Prologue
Early March 1812
Lord Navan Beaufortleaned back in his chair and stifled the sigh rushing to his lips. He most assuredly had had better meals and better wine, though the fare at the Lyon’s Den was known to be fine cuisine, but he rarely knew better company. This was his family—the only family, the ones who had well earned his loyalty. His true family had been slaughtered when he was a young boy. Only those at this table knew the depth of his despair with that event.
Those remaining in his actual family—those in Ireland—still bickered among themselves, but none of them any longer stood against him as the earl of the Beaufort lands in either Ireland or England. Naturally, there had been a time when peace was both bought and sold at the drop of a coin. When his uncle’s men had rampaged his father’s manor, Lord Domhnall Beaufort had instructed Navan’s mother to shove Navan behind a moveable wall, into an area large enough for one person and to close it before Ruxart Beaufort and his men overran the manor house Navan calledhome.
In the end, as part of his position with the Home Office, Lord Macdonald Duncan led a contingent of British soldiers to fight Ruxart’s efforts, but Duncan’s maneuvering had been too late to save Navan’sfather and mother. Duncan had gently removed Navan from his hiding place and led him from the house with instructions, “Do not look upon it, boy, for the image will never leave you. Just remember, first and foremost, your parents loved you enough to secure your life above their own, and, second, my wife and I will protect you until you may claim your father’s title and know such was his last wish. You will be the third of my sons.”
Lord Duncan had proven himself a man of his word, and, though Navan returned regularly to Ireland to keep the family estate fit and prosperous, Beaufort Court had never felt of home, not as did the house he had shared with the men sitting around this very table in the Lyon’s Den, one of London’s most famous gaming hells. He owed each of these men his life. They had become his family—five once wayward boys and Lord Duncan’s only child, Lady Theodora. Yet, guilt often plagued him for not being a better Irishman, having been, in his service to both the United Kingdom and to Duncan, often placed in a position where he had put Irish interests second to those of the British union.
“We will know a depth of emptiness, Hartley,” Lord Aaran Graham declared, “but I imagine Duncan will miss you most. It will take another decade before Duncan can say, ‘Where is…’ and your replacement will not only anticipate Duncan’s needs but also know where the requested paper can be found.”
“Hear, hear,” the others at the table said together as they raised their glasses to Hartley.
Hartley declared good-naturedly, “It is part of my master plan to rule the United Kingdom someday, for no one else will know in which file I hid the country’s secrets.”
“Do not say so with such conviction,” Orson ordered with a laugh, “or you might be visiting the Tower of London with a permanent room reserved just for you. Are you prepared for India’s heat?”
“Absolutely… not,” Hartley said with a grin.
“You still have three weeks before your departure,” Duncan said, “and much to accomplish before then.”
“Yes, sir,” Hartley responded while sitting straighter, and Beaufort found himself smiling. Each of his “brothers,” along with Navan, knew that gesture of sitting straighter when Duncan used a particular tone.
“But not tonight.” Navan had leaned forward to speaksotto voce. “Tonight, Hartley may choose one of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s ladies, if he likes. I will pay the necessary fees.”
Hartley spoke through his obvious embarrassment. “I will choose my own bed tonight.” They all knew Hartley’s parents understood the young man’s unusual hours as part of Hartley’s service to his country, but they would never approve of their son lying with a paid partner. Lord Robert Hartley was previously a vicar, a “Mr. Hartley” in a parish in Devon, but had recently been made baron with the unexpected passing of his elder brother, who had no sons. However, the new baron still spoke as if he remained a vicar at heart. In fact, Lord Hartley would never have provided his son permission even to dine at the Lyon’s Den. “Though I thank you for the offer.”
Duncan shook his head at their antics. “It is time we all call it an evening.”
Graham accepted the accounting set before them. “You do not need to pay for all of us,” Marksman said with a frown.
Graham claimed, “We may settle on Sunday at our weekly supper at Duncan Place.”
Orson questioned, “I thought you were on assignment on Sunday.”
“I know where each of you live,” Graham retorted in his customary understatement.
Knowing Graham would not budge, Navan and the others rose.
They all felt quite warm and mellow from the drink as they stood together and made their way across the gentlemen’s smoking room and the lounge towards the entry and exit designed specifically formen, only to be brought up short by the appearance of theWidow of Whitehall, herself.
“Good evening, my lords. I hope each of you enjoyed your evening,” she said as they politely bowed to the woman.
“Matchless,” Duncan declared. “Our Mr. Hartley has earned an important posting in the British embassy in India. Though we will be sore to lose him.”
“Did you each permit Mr. Hartley to win a few rounds so he mightenjoythe pleasures of India?” the woman asked boldly.
Navan thought it amusing how he had already offered Hartley a taste of the flesh and been denied.
Thompson declared, “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 declared with what sounded of a smile, but it was impossible for any of them to tell, for she wore a black veil covering her face, reportedly in respect of her late husband, but, as the late Colonel Sandstrom Lyon was known to have left his wife smothered in debt, Navan questioned her true feelings for the man. In Navan’s opinion, we all possess one face we present to society and another as our true self.
As an Irishman, Navan knew enough of so-called grieving widows and wailing widows and also of revenging widows. No matter how much a woman loved a man, the reality of surviving on nothing could leave a permanent bitter taste in one’s mouth.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon nodded a farewell to each of them, but asked to speak privately for a moment with Duncan.
