Right before he entered his carriage, he told his driver, Hebert , “Take me to the Lyon’s Den on Cleveland Row in the West End.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Aside from a frown, Hebert didn’t seem shocked to be taking him to the Lyon’s Den. Which made him wonder, as the carriage wheels rolled on, what sort of place the Lyon’s Den was besides a gambling hell. Well, he was on his way, and he supposed he must trust that Cambridge and Meyers knew what they were talking about. If not, what could happen? It wasn’t as if he had a reputation to protect. He had no reputation. No, not true. He had a bad reputation, and it couldn’t get any worse, only improve, or so he hoped.
When the footman opened the door, he stepped out and faced a blue, weathered building with the first floor occupied by a closed jewelry store. Two large footmen stood at the entrance, holding lanterns. “Wait nearby. I don’t know how long I’ll be.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Hebert said with another frown, this one deeper than the last. Was Hebert afraid he would drown his sorrows in gambling? Become a degenerate gambler and lose everything he had? Not bloody likely.
He walked toward the enormous footmen, who were most likely guards rather than footmen. They led him inside and pointed to a staircase leading up. The one with a black eye patch said, “Welcome to the Lyon’s Den.”
“Thank you,” Oliver said.
He ascended the stairs and entered an entryway. A butler stood at attention, ready to take his jacket, hat, and gloves. “Welcome. May I have your name?”
“Thank you. Yes, I’m the Duke of Barrington.”
If hearing his name shocked him, he didn’t move a muscle on his face. “I don’t believe you have been here before.”
“No, I haven’t. Is that a problem?” Oliver asked, suddenly feeling as if he were being judged or put on display at Tattersalls.
“Not at all, Your Grace. Come in, and please enjoy yourself. If you need female companionship, the third floor is the place to be.”
“Thank you,” he replied. As much as he could use the release, since it had been ages since he had bedded a woman, he would not start visiting light-skirts now. He had never done so in the past and didn’t plan to do so in the present or future.
He made his way to a large room with numerous round tables. Each table had a dealer. His curiosity was piqued when he found one table who had a dealer with a mask on, and he headed that way. He sat in the one empty chair out of four. “Deal me in.”
“Yes,” the dealer said, in a feminine voice that surprised him. “The opening bid is ten guineas.”
Oliver placed his money pouch on the table and removed ten guineas. Brag wasn’t his favorite game, and he hadn’t played in a long time. It didn’t matter, since he was determined to lose. Each player was dealt three cards face down. Three communal cards were dealt face up. Oliver studied his three cards and decided to swap one for a communal card, though he’d been dealt three tens. The play went on until the person beside him, whom he didn’t know, knocked on the table. He upped the ante. Oliver matched the bet, as did all but one other player at the table.
The man placed his three cards face up on the table. Three Jacks. He won. For the next hour, this went on. Oliver didn’t want to look like a totally inept player, so he allowed himself to win several hands. Yet the majority of the time, he maneuvered so that he lost. During the final hand he played at the table, a man approached, bent down and whispered, “Your Grace, Mrs. Dove-Lyon would like to see you in her office right away.”
Oliver hid his smile as he placed his cards down, stood, and followed the large man with a pronounced limp down the hall to an office where a small woman in widow’s weeds and a black veil sat on a settee, a china cup and saucer in her hand as she sipped what he presumed was tea. The man escorting him said, “The Duke of Barrington.”
“Thank you, Puck.” He shut the door as he left. “Your Grace, please have a seat.” Her hand indicated a chair facing her.
“Why have you sent for me, Mrs. Dove-Lyon?”
“Oh, come now, Your Grace. I believe it is you who hoped to meet me.” She sipped her tea, her pinkie out perfectly.
He played dumb. “Why do you say that?”
She eyed him through her veil. “According to my dealer, you were deliberately losing.”
He leaned back in the chair and placed one foot on the opposite knee, pretending to be relaxed when, in truth, his insides quaked. “Fine. I admit defeat. According to two acquaintances of mine, you are a matchmaker for theton. I need your help.”
“This is most unusual for a gentleman of your social status. You’re a handsome, wealthy duke. Surely young ladies are lining up to be your duchess?”
He coughed into his hand. “Not at all.”
She rose from the settee, set her cup and saucer on a sideboard, and poured what looked like brandy into two glasses. She handed him one. “Forgive me for not offering refreshments sooner.”
“No need to apologize,” he said as he took the glass and downed half in one take. “Very nice.”
“I serve only the best here.” She sat back down and sipped her drink. “So you are here for my matchmaking skills?”
“Yes.”
