Page 1 of The Lyon Whisperer
Chapter One
London, England 1812
Number 4 Marlborough Street
Colonel Lord ChaseCulver maintained a mask of polite interest as Lord Benedict Duval, the Earl of Fallsgate extolled the virtues of his prized French brandy while doling out two hefty portions of same.
“No better way to cap off such a stimulating conversation, Colonel…shipment arrived only last week…specially formulated for me…aged in hundred-year-old French oak…”
He nodded his understanding and, hands clasped behind his back, wandered along the curved bricked wall of the earl’s private cellar. He studied the impressive array of wine and spirits on display and tried to refocus his thoughts on his cause, and the real reason he’d agreed to meet with the earl today in his uncle’s stead when the man’s late-night activities made it impossible for him to rouse from his bed.
One minute he prepared to launch into the very real need of veterans—his men—for support upon their return home from the war, support a powerful and influential man like Fallsgate could help assure. The next he found himself wholly distracted by the muted sounds of a conversation he could swear was taking place in this very chamber—which was impossible. Only he and Fallsgate occupied the cellar.
Yet, he’d caught—he thought—a woman’s hushed voice, the sound akin to someone whispering low in his ear. Something about her tone, the cadence of her words stirred all his senses to life in a way he had not experienced in a very long time.
He closed his eyes briefly, noting the chill air of the tall-ceilinged, narrow space, the faint whiff of wood, damp with fermented drink, the hard stone beneath his polished boots, and listened.
He heard nothing but liquid splashing into crystal, and the earl’s rumbling speech.
Pinching the bridge of his nose, he credited his recent lack of sleep, thanks to the heavy demands of his and his uncle’s neglected estates, with causing his imagination to run wild.
He mustn’t waste this opportunity. Now, following his and Fallsgate’s in-depth discussion of his peninsular tour was the perfect time to beseech the earl to use his sway in parliament for the veterans, especially as he seemed particularly impressed with the moniker Chase had returned home with—the “Iron-Lion of Barrosa.”
Personally, Chase found the byname overkill. True, he’d served his country well, knowing instinctively how hard and how far to push his men, honing in on and exploiting their strengths before they knew they had them to achieve the stunning victory he had in Barrosa. But he considered that nothing more than being born to lead. Some were and some, like his uncle, weren’t.
“Here you are, then.” Fallsgate handed him a crystal snifter, warm from his hand. “Tell me what you think.”
Chase swirled and then held the aromatic liquor under his nose and inhaled deeply. “Oak. Caramel. And…orange blossom?”
“That’s it, man. Now roll it over your tongue.”
He took a small sip and let it sit on his tongue to absorb the flavors. As he did so, he moved toward the lone wood-paneled wall of shelves, topped with leather-bound tomes, carved mahogany boxes, and what looked to be cases of dried spice. The brandy tasted like…brandy. He swallowed and bent to read one of the faded titles printed in gold filigree.
“You naughty, dirty boy, Fergus,” came a muffled, distinctly feminine voice, followed by a gasp, then a peal of rich laughter.
Straightening, he allowed himself a small smile. He hadn’t imagined her.
He eyed the earl over his shoulder, considering.
The broad-chested, older man, currently engaged in recorking and storing the bottle of brandy, wore a benign smile. Completely oblivious to the audacious behavior taking place under his very roof, clearly.
That left Chase with a decision to make. Inform Fallsgate of his servants’ outrageous impropriety and potentially embarrass the earl or say nothing and let Fallsgate’s servants run roughshod over him with their blatant disregard for his authority.
He and Fallsgate were not friends,per se. Acquaintances, yes, and they’d enjoyed a lively conversation today.
Chase considered what he knew of the earl. A noted blue blood, the head of an old and distinguished line. A very vocal supporter of land-owner rights, the military, and, according to his uncle, a strict adherent of the social proprieties especially as concerned gender roles.
“Paws off, sir. Look what you’ve done to my dress, you devil, Roderick. Oh, that tickles.” It was the same woman’s husky voice, but…Roderick? She entertained not one man, but two?
That settled it.
“My lord, if I may?”
The earl started in his direction, his brows arched in inquiry.
“There’s something I feel I should men—”
“I draw the line at kissing on the lips, sir. Oh, maybe just one.”
