Page 4 of The Lyon Whisperer
An image of Lord Culver flashed through her mind unbidden. He looked so different from most of the men of her father’s acquaintance. Of her acquaintance, for that matter. Tall and broad shouldered, lean, and darkly handsome and…aloof? No, that wasn’t exactly the right word.
She moved to the door and crouched, scooping Roddy into her arms. She gazed into his somber face.Precious little thing. The runt of the litter, he had the added misfortune of having been born with only one eye. Where the other should have been was only a furred-over, pinched socket. As a result, he always appeared to be winking. Lord knew he was the most mischievous of the lot.
She hated to think what would have become of him had word not reached her of the litter of pups, orphaned when their mother died after being hit by a passing carriage.
She had a soft spot for motherless creatures, no doubt owing to the fact she was one herself.
She drew him close and nuzzled his soft, still-damp head. “What’s out there that has you so bent on escape, young man?”
Of course he gave no reply. But for some odd reason, she felt he wanted to get tohim.
“Made an impression on you, did he? He made one on me, too. I’ve got to tell you, I don’t think he’s overly fond of either of us, though.” Not if that black-eyed stare and sardonic twist of his full lips were anything to go by. If he weren’t so handsome, he’d be downright scary.
“Beg pardon, my lady?”
She glanced over her shoulder at Alfred and sent him a chagrined smile. “Afraid I got lost in my thoughts again, Freddy.”
“Not to worry, milady. I could stay here all afternoon with…er…helping you with your tasks.”
“Let’s get thesetasksupstairs before my father returns.”
With any luck he’d be busy tonight, as usual. By the next time they saw each other, mayhap he’d forget the whole affair.
Chapter Two
Lord Benedict Duval,the eighth Earl of Fallsgate, leaned back in his chair and watched as the dealer—a pretty young thing, resplendent in a gown the likes of which one might see on a lady of thehaute ton—swiped the deck of cards from the green baize table and began to shuffle.
He sipped at his glass of port, a fine vintage, as his companion Lord Culver—LordHarryCulver, Viscount of Everston—grumbled and signed a voucher purchasing more chips.
Lady luck had been with Fallsgate tonight. He’d bested Culver three out of the five hands of Commerce they played thus far.
As Culver was the more practiced player of the two, and considering his own lamentable frame of mind, not to mention the copious amount of wine he’d ingested this evening, that was saying something.
Mayhap the old cur had simply let him win. It wouldn’t surprise him. Though not a close friend, Culver had always been an amiable sort. Likely, noting Fallsgate’s dour mood in the club earlier tonight had precipitated Culver’s spontaneous suggestion the two continue the night’s sport here at his favorite gaming hell, the notorious Lyon’s Den.
Drinking. Gambling. Out all hours. Nothing like himself. His daughter might be the death of him. Where had he gone wrong?
Where hadn’t he?
He shoved thoughts of Amelia from his mind.
“This is your favorite gambling establishment, you say?” he asked.
He had heard of the establishment known for its unconventional games, and more, its mysterious proprietress.
“No place else like it in London. And you can’t find a better meal. A bit late for that tonight.”
That explained the rich scent of roast meat and baked bread that had wafted through the foyer as they passed through the front doors of the pale-blue mansion on Cleveland Row.
As the dealer shuffled, somehow making a minor spectacle of the act, Fallsgate glanced around. The large arena boasted several tables with myriad activities taking place at once—not all of them card related.
Crossing the gaming floor to reach their private table, he’d seen men drinking some truly abhorrent-looking concoction and, he thought, laying wagers on keeping it down. One man had not. He shuddered at the memory.
He’d seen another group wearing blindfolds and stumbling about, searching for God-knew-what. At yet another table, men played some sort of card game while standing. Apparently, to win, the rules required them to remain on their feet, for hours if necessary.
Indeed, the civilized game he and Culver played seemed an anomaly.
Even at this ungodly hour of night, when any decent man ought to be home and abed, the place teemed with patrons and an odd assortment of workers.
