The Lyon Sleeps Tonight
The Lyon’s Den Connected World
Elizabeth Ellen Carter
© Copyright 2020 by Elizabeth Ellen Carter
Text by Elizabeth Ellen Carter
Cover by Wicked Smart Designs
Dragonblade Publishing, Inc. is an imprint of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc.
P.O. Box 7968
La Verne CA 91750
[email protected]
Produced in the United States of America
First Edition July 2020
Kindle Edition
Reproduction of any kind except where it pertains to short quotes in relation to advertising or promotion is strictly prohibited.
All Rights Reserved.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
License Notes:
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Additional Dragonblade books by Author Elizabeth Ellen Carter
Heart of the Corsairs Series
Captive of the Corsairs
Revenge of the Corsairs
Shadow of the Corsairs
King’s Rogues Series
Live and Let Spy
Spyfall
Spy Another Day
Father’s Day (A Novella)
The Lyon’s Den Connected World
The Lyon Sleeps Tonight
Also from Elizabeth Ellen Carter
Dark Heart
Warming Winter’s Heart
Other Lyon’s Den Books
Into the Lyon’s Den by Jade Lee
The Scandalous Lyon by Maggi Andersen
Fed to the Lyon by Mary Lancaster
The Lyon’s Lady Love by Alexa Aston
The Lyon’s Laird by Hildie McQueen
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Publisher’s Note
Additional Dragonblade books by Author Elizabeth Ellen Carter
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
About the Author
We are such stuff as dreams are made on; and our little life is rounded with a sleep.
– William Shakespeare
Chapter One
Opal Jones was in Mumbai once again.
It was a dream she had often, but less so the longer she spent in London. In her slumber, she experienced the smell and sounds of her former home. Here, she was seven years old once more, reliving what had been one of the most terrifying days of her young life.
She found herself in the markets close to the compound where the families of the British officers lived. She had been drawn by the reedy notes from the pungi, a wooden flute, bulbous at one end and carved with the image of a cobra along the length of the twin tubes.
The scaly head of a cobra peeked out over the wicker basket.
There! There was another one! Two snakes.
Opal had been long warned by both her parents and her ayah, her nanny, to keep her distance from these creatures. They were deadly but, oh my, they were fascinating…
She glanced away from the spectacle. Children from the barracks in their blue and white uniforms were easy to spot. And there was her ayah in a pale pink saree with a group of other children from the barracks.
As long as she kept them in sight, she would be not be lost…
The snake-charmer flicked his hand toward the basket. Instantly, the snakes’ hoods flared out. They followed the movement of the pungi as the charmer swayed back and forth. Opal dropped a coin into his shallow basket. It clinked among the other coppers. The musician caught her eye. He smiled his thanks around the mouthpiece and continued to play.
A crowd started to gather. A press of people – women in vibrantly colored sarees and men in soft white linen dhoti – made the bright sunny spring day even hotter, their closeness stealing whatever breeze there was in the large market square.
Opal pulled her little silk embroidered purse close to her. She turned and saw only legs and colorful fabric, but none of the little uniforms of the English children. Opal took a breath to halt a sob of alarm.
Ayah! Where was her ayah?
She pushed through the crowd, away from the snake charmer, and into the center of the street, running to where she’d last seen her nanny and the other children. They had been at the fruit seller’s stall with its pile of kodkkapuli, spiral-shaped green and pink pods that contained a thick, sweet pulp.
They were not there.
Perhaps they went inside, out of the fiercely hot sun.
Cooler under the shade of the market’s bamboo roof, she could breathe better. She looked along the rows of basketed goods, looking for Ayah.
Was that her over there?
Opal followed the white head scarf to the end of the row. No, it was not.
What should she do?
Should she keep looking for Ayah? Surely her nurse would see she was missing and look for her?
Tears pricked her eyes.
Please, please, someone find her!
“Opal!”
Over the cries of the stall holders, their rapid-fire haggling with their customers, the sounds of performers, the cacophony of animals being herded through thoroughfares, she heard the sound of her own name as though it were the only voice in the world.
“Peter! Peter! I’m over here!”
She stood on tiptoes looking for Peter Ravenshaw, older and taller than her with golden blond hair that shone like a sovereign in the sun.
There he was!
He pushed his way through the throng, shaking off hands that touched his hair as he passed, making his way toward
her. She ran to him and threw herself into his arms.
“You’ve made Ayah worry, Opal. Where did you go?”
“I went nowhere. I turned around and everyone was gone!”
Peter shrugged out of her embrace. He didn’t look best pleased.
He frowned.
“You’re too silly and too little to be out on your own.”
The rebuke stung, but the worst of it was eased when he took her hand and led her through the gap between the fruit shop and the tobacco seller, away from the center of the market square to the outer edges that were makeshift pens for donkeys, horses, even a couple of elephants.
“Do you know what might have happened to Ayah if something happened to you?”
She stared at him, confused.
“Why would anything happen to Ayah?”
“Because you are her responsibility.”
“Something bad?”
The boy nodded tightly.
Opal fought against tears once again. She loved her nanny. The very thought of her being punished for something that was not her fault was truly dreadful.
The sight of two vilayati – foreign – children on their own, away from the vigilant eyes of their fellow countrymen or their local servants, was enough to attract the attention of some young men who were talking and nodding toward them.
Peter gripped her hand tightly and pulled her down another path. She saw his lips drawn in a tight line; a frown puckered his brow. She felt the tension in their connected hands and suddenly understood the danger they were in. She trusted Peter completely and let him lead without complaint.
The sun was now at its full height in the sapphire blue sky. She felt the pricks of salty sweat on her skin. They should have been on their way back to the compound and the bungalows, enjoying the shade of the frangipani trees and the sweet scent of their glossy white and yellow flowers.
Peter broke into a run. Opal stumbled as she looked behind her. The three youths had followed and were gaining.
“Run faster!” Peter demanded.
A flash of red off to one side and Peter dragged her abruptly in that direction, pulling her toward the two British soldiers on horseback who watched the markets from a distance. Her arm ached from the wrenching violence of the movement, but she did not complain.
“Master Peter! Miss Opal!”
And there, with the other children, was Ayah. She sounded angry.
Opal didn’t care. She would accept her punishment without complaint. She was safe.
Behind them, the youths who’d followed had spotted the soldiers now taking an interest in their party. The young men receded into the seething throng and disappeared.
Ayah remonstrated with her and Peter in a mix of English and Hindi, which Opal understood only too well. The middle-aged woman turned on Peter and slapped him hard on the arm, telling him he was older and ought to know better than to lead a young girl away from protection.
Peter refused to defend himself. Opal couldn’t let her friend do that. Ayah would surely tell his father, Colonel Ravenshaw, and his punishment would be more severe, especially when the report was confirmed by the two soldiers now approaching.
“No, no, Ayah!” Opal pleaded. “It was me, it was my fault, not Peter’s. Don’t punish him, please. I beg you, please.”
She burst into tears and threw herself into her nanny’s arms.
“Is there anything amiss here?” asked one of the soldiers.
Opal pulled herself from her guardian’s skirts and dried her eyes. She looked up at the woman with a silent plea.
A twist of the woman’s mouth told her that she was well aware of her ploy but had elected not to call her out on it today.
“No, sir,” she answered the soldier. “The children are tired after their excursion, and it is time for them to go home.”
The five British children, along with Opal’s ayah and another younger nurse, climbed into the open-topped landau. The soldiers escorted them back to their compound.
Opal made sure she sat next to Peter. She reached for his hand.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
He squeezed her hand once in return.
“I won’t always be there to protect you, you know,” he said.
“I know… but you did today, and I’m glad.”
He smiled and let go of her hand.
Her heart sang. He was her Prince Charming, handsome and brave. And he would marry her one day. Opal Jones vowed that she would love Peter Ravenshaw forever.
Chapter Two
Opal went downstairs to breakfast. Her mother looked up across the table.
“Did you hear that Lady Emma Spencer recently married the Earl of Rutherford?”
Opal noted the hopeful tone in her mother’s voice and set down her fork, the lush red strawberry on her plate less appealing than it was a moment ago.
“I must send the happy couple my felicitations,” she answered.
If her mother detected an edge to her voice, she elected to ignore it.
Opal was well aware of her own unwed state, considering she was about to turn twenty-two and had been two seasons on the marriage market.
There had been three offers of marriage – and three disappointed suitors.
Steadman, the butler, rapped on the door authoritatively and was bid enter.
“The morning post, Madam, Miss.”
At that, Opal paid attention.
“There’s something for me?”
“Three calling cards, four letters, and a parcel.”
She wasn’t expecting a delivery. Her only appointment today was a visit to Madame Francine Dumont, the mantuamaker, to order a gown for the Earl of Harcourt’s ball next month.
She reached for the calling cards.
“Cards?” her mother asked. “Surely no one would be so ill-mannered as to come in person so early.”
Two of the cards were from gentlemen whose names Opal did not recognize. Perhaps she had met them at an event at Vauxhall Gardens last week? She couldn’t recall. She would return the cards unanswered in a plain envelope.
The last card had the upper right-hand corner turned down.
The Earl of Harcourt.
Miles Rutherford.
She smiled with a little shake of her head. The man was utterly incorrigible, but his company was amusing, made even more so by the fact he knew she had no special tendre for him. The feeling – or rather lack thereof – was reciprocated.
“It’s Rutherford, Maji,” Opal responded at last, calling her mother by the familiar Hindi term for mother. “I quite forgot I agreed to ride with him through Hyde Park today.”
Mrs. Jones set down her paper, folding it carefully before placing it on the table. She skewered her daughter with a look.
Her daughter kept her own expression steady despite knowing she spoke an untruth. She had no idea why Rutherford had come to call and only supposed a ride was in the offing. And she knew her mother wasn’t certain of the earl’s character, but still, he was an earl who was taking an interest in her daughter. And an earl who was taking an interest in her daughter would only add to the family’s status.
Ah, poor Maji. She was as English as English could be in India, but she hadn’t yet successfully integrated into the world of London’s Beau Monde.
“Jack, the groom, is to accompany you.”
“Of course, Maman,” Opal said, gulping down the rest of her tea and rising to her feet. “Steadman, could you please inform the groom to saddle the bay mare and inform his lordship that I will see him shortly.”
Her mother picked up the parcel and shook it. “If you do not intend to address your correspondence, then you must at least open this. Your father would want to know who is buying you gifts.”
“I am sure it is not Sanders,” Opal replied. “I’m sure he is quite over his disappointment.”
“Yes, but I’m not certain your father is.” The uptick of the mouth was her mother’s way of letting her know there would be no more censure f
rom her for her refusal.
Opal smiled, approached her mother, and gave her a kiss on the cheek.
“As you say. Let’s see who has sent me a gift.”
The paper was tied together with string and sealed by plain red wax. There was no impression to suggest a sender.
Her address was written in a masculine hand. It seemed somewhat familiar, but Opal couldn’t immediately place it.
After breaking the seal and slipping off the outer paper, she saw how carefully it had been wrapped. The last layer of paper surrounding the object was a letter.
A glint of silver within caught her eye. She set the letter on the table and examined the object.
It was a beautiful silver pierced-work box, five inches by five. She appreciated its fine quality as being done by an Indian craftsman. The box had a hinged lid and was lined in deep blue silk. Inside, a purple velvet pouch held a most unusual bangle.
It was shaped as a serpent, its tail circling until it finished alongside its head. Across its back were twin rows of graduated rubies to hint at scales.
The flared head left no doubt this was a cobra, a triangular-shaped diamond set in its hood to confirm the fact. Two faceted blue sapphires glittered as eyes.
It was a confronting piece, quite unlike anything made by European jewelers. There was only one person who would understand its particular significance.
“Peter Ravenshaw…”
She didn’t know she’d spoken his name aloud until her mother asked if she was sure.
She set down the bangle and the beautiful box, and found the letter. She looked immediately for his signature.
“Yes! It’s from Peter.”
The clock struck eleven.
Rutherford waited for her downstairs.
But this was the first letter she had received directly from Peter in five years. She scanned it quickly. It contained best wishes for her twenty-first birthday and a few commonplace civilities. Despite the lavishness of the gift, there was nothing to suggest any kind of longing, or unrequited ardor.
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