Page 62 of The Lyon's Pretty Pugilist

“No.” Nicolas slid his head from side to side. “Never again. I’ll wait here.”

“We can’t return home while the ladies are in the middle of their party. Mother will skin us alive,” Davenport said. “Besides, I need to take care of some business.”

More business? “Seeing a man about a horse?” Nicolas asked.

“Not that it’s any of your concern, but yes.” Davenport flashed his perfect white teeth.

Since they were here, obviously, Davenport hadn’t gotten his fill of wagering while at White’s.

Nicolas grunted, fought his way out of his tailcoat, and rolled it into a ball.

Once Davenport exited the carriage, Nicolas stretched out on the squabs, shoved his coat under his head, and closed his eyes.

Nicolas awoke hourslater, his mouth so dry he was unable to produce saliva. The once-blazing sun emitted a soft glow as it dipped behind the horizon. The coachman and footman were nowhere to be found.

Where in the devil was Davenport? Had Bessie Dove-Lyon imprisoned him in her office?

“Shite.” Nicolas needed to enter the blasted establishment to ensure his mate hadn’t been locked away.

Two large men who referred to each other as Theseus and Egeus met him at the main door.

“Dining, drinking, or playing?” the one named Theseus asked.

“Looking for my mate.” Who might very well be a captive in their insane proprietress’s lair.

Theseus held out his hand, inviting Nicolas to enter. Since there was a cloakroom on the right, Nicolas took the hall to the left and passed by a lounge full of men reclining with newspapers and books.

Next, he perused an elegant dining parlor. Davenport wasn’t among the diners.

He entered a hazy room filled with at least a dozen men. Every single gent held a lit cheroot that emitted swirling trails of smoke. Thankfully, Davenport wasn’t in the smoking room since Nicolas’s lungs currently wanted nothing to do with the thick air.

Nicolas fought his way through the gray clouds to a back exit and entered a crowded, noisy room. Davenport sat at a far table, a drink in front of him. Cards fanned from his palm.

Had Davenport seriously left him in a hot carriage for hours while he played cards and drank? With every intention of strangling the man, Nicolas marched toward him.

A large hand gripped his forearm, halting his onslaught.

Nicolas whirled to stare into the eyes of the Wolf Pack’s leader. The unnerving woman in the black veil stood beside her henchman.

“Lord Wentworth,” Bessie Dove-Lyon said. “You are finally awake?”

How in the blazes did she know he’d been sleeping in the carriage outside of the establishment?

“I invited Lord Davenport’s staff in a while ago,” she said. “They are enjoying a drink upstairs.”

She handed Nicolas a glass of water. He eyed it suspiciously.

“Don’t worry. I didnotpoison it.” The odd woman chortled. “This wager won’t be any fun if I kill you.”

“I see no humor in that statement, Mrs. Dove-Lyon,” he said.

She sighed. “Oh, my lord, I’d hoped some of Josephine’s zest and passion for life might wear off on you.”

Oh, she’d worn off on him, all right. If his obsession could be considered “worn off.”

The widow pushed the cup into his hand. “I know you do not favor spirits. I’m having a cup of tea made for you as we speak.” Leaning close, she sniffed and wrinkled her nose. “Brandy?” She clucked her tongue.

Was there anything she didn’t know about him?