Page 1 of A Lyon for Luck
Prologue
Fletcher Quill, theonly recently named Lord Aldwyn, stared at the solicitor for the longest moment. Staring was the only response he could manage because he hadn’t the ability to form words. The full impact of what had been relayed to him was simply beyond comprehension. Finally, after the longest moment, when the silence had stretched to the point of discomfort, did he manage, “My apologies… could you repeat that please?”
“The estate—well, beyond the family seat which is entailed—is mortgaged, my lord, very heavily. Just to pay the interest in arrears that is owed would require no less than a thousand pounds… and the coffers are quite empty. Your uncle was a spendthrift, and he was also possessed of remarkably poor judgment when it came to investments and business partners. And, of course, there are the death taxes which must also be paid. Alas, he did not prepare well for his impending demise… and predicted as it had been by his physician, I cannot begin to imagine why.”
Because like everything else in his life, his uncle Lucien had chosen risk over security. He’d wagered and lost but was no longer present to pay the marker.Shaking his head, Fletcher stated in an almost bemusedmanner, “I’m impoverished now. Fully. Before, I was simply poor, which I think may have been preferable. I was an untitled gentleman with no land, no money, and no problems… No prospects either, for which that wasn’t entirely without benefit. But now I’m a titled gentleman, with no money, land that is taxed and mortgaged, and a list of debts longer than my arm,” Fletcher observed. “Is there any asset that isn’t encumbered in some way?”
The solicitor, lacking humor and an appreciation for the absurdity, nodded in agreement. “That is quite the way of it, my lord. And to the second part, no. All additional properties aside from Avelynd Hall were mortgaged together as a parcel of properties rather than as single estates, I’m afraid. In truth, most of them do not qualify as estates. There’s the hunting lodge near Nottingham and then the townhouse in Bath. There is Denhurst Abbey outside York, though it is in shambles truly. The last report from the steward indicated that enough of the roof remained to render the property taxable but not inhabitable.”
“Naturally,” Fletcher said, nonplussed. If there was one thing he could count on, his utter lack of luck was consistent.
The solicitor continued, “I am not unsympathetic to your plight, but I think perhaps the best thing to do is to get yourself a wealthy bride.”
Fletcher laughed. He couldn’t help it. “What woman in her right mind would marry a man who not only cannot support her but must have her support him? I have nothing to offer a woman beyond an estate that is on the verge of being confiscated by the Crown and a collection of heavily mortgaged properties that are apparently all but in ruins. Quite frankly, given the history of terrible luck that has been dogging my family for generations, any woman foolish enough to entangle herself in the mess I’ve inherited would only be fit for bedlam.”
The solicitor sighed. “I understand your predicament, my lord. Ido. And, again, I am not without sympathy. But your creditors will not wait. And if your assets are seized—at that point it will be too late. You can be impoverished and find a bride. You can be scandal ridden and find a bride. You cannot beimpoverished, homeless, and scandal riddenand expect to find one.”
Fletcher was well aware of all that. Anyone who’d spent even a single evening amongst the gossip hungry ton was well aware of it. “Where is this wealthy and desperate bride located, Mr. Thompson? If you tell me where to find her, then I shall go and do so immediately. Last I checked, heiresses are—by definition—rarely desperate. Nor are they precisely abundant in number,” Fletcher stated pointedly.
The solicitor was quiet for a moment, contemplative. Then he pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed heavily before stating, “There is someone who can help. Someone who specializes in making just these types of matches… Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon. If you wish, I will consult with her on your behalf. I have no doubt that she can find a bride who will meet your particular requirements.”
“You mean my creditors’ requirements.” He had no requirements for a bride. He’d never even permitted himself to entertain the notion of taking one. After all, he had no means with which to support a wife and therefore any thoughts of ever having one had been pointless.
Thompson’s lips firmed in a hard grim line. “Just so, my lord. Just so.”
Fletcher was trapped. He knew it. They both knew it. “Arrange a meeting with this matchmaker of yours, then. As soon as possible—there’s little point in delaying the inevitable.”
The solicitor nodded. “A most wise decision, my lord. As it stands, I have a meeting scheduled with the woman this afternoon. We often… work together. You may join us as your situation is much too dire to delay. It is at three this afternoon. Arrive on time, my lord. Promptly. Mrs. Dove-Lyon frowns on tardiness. She is a very busy woman.”
Fletcher blinked at that, taken aback by the command in the small man’s voice. “By all means, Thompson, one should never offend the delicate sensibilities of a shrewd businesswoman who runs a notorious gaming hell. Delicate creature that she must be!”
With that, Thompson gave a curt nod, gathered his paperwork, and left. Alone in his study, half the furniture still covered in holland cloths and everything coated in a heavy layer of dust, Fletcher drummed his fingertips on the inlaid top of the desk. If he had more time, he could take himself to the tables and possibly earn enough money to keep the wolves from the door. But there was no time. He had thirty days with which to bring the owed interest on the estate current. The sum was positively astronomical. Predatory, even.
“What were you thinking, Uncle Lucien?” Even as he uttered the question aloud, he knew the answer. His uncle hadn’t thought. Lucien Quill had made his way through life robbing Peter to pay Paul and being charming enough to be forgiven for it. Fletcher did not have that charm. A matchmaker would be his only hope because if he had to woo an heiress on his own, he’d fail dramatically. Perhaps even comically. Well, comically for everyone but himself.
“May she be as comely as she is wealthy,” he muttered, pouring himself a brandy. “But, God above, don’t let her be a termagant.”
Chapter One
Miss Daphne Acresslipped through the garden gate and into the mews. With a borrowed cloak of plain dark wool shrouding her slender form and covering her delicate features, she could only pray that no one would recognize her. It was her one and only chance to make an escape. Her one chance, she thought, to avoid the future her father and mother had laid out before her. The hideousness of that future was too much to bear.
Married off to Lord Cecil Pozenby.
Daphne shuddered even under the too-warm wool. The man was a toad. Short, fat, with a curiously large bottom and bowed legs, he resembled one to an unfortunate degree. But it was not his appearance which had generated her assessment. It was his character. Loud, overbearing, lacking in even the slightest hint of social graces, the man had the audacity to also eschew the basic tenets of hygiene. In short, he reeked. The smell of him, unwashed and unkempt, would never leave her memory. Nor would his unfortunate habit of breaking wind and laughing as if it were some greatly amusing jest. Terrible as all that was, it was the least of his many sins. He’d paid a visit one afternoon and when an unfortunate housemaid had spilled a bit of tea on him asshe removed his cup, he’d slapped the poor girl so forcefully she’d fallen to the floor. He’d then proceeded to berate her mercilessly.
Daphne was cognizant enough of the way her parents functioned to understand that it wasn’t about desperation. Whatever they might say about her very limited marital prospects in the wake of scandal, she knew the real reason behind their choices. It was about punishment. Her parents were punishing her because they held her responsible for things that were not at all her fault. Yes, she’d flirted with the tutor. Yes, she’d had second, third, and even fourth thoughts about marriage to the terribly aloof Viscount Lynley. But in the end, she’d been determined to marry him as she had agreed. To go through with the vision her parents held for her future—to somehow align themselves with a title. Now, because that future was out of reach, she was being made to pay for it. The injustice of that, after all that she’d endured already, was simply too much.
Of course, she was well aware that there had to be something in it for them beyond simply punishment. After all, they did nothing if there wasn’t something to gain from it. With her betrothal to Lord Lynley, there had been a financial arrangement that would have allowed them to keep some portion of her fortune. Her maternal grandfather had left everything to her. She’d only ever known Esther as her mother. She’d been nearly twelve before discovering that the woman who had actually birthed her had died in the process and that Esther was in fact her stepmother. Of course, her father had wanted to erase any mention or memory of his first wife with her connections to trade so she’d only ever been permitted to call Esthermother. The word often stuck in her throat, of course. No woman had ever, in the history of the world, been less maternal.
At the end of the mews, a simple black carriage, closed and discreet, awaited her. Mrs. Dove-Lyon had been quite true to her word. She’d said that she would send someone for her to escort her safely to the Lyon’s Den—a scandalous place, surely, especially for a young andunmarried woman. As she neared the carriage, a footman in simple but elegant black livery jumped down and opened the door for her, helping her inside. The doors had barely closed when the vehicle began to move forward.
It was not a long ride. In truth, the Lyon’s Den was no more than half a mile from her home, but it wasn’t the distance which prompted the need of the carriage. It was simply a tool to aid in their subterfuge. Disappearing into the sea of other simple black carriages reduced her risk of discovery. As her parents had ardently prohibited her from seeking the matchmaker’s help, secrecy was a necessity. They held Mrs. Dove-Lyon to blame for the unfortunate situation that had occurred with her former betrothed, Lord Lynley.
For herself, Daphne did not hold Lynley to blame, nor did she hold Mrs. Dove-Lyon accountable. There was only one person who was truly responsible for the state of ruin which she now found herself in and that was none other than Lord Lynley’s cousin, Phillip Dorchester. The scheming and conniving man had ruined her reputation by spreading false rumors of an elopement to cover his abduction of her—all to prevent Lord Lynley from meeting the terms of his inheritance so that Dorchester might claim it for himself. Her reputation had been ruined in service to his greed and if she did not take action, her life would be ruined as well.
Thinking of what might have been, Daphne recognized one uncomfortable truth. She was relieved not to have married Lord Lynley. Yes, she would have been a viscountess. Ultimately, he would become a very wealthy man. Between his fortune and the one that her grandparents had settled on her, they would have been one of the wealthiest couples in London. But there was more to life than simply wealth and he had always seemed so very cold to her. Always polite and always perfectly proper in all his interactions with her, there had never been a hint of warmth or affection. When he’d asked for her hand, she’d seen her future laid out before her, devoid of any happinessor spark. No passion. No affection. No love. He offered a life of duty, obligation, and unrelenting boredom. She’d only accepted his proposal anyway because her parents had told her she must.
When the carriage halted, they were in a narrow alley that ran along the side of the notorious gaming hell. Before she could disembark, four servants rushed out of that door carrying paneled screens. The screens were unfolded and placed on either side of the carriage door, giving her an entrance to the building that was entirely shielded from view. If nothing else, she thought, Mrs. Dove-Lyon was true to her word on protecting what was left of Daphne’s reputation, tiny shred though it was.
