “I’m not in the mood to subsidize you, Jas.”
“No, I didn’t expect you would be.”
No doubt about it, Charles had become dashed disagreeable since he’d inherited the dukedom. As he reached his bedchamber door, Jason calculated the length of the journey to Shewsbury Park and the time it would take, plus an overnight stay. If they pushed it, it was possible he could make it back to London by Saturday.
Chapter Two
Half Moon Street, Mayfair, London.
Beverly stood before the mirror in the bedchamber assigned her. The genteel establishment belonged to her father’s cousin, Granville, who was away touring the Continent with friends. She settled her riding hat carefully over her ordered curls. A new one made of royal blue velvet, which matched her habit, and adorned with soft white feathers that stirred when she moved her head.
The Cornish maid, Daisy, stepped back to admire the full effect. “The gentleman won’t be able to take his eyes off a ye,’ee won’t.”
A surge of excitement tightened Beverly’s stomach. Lord Jason’s manners were so pleasing; the smile that lurked in his blue eyes made her sigh. As soon as he was pointed out to her in the Lyon’s Den, with the candlelight shining on his raven-black hair, she was drawn to him. But such a match was quite impossible, and her mother had her eye on an older gentleman, a Mr. Williston, who was far les
s attractive. He had become wealthy solely through his businesses and was known to have a canny eye for investments. He was keen to marry her. She wrinkled her nose. Williston had never enjoyed a physique like Lord Jason’s.
Ordinarily, Beverly held little sway with her mother once she had made up her mind. But Bessie Dove-Lyon, whom she suspected was a crafty woman, had suggested his lordship as a possible suitor. Mama was prepared to risk losing Williston because Lord Jason Glazebrook’s brother was a duke. And should Beverly marry him, she’d become a very high stepper. She was informed that Lord Jason hailed from a noble family whose lineage was long and unimpeachable.
A slight shiver went through her as she tried to protect herself from possible hurt. As things stood, she had as much chance of marrying the Prince of Wales. She hated how their relationship had begun with a lie. She had not attended Mrs. Fellsham’s card party, as the matchmaker intimated. Lies followed lies, and surely nothing good would come of it. Yet, when she thought of his lordship’s eyes alive with interest as they gazed into hers, she still hoped something magical could happen.
“It will take careful handling,” Mama said when she sat Beverly down for one of their talks. “Despite paying the woman a small fortune to bring it about, Mrs. Dove-Lyon can only do so much. You must use your feminine wiles to snare him, my love.”
“But what if he hears about…”
Mama scowled at her. “He won’t. You are to forget about that matter, Beverly. It won’t do to dredge it up now, and it should be resolved before much longer.”
“All right, Mama.” She hated it when her mother was impatient with her. But surely, trying to forget didn’t make it any less real. Should she win his lordship’s heart, it would be by deception. She took a long shuddering breath. Would he turn against her when he learned the truth? She wasn’t sure she could bear to see his expression harden when he looked at her.
For a moment, she considered telling her mother she would marry Williston, who could be managed, Mama said, as he was completely besotted. But the thought of his hands on her made her ill. The exciting prospect of curtsying before Queen Charlotte in one of her drawing rooms, dining with the ton, riding a thoroughbred in the park, attending Ascot, living in a fine Mayfair mansion, and retiring to the country during the hot summer months, all served to turn her head for a moment or two before her good sense returned.
The Scandalous Lyon: The Lyon's Den Page 1
