Peter’s mind reacted before conscious thought, pushing him through the veil of sleep. He shot upright in bed, panting hard. The agony in his neck vanished the instant he opened his eyes but the shuddering terror did not.
The nightmare was one of the worst he’d had in a while. Why was that? As soon as he asked himself the question, he knew the answer.
The unknown waited for him in the form of a summons to attend The Lyon’s Den. Did he sense there was danger there? His rational mind offered the extremely valid observation that the Thuggee were hardly likely to ambush him in a salubrious London gaming establishment. But was it a warning about endangering others?
How could he possibly introduce a wife to his nightmares? In what way could it ever be fair on such a poor creature to put up with a man who could not control his own dreams? What if the nightmare paralysis that stayed his hand in sleep should fail him? What if those bonds should loose and he fight his unseen foe and strike his wife?
The pent-up energy that ran through his veins forced him out of bed where the valet had already brought up a steaming ewer of water to wash. Beside the wash stand was a sealed letter. He picked it up, turned it over and ran his thumb over the wax seal on which was imprinted a lion.
A Lyon.
He was tempted to rip it open immediately, but he didn’t. What awaited within would wait until he had washed and breakfasted. He wasn’t sure he was ready to face it without a full stomach.
An army marches on its stomach, after all.
Opal found herself outside The Lyon’s Den once more. The streets were near deserted at this time of the morning; the only folk about were those at the markets three blocks away. On this quiet morning, with her face and figure shrouded in a cloak, there was no one to see her walk alone up the stairs of the ladies’ entrance where a woman who would only give her name as Themisto waited for her.
“For your time here, you will be known as Arete.”
Opal opened her mouth to correct her. Themisto raised her hand. “I do not wish to know your identity and neither should you wish me to. Once your business here is transacted, we do not expect to see you again.”
The young woman turned on her heel leaving Opal no choice but to follow meekly behind. The Lyon’s Den was asleep. The gaming tables were silent, the pale dawn light giving the rooms a dreamlike quality. The woman led her upstairs and to the right to a well-appointed room that looked more like a dressmaker’s salon.
Dresses in all hues were arrayed on a rack. A series of large-looking glasses were hung on the walls, reflecting the morning sun throughout the room, striking the crystals in unlit chandeliers to spread dots of diamonds and rainbows on the carpeted floor.
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle,” said a tall, thin tailor as he unfolded himself from a chair. “I have been expecting you. Let us prepare you for your fitting.”
The man was easily four inches taller than she was, perhaps even taller than Peter. He moved with uncommon grace around the drafting table and opened the curtains wider.
“Bon. I can see your coloring better in this light. Step forward if you please.”
Opal did as instructed. The Frenchman walked around her a second, third, and fourth time as though he could tell her measurements by sight alone. He clapped his hands. Two girls, no older than fourteen, entered the room. The tailor spoke to them in rapid-fire French. Much too fast for her to understand. Then he left the room.
As soon as one of the girls pulled out a tape measure, Opal guessed the man didn’t want to leave it to guesswork after all.
In short order, the seamstresses were done and left her alone in the room.
Outside, the street was getting noisier and the denizens of this part of London hastened themselves to their morning business.
Up here, she felt apart from it all, as though she had nothing in common with those who now made their way along the street. She had chosen a different path, and she had to walk it on her own.
At first, she rankled at Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s domineering personality. But now, she allowed herself to be carried along with it, grateful she did not have to think – just take instruction and trust that the small fortune she had given was not a fool’s decision.
The door opened once more. Themisto waited. Opal followed her without comment – as docile as a lamb. Her parents wouldn’t recognize their daughter, she thought ruefully.
This time, she was led to the drawing room where she’d first met Mrs. Dove-Lyon. The room had been changed. In the center was a gaming table. Tables placed against the wall were filled with delicacies. A large samovar in silver held coffee, judging by the aroma.
Another man, this time short and stocky with a trim, dark beard, greeted her.
“Please make yourself comfortable, Arete. You have had an early start and are no doubt hungry. My name is Heleus, I am in charge of all the attendants in the gaming room. I am here to instruct you on all the card games and how to play them well. This will be an intense instruction and it will require your concentration. There will be times you will wish to give up. At those times, I want you to remember why you are here. You are to play as if your life and future happiness depends on it, because it does.”
The ominous warning reminded her this was no unserious sport. She raised her head and met the man’s eyes for the first time.
“I am ready to learn.”
Opal threw herself into the lessons, watching Heleus as he dealt the cards, instructing her to watch for the sleight of hand that could give her the advantage in the games. She had to be prepared to play them all – whist, faro, speculation, loo, and piquet.
By the time the midday meal arrived, Opal could just about manage to successfully count cards – particularly useful in faro, especially when the deck was marked.
“Huitime, eighteen, I do believe I win this hand.” She fanned out her cards.
Warm ham, potatoes and other vegetables were brought in on silver platters, fresh baked bread and the aroma of strawberries reminded her how long they had played. Following behind the array of servants was Mrs. Dove-Lyon.
Heleus grinned at her and pulled the cards together, along with the rest of the pack which had been discarded for the game of piquet.
“You are here to win, but you also want your lover to win. However, he cannot be allowed to know you are assisting,” Heleus concluded. “You want him to think the other men at the table are his rivals, not you. Come, I know you are ravenous, but I wish you to play one more game. I want to see how well you can concentrate in the face of distraction.”
Opal lost that trick and the next one and the one after that, too.
“I hope what I saw was merely a slip, otherwise the evening will be a very short one, indeed. We came to an arrangement, my dear. The marks for this evening must leave lighter by at least fifty pounds each before we can consider our business successfully transacted.”
Heleus rose from the table.
“I wish you bon chance, Arete. You have been one of my better pupils.”
Opal rose to meet Mrs. Dove-Lyon. A wink from the gaming master before he left the room gave her confidence.
“Be ready at half-past the hour. I wish to introduce you to the dancing master. I demand that you be dazzling. You want every man to want you, not just the one you have your eye set on. Each must believe they have a sporting chance.”
Opal squared her shoulders with pride as well as pure stubbornness.
“I can assure you, my lady, I do not intend to disappoint.
Chapter Sixteen
Peter climbed down from the hansom cab and up the steps of The Lyon’s Den on the appointed day at the appointed time, five o’clock.
He had only been to this place the once. He was not in the habit of gambling. He played well enough to pass a sociable evening with friends but he was not the hardened player. His experience on the disastrous patrol had taught him to never bet more than he was prepared to lose.
He’d nearly lost his life on a gamble that killed six of h
is men. It should have worked. They had the Thuggee on the run, only to discover to their detriment that the odds were always stacked against them.
The Lyon’s Den was an entire world away from the forests of the Indian highlands, as far apart as two places could be, yet Peter still felt the same unease that had assailed him on that day.
“Pardon me, sir, it is a requirement that you wear this mask while you are on the premises.”
“Why?”
The doorman straightened up just as corporals used to do when he issued a command. Clearly, at one time, this man had been in the army.
“Mrs. Dove-Lyon orders it so.”
“And she does give the orders around here, doesn’t she?”
The blunt assessment of the mistress of the den gave rise to the first show of temper he’d seen. Interesting that a lowly footman would be so loyal. To reduce the ire of the man, Peter donned the black silk mask.
When it was settled to the doorman’s satisfaction, he led on.
Through the double doors into one of the salons, he caught a glimpse of a small group. Inside were three men. They, too, wore black masks. It appeared he was last to arrive, even though he was absolutely punctual.
Not surprisingly, all the men sized each other up. Peter guessed none of the three were older than forty years of age. They all seemed to be of a type – average height, well proportioned, possibly sportsmen.
Before they had time to introduce themselves, a series of liveried staff poured into the room with salvers of drink and food, then stepped back to the corners of the room.
One man, with jet black hair, carelessly looked at the spread and helped himself to a large measure of brandy.
“Well, I’m not standing on ceremony,” he said. “This is quite a feast for an afternoon of playing cards.”
“Do you think that’s why we’ve been invited?” asked a second man, slightly shorter than the rest of them and sporting a shock of red hair that flopped across his brow.
“Why else are we here?” said the third, a man with a swarthy complexion and, if Peter was not mistaken, a thin white dueling scar down his cheek.
“All I know is I got a very specifically worded invitation that told me I’d find something to my advantage here,” answered the second.
Finally, Peter’s presence was acknowledged.
The black-haired man drained his brandy in one swallow. “What’s your story then?”
“The same as all of you, I imagine,” he shrugged. “I received an invitation, and here I am.”
Apparently, the answer didn’t please the drinker. The man couldn’t conceal a sneer as he poured himself another glass.
Peter refused to react to insult. A man making indentures this early in the day would most likely be a nasty drunk, and it wasn’t his intention to escalate the matter.
Why were they all here? If he had been pressed by Evans to attend for the sake of their friendship, what hold did Mrs. Dove-Lyon have over these three?
Although they didn’t say much, they all spoke with educated diction. New money? Minor aristocrats?
He cast his eyes over the spread of food and drink. It seemed no expense had been spared. That made him even more suspicious. What on earth did the woman want with them?
The lady in question entered the room just a few minutes later.
“Gentlemen, thank you for being here today.”
“Not that we had much choice,” muttered the scarred man.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon ignored the comment as though it had never been spoken.
“You gentlemen have been specifically chosen for a special wager, one that will see you several hundred pounds richer should you win.”
Peter folded his arms and shook his head.
“Then I will bid you all adieu. I don’t find gambling of special interest.”
“I entreat you to wait until I am finished,” said Mrs. Dove-Lyon. “Each of you have been induced to attend today by various means of persuasion and you will not go away empty handed for taking part in this little contest. Indeed, should you win, you will not be unhappy with your prize.”
“It had better be worth it,” said the redheaded man.
“I believe you’ll find it so. You will receive a prize whose worth is far above rubies.”
Something about the phrase was familiar, although Peter couldn’t place it.
A footman emerged from behind Mrs. Dove-Lyon to hand each of them a sealed envelope. Peter’s was marked with the name Paris.
P for Paris, P for Peter, he imagined.
“You will be known by these names while you are here. You will not know the true identity of the others, nor the name of the young lady in question.”
“Young lady?” the dashing scarred man’s demeanor brightened immeasurably.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon addressed each of them by their unique assigned names. Minor Greek deities, if Peter had to guess. The black-haired souse was Briseus and the redhead was Teleos, while the “duelist” was dubbed Hylas. Briseus sniggered when he heard Paris was Peter’s alias.
He was becoming more and more impatient – and deeply suspicious. He didn’t know about the other three, but he sure as hell resented being set up.
“I’m presuming the young lady we are to meet will also be incognito?” he asked.
“You are correct, Paris, and you will meet her shortly.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon then addressed them all. “Gentlemen, in your envelopes are the full details of the wager today. In a moment, I will run through those details to ensure no one is in any doubt about the conditions. You will also find a small reward specifically for you. Play to the best of your ability and it is yours, win or lose. Refuse to participate or to address the challenge seriously or leave before midnight tonight and it is forfeit.”
“What else do I get when I win?” said Teleos.
“If you win, you will obtain a bride of high quality, of grace, breeding, and accomplishment, an ornament for your arm, a mother for your children… and a dowry of ten thousand pounds.”
Hylas let out a low whistle.
Peter found a sour taste in his mouth. “In other words, a slave,” he bit out.
“Indeed not!” For a brief moment, Mrs. Dove-Lyon held up a printed document. At the bottom was a flourishing signature in blue ink, then immediately removed it from their sight. “The young lady has willingly agreed to wed whichever gentlemen wins her hand. And I mean that most specifically.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon proceeded to lay out the contest. They were to play cards, but not for the lady’s hand – the games were simply to occupy their time. This was to be a contest of endurance. The prize went to the last man awake.
It was the most absurd thing Peter had ever heard of. He pitied the poor young woman who was brought so low as to have to auction herself off in such a ludicrous manner, and cursed Evans for getting him into this.
Briseus snorted with laughter. “Do we get a chance to see the gel? I’m used to dealing with livestock, but if she’s a heifer, all bets are off – no matter what inducements you offer,” he joked, helping himself to another drink.
“The young lady has ten thousand pounds?” Teleos asked, his voice calculating. He’d already broken the seal on his envelope and smiled at what he found within.
“You will meet the young lady shortly,” said Mrs. Dove-Lyon. “Before the contest begins in earnest, you will each play a game of piquet with her and socialize briefly, during which time you will have your opportunity to satisfy yourselves she is all I claim. But be warned gentlemen, she will be assessing you at this time also to see if you are wanting. Review the contents of the envelopes and sign your contracts at the desk over there. Then you will be escorted to meet the lady.”
Peter opened his envelope. He skimmed through the contract. It was everything Mrs. Dove-Lyon said it was – a contract stating an intention to marry. He pulled up the piece of parchment behind it:
By the KING’S Order the name of
Captain Peter Ravenshaw
/> Of the 6th Dragoons
was published in the London Gazette on
19th September 1816
as mentioned in a dispatch for distinguished service.
I am charged to record
His Majesty’s high appreciation
There was a clipping from the Gazette:
“While on patrol to rid the local population from predation by the Thuggee, Captain Peter Ravenshaw showed extraordinary courage in the face of overwhelming odds to dispatch three of the enemy with a knife which had been used against him. His courageous and swift action while seriously wounded himself served to assist the survival of many of his men.”
So, the patrol he had spent the past year believing was a complete failure was deemed not. He shook his head.
There was also a letter, addressed to him from Colonel William Hayes.
I hope this letter finds you well.
When you left India, you were in such a poorly state I took the liberty of writing to your mother to advise her of your dim prospects. But you are so much like your father in so many ways, I also hoped and prayed that you would fully recover in body and mind.
Being like your father, I know you carry the weight of the ambush on your shoulders. I urge you to know the blame wasn’t yours. The families of your men who died do not hold you to blame and the men who survived feel they may not have done so but for your action in fighting on as you did…
To Peter’s embarrassment, the letter shook in his hand, the words before him blurring.
This is what he had been searching for – absolution, a way out of the soul-crushing guilt that had plagued him this past year.
It changed everything.
He wanted nothing more than to leave this place now and digest the news.
“Watch yourself there, old chap,” said Hylas.
Peter pulled himself to attention, then turned away to blink away the moisture in his eyes before anyone else observed.
In doing so, he came face to face with Mrs. Dove-Lyon. Damn it, that woman looked as though she could see right through him.
The Lyon Sleeps Tonight Page 9
