Page 6 of Rogue Lyon

Jules blew out a breath. Good. They understood. He’d be safe for a while. Now all he had to do was win so that he could get himself out of this fix without too much extra cost.

He stepped into the lobby and removed his hat. For a moment, he paused. Mrs. Dove-Lyon had finally hung the Henry Raeburn he’d sourced for her a few months ago. And this was no fake. A stunning piece in a heavy bronze frame, it showed an angelic-looking dark-haired boy in a ruffled, white linen shirt with his arm protectively around a snow-white rabbit who was busy munching dandelion leaves. This wasn’t a rabbit for a stew; this was a beloved pet and the painting was both atmospheric and intimate. Jules found it somewhat relaxing and heartening. The artist knew the boy, so he’d been told, and it was easy to see they had been comfortable together. Jules was glad it had found a home in London for many to enjoy.

He walked into the cloakroom and handed in his coat and hat. His breathing had returned to normal now and he hoped his cheeks weren’t so red.

As he stepped out again, he almost bumped into Mrs. Dove-Lyon.

“I do beg your pardon.” He pushed his hand through his hair. I really should get to the barber’s for a trim.

“Ah, just the man.” She peered at him from behind the black veil she wore over her face. “I trust you approve of the positioning.” She pointed to the Raeburn.

“It’s perfect. The lighting is just right. You’ve really done it justice.”

“I’m glad you think so.” Her eyes narrowed further.

“Is there…something else?” He got the feeling he was being judged harshly but had no idea why.

“You do seem to… How shall I put it?”

“Please go on.” His mouth dried a little. Now what?

“Trouble.” Her gaze held steady with his. “Find trouble, Mr. Habsburg.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She couldn’t possibly know that he’d just escaped a beating for selling forged artwork. How could she?

“It’s just… Well, you know what the ton is like for gossip.”

“Gossip is a wasteful pastime,” he said haughtily. “I much prefer to deal in truth and facts.”

“And, I too, Mr. Habsburg, I too. So I suppose what I’m saying is be sure to protect your reputation at all costs.”

“Naturally.” He pressed his hand to his chest. His mind was whirring, wondering just what she’d heard. It could have been several things, but he didn’t want to ask which, in case he got into more strife. “I am a man of my word.”

“Good. Because a man’s word… Well, it is really all he has, at the end of the day.”

Jules didn’t agree with that one bit. He had an expensive home in Mayfair, the walls adorned with landscapes and portraits, some by great masters, others by men who would become great masters given time. He had more than his word, he had his art, he had his home, and he had his connections.

“I couldn’t agree more, Mrs. Dove-Lyon.” He slipped his hand into his pocket and jangled the coins. “And with that in mind, I intend to have a few games of brag tonight in your fine establishment.”

“I thank you for joining us.”

“No, I thank you. You run a tight ship. I know I will always get a fair game, no cheating. That is worth a lot.”

“As is your custom.” She nodded. “Oh, and Baron Tate is here. I do believe he wants to speak to you about a painting.”

Jules smiled. “Yes, I’ve been meaning to catch up with him. Thank you.”

He took a quick exit from the lobby and made his way to the main gambling floor. For the second time in an hour, sweat popped on his brow. What bit of gossip had Mrs. Dove-Lyon been privy to? He’d attended an illegal boxing match the week before, but it had been very cloak-and-dagger and he’d kept his scarf up around his face as he’d thrown a few shillings at the result. Was it that? Or was it when he’d been at the Marylebones’ ball and had stepped outside to…

“Mr. Habsburg, sir, would you like a port?” A waiter appeared in front of him holding a tray of drinks.

“Thank you. Don’t mind if I do.” He took a crystal glass holding an inch of amber liquid and looked around.

Instantly, his nerves settled. The casino was a familiar place. A local haunt. He enjoyed being surrounded by elegance and discreet, polite staff.

The tables were filling despite the early hour. On the main stage, draped with ruby-red curtains, a pianist played a gentle tune. Deep-voiced conversations whispered up to the chandeliers and the scents of herbs and meat filled the air, floating in from the kitchens.