Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s posture did not relay her thoughts on Thompson’s jibe, and it was impossible for Alexander to read the woman’s facial expression due to the veil she always wore in respect for her late husband Colonel Sandstrom Lyon.
“Not likely,” Duncan remarked. “I have known my one great love.” He nodded to each of them. “Claim your coaches. I will be close behind.”
Richard Orson slapped Alexander on the back. “If you plan to travel with me, I am prepared to depart.”
“Come, Hartley,” Navan Beaufort called. “I will see you home safely.”
Benjamin Thompson said, “I will ride with Graham and leave you my coach, Duncan.”
“Much obliged,” Duncan said. Alexander noticed his lordship had thought to embrace each of them, as was his custom when they all dined together, but did not do so in such a public setting.
They were still talking over each other as they exited the Lyon’s Den together. Alexander sucked in a quick breath of chilly night air. It was unusual for a breath of London air not to befilled with smoke and only God knew what else, but Alexander was thankful for the air’s crispness, for it assisted in clearing his head from the alcohol he had consumed.
“Would it not be something if some woman wanted an arranged marriage with Duncan,” Thompson declared in gleeful tones.
“Soften all his hard lines,” Graham suggested.
“Would he discipline her as he did us? A board to the rear,” Beaufort said, and they all broke out in laughter, each enjoying the double entendre, though Alexander had always thought he would never punish a child thusly. As his father had sunk further and further into depression after committing the most unbelievable act against his own family, Alexander often knew not just a “switch” or even a “paddle,” but rather Robert Dutton’s fists.
Nearly bent over in foolish, drunken laughter, when they reached the curbing to cross Cleveland Row, they had not expected to pass a large, boxy-looking man, wearing a dark wool coat, the garment nearly reaching the top of the fellow’s boots, as well as a hat more indicative of someone working in the farm fields than entering a gentlemen’s club. The fellow walked stiffly in the direction of the entry meant only for men.
Alexander turned quickly in irritation, for the man had bumped Alexander’s shoulder. Along with the others, he presented the fellow a “What the devil!” look, for the stranger had not stepped to the side, but, rather, had walked straight into their group, expecting them to give sway. As Lord Duncan’s “sons,” and all of them earls of the United Kingdom of Great British and Ireland, none of them were expected to step aside for many in society beyond the King and Queen, the Prince Regent, and a few dozen marquesses and dukes.
“Who in the devil does he think he is?” Thompson growled. “A bloody duke or a prince?”
“Needs his arse kicked for not showing proper respect,” Beaufort declared. “And I am the man to do it.”
Beaufort started in the direction of the rude man, but Thompson caught his arm. “Just drunk,” Benjamin reasoned. “You know how a man deep in his cups attempts to walk straight. Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s man Titan will settle what is what.”
Alexander was still not satisfied, but, as usual, he followed the others’ lead. He had been the next to last of Duncan’s rescues and was late in learning the “ways” of the family; therefore, he often performed as the others prescribed.
They had all turned for a second look at the man who had dared to offend them. It was then that Duncan stepped from the club to raise his hand to catch their attention. “Wa…!”
Yet, before Duncan could finish this command, a gunshot rang out in the night’s stillness. A flock of ravens took to the air as the sound of the gun’s explosion ricocheted within the walls of the street’s corridor. To their horror, Duncan stumbled forward and collapsed, holding a hand to his chest.
Though Alexander realized the man in the long coat was running away, neither he nor his “brothers” moved for a handful of precious seconds.
“Hartley, with me,” Beaufort finally called as they darted off after the shooter, going around the left side of the building in the direction of the garden and the kitchen. The shooter was turning the corner of the building before any of them had moved.
Richard, Thompson, and the Lyon’s Den’s Titan rushed to Duncan’s side, while Graham kept the onlookers away.
“The other side,” Hartley called as he trailed Beaufort around the left side of the building, and Alexander darted off to the right, following Hartley’s orders.
Finding his footing, he quickly circled the building, gun leading the way when he reached the back of the gaming hell.
Hartley and Beaufort appeared on the other side of the building. They all looked on in frustration. “Where did he go?” Beaufort exclaimed.
Hartley ordered, “I am going back to check the garden. Beaufort will follow the path to the adjoining streets. Marksman, see if the man went inside. Be careful.”
But they were too late, for people were already streaming from every exit of the establishment, afraid of also being shot or being discovered in a gaming hell. Both Hartley and Beaufort shrugged their shoulders in disbelief.
“Look anyway,” Alexander ordered. “Look in niches and behind every bush and door.”
Even if he did not respect Lord Macdonald Duncan for all the man had executed in Alexander’s name, Xander would feel the same, for Duncan was Theodora’s father, and Alexander had made himself a promise to protect her at all cost. Theodora could not survive her father’s death. Therefore, Alexander meant to rewrite history, if necessary, to assure Theodora’s happiness.
When Beaufort and Hartley did not move, even as people streamed around them, Alexander growled. “Duncan cannot die! You all promised Lady Elsbeth that we would protect him. Now, find his shooter!”
