Page 5 of Rogue Lyon

They were gentlemen…weren’t they?

Chapter Two

One Hour Previously

Jules Habsburg pressed his body up against the brick wall with palms flat on the gritty surface and his stomach sucked in. He was breathing hard but tried to keep his inhales and exhales as quiet as possible. The last thing he needed was for Drake’s henchmen to find him in this back alley.

That would result in a fine, old kicking, black eyes, and a few broken ribs.

The clatter of heavy footfalls grew louder, echoing around the alley like ricocheting bullets.

He gritted his teeth and willed the shadows to hide him.

There were two of them—big brutes, likely with weapons hidden about their persons.

Nausea swelled inside him as Jules held his breath. His pulse raged in his ears. He was cornered, no way out.

How had his life come to this? It wasn’t how it was supposed to be. He was a Habsburg, or at least of Habsburg descent, which meant he was part of the most powerful, influential family dynasty in all of Europe, if not the world. He should have been feasting on turtle soup, pineapple, and candies from far-flung countries. His home should have been a grand palace with more staff than he could count. Around his neck, there should have been livery collars made of the finest gold and stuffed with gems.

His people should have been bowing to him, hanging on his every word, not chasing him down London’s back alleys.

The booted footsteps reached a crescendo.

His jaw tensed.

And then to his relief, they kept on going. They faded, becoming duller as the ruffians failed to spot his hiding place and they headed down to the River Thames.

Jules didn’t hang about for them to realize their mistake and slipped back onto the street. It had been market day and the street cleaners were out as the stalls packed up. A couple of urchins raced past him, giggling, an apple in each hand.

He glanced around and then headed toward Whitehall through a series of side streets he’d usually avoid. Desperate times called for desperate measures. If he bumped into Drake before he had a replacement piece of art, then he’d be paying with more than paint and canvas. Perhaps his life would be the ultimate price for the forgery.

The Lyon’s Den came into view. A tall, pale-blue building with a pillared front entrance, it had been a high-class trading establishment on many an occasion for Jules. He had rich acquaintances there, he liked the staff, and a few times, he’d won big at the tables. Plus, the port and wine were excellent and just the type of quality he’d imagined his royal Habsburg ancestors had enjoyed.

He jostled the coins in his pocket. If only he could triple, quadruple it over the course of a few hours, it would be easy money to buy another Turner for Drake, a legitimate one this time. Selling him a forgery had been a mistake. Not a mistake for Jules—he’d known all along it was a replica, a damn fine one. He just hadn’t expected Drake to ever find out.

Drake had said it was for his castle up in Scotland, so why was he selling it on in London so soon? Damn art dealer at Sotheby’s hadn’t been able to help himself and spilled the beans.

Which left Jules in a predicament.

At the door to the Lyon’s Den, two huge guards stood with arms folded and surly expressions.

“Theseus. Egeus. Nice to see you.” Jules touched his top hat as he nodded to them.

“Mr. Habsburg.” Theseus gave a mere hint of a smile then narrowed his eyes. “I trust you are well?”

It always grated on Jules that he had no title when he should have had one more elite than anyone in the city, including the king himself. Holy Roman Emperor, that was what he should be. If that weak, distant relative of his Francis II hadn’t bolted back to Austria at the first sign of trouble with Napoleon, it could have been him on the all-encompassing throne. He had the blood and the heritage and it would have been a chance for a catalog of errors in history to be put right.

Perhaps he should get himself to Europe, go and speak to his long-lost relative about a rightful succession.

“You look flushed,” Egeus said, observing him.

“Yes. I…” Jules glanced over his shoulder. “I was in a hurry.”

“The night is young. You have plenty of time to roll a dice, pick a hand of cards. Why the rush?”

“Yes, I agree, but…if you see two big chaps, one with no hair, the other a scar, here.” He touched his left cheek. “Don’t let on I’m inside.”

“We won’t do that, sir.” Egeus nodded and looked over Jules’s shoulder. “We take the safety and privacy of our gentlemen clients very seriously.”