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Prologue
The Saturday night patrons’ lackluster cheers faded as Jack Bunce crept through the backstage gloom to the beast wagons. Not content to mimic Wombwell’s tour of zoological curiosities, Bunce’s employer aped Astley as well: Phineas Drake’s Equestrian Spectacular and Exotic Traveling Menagerie wed equine arts with ferocious creatures; if you asked Bunce, the combination was less than the sum of its parts, much like the animal who was his prey this evening.
Like the rest of his ilk behind the scenes of Drake’s Spectacular, he knew when a tide was about to turn. They were newly returned to London after a tour of Scotland, where they’d been welcomed with less than open arms, not to mention purses. If the box office continued its decline, Drake would be hard-pressed to keep things ticking over.
If he packed it up, went bankrupt…well, that was not Bunce’s problem.
Bunce’s problem was about to be solved, thanks to a keen eye and an utter lack of fear.
Animals rustled in dry straw, stirring themselves at the sound of an unexpected visitor. The beast wagons ranged in a semicircle for the punters to view in promenade before the main event, but one was off on its own, in the near dark, the better to frighten the spectators with the shadowy threat of the greatest predator of them all.
While covering for the lion keeper, Bunce had clocked a golden chain fixed around the animal’s paw, and he was after having it tonight; he feared no creature, even if the one he crept up on was the king of them.
“Some king you are.” He slithered along to reach the sturdy lock on the cage. “Look at this, will ya? Could keep in ten of your kind. Won’t keep me out.” He slipped a slender lockpick from his sleeve. “Someone as clever as me can take a bit o’ gold off an old cat like you. Old, innit? That’s why you’re all gray, yeah.”
Though the horses were Jack Bunce’s main responsibility and did not require cages, he made sure to keep up skills that had served him well in previous enterprises. A fellow like him did not come of age in the worst stews of London without having a trick or two up his actual sleeve. He coaxed the padlock open, and light as a feather, with the ease born of slithering through more than one second-story window, he climbed into the beast’s den.
The lion stirred, and as confident a chap as Bunce was, he hesitated. The cat’s great paws ended in greater claws, blunted though they were. As the creature rolled his head to look at the intruder, Jack’s skin erupted in gooseflesh. For it was as if the lionsawhim, and that was not possible, to be seen for what he was—a man on a mission of ill intent—by a mere animal.
The creature yawned, and it was all Bunce could do not to laugh. “My apologies, Your Highness, for disturbing your slumber. You’ll be on to your eternal rest, you will, if Drake doesn’t shape up this show. Won’t be chucking in a whole deer for your tea, no, he won’t.”
The great eyes blinked as though the animal understood every word the man said. “Speak English, do ya? Here’s some news for you, then. You’re to be sold on, and bysold on, that’s to the abattoir, once they figure out how to feed you enough opium. Your days are numbered, old son. And you won’t be needing that shiny…ah, yeah, there we are.”
It had taken a sharp eye to catch what Bunce spotted, as the lion’s grooming was a disgrace: the once luxurious mane was tangled and filthy; its whiteness and that of the lion’s coat was the result of old-fashioned wig powder, and cleansing it between the creature’s performances in the equestrian revels was not on the cards, due to the keeper’s laziness and fear of the beast.Performanceswas putting a fine point on it: the lion was dragged out by its handlers acting as though they were trying to keep him in check rather than convince him to move. The sight of the beast outside of his cage was sufficiently impressive, even for the short traverse upstage; it didn’t matter if he was not in the least bit threatening in practice: he was in theory, and that was enough for the watchers in the stalls.
The thief edged forward and reached for the chain that lay beneath the matted fur of the beast’s ankle. A credulous observer, had there been one, might have thought the creature helpfully angled his paw in aid of the thief’s light fingers. Bunce smiled and slid his smallest pick into the lock, a complicated clasp made to stand up to wear and tear. It would not stand up to him: he shimmied the pick right, left, right again, and the chain slid away.
When the porters from Bedlam arrived to fetch Jack Bunce, naked and screaming, he swore over and over that the lion had become a man.
One
April 1817: Lowell Hall, Sussex
Alwyn and the dawn were old friends.
As a boy growing up in Anglesey, he had counted down the hours until he was free to roam; as a captive, he would wake before first light, after an uneasy sleep, to another day in the beast wagon. Since his recent liberation, his rest was continually disrupted by the desperate need to ensure he was still not trapped at Drake’s, for proof that he was free.
Even after nearly a month dwelling on the grounds of Lowell Hall’s park, he did not trust his instincts.
He ought to be better by now.
Alwyn sat on the doorstep, unaffected by the brisk spring air. His abode was simple and easily managed without outside interference: Alfred, Duke of Lowell, had assumed he would not want to be tended by maids or footmen, and Alwyn gave the wolf credit for his prescience. The cottage sat on the highest vantage in the park, which was very high in comparison to the low, rolling hills of Sussex; he had the lay of Lowell’s land, from the River Eden to the village of Lowell Close, over the entirety of the wild park to the London Road. He was once again removed from the rest of the company, but unlike Drake’s, he was free to come and go, or to prowl and lurk, as he overheard more than one denizen of the village mutter. How they would tremble if he were able to scale trees as he once could, concealed amongst the leaves, ready to attack… Although it had to be said, a sturdy branch also made for a superior napping place; it was as much in his nature to loll as it was to pounce.
When he roamed, he kept well away from the flocks and colonies and herds who sensed him, no matter the distance between them; no matter that he inhabited his manskin, he was given a wide berth once spotted. And spot him they did, for the bright yellow coat Alwyn often wore was impossible to miss.
His essential self was naturally prideful and would have resisted the eccentric picture he made, but the reasons behind it were not only down to alerting the prey to his presence. The coat was loose enough that he did not need a valet to wrestle him into it; the shirt was flowing and easily donned; and the cravat, a cursory length of fabric hung loosely around his neck. When he had raided Georgie’s storerooms, he’d taken only what he could put on without assistance.
How his ragtag ensembles had irritated his sovereign. The pleasure Alwyn took in it was out of proportion but familiar all the same: one had an inexplicable desire to annoy His Highness even as one applied to him for aid. There was help that only the prince could give, the only one to whom Alwyn could go once he had fled, dressed as he was in clothes stolen from a thief. The regent showed unexpected patience, cloaked in diffidence, for Alwyn’s inability to speak with fluency or abide in company; his native Welsh contrariness required he return the favor in flights of sartorial fancy sure to send the prince into the boughs.
Was that why Georgie had banished him to Sussex? His Highness had insisted it was for Alwyn’s own good, but one never knew with him. How swiftly he had been dispatched after landing on the royal doorstep…
***
Alwyn skulked behind one of the yellow marble columns that lined the main corridor of Carlton House. He had been pressed into service as a witness to Arthur, Duke of Osborn, marrying the small, canny human known in thetonas Lady Frost, the widow of that lunatic wolf, the Marquess of Castleton; now, he wanted nothing more than to disappear into the bowels of the royal residence.
The Prince of Wales had made a dramatic exit, as was his wont, and Alwyn hoped the royal retinue would hide him even as it swept past. He had managed to get this far without drawing attention but did not fool himself in thinking his presence went undetected. As stunted as his own senses were, His Highness’s were extremely acute; he held his breath and waited for Georgie and his escort to move on to the next order of business.
“Alwyn ap Lewin,” a voice intoned.
