“May I ask you a question, Your Grace?” the viscount asked.
“Go on.”
“What do you think of being called the Duke of Doom? It is rather rude, in my opinion.”
What a bold young rake. “I understand it. I did bury three wives.” The whisky was churning in his stomach, making him deuced uncomfortable.
“Have you ever been to the Lyon’s Den?” Cambridge asked in a quiet voice.
“Never heard of it. Should I have?”
“Obviously you don’t gamble,” Cambridge added. “The owner, Mrs. Dove-Lyon, runs the gambling hell. You should go.”
“Why on earth would I go there?”
“Because,” Meyers added, “she is secretly a matchmaker among theton.”
“How do you know this?”
Cambridge shook his head. “My brother, Richard, lost his lower arm in the war. He gambled away a large sum at the Lyon’s Den and was summoned to the office of the Black Widow of Whitehall. That’s what they call Mrs. Dove-Lyon. Not to her face, of course. From what I hear, she wears widow’s weeds, a black veil, and is frightening to say the least. She makes grown men piss their breeches.”
“Piss their . . .”
“Not you. She won’t scare you,” Cambridge said. “Anyway, to make up for Richard’s losses, he agreed to be paired with someone of her choosing. You see, ladies of thetonwith dubious pasts and ruined reputations pay her to find them suitable husbands.”
“And your brother was suitable?”
“He is a war hero. Losing an arm doesn’t make him unsuitable, at least to some people. He also has five thousand pounds annually. Our father is a very wealthy man.”
“Yes, I know that,” Oliver said. “Did they marry, and who was the lady?”
“The Marques of Haverhill’s youngest daughter.”
“Ahh, I remember the scandal. Caught in the arms of a married earl.”
“Yes, well, don’t believe the gossip rags. He forced himself on her when she tried to escape into a library to ease her aching head at a musicale.”
“I see. Are your brother and the lady married?”
“Yes. Married for almost a year and living in the country, happy as can be with a babe on the way,” Cambridge said, smiling.
“Why are you telling me all this?”
“You need to go to Mrs. Dove-Lyon so she can match you with a single lady.”
Thank goodness he wasn’t in the middle of taking a sip from his glass. He would’ve spewed it all over himself. “I’ll consider it.” He set his glass on the table and stood. “Goodnight.”
As he made his way toward the exit, the Earl of Greenwich waved at him. Oliver looked around to be certain he was trying to attract his attention and not someone else’s, but when he said, “Duke, a word,” his jaw tightened as he went his way.
“Greenwich.”
“Duke,” the earl said, his face flushed and his eyes glassy. Someone was well into his cups. “I’ll be out of town for a few days, but I want to invite you to tea next Tuesday. In case you don’t know, I have three daughters of marriageable age.”
“I didn’t know. I just came from the Barrington ball. Were they in attendance?”
“No. One of my daughters was unwell.”
Oliver couldn’t believe the earl was inviting him into his home and introducing him to his three daughters. Would they have heard the rumors? What about the countess? He couldn’t imagine she would want him paying homage to one of her daughters.
