Hook Lyon and Sinker

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Spotlight on Hook, Lyon and Sinker

Hook, Lyon and Sinker

When Lady Laureline Barker asks Mrs. Dove Lyons to find her a husband, she does not expect one of her choices to be the man she admired years ago, when she was still a schoolgirl—the man who rescued her from drowning. He is also a war hero, famed for trading his own freedom and health for the safety of others.

Laurel is committed to a contest, with the winner taking her and her dowry. Can she back out? And will he still want her if she does?

Angelico Warrington doesn’t expect Laurel to remember him. Even if she does, why should she favor him over other suitors? She is the respected sister to an earl, the only flaw on her reputation that she refused to marry a jerk who has been putting off the wedding date for five years.

Angel is a musician in a gambling den, unable to walk without crutches, and with no place in the Society to which Laurel belongs.

This apparently ill-assorted couple are a perfect match, but history must repeat itself and secrets be revealed before they can win their happy ending.

Preorder price only 99c. Published this coming Wednesday. https://www.amazon.com/Hook-Lyon-Sinker-Lyons-Den-ebook/dp/B0CSF79RMD

Excerpt:

One of Titan’s men came to tell Carter and Angel that the first contest was about to start. While they had been talking, some of the servants had rolled out a large square piece of furniture. Angel couldn’t imagine its purpose until he approached closely enough to see that it was an open-topped box about ten feet across. It was lined with something that must be impervious to liquid, for the box was full of water almost to the top. A score or more toy ships sailed on the surface.

“Gentlemen,” said Titan, “if you will take your places, please.” He directed Angel to one side of the box, and Carter to the opposite side. Angel picked up the sling he found waiting for him. The bowl full of smooth blue stones told him what the game comprised before Titan explained.

Carter’s stones were red, Angel noticed. Half a dozen gentlemen took their places along the remaining sides of the tank, and two of Mrs. Dove Lyons men stood flanking each of the players.

Other gentlemen crowded in behind the spotters, though several of Titan’s wolves kept them back from behind Carter and Angel.

Then Titan said, “Go,” and Angel picked up his sling, fitted a stone, and hurled it at a ship. It was harder than it appeared. For one thing, it took considerable force to sink a ship. For another, any lesser hit sent the target careening across the water, rocking the other ships and setting them sailing in unexpected directions. All that movement started waves, which complicated matters still further.

The watchers roared when a lucky shot from Angel sank an already-damaged ship, and again a few moments later, presumably for Carter, though Angel was not about to take his eye from his current target.

As he continued to launch stones, someone came to fill the bowl. Was he getting better? He had the impression he was sinking ships more rapidly, but perhaps it was just that time had slowed as he slung stone after stone, not pausing to see the effect, but moving on the next.

Every now and again, though, another stone hit a ship he was aiming for just before or after his own. If the ship sank, the spotters yelled out the name of the man who was responsible. Twice, there was a dispute, but Angel didn’t allow that to distract him, either.

Then Titan shouted, “Time! Put down your slings, gentlemen.”

Angel replaced his sling on the side of the box and looked across the water to Carter, who nodded and smiled. Angel had no idea whether he or Carter had won. He returned the nod and the smile. Carter was a decent man.

Angel’s eyes drifted up to the ladies’ gallery, where Laurel stood, watching the first of the contests that would decide her fate. Carter was a decent man, but he wanted a mother for his daughters.

Laurel deserved more. She deserved a man who adored her.

 

 

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Meeting the Matchmaker on WIP Wednesday

Here’s a short excerpt from the book that’s out on 20th March, Hook, Lyon, and Sinker

Mrs. Dove Lyon was not as Laurel had imagined her. Laurel had expected someone garishly painted and indiscreetly clad in gaudy colors. After all, she ran a gambling establishment which also offered other entertainments of the most scandalous kind.

The person who joined Laurel was clothed all in black and veiled. Her garb would not have looked out of place on the most dignified of Society’s fashionable matrons, and was far less revealing than many gowns worn by such august ladies. Her language and carriage too, as she invited Laurel to sit and asked her preference for beverage, were those of a lady.

The knowledge comforted Laurel. Perhaps this desperate scheme might work after all.

Once Laurel had her tea, Mrs. Dove Lyon came directly to the point, without any polite evasions. “Why have you asked to see me, my lady? Do you wish for me to find you a husband?”

Blunt and to the point. Also surprising, for Laurel had agreed to Benjamin’s request that the broken betrothal should not be made public just yet. Laurel thought he wanted to give Tiber time to talk Laurel into reversing her decision, as she had last time, but she had agreed anyway. It suited her to keep the gossips at bay for a week or so.

Her hostess must have guessed at her thoughts, because she said, “Lord Tiberius Hastings was here last night, and he is indiscreet when in his cups. Most of the gentlemen present will now be spreading the news that you have jilted him. Mind you, his loose tongue will work to your advantage, for he was bemoaning his own stupidity in putting off the wedding once again. And, making it clear that his chief regret was losing your dowry.”

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Tea with her husband and a problem

“Surely there is something we can do, James,” said Eleanor, the Duchess of Winshire to her husband. “It is outrageous that young Laurel must marry within a matter of weeks or lose her inheritance from her father.”

James shook his head. “Her father has been dead for years, Eleanor. If she was going to object, she should have done so before now. The fact that she has said nothing, and taken no action to challenge the will, means that the courts are unlikely to even listen to her at this late stage. And certainly not before the deadline of her twenty-fifth birthday.”

Eleanor sighed, impatiently. “She says she did not know about the provision, and indeed, how should she? Girls are not encouraged to attend the reading of a will, and apparently neither of her older brothers saw fit to enlighten her. Her youngest brother, who inherited when the older two died, was overseas with the army. He assumed that Laurel knew. Her fiance of the time should have known, but I gather he had not bothered to read the marriage settlements. Whether he really intended to marry her or not, I have no idea, but he has certainly lost his opportunity now.”

James frowned. “Is she certain, dearest? Would she not be better to marry the man she knows than to make herself and her dowry the subject of a contest in a gaming hall?”

Eleanor’s sigh was heartfelt. “So I suggested to her,” she said. “But Laurel says that she would rather be penniless and dependent on her brother for the rest of her life than to exchange another word with that snake, by which I take it she meant her former betrothed.”

“You might remember, Eleanor, that Mrs Dove Lyon’s has had great success as a matchmaker. Perhaps she will manage another of her love matches for your young friend Laurel.”

Eleanor managed a still deeper sigh. “If there is nothing we can do about the will, I suppose we must leave it to that woman. But James, if Laurel is not happy with the outcome of the contests, I am determined that we shall offer her a refuge.”

“Of course, dearest,” said her lovely husband.

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Find out what happens to Laurel in, Hook, Lyon, and Sinker, currently available at the preorder price of 99c, and published on 20th March. It is part of the Lyon’s Den series, and also a reinterpretation of The Little Mermaid, in the spirit of my A Twist Upon a Regency Tale series.

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He Who Dares, Wins on WIP Wednesday

In honour of sending Hook, Lyon, and Sinker out for beta reading, here’s another snippet. My hero and Mrs. Dove Lyons chief guard are in Hyde Park, watching Lady Laureline from afar.

Your birth is the equal of hers,” Titan argued. “You have money enough for a wife, too—you only work because you want to. As to your legs, they won’t matter to someone who cares about you.”

Angel shook his head. Titan was wrong on all counts. Except, perhaps, the money. He had won some exceptional prizes while at war, though they were all invested and he wouldn’t see any return from them until the first one paid out—though the date for that was fast approaching. And he’d inherited his mother’s share of the Sicilian vineyards, which thrived under the stewardship of his cousins, but he’d written to ask them to keep the money in Sicily while he decided what to do with the rest of his life.

At the moment, the job stood between him and destitution, which would be uncomfortable, even if short lived.

As to family, his Sicilian family wasn’t good enough for the Warringtons, so why would it be good enough for Somerville? Angel certainly didn’t regard his father’s family as his own. They had cut their son off without regret when he married Angel’s mother.

Which left his feet. He could not be as sanguine as Titan about Laurel’s opinion of the poor mangled messes he carried around beneath his ankles. Or that of any other woman, for that matter.

“Perhaps,” was all he said.

“She’s out to purchase a husband,” Titan commented. “You are a fool if you don’t try to win her.”

Angel had been trying to ignore his friend, but that remark about a husband riveted his attention. Yes, she had been visiting Mrs. Dove Lyons, but Angel had convinced himself that she must have been on some errand other than the obvious. “Purchase a husband? Why?” He waved his hand towards the path along which Laurel and her escort were currently approaching. “I mean, look at her. She is beautiful, charming, clever…”

His eyes fixed on her, he ran out of words.

“Mrs. Dove Lyons does not share her clients’ secrets,” Titan told him. “But I have been told to meet Lady Laureline at the ladies’ door the evening after next and take her to a room from which she can view three possible husbands. After that, I have a contest to arrange, with the prize for wager on the outcome being the hand of the lady in marriage.”

Angel had trouble getting out the words through the anguish that filled his chest. “What sort of a contest?”

Laurel and her brother were nearly level with them. Laurel caught his eye, smiled at him, and lifted a hand in greeting. He bowed and Lord Somerton touched his hat, as did Titus. Then they were past, out onto the London streets on their way home. She glanced back over her shoulder, and Angel waved again. He watched her ride away down the street, his heart warmed by her smile.

“She recognized you,” Titus observed.

“From yesterday,” Angel insisted. “She knows me only as Nereus, the lame musician.”

“Let me ask Mrs. Dove Lyons to include you in the possibles,” Titus said. “If she says no, you will be no worse off.”

Angel couldn’t answer. He had too many thoughts clamoring for room on his tongue. He fixed his crutches under his armpits, and began propelling himself toward Whitehall and the Lyon’s Den. Titan kept pace, but didn’t speak, for which Angel was grateful.

After several minutes, he had his ideas in a row, but still he didn’t speak them out loud. Instead, he found himself arguing with himself.

Mrs. Dove Lyons has no reason to agree. Her reputation won’t be enhanced by such a match. I can’t pay her—not at the moment, anyway. Her guests will object if I am included among them. But, as Titus said, if she refused him, he would no worse off.

Laurel will demand I am removed from the running. Again, if that happened, he would have lost nothing.

I cannot compete against able-bodied men in a game of strength or speed. Probably not skill either. I’ll just make a laughing stock of myself. But even in the last month, Angel had seen that most of the wagers at the Lyon’s Den involved foolish things. Insect races. Contests to eat or drink some disgusting substance or far too much. Card tricks. And if he did look a fool, what of it? Was Laurel not worth the risk?

Better not to try than to try and fail. That was a gloomy thought too far, even in his current mood. His father’s motto had been nothing venture, nothing win, and Angelo had tried to live up to it all his life.

Before he could think again, he found himself saying, “Yes, Titan. Please ask Mrs. Dove Lyons if I might be a contender. If you think it would help, tell her how I know—how I knew, Lady Laureline.”

The gambling den’s chief wolf grinned and clapped Angel on the shoulder, hard enough that he had to brace himself against a fall.

“There speaks The Mer-king,” he said.

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Tea with Laurel

Or not tea, to be honest. This is another excerpt post. This one is from Hook, Lyon, and Sinker, my next Lyons’ Den book. My heroine and  her family attend a charity ball at the house of the Duchess of Winshire.

For the second evening in a row, Benjamin had offered himself as escort to Laurel and his stepmother. Tonight, Laurel had only the one event—a ball at the home of the Duke and Duchess of Winshire. The host and hostess were the Earl and Countess of Sutton, the duke’s heir and his wife, and it was a fundraising event for one of the countess’s charity schools for young women.

Those present had paid an entry fee for the event, and fully expected to pay more for raffle tickets during the evening. “Lady Sutton will probably be looking for pledges, too, Benjamin,” she said as they waited for their carriage to take its place at the door, “so you should know I have already put my name down for fifty pounds from my pin money.”

Mama clicked her tongue. “Educating people like that. It is disgusting. Somerton, are you aware that your sister holds lessons for your servants? As if a kitchen maid needs to know her alphabet and her numbers!”

“A kitchen maid who can read can aspire to write shopping lists and learn new recipes from books, and therefore to one day be a cook,” Laurel pointed out. It was an old argument, and not one she expected to win with her mother.

Benjamin, though, said, “I think it is admirable. Indeed, I used to teach reading and writing to those of my soldiers who wanted to learn. Even just being able to scribble a few words to their loved ones back in England used to give them great joy.”

Mama snorted. “We are not responsible for their joy,” she insisted.

The carriage pulled up and the door opened, putting an end to the conversation.

Inside, Mama’s tune changed when greeted by the Duchess of Winshire, whose support for the cause was well-known. “So pleased to be here to support this important work,” she simpered. Nor was she backward about bustling straight to the long row of tables containing prizes for the raffles. All donated. Vases, paintings, jewelry, a couple of bolts of fine oriental silk, even the use of one of London’s most celebrated chefs for a dinner party, and access to one of the famed Winshire oriental stallions at the Sutton stud farm.

The last might not interest Mama, but Benjamin was one of a long line of men who wished to buy tickets in the chance at a Winshire foal. “The service fee is out of my reach at this year,” he told Laurel, “but this way, I can’t lose. If my ticket wins, I can breed my mare Lightfoot. And if it doesn’t, my money at least goes to a good cause.”

“Education for females? And servant females at that?” It was Lord Hoskings. “No good ever came of letting a female get above herself.” He swayed a little on his feet, and glared at Laurel as if she was such a female.

He confirmed the impression in his next words. “Your brother should lock you up, missie,” he grumbled. “Going to a gambling den for a husband, then choosing a crippled yokel and a country bumpkin over two respectable gentlemen.” The brandy fumes that cascaded over her as he spoke suggested the reason the man had broken the vow of secrecy that Mrs. Dove Lyons demanded from all who entered into one of her agreements.

“You are drunk, Hoskings, which is the only reason I do not call you out for your offensive remarks,” Benjamin said, his voice low and furious. “Go home and sleep it off.”

Hoskings puffed out his chest. “Invited guest,” he said. “Place to be seen. Got to find another bride.” His scowl at Laurel hinted that he blamed her entirely. “Someone biddable and grateful,” he added.

Laurel thought of suggesting the man sober up first, but he would not appreciate the advice. Instead, she inclined her head in polite farewell. “Mama has moved on, brother,” she said. “Shall we catch up?”

Benjamin offered his elbow and they hurried after Laurel’s mother. “May I leave you two ladies for a moment?” he asked. Laurel saw him stop one of Winshire’s younger sons and speak earnestly for a moment. Shortly after Benjamin returned to her side, Lord Hoskings was escorted out of the ballroom by that son and a couple of the Winshire retainers.

“I told Lord Andrew that Hoskings was drunk and offensive,” Benjamin admitted. He slid a glance at Mama, who had found a friend with whom to talk fashion, and lowered his voice so as not to be overheard. “We cannot have him talking about your arrangement with you-know-who. I’ll see him in the morning and remind him of his promise to that personage.”

Laurel breathed a sigh of relief. Not that she was doing anything wrong, but she knew that Society would look down their collective noses at her making a Dove Lyons match. Or at least at it being public knowledge. Laurel knew of several successful high-Society matches brokered by Mrs. Dove Lyons, but only because the ladies in questions were well known to her. She was certain there were many more who had kept their affairs out of public view. She counted on being one of them.

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A bold move in WIP Wednesday

I do like a bold lady–one who decides what she wants and goes for it. That’s Laurel, my heroine in Hook, Lyon and Sinker, which I’m currently writing for publication next year. Not that she has always stood up for herself. She had allowed first her betrothed, then her father, then her mother to talk her into maintaining her betrothal, despite the number of times the man who promised to marry her changes his mind about the date. No more! She has given him the shove and is about to arrange her own marriage.

Mrs Dove Lyon was not as Laurel had imagined her. Laurel had expected someone garishly painted and indiscreetly clad in gaudy colours. After all, she ran a gambling establishment which also offered other sorts of entertainment of the most scandalous kind.

The person who joined Laurel was clothed all in black and veiled. Her garb would not have looked out of place on the most dignified of Society’s fashionable matrons, and was far less revealing than many gowns worn by such august ladies. Her language and carriage too, as she invited Laurel to sit and asked her preference for beverage, were those of a lady.

The knowledge comforted Laurel. Perhaps this desperate scheme might work after all.

Once Laurel had her tea, Mrs Dove Lyon came directly to the point, without any polite roundabation. “Why have you asked to see me, my lady? Do you wish for me to find you a husband?”

Blunt and to the point. Also surprising, for Laurel had agreed to Benjamin’s request that the broken betrothal should not be made public just yet. Laurel thought he wanted to give Tiber time to talk Laurel into reversing her decision, as she had last time, but it suited her to keep the gossips at bay for a week or so.

Her hostess must have guessed at her thoughts, because she said, “Lord Tiberius was here last night, and he is indiscreet when in his cups. Most of the gentlemen present will now be spreading the news that you have jilted him. Mind you, this is to your advantage, for he was bemoaning his own stupidity in putting off the wedding once again. And making it clear that his chiefest regret was losing your dowry.”

She deepened her voice and spoke again in a tone so reminiscent of Tiber’s that Laurel would have guessed she was quoting the dastard even if she hadn’t heard words very like them the previous afternoon.

“It’s not that I’m not fond of the lady. She is pretty enough and good company. I just never wanted to be married. If her dowry wasn’t so attractive, I’d never have proposed, and I’ve never needed her money enough to actually go through with the wedding. If only she was a placid biddable little thing. I could have planted my babe in her belly and then ignored her. But Laurel is too strong-minded for my tastes. Chaste, too. Never would let me steal more than a kiss, dammit. If she had, I could force her to have me. Still. I am going to miss her dowry.”

“Tiber has done me a favour, then,” Laurel realised. “He is wrong that I would marry him under any circumstances whatsoever, but at least he has made it clear that I am not…”

The other lady nodded. “Not used goods? Exactly. So your errand to me may be unnecessary, Lady Laureline. You can take your time and choose a husband in the usual way, since Lord Tiberius had taken all the blame to himself and by the end of the week all of Society will know that the pair of you did not avail yourself of the license usually extended to a betrothed couple.”

Not much license. Not when Tiber had been away from London on military duties for much of their betrothal and spent as little time with Laurel as he could when he was in London. Not when her father had insisted on her being as closely chaperoned after the betrothal agreement as she was before. Not, furthermore, when she had had doubts about the relationship for the past three years.

“You are free to go,” Mrs Dove Lyons insisted, “if that is what you wish.”

Laurel shook her head. “No,” she said. “It is not.”

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Happenstance in WIP Wednesday

Chance and coincidence play a larger part in real life that we like to admit. And also, of course, in fiction. This segment introduces the heroine in Hook Lyon and Sinker, my little mermaid reinterpretation. Chance has just come to her rescue, though it might not feel like it at the time.

If the kitten had not lost his ball behind the sofa, Lady Laureline Barclay might even now be moving inexorably towards her wedding day.

She was behind the sofa on her hands and knees when her brother and her betrothed entered the room. She stayed there when she realised they were talking about Tiber’s wish to postpone the long-expected event yet again.

“Not if you want Laurel’s dowry, you won’t,” her brother told him. “If she is not married before she turns twenty-five it all goes to a home for indigent gentlewomen. Our father changed the conditions the first time you put off the wedding, when Laurel was nineteen.”

Laurel frowned. She had not been aware of that. She would be twenty-five in a matter of months.

Tiber was surprised, too. He let loose a word that Laurel hadn’t heard before. “But you are joking, Ben, surely. Or making it up to force my hand.”

“Tiber,” said Benjamin, “you are my best friend, but you are a careless ass. Do you mean to tell me that you still haven’t read the marriage agreement? Even after agreeing—and then changing—five wedding dates? Six, now.”

That fetched a deep sigh from Tiber. “For good reason, Ben,” he insisted. “The first time, at least.” His voice brightened. “But you are earl now,” he reminded her brother. “Just change the agreements.”

“Can’t do it,” Ben disclosed. “The money for her dowry is in a trust, and I’m not a trustee. Besides, the trustees are bound by the terms my father set. Anyway, I’m not sure I would if I could. You have messed the poor girl about. Father was right to be suspicious of your motives. And don’t suggest I give her a dowry. My money is all tied up in property.”

That set Tiber off into another string of what Laurel was certain were expletives, accompanied by the sound of boots walking back and forth.

“If you don’t want my sister,” Benjamin added, “just break the betrothal, or ask her to do so. She needs to be married by the time she is twenty-five. I’m sure I could find someone to take her off my hands. She might be old for a bride, but she is comely enough. And she has a whopping dowry.”

The footsteps ceased.

“I esteem her dowry,” Tiber admitted. “I even quite like the lady. She is pretty enough. A bit too strong-minded for my tastes, though. I think she will make the devil of a wife. But I have promised to marry her, and so I will. I don’t dislike the idea of marriage so much that I would leave her to dwindle into a spinster, for I doubt anyone else will have her at this late stage. And at least her dowry will allow me to set up another mistress.”

Laurel was over her first shock, and was in a tearing fury. She bounced to her feet and declared. “However, I shall not have you, Captain Lord Tiberius Seward. Consider our betrothal at an end. Benjamin, I shall find my own husband, thank you very much. One to my taste and not to yours.”

Both Tiber and Benjamin tried to change her mind. Tiber promised to be faithful, looking so doubtful about the idea that Laurel laughed.

“You can barely bring yourself to say the word, Tiber. Do not make me and yourself look ridiculous. You know as well as I do that our marriage would be miserable. I would indeed make you a devil of a wife, and you would make me a devil of a husband. Count your blessings, Tiber. Being jilted by me is certainly one of them.”

After Tiber left, Benjamin told Laurel she would be sorry when she realised what she had done, for Laurel had loved Lord Tiberius since she was seventeen. Laurel replied thatshe had been foolishly infatuated with Tiber when she was seventeen, but had lost her respect and even her affection for him over the interceding years. “You must know, Benjamin, that I have been convinced for some time that going ahead with this marriage would be a mistake. We do not suit, Tiber and I.”

Mama, when she was told, said she entered into Laurel’s feelings, but Laurel was foolish to think that Lord Tiberius would be faithful, for men were not. And besides, what would everyone say if she broke the betrothal? “Every one will think there is something wrong with you. You will be sorry when everyone jeers and calls you an old maid,” she said.

The gossips already thought there was something wrong with her. She had been betrothed for five years and the wedding had been postponed five times already. “People can call me what they wish,” Laurel replied. “I will not wed Tiber.” Mama had an attack of the vapours and retired.

Laurel remained adamant. Marry Tiber she would not. She retreated to her bedroom to think of a plan, but only after begging a couple of sardines from the cook to feed to the kitten as a reward.

 

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Meet my “Little Mermaid with a Twist” in WIP Wednesday

Angelico Warrington made his painful way from the parlour of his employer down the stairs to the main hall of the Lyon’s Den, where he was nearly due to play another set with the other musicians. His progress was slow, but with a crutch on each side to take part of the weight off his damaged feet, Angel did make progress.

That was an improvement over those excruciating months after his friends rescued him from the French camp. They had insisted on sending him to London to see the best doctors, but he remembered little of the journey from Spain, and not a great deal of successive failed treatments. Except for the pain. He remembered the pain.

He had been working for Mrs Dove Lyons for a calendar month, completing the trial period she had offered him at the behest of her chief guard. Her wolves, she called them. Titan, their leader had served with some of same officers as Angel, but at different times. Still, at the request of one of his friends, he had put in a word with Mrs Dove Lyons, who had declared herself willing to employ Angel for a month. And after that, she said, they would see.

He had not doubted his ability to prove himself. Angel had always been a capable musician, though he had been a better singer. Once. Before he screamed his throat raw over and over during the month he had been in the hands of the French.

He had been a good dancer, too, once.

No point in repining. He could have been killed when the explosives he’d been setting under a bridge went off early and trapped his feet under piles of rock and his head under the water. He could have died at the hands of the French who rescued him, imprisoned him, and tortured him to find out what he knew about the movements and plans of the British army.

He could have passed away after his friends got him out, since by then the wounds in both feet were infected. Or he could have lost his feet altogether. The surgeons had been keen to cut off the poor mangled objects that remained after his captors had repeatedly rebroken the bones, over and over.

Instead, he was alive, free, and mostly recovered. He was even mobile, sort of. And he now had a permanent job. Mrs Dove Lyons had pronounced herself satisfied with his performances in the post month. She had offered him a contract and an increase in his wages. He could possibly move from the fourth floor room he shared with one of the other musicians, if he could find a cheap enough place on the ground floor somewhere.

He was smiling as he reached the intermediate landing and executed the manouver that allowed him to change directions, but one foot came down more heavily than he intended, and he shut his eyes against the pain that stabbed up from every poorly set bone in the dismal appendage.

As he did so, a warm fragrant body collided with him, and he lurched off balance into the wall, gritting his teeth against the agony, now from both feet as his crutches clattered to the floor.

“Oh, I am so sorry,” said a melodious voice even as a firm hand grasped his upper arm on one side to support him.

“Take a moment, Nereus. My lady, would you fetch my friend’s crutches?” It was Titan, the head wolf. Not that his true name was Titan, any more than Angel’s was Nereus. But Mrs Dove Lyon gave each of her workers a name—a stage name as it were. From Midsummer Dream, most of them, but not Angel. For him, their employer had strayed into Greek mythology. Nereus was the shape-changing god of the sea and particularly of its fish. Titan must have told the lady what Angel had done when he joined the Allied cause in Spain.

Titan’s was the firm hand, but not the melodious voice. Angel had to see who that was.

He managed to open his eyes, but the lady was wearing a bonnet with a thick veil. A pale blue rather than black, as was the fashionable gown that highlighted rather than disguising her figure. So not a widow. Wonderful. He had fallen in front of one of the customers.

“I truly do apologise Mr Nereus,” she insisted, as she handed Angel each crutch and he tucked them under his arms. “I was speaking to Mr Titan over my shoulder, and not looking where I was going. I do hope I have not hurt you. Well. I mean, I can see that I hurt you, but not worse, I mean.”

“Nothing that won’t pass, my lady,” Angel assured her. “As long as I keep my weight off my feet, they will be better soon.” Or as good as they ever were, which was the best that could be expected.

“Mrs Dove Lyons is expecting you, Lady Laureline,” Titan told the lady, and she smiled at Angel. “If you are sure you are unharmed, Mr Nereus,” she said, and continued on up the stairs.

Titan stopped to say “Stay there and I’ll help you down when I’ve seen the lady to Mrs Dove Lyons. He hurried after the lady.

Angel stayed leaning against the wall, it and his crutches doing most of the job of supporting him. He ignored the pain—it was a familiar companion. The thoughts that seethed in his mind took all of his attention. That was Lady Laurel.

Laurel Barclay. The girl he had once adored from afar. The girl he had saved from the sea when the ship they were on sank off the coast of Portugal. Eight years ago, that had been, in 1808. She had returned to her world and he had joined the British army.

Why on earth was Lady Laurel, virtuous sister of an earl, and flower of the English ballrooms, visiting the proprietor of a gambling den? Even such a gambling den as this, popular as it was with men and women alike, was not the place for an unmarried daughter of an aristocratic family.

A thought crossed his mind, but that couldn’t be her errand. Mrs Dove Lyon was a matchmaker for the misfits and the desperate. Laurel is betrothed. And if she does not like Lord Tiberius Seward9, and who could blame her, she can just choose another.

Titan caught him by surprise. “Nereus. You waited. Do we need to call a doctor?”

A fair comment. Usually, Angel refused help. “The lady,” Angel said. “I knew her once, a long time ago. I was curious about why she was here.”

Titan raised a brow. “Her business with Mrs Dove Lyon is her own. When did you have an opportunity to meet Lady Laureline? I thought you had only been in England for eighteen months.”

“It was long ago,” Angel said. “We were both on the same ship coming from Italy.” For part of the trip, anyway. Angel had been taken from his Sicilian home by pirates, and was on his way to the Tunisian slave blocks when the pirate vessel encountered a British naval patrol and came off the worst.

“The commodore was Lady Laureline’s uncle—Lord Somerford’s brother. I can’t say that we met, exactly. She was well chaperoned, and I was working with the crew. Then, off Portugal, a storm struck the fleet. It was scattered and our ship was blown onto rocks and foundered.” Angel shrugged. “Lady Laureline was the first person I rescued.”

“Which means,” Titan observed, “that you went back into the sea. More than once if I was to guess. How many people did you rescue, exactly?”

Angel shrugged again. He had no idea. Just the memory of aching heavy muscles as he forced himself through the waves again and again.