The Lyon Sleeps Tonight

by Carter, Elizabeth Ellen

  It was her turn to look away, lest he see the heightened color on her cheeks and know its cause. She positioned herself behind her easel and hoped the worst of her blush ebbed before he noticed.

  But he did notice; the intense look around his eyes returned. Her heart beat triple time and he presented her with the flower but didn’t let go of the stem as she reached out for it. His fingers slid around hers, holding them.

  Kiss me.

  She hoped he could read her eyes because she was too afraid to speak the words aloud.

  “Attention, Lieutenant!”

  Peter snatched his hands away and jumped at least two feet away from her. He spun on his heel, snapping a salute to her father.

  Major Jones returned the salute with one of his own, a twinkle in his eyes hinting at typical good humor.

  “I, ah, sir, that is to say I was assisting your daughter.”

  The old man’s expression didn’t change, but a raise of an eyebrow was enough to turn Peter into a stutterer.

  Opal took pity on him by drawing her father’s attention to her.

  “I asked Peter to fetch this flower for me. I’m going to paint it. A final reminder of our time here in India.”

  “Well, your mother has asked me to send you inside… now, don’t look at me like that, dear girl, there are a myriad of details she wants to go through before tomorrow’s journey.”

  She knew better than to argue with her dear papa. She bobbed a curtsy to him, but, before she turned, caught Peter’s eye and brought the lotus flower to her nose.

  “Ahem. May I escort you and Miss Opal back to the bungalow?” Peter asked, his voice more confident than it had been a moment earlier.

  “At ease, my boy. Opal knows the way,” the major said pointedly. “I wanted to take the opportunity to have a word with our newest young officer before we sail.”

  That voyage changed everything, leaving Opal with nothing more than brief, passionate kisses then nothing of consequence from him.

  Did his gift of the bangle and box mean anything beyond felicitations for a birthday? If it had been the lovely box on its own, that would have been one thing, but the cobra bangle was quite another. That was a secret only the two of them shared.

  Why did he buy it? What did it mean for him? Anything at all?

  She wrote a thank-you letter to tell him how much she enjoyed and appreciated the gifts, and recalled the time in their childhood where he had saved her. It was a carefully worded letter. One would need to read between the lines to know the questions she sought answers to.

  What a pity his answers, if they came at all, would be more than a year away. By then, it could very well be too late.

  Rutherford had been as good as his word. She had received her invitation to the exclusive Lyon’s Den gala. On that night, she would begin forging a new life and leaving an old love behind.

  She closed her book and slipped it in her holdall. She silently wished well the young lovers in the park.

  Chapter Six

  England, on the way to Berkshire

  Peter didn’t know what he looked like, but judging by the moue of distaste expressed by the two very respectable old women facing him in the carriage, he’d not made a good impression.

  When had he last shaved? He didn’t know. When had he had last had a haircut? No idea. When had he last bathed? That was easy – two nights ago, because the innkeeper refused him service until he’d made use of the public baths.

  A trip from Weymouth to his home in Berkshire ought to have taken no more than a week. But to get to this point on the road, the final fifteen miles to Inglewood, was a month in the making.

  He’d come home to die, to do what his father could not – be laid to rest in his own ancestral plot.

  He shook his head.

  Well, that was very melodramatic, wasn’t it?

  According to the doctor in India, he had recovered from his wounds sufficiently to make the sea voyage home, and medical men were known to be on the cautious side, weren’t they?

  Still, he hadn’t realized how arduous the sea journey would be and many of the aches and pains he deemed permanent were made even worse by the cramped conditions and sometimes poor food. He had lost a lot of weight.

  He hated the sound of his voice, raspy and deep. Permanent damage from the strangulation. More than that, he hated himself. Good men, brave men had lost their lives because of him. He was responsible though not to blame, according to the Board of Inquiry.

  But if not him, then who? He was their commanding officer. In the end, he could not stay and not only because of his wounds. The ghost of his father appeared to him everywhere – mostly in the faces of those who had served with him and now knew his son was found wanting.

  Obligation and duty. Everything in his life mapped out with military precision…

  When he resigned his commission, he thought he would be free. What he didn’t know was that once he cut loose the tether, he would drift aimless on a sea of despair and misery completely of his own making.

  And the tide brought him here, washed up on the shore of home like a piece flotsam.

  He stared out the window without taking in the passing village and the overgrown hedgerows, but he recognized the entrance to Inglewood Manor, so he banged on the roof of the slow-moving carriage to get it to stop.

  He couldn’t resist looking his fellow passengers in the eyes, nodding once.

  “Ladies, it was a pleasure to have your company,” he said sardonically.

  Now in possession of the dusty and faded duffle bag which contained all his possessions, he walked like a tramp down the drive to his house.

  As he approached the front door, he regretted not shaving and cutting his hair. He didn’t recognize himself, so how would the servants know the master had returned? He doubted his own mother would recognize him.

  A middle-aged woman in a faded sundress looked up from where she worked a garden plot. She raised a hand to shade her eyes and watched him. The housekeeper perhaps?

  He approached her. Perhaps he could cadge a meal and a place to sleep overnight before announcing his identity.

  “Peter?”

  He stopped and looked at the woman again now that the sun filled her face. His limbs trembled, paying the price of long neglect.

  “I’m home, Mother, but I don’t know for how long.”

  The dire predictions of his own mortality proved unfounded.

  Following a week of good sleep in a comfortable bed and plentiful fresh, nourishing food, Peter discovered being an invalid did not suit his demeanor. Although his recuperation was slower than desired, getting to know his ancestral home and its workings had become a fascinating occupation – a straw to hold on to, and something he could get his teeth into even if strenuous activity was beyond him for the time being.

  He started by walking the grounds, sometimes in the company of Marshall, the estate steward. Nonetheless, he hid himself away from everyone save the household staff, even making his mother swear not to tell anyone in her letters that he was home – a promise she gave reluctantly but honored. She worried enough about his physical condition that he refused to add to her burden by revealing his inner turmoil was his real debilitation. It was hard enough to admit it to himself.

  There were days when it was all he could do to rouse himself from bed. Uncontrollable thoughts ranged across so much about that fateful patrol – not spotting the danger sooner, his guilt over the deaths of his men, wishing himself dead in their place and – shockingly – being relieved they had died and not him. Owning that thought had brought him to the very edge of despair. Against that, letting down his late father almost paled to insignificance.

  Still and all, the Board of Inquiry exonerated him. There was that. And no doubt, he would receive a sympathetic reception from family friends.

  But he knew – he knew – that in every word and deed he would be found wanting. If they chose to inquire further, they would discover his professional disgrace soon e
nough. In his eyes, they might see his personal disgrace.

  The longer he could put it off, the better.

  By the time summer had turned to the vibrant hues of autumn, he was physically fit enough to ride to the far edges of his estate. During the first snows of winter, he turned his attention to the inside of the house, becoming familiar with its quirks including the gaps in the windows and the cracks in the plaster. There was practical work to be done, and he began relishing the opportunity to do it.

  He put himself under the tutelage of the local craftsman who seemed bemused at first that the master of the house would deign to get his hands dirty. But as soon as Peter showed he was a man of his word, humbly accepting instruction and direction, the craftsman accepted him as a laborer.

  Hard physical work – not only was it good for his recovering body, it was also good for his spirit.

  By the time spring buds appeared on the trees, there was tangible improvement to his state of mind. The deep, bottomless days of depression seemed fewer and less frequent.

  The house, too, roused him to begin each new day, a home which had been made even more inviting by his mother’s enthusiasm for decorating. And that’s how he found her, in the warm and comforting morning room where she examined fabric swatches ordered from London.

  He kissed her on the cheek and helped himself to a cup of tea, pouring it from the silver tea kettle under which a merry little kerosene flame burned to keep the contents hot.

  “Now that the roads are becoming passable,” she offered, “we should consider inviting some of our neighbors to visit.”

  The sentence was lobbed tentatively, like the opening ball of the first over in a new cricket game. He could strike at it and see where it landed, or simply let it go through to the keeper unanswered.

  He decided to play the ball.

  “Did you have anyone in particular in mind?”

  He hid a smile behind his cup as his mother’s head rose quickly, the silver rim of her glasses glinting in the morning light that spilled through the windows.

  “You mean it? You do not object?”

  “I do not object. It’s time I emerged from hibernation, don’t you think?”

  His mother took off her glasses and put a hand to her lips to control her emotions. “You don’t know how long I’ve hoped and prayed to see my son return.”

  “It’s early days, so don’t go filling my social calendar just yet. But yes, it is high time I met the neighbors.”

  In truth, it was well after time. The only people he knew apart from the household staff and the tradesmen was Winston Evans, a man his own age, a neighbor who happened to be the Member of Parliament for the area.

  Peter liked him well enough to play cards with occasionally but begged off attending social engagements, using the restoration of Inglewood Manor as the excuse for his reclusiveness. And yet Evans was amiable company, never pressing Peter to do more than he wished.

  “I understand Winston Evans might have an eligible sister.”

  Peter witnessed the hint of a teasing smile and his own heart lightened.

  “That is just a step too far, Mother. Besides, I suspect you’re not ready to relinquish the role of mistress quite yet.”

  She gave a little shrug and picked up her spectacles once more to consider a swatch of jacquard in a shade of cyclamen pink.

  “What do you think of this?” she said, holding it up for his inspection.

  “Not for my room, I trust.”

  “I was thinking of the smaller room on the second floor. It gets plenty of light in the morning. It would make an excellent ladies’ study for the future mistress of Inglewood Manor.”

  “In all things decorating, I bow to your superior intuition in such things. I will own it is a striking color to be sure.”

  “I was inspired by a painting that Major Jones’ daughter gave me as present when we arrived back in England.”

  She pulled up beside her a watercolor of a lotus. It was not a large canvas, just twelve inches square. The art was not from an expert hand by any means, but it was an attractive amateur painting in vibrant colors that instantly evoked the brightness and warmth of an Indian spring day.

  “I remember this!” he exclaimed. “I had no idea she’d finished the painting, let alone gifted it to you. Did you know that I got the flower for Opal? She was reaching across the pond and very nearly went in. I rescued her from herself.”

  He caught his mother’s expression and halted.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “You’re smiling.”

  “I am? I hadn’t noticed.”

  “This is the first time you’ve smiled since you’ve been home.”

  His mother did a poor job of hiding her fears from him. He picked his words carefully.

  “Don’t fret about me. What happened is in the past. I can’t thank you enough for being there through my darkest hours. I’m not out of it yet, but I will be.”

  If his explanation was inadequate, his mother kept her own council on the matter. She set Opal’s painting on the floor beside her and drew the fabric swatches nearer.

  “Evans will be returning to London in a few months for the sitting of Parliament,” she said. “Why don’t you go with him? It would do you good.”

  “To leave the fresh air and open countryside for the stench and crowds of the city?” he teased, but his mother didn’t seem to mind. Now, he intended to surprise her as much as he did himself by articulating a thought which only occurred to him a moment before.

  “I think you’re right. A trip to London would be worthwhile,” he said, before sobering. “I think I should pay a call on Major Jones.”

  “Oh, Peter, I was hoping you would. There could be no better man to talk to. Sinclair was such a good friend of your father’s.”

  “And he, too, has an eligible daughter.”

  “Don’t be so sure about that,” his mother teased back. “It seems that every season, Beatrice sends me news about Opal’s impending engagement – each time to a new fellow. I’m afraid you may have to look elsewhere.”

  Peter laughed. His spirit was lighter than it had been for years.

  “Oh well, that’s the end of it. If I can’t marry Opal Jones, then you will have me as your bachelor son for the rest of time.”

  Chapter Seven

  “I really shouldn’t have let Miles talk me into this.”

  Opal looked up at her masked escort, Oliver Kettering, the Viscount Roxbury. He was another of the “Brothers Bachelor”. Good looking in his own way, with mid-brown hair that turned to red in the sun – which he hated – Kettering was a good sport. The reason why she liked him was the very reason he would be an unsuitable husband. They were too much alike.

  He would do better with a wife who was a steady companion, keeping him grounded while he reached for the heavens.

  They stood in a queue with other masked guests to exchange coin for tokens from a strikingly exotic woman and her young female assistant. They worked from a polished brass cage, something akin to a bird cage barely wide enough for the two women to sit side-by-side without rubbing shoulders.

  Opal patted Oliver’s hand in consolation. “You’re being a good friend. You couldn’t possibly let Rutherford escort me here when he is ardently trying to win back Amber.”

  He looked down to her. “And he’s also told me what your scheme is, so I’m here under sufferance to ensure you don’t make a cake of yourself.”

  She shrugged. “I’ve achieved my majority; I don’t need a nursemaid.” She adjusted the dark blue lacy mask across her face, made with the same lace that trimmed her indigo blue gown, and eased to the side to allow another masked couple past. “Besides, there are other ladies here apart from me, so I’ve not stepped into a complete den of iniquity.”

  Indeed, Oliver could not gainsay her. Ladies and gentlemen mingled at this very special charity event to raise money for the injured soldiers returning from the Continent. Games were played and coin shared liberall
y for a good cause.

  Opal’s companion refused to say anything more, but she would not let the matter go.

  “You’re just cross because Rutherford is now out of your band of Brothers Bachelor.”

  “Shhhh, don’t use that word too loudly around here.”

  “Bachelor?” she whispered.

  The man replied with a curt nod.

  Opal giggled, wafting a fan in front of her face. He knew as well as she did that some men left The Lyon’s Den with a wife as well as winnings.

  Now, it was their turn to be served. Oliver passed two small purses of coins through the gap in the cage. The older of the two worked an abacus as money was passed to and fro. She wore make-up to highlight, or perhaps disguise her features, and looked like a Chinese goddess, the effect enhanced by the red and gold embroidered gown she wore.

  A moment later, their purses were returned with the appropriate number of tokens.

  “Do you have a particular mark in mind?” Oliver asked.

  “Moi?” She gave him an exaggerated flirtatious smile, the exotic cobra bangle on her wrist glinting in the lamplight. “Who knows, I may live in hope.”

  “If I thought you had any interest in me, I wouldn’t have brought you here even on pain of death. I wish your hope to be fulfilled, but you cannot wish present a man who is a thousand miles away.”

  The two of them wandered through the billiard room into the gaming rooms.

  Mrs. Dove-Lyon seemed to have something to please everyone. It would be impressive enough for a venue to have three billiard tables. The Lyon’s Den had six and they were magnificent. All were matching in style, mahogany bodies with foliate maple inlays and a cartouche of a classical figure of a huntress. The baize was the finest emerald green felt.

  Both men and women played. The gents used a cue, the ladies employed a longer stick, shaped like a golf club which Opal’s companion informed her was called a mace.

  They moved on to the first of two card rooms. Opal watched the variety of games played at the various tables, including faro where fortunes were made and lost on the turn of a card.