Page 3 of Pride of Lyons

Another glance was exchanged between these guards, then the dark-haired one nodded and opened the door. “This way, miss.”

Never had Honoria been happier to enter a house in her life. She sped past both women and found herself in a small, dim entry hall. From what she could see, the walls were covered in pink and gilt paper, with a rather lurid picture of Leda and the Swan hung in the middle.

“This way, Miss…?” The blonde woman raised her eyebrows.

“Quinn. Miss Honoria Quinn.” Honoria gave her name, then realized perhaps she shouldn’t have told them the real one. Too late now. She’d been too rattled to lie about that information.

“This way, Miss Quinn.” The woman opened a door to the left and showed Honoria into a pretty little parlor, decorated also in pink and white and gold. “Take a seat, and we’ll inform Mrs. Dove-Lyon you are here.” They closed the door, leaving Honoria suddenly all alone.

She glanced around the room, noticing, now, that the room’s appointments were more garish than tasteful. The artwork on the walls had the same type of shocking subjects as the one in the entryway. Honoria swallowed hard. The overly bright colors had begun to make her sick to her stomach. She’d had no idea at all when she’d awakened at seven o’clock this morning that by five this afternoon, she’d be pursued by Lady Danford’s husband, out of a position, all but ruined, and trapped in this horrible, outlandish place.

Overwhelmed, Honoria burst into tears. Her half-day out had turned into a half-day in Hades.

Chapter Two

“Rochdale is in over his head.” Thomas, Lord Braeton spoke sotto voce to his long-time friend Geoffrey, Lord Longford, as they watched seven gentlemen turn several different shades of pale blue.

“I suspect you are correct, Thomas.” Arms crossed over his chest, Geoffrey shook his head as one older gentleman went a deeper shade of purple.

“One minute, gentlemen,” a burly gentleman called out dispassionately. Called an escort by denizens of the house, his main function at the Lyon’s Den was to keep order when patrons at the notorious gambling house got unruly. Today, however, he had been pressed into service as the timekeeper for this wager.

Immediately, Lord Hovingham’s eyes rolled back in his head, and he slithered onto the floor.

“One down.” Geoffrey nodded to the patron whose face had gone deep blue. “Should someone try to rouse him?”

“He’ll come ’round soon enough.” Thomas gazed avidly at the six men still holding their breaths. The wager was a thousand pounds to the gentleman who held his breath the longest. Rochdale, Thomas’s brother-in-law, had asked him to come and stand witness to the wager, which Thomas had been reluctant to do, given its location. He’d met Mrs. Dove-Lyon, owner of the establishment, previously. It had not gone well. “I think Rochdale’s a goner. His face resembles a plump blueberry right now.”

The man in question shook his head violently, almost dislodging the footman who’d been assigned to hold Rochdale’s nose. Each of the seven men who’d accepted the challenge had been furnished a footman to clamp their noses shut so the only way to get air in was through their mouths, which would disqualify them.

Another gentleman gave a violent push to his footman. The man staggered backward as the short, blond gentleman whose nose he’d been holding gasped in air, breathing noisily. “God’s teeth.” He wheezed for several minutes until his lungs finally got enough of the air they craved. “Who’s going again?”

“You haven’t finished this wager, Fyfield. Catch your breath before you go again.” Thomas shook his head. He knew only too well the fire such wagering could put in a man’s belly. He only wished this wager would play itself out quickly. There were better things to do on a Monday afternoon than make sure Joanna’s husband came to no harm. Although other gentlemen were betting on the outcome of the wager, he’d had no intention of doing so. Encouraging such frivolous behavior was not something he condoned. Thomas glanced into the next room where several tables of card games were in play. More to his taste, granted, but he and Geoffrey were heading to Tattersall’s to look at some cattle if this wretched wager would ever end.

“A minute and a half.” The timekeeper, whose name was apparently Demetrius, called out.

Two more gentlemen, by now ghastly shades of blue, gasped and swatted at their footmen’s hands. That left Rochdale and one other fellow, both of whom seemed close to death.

“You may be about to lose a brother-in-law, Thomas.” Geoffrey motioned to Rochdale, whose eyes had rolled back in his head as he went limp in the chair.

“Christ.” Darting forward, Thomas grabbed the man by the arm and shook him, slapping away the footman’s hand. “Rochdale!” Damnit, the man still wasn’t breathing. Thomas grabbed a glass of wine from the hand of an onlooker and dashed it in his brother-in-law’s face.

Rochdale gasped at last, drawing in a torturous breath, and sat up abruptly. “What happened?”

“You nearly made my sister a widow, jingle brains. Here.” Thomas commandeered another glass of wine, from a passing footman this time, and put it to Rochdale’s lips. “And you now owe this chap a thousand pounds, if he is indeed still alive.” A glance to his right showed Thomas that the gentleman who had lasted without air for almost two minutes was passed out in his chair, his footman still stubbornly holding his nose, even though the man was now moaning and breathing through his mouth. “Utter foolishness.”

The front door flew open, letting in a glare of light, and a wild-eyed figure looked frantically around the room. “Honoria! Honoria Quinn, where are you?”

“God, what now?” Thomas muttered, quickly taking in the measure of the man. A gentleman, both by his clothes and the way he carried himself, but frenzied, with a look in his eyes like a spooked horse. Trouble with a capital T. “Here.” He shoved the glass of wine into Rochdale’s hand. “Hold this.” Thomas straightened and moved slowly toward the newcomer who stood in the center of the room, turning back and forth, searching for someone.

“Honoria! I know you’re in here. I saw you come this way.” The gentleman’s voice rose alarmingly. Everyone in the house must hear him, which was unfortunate for this Miss Quinn. Perhaps he could stem the tide before this got out of hand.

“Honoria!” Bellowing, the distraught man made as though to mount the staircase.

Thomas reached him a step before Demetrius. “Allow me.” He waved the escort away. “Can I help you, sir?” Christ, it was Danford from White’s. He scarcely recognized the gentleman; he was so altered from his usual appearance. His face was blood red, he staggered around and puffed out his cheeks as though he’d been running a marathon. His clothing was pulled askew to the point his cravat was in danger of unraveling. “Danford? What’s the matter, man?”

“What is the meaning of this outburst?” The imposing figure of Mrs. Dove-Lyon, shrouded in her accustomed black, materialized as out of thin air.

Her appearance took Thomas by surprise. He stumbled back a step as did Danforth. Despite Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s veil, which obscured her facial expression, Thomas couldn’t help but imagine her intense gaze blistering Danford’s soul.