Prologue
March 1812
Lord Alexander Dutton,12th Earl Marksman, looked about the gentlemen’s dining room at the infamous Lyon’s Den. He knew the streets of Whitehall well before he had become one of Lord Macdonald Duncan’s “sons.” He knew the slums where the houses leaned so close together that, during a rainstorm, it appeared to be more of a waterfall than a storm filled with thunder. In such storms, people would rush into the streets with every bowl and bucket within reach to claim enough water to drink or to wash their clothes or themselves or rinse away the filth of their “water closet,” better known as the “streets and alleyways,” where human waste was regularly dumped.
Such had been his life for more years than Alexander would care to admit to any in this room, though those with whom he shared his table already knew his story, just as he knew theirs. They were family: Lord Macdonald Duncan and his “adopted” sons.
“Where is your mind, Alexander?” Duncan asked.
“Likely on your Theodora,” Thompson said jokingly, while playfully slapping Alexander on the back.
Alexander despised when the “family” assumed he would one day propose to Duncan’s daughter Theodora. It was not as if he was not fond of Theodora, for he was—very fond, in fact. Yet, the day Lord Macdonald Duncan had dragged Alexander from the room he occupied in London’s rookeries to claim the Marksman earldom, Alexander had made a promise to bring his mother and sister to Derbyshire and permit them to enjoy the same respect and luxuries he did each day. Only when his own family—blood family—were settled upon the Dutton estate would he consider marrying anyone.
“You know my thoughts on marriage at this time,” he said for likely the hundredth time, of late. “I am but four and twenty. Each of you are older than I, and I do not see you speaking your proposals,” he said and then noted a frown forming on Duncan’s forehead. “I adore Theodora, sir,” he said obediently, “and I give you my solemn promise never to mistreat her.”
“We are here to celebrate Hartley’s success,” Lord Richard Orson said before Duncan reprimanded Alexander for playing Theodora along. “Are you prepared for India’s heat, Hartley?”
“Absolutely… not!” Justin Hartley said with a grin.
“You still have three weeks before your departure,” Duncan said, “and still much to accomplish before then.”
“Yes, sir,” Hartley said while sitting straighter.
“But not tonight,” Lord Navan Beaufort said. “Tonight, Hartley may choose one of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s ladies, if he likes. I will pay the necessary fees.”
Hartley appeared quite embarrassed, but simply said, “I will choose my own bed tonight.” They all knew Hartley’s parents understood the young man’s unusual hours, but they would never approve of their son lying with a paid partner. Mr. Robert Hartley was a vicar, who recently inherited a barony, quite unexpectedly. His lordship would be aghast just to learn that his son dined at the Lyon’s Den, but would view it as part of youngHartley’s duties to the Home Office. “Though I thank you for the offer.”
Duncan shook his head in mild disapproval of their antics. “It is time we all call it an evening.”
Graham accepted the accounting set before them.
“You are not required to pay for all of us,” Alexander said with a frown.
“We may settle on Sunday at our weekly supper,” Graham assured.
“I thought you were to be on an assignment on Sunday,” Orson observed.
“I know where each of you live,” Graham said in his customary understatement.
Knowing Graham would not budge, they each tossed a few coins on the table and made their way across the dining room and past the gentlemen’s lounge and the smoking room towards the exit, where they encountered Mrs. Dove-Lyon, the Lyon’s Den’s proprietor.
“Good evening, my lords,” the woman said.
Alexander could not quite understand how a woman of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s age could run such an establishment as the Lyon’s Den, but he kept his opinion to himself. He had exacted more than a handful of deeds of which he was not proud when he lived with his father in the rookeries. Survival on London’s streets was not easy.
“I hope each of you enjoyed your evening,” the woman continued.
“Matchless,” Duncan declared. “Our Mr. Hartley has earned an important position in the British embassy in India. Though we will be sore to lose him, it is an excellent opportunity.”
“Did you each permit Mr. Hartley to win a few rounds so he might ‘enjoy’ the pleasures of India?” the woman boldly asked.
Alexander wished to comment on how they had already had the conversation on what Hartley might “enjoy,” but Thompson’s hand on Alexander’s shoulder had Xander swallowing his words.
Instead, Thompson asserted, “Hartley must have the ability to read through the back of each card, for he won more than he should.”
“Very good, Mr. Hartley,” the woman said with a small smile on her lips. With a nod of farewell to their group, she said, “If you have a moment, Lord Duncan, I would have a word with you. I had planned to send a note around at the beginning of next week.”
Thompson slapped Duncan on the back. “Perhaps a lady of thetonwishes a proposal from your lips.”
