The Lyon Sleeps Tonight

by Carter, Elizabeth Ellen

  She paused at a piquet table just as a new partie was about to begin between the two players. She knew the basics, of course – piquet was played with the cards numbered two to six removed from the pack, and each played tricks and followed suit as they aimed for a score of one hundred.

  Opal had only played for fun, never before for coin. Judging by the color of the tokens on the table, these players were here for high stakes.

  The second player, the junior, eyed his competitor as he selected two of his eight unseen cards and slid two from the talon.

  The second player shook his head quickly. He would play the cards as dealt.

  The elder picked up his cards, a moue of disappointment crossed his lips. If Opal hadn’t been watching carefully, she would have missed it.

  “Carte Blanche,” he said, revealing his cards – none of them were court cards.

  He wrote down the figure ten in pencil on a little tablet of ivory.

  Now, it was the turn of the junior to reveal his hand. He turned the cards over one by one. He had two aces – twenty-two points on its own. The rest of the hand featured five cards of the same suit.

  “Quint.”

  That meant another fifteen points – thirty-seven points for that trick. The junior settled himself more upright in his seat.

  Oliver tapped her on the arm to attract her attention.

  “Let’s see if we can find a table of our own.”

  She nodded. They moved through the three large public rooms and down another hallway leading down to some private rooms. They were closed for tonight, but, drawn by the sound of the orchestra, they made their way to the ballroom through a large ante room. The ante room would normally house gaming tables but tonight it formed an informal setting for supper.

  While Oliver set off in search of refreshments, Opal found herself standing beside an older woman dressed in black. At first blush, The Lyon’s Den seemed an unlikely place for a respectable widow.

  But this woman had not retired for the evening. She was keenly observing those who danced, as though making a special note of it in her mind. Her silvery-blonde hair was elaborately styled. The plainness of her gown did nothing to disguise the quality of the cut and the fabric.

  Without being told, Opal knew she was standing next Mrs. Dove-Lyon.

  “It’s an honor to meet you, ma’am,” she said, dropping a curtsy.

  Opal found herself the subject of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s inscrutable countenance.

  “I do not believe we have met, Miss…?”

  “Jones, Miss Opal Jones. I’ve heard so much about what you do here.”

  That elicited the raise of an eyebrow.

  “The match between Lord Jason Glazebrook and Miss Crabtree, for instance,” she hastened to add.

  The owner of The Lyon’s Den began a head-to-toe inspection and her expression did nothing to tell Opal whether or not she’d been found wanting.

  Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s eyes alit on her bangle. Without a “by your leave”, she picked up Opal’s hand to raise her arm and look at it more closely. Without knowing why, Opal kept her arm raised while the older woman touched the bangle, rotating it on her wrist until the head of the cobra faced her. She ran a thumb along the head, over the diamond and across the ruby-encrusted back.

  “I should very much like to own this.”

  Opal snatched her hand back and held the bangle close, feeling the ridges of the precious metal.

  “It was a gift.”

  “From someone special, I presume.”

  “A friend.”

  “A male friend,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon observed. “Someone who is long absent. India, I expect. An officer? Yes, an officer paid well and with exquisite taste. A beau?”

  The woman had a speculative gleam in her eyes. “Is that the assistance you require?”

  Opal took a step back in shock. Was she some kind of clairvoyant? How could she guess at such things from just one look at her bangle?

  Mrs. Dove-Lyon reached into her satin reticule and handed her a business card.

  “You interest me, Miss Opal Jones. If you wish you sell your bangle – or if I can indeed help you with any other matter – then do pay me a call.”

  The woman then turned to accept the well-wishes of another guest. And at that, Opal was dismissed.

  She backed away a few steps and bumped into a broad back. She turned to apologize to its owner – tall with sandy blond hair.

  No, that was ridiculous, it couldn’t possibly be, but he looks exactly like Peter!

  The man cast her a quick glance, offering a vague nod before being pulled back into the conversation with his friend.

  Opal turned away, only to feel a tap on her shoulder a moment later.

  It was Peter! And he belatedly recognized her. She turned back, holding her breath. Except it wasn’t Peter. It was Oliver.

  “Are you well?” he asked, handing her a glass of lemonade. She took a sip before answering.

  “Quite well,” she lied.

  “Well, you don’t look it. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “If I look ill, it is because I was about to expire from thirst in waiting for you.”

  Oliver laughed.

  “Well, come along then. I have a purse heavy with tokens, and I plan to lose heavily.”

  She took his arm but couldn’t resist one last look back at the masked man who reminded her so much of Peter.

  Chapter Eight

  If not for Winston Evans, MP, he wouldn’t have come to an establishment like this. But the man wouldn’t leave him be. So, he went along, justifying to himself that he could keep his friend out of trouble.

  The evening clothes Peter wore were new – in fact, the tailor’s apprentice delivered them to his home only that afternoon. They fit well – a new form of uniform he would need to get used to wearing as a civilian, although he wondered how many occasions would require such attire.

  So far, the trip to London had been good for him. Evans had made sure he received invitations, although he had to confess it had taken him a little time to spit and polish his social manners. In the army, there was little call for the art of making small talk to well-bred young ladies, especially when their repertoire of conversation was limited to the most superficial of social niceties.

  When did he ever have difficulties talking to women? He used to talk to Opal for hours about every topic under the sun.

  Those women weren’t Opal.

  “See, I said you’d be enjoying yourself instead of rusticating in the country,” said Evans.

  “Yes, yes, as you’ve reminded me for the past week, it’s all in a good cause.”

  “Which makes it all the more strange that you’re not wearing your uniform. There’s plenty of pretty faces here tonight. I’m sure with that lovely scarlet coat and shiny medals you could have your pick of any of the ladies here.”

  The comment, harmlessly meant, was a sore spot still. The best form of defense is attack, he decided. Peter slapped Evans on the back and leaned closer in a mock conspiratorial manner.

  “That’s the reason why I’m dressed incognito tonight. I wouldn’t want to deprive all the other chaps of the opportunity to bask in the adulation.”

  Evans laughed. Peter was pleased such a simple distraction worked. The truth of the matter was he was still finding his feet in this new world. This was the world Opal Jones inhabited and, even as large as London was, he knew it would only be a matter of time before he saw her again.

  How would he feel about seeing her hanging off another fellow’s arm? Well, that would be just another thing he would have to get used to, that’s all. And it was also the reason why he let Evans talk him into attending the gala at The Lyon’s Den.

  The chances of seeing Opal here had to be close to naught.

  From what he had been told, The Lyon’s Den enjoyed a certain reputation, not the least of which was the fact that both men and women gambled here. He couldn’t imagine Major Jones would allow his daughter within a mi
le of such an establishment.

  And yet, what did it say about him that every time he saw a woman with dark hair, he looked twice just in case it was her?

  For the first hour, Peter was on high alert as though The Lyon’s Den were the Indian highlands and he was on patrol, trying to anticipate the unexpected. But by the second hour, after he had sampled the fine wine and savored the sumptuous surroundings, he found himself relaxing just a little.

  He even didn’t mind losing coin against the house. Somewhere between the faro and the whist, he lost Evans though. Peter headed into one of the larger rooms earmarked for dancing.

  The music drew him in. The last time he had danced was onboard ship last year when it was part of the exercise regimen enforced by the captain. Peter had been under doctor’s orders to participate for the sake of his health.

  He watched a set to ensure he could remember the steps of the fashionable dances before he scanned the room, looking for a dance partner.

  At a more formal event, the odds would have been against him. He was new and had not been introduced, but it seemed that Mrs. Dove-Lyon had thought of that, too. Mingling with the crowd were elegantly dressed men and women who were dance hosts and hostesses. The men wore a gold stick pin with the head of lion while the women carried the same type distinctive oriental fan, and they were there to ensure every guest had a good time – for a donation to the good cause.

  Peter had already caught the eye of one of the hostesses. He was approaching to request an introduction when he was jostled from behind and not for the first time tonight.

  “Oh, I do beg your pardon,” he said, even though it had not been his fault at all. He bent to retrieve the lady’s dropped fan and returned it to her.

  The dark-haired young woman looked up at him, her face largely covered by one of the masks that were de rigueur tonight.

  It was the second time she had bumped into him. There was no mistake in that.

  He hadn’t really noticed her the first time, only offering a half-smile and nod of acknowledgement before returning to his conversation.

  Now that she had his full attention, she did not seem the clumsy type. In fact, she seemed perfectly proportioned. He let his eyes wander over her form with an appreciative gaze. The dark blue gown highlighted the creamy skin of her bust. And although the mask hid the specifics of her features, it fitted closely enough to reveal high cheek bones and frame her warm brown eyes.

  Something within him reacted viscerally. The young woman must have sensed it because her lips opened into what he thought must be dismay.

  Surely, he was mistaken…

  He took a step back, but her hand clutched his arm and did not let go. He looked down at the gloved hand and saw the slender, sinuous shape of the gold cobra-shaped bangle with its distinctive ruby-encrusted back. There could only be one such jewel of that type in all of England.

  All of a sudden, his weakness came back and it was only by sheer force of will he remained standing.

  “Peter? It is you, isn’t it? Please tell me I’m not dreaming.”

  Her voice sounded familiar and yet was somehow not. The woman before him was poised, not the coltish young girl she had been.

  “Opal?”

  The woman’s face brightened and she nodded.

  “I can hardly believe it,” Peter gasped. “What are you doing here?”

  Before she could answer, a man approached and stood beside Opal, a frown on his face. He was as tall as Peter himself and appeared well-to-do, but he seemed hesitant to stake his claim. And yet, there was a proprietorial manner about the cove that made Peter bristle.

  A beau?

  Delight, surprise, and disappointment churned together in a sour brew in Opal’s stomach.

  So many unanswered questions. What was he doing here? When had he returned home? Why had he not sent word?

  Even now, he didn’t quite seem like the same Peter of her childhood. His expression, which she used to be able to read so well, was now closed off from her and not just by his mask. His voice was much, much deeper.

  Now he was looking at Oliver in an assessing way that suggested he had formed his own conclusions.

  “Oliver Kettering, Viscount Roxbury, this is Captain Peter Ravenshaw, newly arrived from India,” she said.

  The two men stiffly bowed to one another. Oliver appeared to struggle a moment to keep surprise from his face. To his credit, he managed his countenance right.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Captain Ravenshaw,” he said smoothly. “Miss Jones has always spoken of you so highly. I feel we are halfway acquainted already. I take it you are not long returned to England?”

  “I came straight home to the family estate in Berkshire. I’m staying with the Honorable Winston Evans here in London,” Peter answered.

  Opal remained quiet. The question was answered and yet not. When did he return to England and why? Despite her own desire to shower Peter with questions, she knew she would get at least part of the story simply by Oliver asking those commonplace questions one asked when newly introduced.

  “And yet you’ve not worn your uniform tonight, Captain.”

  “No.” A flash of some emotion – anger or annoyance, perhaps – fleetingly tightened his lips before a more affable expression settled on them. “My attendance tonight came by way of a last-minute invitation, my lord. Since I’ve retired from the service, I’m not in the habit of traveling with my dress uniform packed as a matter of course.”

  Opal frowned. The Peter she knew was never this brusque, but it didn’t seem to bother Oliver one jot.

  “Indeed, indeed. Well, as a friend of Miss Jones and her family, I welcome you to London. Please do not be afraid to press upon our acquaintance if I can be of service in any way,” he said graciously.

  The offer seemed to change Peter. The guarded manner was disappearing. Glimpses of the man she remembered emerged.

  Peter held out his hand to Oliver. “Thank you, my lord, I’ll take you up on that. Since I resigned my commission, it’s been difficult returning to civilian life. There are some business ventures I’d be interested in pursuing.”

  “Then I’d be glad to introduce you, Captain.”

  The music came to an end. The majordomo announced supper was to be an informal affair so the gambling might continue.

  “Lose well, friends!” he called. “Remember this is for a good cause for the care of our soldiers and sailors newly returned from war.”

  “Do you still play cards, Captain?” Opal asked, knowing the answer full well. Of course, he played. He was the one who taught her. “If we can find one more, we can set a table for whist.”

  “I hope your game has improved.”

  Peter’s teasing warmed her.

  “Evans invited me here tonight. We’ll find him and have our table.”

  As though the man had heard his name being called, Evans appeared. Opal became the instant focus on his attention.

  “Good evening, my lady,” he said.

  Without a doubt, Winston Evans was a handsome man, and he knew it. He looked to Peter for an introduction.

  Peter gave an exaggerated put-upon sigh. “Very well then – Miss Opal Jones, Oliver Kettering, Viscount Roxbury, allow me introduce the Honorable Winston Evans, MP for Berkshire, owner of Brisley Park, and my neighbor.”

  Evans acknowledged the viscount but, once more, his eyes ran to Opal.

  “Do you remember me telling you about one of my old commanders, Major Sinclair Jones?” Peter asked. “This is his daughter.”

  Peter’s words started affably enough, but Opal knew she did not mistake an edge of warning in his voice – a protective warning.

  He still cared.

  That set her heart pounding. All the questions she had about his return to England could be safely set aside until she could talk to him alone. The most important thing was him being here and still with some vestige of feeling for her.

  “Ah, a dear friend of the family… I do wish I’d paid more at
tention. Miss Jones, it is a pity we weren’t sooner acquainted. Do you know Berkshire? You must come.”

  He was flirting with her! She offered him a smile in return. There could be little harm in it. Let Peter see that she was no longer the little girl who trailed after him in India. She was a woman. A woman who other men found attractive.

  “Alas, not as well as I would like, Mr. Evans, I’ve visited Peter’s mother once, but that was many years ago. It was a most pleasant place. I do hope to see more of the county.”

  Evans looked slyly at Peter, apparently gauging how his friend felt about his obvious flirtation. Opal looked also, but nothing of his thoughts revealed themselves to her.

  “We’re going to play a hand of whist,” said Peter.

  “I cannot say I’m an expert at the game, but as long as it keeps me in the company of Miss Jones, I will be a very happy loser.”

  Chapter Nine

  Peter watched Evans offer his arm to Opal. He felt a flare of jealousy when Roxbury showed up. Now he wondered whether he ought to feel jealous of his neighbor. Frankly, he was too tired to go on playing that game.

  After nine months in the Berkshire countryside, in the fresh air and laboring in the fields to help rebuild his strength, he thought himself fully recovered. Even the busier days attending to business in London hadn’t expended his energy as tonight had done in The Lyon’s Den, and particularly in the last five minutes.

  He was exhausted. If it were just him, he’d have made his excuses and left, but now having found Opal here, he felt the same duty… no, that wasn’t exactly the right word – it suggested obligation… no, the desire to make sure she was returned home safely.

  She raised her hand to brush a strand of hair from her face. Lamplight caused the snake bangle to glitter, its sapphire eyes flashed.

  The gift was meant as a novelty reminder of the time they had spent as children. But tonight, the way the bangle moved, it seemed it was alive and dangerous.

  Or was Opal the one who was dangerous?