Page 5 of The Lyon Rampant

Chapter Three

“A splendid meal.” Piers Darvill Esq. dabbed at his lips.

“Of course it was. One would not expect anything less from the kitchens of Mrs. Dove-Lyon. Shall we have some play tonight, do you think?” Mr. Witherspoon jingled the coins in his purse.

“I must forgo that pleasure, Withers. A handsome filly by the name of Katie Richmond will be waiting for me backstage at the Forum.” Piers pulled out his watch. “I just have time to go and compliment the chef on the partridge soup. It’s quite decidedly the best I’ve ever tasted—there must be a new recruit in the Lyon’s Den kitchen.”

His friend pulled a face. “You haven’t been too keen on cards lately. Don’t tell me you’re feeling guilty at having had Roland Chetwynd and his actress ladybird thrown out the other night. You do know he’s been expelled, so you won’t have to face up to him here ever again.”

Piers drained his port and set the glass carefully on the table. “I feel no remorse—they broke the rules. Who knows what might have happened if I hadn’t nipped it in the bud and informed Mrs. Dove-Lyon of what was afoot? There might have been pistols at dawn had any of the other chaps found out it was him. Roland Chetwynd is a decent enough chap but far too eager to rush into foolishness. I’ve done him a favor. Anyway, Withers, how did you know it was Chetwynd?”

“Oh, those old masks don’t fool me—they’re just a bit of fun, aren’t they? You recognize people’s voices—dammit, you even recognize their hands and the way they play. I knew who it was from the start, and you’d be bamming me if you said you didn’t.”

“What about the actress though? Have you ever known one to don a man’s clothes and invade a gentleman’s inner sanctum? Lady Caroline Lamb dressed as a pageboy to gain access to Byron, so I suppose other women may have done something of the sort. Titan and his fellows must have been looking the other way when Chetwynd’s friend was allowed in. Or he bribed one of them. But expecting to get away with such subterfuge at the Lyon’s Den—they wouldn’t have lasted the night. If it hadn’t been me who unmasked them, I assume you would have, sooner or later. I wonder what Chetwynd was hoping to achieve. Was it a prank? A dare? A wager?”

Mr. Witherspoon rolled his eyes. “Well, if you don’t know that my friend, you don’t know anything. The chit was a better player than Roland will ever be. I assume he brought her there to win some money for him. Jolly decent of her to agree, I suppose. Although she was doubtless going to get a share of the winnings.”

“Don’t you consider that cheating?” Unbelievable! Withers almost sounded as if he admired the pair.

“Oh, well—I suppose it is, in a way. Don’t tell me you’ve never cheated at any game in your entire life, because I won’t believe you.”

Piers’s brow furrowed. No. He’d never cheated at anything, certainly not since his arrival in England at barely ten years old. He’d been schooled to become the perfect English Gentleman and nothing of the comfortable position in which he now found himself was due to cheating. His aristocratic French birthparents had managed to smuggle their fortune across the Channel before their vicious murders in Revolutionary France and he’d invested this sensibly as soon as he reached his majority. Also, unlike many gentlemen of the ton, he wasn’t afraid of hard work. Those who thought him a feckless rake who’d just been lucky were completely wrong about him. Which was how he preferred things to be.

“I suppose I must’ve done at some time. Now—are you coming with me to compliment the chef?”

Withers shook his head. “I’m not in the least interested in kitchens. And if I had an actress or opera dancer as luscious as your Katie Richmond, I’d waste no time in presenting myself to her. No—I’ll head to White’s and see what’s doing there.”

Piers bade his friend goodbye and signaled to the silent footman waiting by the door. “With Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s permission, I’d like to visit the kitchen and congratulate the genius who produced such excellent soup.”

After a brief wait, Piers was surprised to find himself in the company of none other than the owner of the Lyon’s Den. Bessie Dove-Lyon had never before accompanied him on his excursions to the kitchen, so what was different this time? Was she there to ensure his best behavior? Surely, she knew there was no need for that.

There must be some other reason—how intriguing!

The usual pleasantries were exchanged, then he bowed to his companion, opened the door for her, and followed her down the servants’ stairs and along a series of passageways toward the door from which delicious smells were emerging.

He breathed in deeply as he stepped into the warm, steamy fug of the kitchen. Hollandaise sauce, if he was not much mistaken. Something else with heaps of garlic—probably French. A haunch of venison was being spit-roasted, and the cloying smell of black treacle filled his nostrils. Whoever was going to be dining after him was in for a treat.

As soon as their arrival was noticed, the kitchen staff lined up in front of the long, central table and performed various bows and curtsies.

“Make it quick please, Mr. Darvill. My staff cannot leave their dishes unattended for long.”

Not for the first time, Piers wished he could see Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s face. He had no idea of the age of the woman—all he knew was that she was a widow, but whether a young or an elderly one it was impossible to tell. What he did know was that it was in one’s best interests to stay on the right side of the lady. He was always polite to her and continually employed his charm to draw her into conversation—and had failed repeatedly. One day, perhaps, she’d reveal her age by some movement, a girlish laugh, a quavering sigh, or an involuntary wince at some illness that only afflicted older people.

“I would like a moment with whoever produced the soup.”

The veiled head tilted and he could feel Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s eyes on him. Even though her face was hidden, it felt like she was looking straight through him, boring through all his carefully constructed protective walls and driving straight through to his guilty, vulnerable core. The feeling unsettled him, and he cleared his throat a couple of times before his equanimity was restored.

Releasing him from her knowing gaze, she gestured a young woman forward. At a nod from her employer, the girl bobbed a curtsy and stared at the ground. Mrs. Dove-Lyon stepped away.

Piers’s voice caught in his throat. He’d expected the soup cook to be one of the red-faced kitchen wenches, or maybe the head cook himself, a fellow with pretensions to grandeur. He hadn’t expected a petite damsel with guinea-gold curls, a peaches-and-cream complexion, and the longest eyelashes he’d ever seen.

Her form was utterly charming, and he couldn’t wait for her to lift her face so he could gaze into her eyes.

His voice was soft as he said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, miss. Today’s partridge soup was beyond compare, and I hope to taste many more of your dishes. Whom do I have the honor of complimenting?”

Ridiculous. He was treating the girl as if she were a member of the ton whom he’d just met, such as the blushing young daughter of a matchmaking mama. What was going on?

The girl raised her head and looked at him, and as their eyes locked, a hot flame of desire shot through his body. She was a typical English rose—doll-like, with shining blue eyes and perfect skin, but there were hidden passions, too. He could sense them.