Chapter One

January 28, 1818

Huxley House

Mayfair, London

England

C aptain Simon Huxley stood at one of the windows in his drawing room with his hands clasped behind his back, as he watched traffic on the street below. Snow flurries drifted past the glass in lazy patterns, not heavy enough to cover the ground with any sort of authority, but present enough to remind the inhabitants of London that it was still winter.

A feeling of restlessness had fallen over him, for ever since the Christmastide holidays, life had settled into a string of bland days. His good friend Thomas Prestwick had wed almost two months prior, and that had come with a string of difficulties as well as obstacles, yet all those things had worked themselves out as such things did when love was involved. Though Simon didn't begrudge the man his romance, it had left a bit of a hole in his own life.

Did he miss the excitement of the sea? Of course, but he had been forced into early retirement after losing his left eye during the War of 1812 with America. As much as he had wished to stay on, it simply hadn't been possible after being sent home for medical care and rehabilitation. Once that had finished, life had moved on, just like the sea, always roiling, never stopping, and he had been left with carving out a new existence for himself.

However, it hadn't been all bad, for the Crown had awarded him a substantial financial award for his bravery and service. He'd then bought a country estate in Kent near the town of Staplehurst with that funding, as well as a modest townhouse in the Manchester Square neighborhood of London, along with a closed carriage. The area was pleasant enough, and when all the trees and shrubberies had their leaves and everything was filled with life after the winter, he rather enjoyed living in the townhouse.

But he would always miss the sea, and it made for lonely days at times. Perhaps he should look into getting a dog or a cat.

Or a mistress.

The clearing of a masculine throat at the door interrupted his musings. "Captain Huxley?"

"What is it, Hobbs?" Simon asked as he turned around, welcoming the distraction.

"Viscount Ashbury is here to see you."

Before Simon could respond, Thomas Prestwick bounded into the room with a ready grin, and dressed in the requisite evening wear, it was obvious he intended to go out tonight. "Thank you, my good man. I'll take it from here." Humor wove through the viscount's voice.

"As you wish, my lord," the butler said, and after a slight bow, he left the room.

Simon couldn't help but smile at his friend. He scratched the skin where the edge of the eye patch rested near his eyebrow. "It is good to see you again."

"You as well, Captain. And here you are, trying to outshine me with your wardrobe."

He snorted. "Such gammon." But he was glad his efforts—and those of his valet—had been noticed.

As always, he had dressed in the first stare of fashion. Evans, his valet, had arranged his black hair in a popular style with a minimum of pomade. His collar points were just so, but not as ridiculously high as the Regent's preference. The folds of his starched cravat were artistically balanced, and though he knew it was a running joke with his friends, it was said he'd rather be caught dead than appear in public with even one hair ruffled or a wrinkle on his tailcoat.

Not that it wasn't true; he did enjoy his life ordered, even down to his toilette, and everything had a place. However, he wasn't completely rigid, for he was kind and caring, a benevolent landowner, and combined with the fortune he'd made, it had ensured he was a favorite within the nobility and gentry alike.

"It's true, and I swear you are trying to make every man in London look like shapeless lumps of bread dough."

"How so?" He was used to such ribbing, though.

"Oh, I don't know. Broad shoulders and chest, enough muscles to make ladies for miles swoon, that damned intense sapphire eye." His friend grinned, and they both laughed. "It is good to see you, Huxley."

"Same to you." Simon flashed a grin. "I thought you'd forsaken the world in favor of burrowing down for the winter with your new wife."

A hint of ruddy color rose up the other man's neck. "I'll admit, she is lovely and I'm tip over tail for her, but I think we've both finally come up for air after the holiday season. Currently, she is spending time with her brother and some distant family who is staying with him, so I'm left to my own devices for the week."

"Will she return home in time for Valentine's Day? I would imagine the two of you want to celebrate as new lovers." As he said that, a stab of envy went through his chest, but he ignored it and the discomfort faded. Never had he paid attention to holidays or special dates on the calendar before, but as his friends were slowly and steadily being wed, it was beginning to prove difficult to ignore.

"Oh, I would imagine she'll be home well before that date." Amusement twinkled in the viscount's eyes. "Otherwise, I'd miss her too much."

At the last second, Simon kept himself from making a gagging noise. Instead, he nodded. "Why are you here this evening? Surely, it's not to tease me with your nuptial happiness."

"When did you become so tetchy? You used to be a placid fellow."

"Perhaps it's due to the fact every man I call friend is steadily falling into parson's mousetrap. You lot rarely have time for me." At least that was part of the truth, and he suffered from a bit of loneliness. First it was the Marquess of Rockwood last July, then it was the Earl of Pennington last fall, quickly followed by the Viscount of Ashbury at Christmastide. These were the men he played cards with, visited various clubs with, attended social events with, rode in Hyde Park with, or played billiards with if the weather was foul. However, the viscount did make certain to spend at least two evenings a month with him, and it was appreciated. "Now you have other interests and fill your time differently. Upon occasion, I find myself on the outside looking in."

Not even singing on the stage—in disguise, of course—could chase away the feelings of inadequacy and isolation. For as long as he'd been doing this, it never failed to make him both on edge and quite smug at the cleverness of the disguise. To him, nothing was as lovely as singing, and if this was the only way to indulge, so be it.

"Ah." Ashbury came farther into the room. As he crossed the floor to the sideboard, he chuckled. "I understand what you are saying, and it wasn't that long ago I felt exactly the same." The clink of crystal against crystal rang in the air as he poured out a measure of brandy into two glasses. "Yes, my position was different in the fact that I was balls-out terrified of marriage or even finding love again, while I think you are ready for it."

What was this, then? Simon scoffed. "I don't know about that, though I have been contemplating taking a new mistress." It had been some time since he'd had a woman in his bed. While he enjoyed carnal pursuits, it was companionship he really craved. "Charming my way through the petticoat line isn't the issue, but there has been some ennui recently, and I can't puzzle out why. Perhaps I am simply missing the sea more fiercely now than before." Almost six years retired, and he still hadn't become accustomed to civilian life.

Which was why he'd taken to public performances, and what was more, he excelled at it. Singing made him forget about many things in life. The disguises were necessary, for gentlemen of the ton with a fortune besides didn't dirty their hands with theatre folk, and mixing with that type of crowd would be certain scandal.

Not that it mattered… unless it might ruin his chances of finding a decent match, which, knowing the fickleness of the ton , it was entirely possible.

"Understandable." Ashbury crossed the room to Simon's location then handed him one of the brandy glasses. "Which brings us to the reason for my visit this evening." He grinned before taking a sip of his drink. "Come to the Lyon's Den with me tonight."

"What?" Simon took a sip of his own brandy. "What use do you have in returning to that gaming hell? Haven't you already gambled and then ultimately won against the house? Did you learn nothing from your last time there?" It was perhaps London's most poorly kept secret that the owner of the Lyon's Den gaming hell was a consummate matchmaker. Beyond that, she did run one of the best clubs in Town, where unique games were offered—for a steep price—and a man could make use of the services of the demimonde she employed therein. But if he ran afoul of the tables, luck, and Mrs. Dove-Lyon herself, then there was truly hell to pay.

And sometimes that came in the form of a forced marriage to a highly unsuitable woman. It mattered not that the success rate from those unlikely unions was probably well over eighty-five percent. A man—or a woman—shouldn't be intimidated to wed if they didn't wish it.

Amusement went over Ashbury's face as he grinned. "While matchmaking is a risk over there, you must admit, cards at the Lyon's Den are compelling and good fun. To say nothing of the fine liquors Mrs. Dove-Lyon keeps. Just don't make a false move and you should be free of being thrust into parson's mousetrap."

Simon briefly pointed his gaze to the ceiling before settling it once again on his friend. "Does your wife know you still frequent the gaming hell?"

Ruddy color appeared on the viscount's neck over his collar. "I will tell her once she returns home, but I have no intention of involving myself with another woman." His expression sobered. "I love my wife fiercely."

"No one doubts that, my friend." Simon finished his brandy and then rested the glass on a nearby table. "However, I'm curious as to why you wish to go to the hell tonight ."

He colored again. "Truth to tell, I miss my wife, so want to fill the time somehow."

"And you figured paying outrageous sums merely to join a hand of cards was a good idea?" Simon couldn't keep the slight annoyance from his voice. "There are a variety of other activities in which we could indulge without needing to step foot into the Lyon's Den again." For he well remembered the difficulties the viscount had encountered the last time, and how those obstacles had thrown his life into chaos.

"Don't come the crab with me." His eyes reflected amusement as he finished his drink. "I thought to spend the evening with you doing something you are quite proficient at—gambling."

They both knew he had some skill at the gaming tables, and even if he was given a horrid hand, he certainly had a lovely bluff. It was how he'd enhanced the funds he'd already had in his bank account and had almost doubled the monetary award from the Crown. Now, he sat on a decent fortune, and Simon was quite proud of that. He'd done it all himself without reliance on familial money or a title.

"As luck would have it, my schedule is clear this evening." He gave another grin, one he already knew many ladies in the ton had said was quite dashing. "However, why should I accompany you and part with some of the fortune I worked hard to gain? My accounts are still recovering from the last time you and I were at the Lyon's Den."

"All the more reason to have another go at it. You stand to make even more."

Simon shook his head. "There are other clubs."

"But none quite as exciting as the Lyon's Den." Ashbury set down his glass on a table. "Just say you'll come. We'll do one turn about the floor, perhaps have a few hands of faro, and then go to dinner."

It was a reasonable request. "Very well. Allow me a few moments to change." If he could win a substantial amount of coin, he could begin renovations to the manor house at his estate in Kent.

The Lyon's Den

Cleveland Street

Whitehall

As soon as he alighted from the closed carriage in front of the multi-story blue building, where candlelight reflected in almost every window, knots of worry pulled in Simon's belly. Although he enjoyed wagering and playing cards, it wasn't how he wished to spend his evening. Part of that was his suspicions that the owner simply didn't like the men who came to the gaming hell, and because of that, she constantly was searching for ways to trap them into marriages they didn't want or need.

There were exceptions, of course, but by and large, it was her way of wagering on a different scale altogether. Perhaps it brought her a perverse sort of joy to see men put in their places by matching them with vastly unsuitable women. He had no idea, but he did know he wasn't of a mind for gambling tonight.

Ashbury dug an elbow into his ribcage. "Come on, then. No sense lingering on the street. Too cold." He stamped his feet before moving toward the building.

Seconds later, they'd gone through the gentleman's entrance. A nod to a burly male guard at the door, and then they were invited inside. After winding their way through the corridors, they were soon deposited into the main gambling floor of the hell.

"Quite a crowd tonight," he commented to the viscount.

"Always is, I'll wager."

Simon snorted. "At least that one is free." He lifted his gaze to the upper galleries where ladies could observe if they so desired. As of yet, there were no witnesses, but the owner of the Lyon's Den was prowling about the space. Clad in a striking gown of dark maroon satin trimmed with jet beading, she wore filmy black veils that covered the upper portion of her face. Always mysterious, that one, and he couldn't puzzle out why.

Beside him, Ashbury lifted a hand to acknowledge her. When she briefly inclined her head, he grinned, and she moved on. "I will never understand the inner workings of Mrs. Dove-Lyon's mind, but perhaps there is something to be said for her matchmaking abilities."

"I'll take your word for it." Though, just in his circle of friends, three of them had been successfully married, and all due to Mrs. Dove-Lyon's influence… or intimidation. "Though I have no interest in leg-shackling, I wouldn't mind having a look at the crop of courtesans she's keeping upstairs."

"Been in a drought, have you?"

"A bit. It's been since before Christmastide. There was far too much going on to think about charming a woman into my bed."

His friend snorted. "You needn't have a bed, you know."

"I am aware." It had been ages since he'd been adventurous in carnal endeavors.

As they toured through the large room where various gaming tables were crowded with men wishing to have a turn at the cards, Simon concentrated on the sounds that filled the air—shouts of encouragement as well as groans of dismay, the delicate strains of music coming from a few musicians wielding string instruments, the faint jingle of coins, feminine laughter that drifted down from the upper levels, and running beneath all of that was the low buzz of conversation as well as the clink of crystal against crystal.

Whatever else the owner was, she certainly knew how to entertain.

Then she was there on the main floor, and more than one man in attendance eyed her with trepidation and in some cases, fear.

"Ah, Lord Ashbury, how nice to see you again." The purr in Mrs. Dove-Lyon's voice sent a shiver down Simon's spine. "I trust you are content in your marriage?"

"Very much, thank you." At his side, the viscount nodded. "I have no complaints."

"Yet you are not with your bride tonight." If the veils didn't cover the upper half of her face, Simon would swear her eyebrows would have been raised.

Ruddy color seeped up Ashbury's neck. "She is visiting with family and will return to me soon."

"Ah." With a nod, Mrs. Dove-Lyon then turned her attention on Simon. "We are having special wagers out in the garden in twenty minutes, Captain, should you like to join."

He frowned. "What is it?"

Her lips curved into a smile he couldn't quite trust. "One of our dealers has decided to collect bets on which gentleman can withstand multiple shots of various liquors tonight."

Ashbury chuckled. "What is the buy-in?"

"Fifty-thousand pounds, of course." The grin turned a tad predatory.

Damn. Games at the Lyon's Den were meant to hurt a man where it counted. "Am I to back one of the gentlemen, then?"

"Of course not, Captain." She briefly laid a black gloved hand on his arm. There would be no examining her fingers, skin, or rings tonight to uncover a clue about her mysterious nature. "You would be one of the drinkers."

At his side, the viscount laughed. "Do it, Simon. You must."

"Why? So you can wager against me?" If there was something else Simon was skilled at, it was tolerating alcohol. A man learned that early on in the Navy, for what else was there to do during leisure time on a ship?

"It would be the easiest coin I ever made." Hilarity flitted over the viscount's face. "What do you say?"

He regarded Mrs. Dove-Lyon. "How large is the prize to be won?"

"That depends on how many men enter and how many men wager." She shrugged, and the jet beads on her gown glimmered in the candlelight. "Thus far, there are five men playing, and at least nine wagering for or against."

A low whistle escaped his throat. "Certainly, a fortune." And would go a long way in renovations or even in purchasing a sloop, if that was his want.

"Are you sure you wish to enter the fray, Captain?" Doubt threaded through her voice as she looked him up and down. Damn the veils that hid her eyes.

"Of course. My credit is good here, else you wouldn't have let me in the front door."

"While this is true, everything at the Lyon's Den comes with a price—losing as well as winning." Then she gestured toward a set of French-paned doors to the left of their location. "Please proceed to the gardens. One of the men will come to collect your entry fees shortly. Another is already out there collecting wagers." Then she glided away to another cluster of potential victims.

"That happened far too quickly," Simon said as he walked beside his friend toward the doors to the garden, but he bit back a grin, for in this, he would go home with a large purse and be happy to do so.

The cold once more danced over his skin as he and Ashbury entered the garden that, quite frankly, Simon had no idea was there, but then, one usually didn't go to the Lyon's Den to take in the air.

A walled-in garden was lined with winter-bare, ornamental fruit trees that would undoubtedly give the space a mysterious elegance in the summer months. Evergreen shrubberies along with holly bushes had been planted within the trees. Flower beds that had been prepared for winter were tucked into all corners. In a mere two months, they would come alive with spring blooms. Stone benches rested throughout, all covered with a thin dusting of snow. Hanging within some of the tree branches were lanterns all aglow with guttering candles, lending the area a festive atmosphere. Crowded throughout the gardens were about thirty men, some of whom had been urged to form a line in front of the others.

Which was where Simon was directed by an unremarkable man wearing the official uniform of the gaming hell. With a look at Ashbury, he shrugged and then was obliged to sign a voucher that gave permission for the club to withdraw the requisite coin from his bank account.

Then a string of footmen entered the garden, each carrying silver trays on which rested shot glasses full of what smelled like whisky.

One of the representatives for the Lyon's Den came forward. "The game is simple. Each volunteer will continue to down drinks while the audience wagers on not only how many each man can tolerate but which one will succumb first and who will be the last man standing."

"And if we pass out?" one of the men asked.

The burly man in charge shrugged. "We'll leave your arse out here to freeze. The Lyon's Den is only responsible for you when you are cognizant."

Good-natured laughter went through the assemblage.

"If there are no objections, let us proceed. My colleague Puck," he indicated a rather large man standing near the door, "will write down ongoing bets as circumstances change."

Simon tolerated the preliminaries with barely concealed boredom. This was nothing he and his shipmates hadn't done time out of hand, both onboard vessels and in the taverns when they pulled into port. He glanced at Ashbury, who shrugged, but grinned with an expression of anticipation. Clearly the man couldn't wait to make a fortune.

Drink after drink was handed out.

Simon and the men around him tossed back the alcohol without incident. Then the offerings were changed to scotch. Still, not bad, and it was a very good proof, so that made the imbibing all the more pleasurable. Rounds of brandy followed, and that was when the first three men toppled over. That left six more.

It wasn't until the drinks changed to vodka from the Baltics that things became more interesting. Three shots in, two more men stumbled into the bushes where they promptly vomited, causing cheers and groans from the gamblers.

That left five men standing.

"How are you doing, Captain?" Ashbury asked as paper notes and coins were rapidly exchanged.

"I have been better, but then I have also been worse." Sweat broke out on his brow and upper lip even though the air was quite cold. Heat curled through his chest and through his veins. A touch of fuzziness was beginning to wrap about his brain.

A bold red wine was next, and that was essentially child's play. Glass after glass of ale followed that, which had two more men either passed out drunk or retching.

Simon and two other men were still more or less on their feet.

"Keep going, Captain! You'll make me a tidy sum tonight."

That struck him as beyond funny, and his laugh was this side of hysterical, a sure sign he was nearly at his tolerance level. "I thought you'd wagered against me."

"Oh, I did, but with some of my winnings thus far, I've also wagered on you!"

Laughter followed the admission.

Then shots of gin were passed around. Simon groaned. His personal devil came from the Blue Ruin, but by now, he was determined to win this silly bout of gambling merely on determination and principle alone.

Another man fell to his hands and knees, retching nearly on Simon's boots.

"Have a care, my friend," he said slowly to the unfortunate person, as he moved a bit away. "I had these shined just this morning." Really, that was highly inconsiderate.

The representative from the Lyon's Den stood in front of Simon and the one other man left conscious. "Only two remain. Best get in your last wagers!"

One of the footmen stepped forward bearing a silver tray bearing glasses of whisky once more. They'd come full circle, it seemed.

With a shaking hand, Simon took one glass while his opponent took another. He lifted it in salute, and then, with a prayer, downed the measure in one gulp. Barely feeling the burn of the liquor any longer, he replaced the glass and chose the next while waiting for the other man to catch up.

"Well, damn." The man swayed, and just when Simon assumed he would fall, he dropped his glass onto the tray. "Next," he said in a ragged whisper with reddened eyes.

Go down, already!

It took all Simon's strength to bring the glass to his lips. The slightly medicinal scent of the alcohol made his stomach churn and his muscles clench. His vision was going blurry, but he would not lose this damned farce.

Barely had he taken a sip when his opponent stumbled, tripped over one of the other fallen men, went to his knees, and then passed out cold with his cheek pressed to the deadened grass, still clutching the glass.

Wild cheers went up from the men who'd placed the wagers.

With a sigh of relief, Simon put his glass back on the silver tray. The footman departed, and then the gaming hell's representative declared him the winner.

"I shall inform Mrs. Dove-Lyon of the results." And he slipped back into the building.

After a flurry of activity wherein funds were exchanged and Puck collected the house fees, Ashbury came into Simon's line of sight.

"Are you well? You look a bit rough around the edges." Concern threaded through his voice.

"In truth, I want to cast up my accounts, but I will not give them the satisfaction of doing it here." As he headed toward the door, the world spun about him, and he swayed. When the viscount shored him up by offering a shoulder of support, he nodded his thanks. "Let us seek out the carriage." But his words were slurred. Had Ashbury understood?

No sooner had they made their way through the still celebrating crowd and into the building when the representative met them on the gaming floor.

"Congratulations on your victory, Captain. Mrs. Dove-Lyon appreciates a man of such stamina." He held out an ivory envelope. "She requires your presence in two days' time to discuss your winnings and to settle accounts."

"What?" Simon frowned. "I signed a voucher…"

"Just a formality I'm sure," the other man said, with a mysterious grin. Then he nodded to the viscount. "Remind your friend of the appointment," he said and gave the envelope to Ashbury. "Mrs. Dove-Lyon does not enjoy being kept waiting. He'll need to be prompt."

"Understood." Then the viscount half-pulled, half-dragged Simon through the corridors until they were once again outside.

"Thank God." At the curb, he retched into the gutter, and immediately regretted ever coming to the Lyon's Den. "I consider it an accomplishment to leave without being leg-shackled, wouldn't you say?" Then he slumped heavily against Ashbury's chest with his head spinning.

Just goes to show the house doesn't always win.