In a world bound by rules, love becomes the ultimate gambit.
In the glittering world of
London, where society dictates everything, Nathaniel, Marquess of St. John,
learned the hard way that playing by those rules doesn't always guarantee a
happy ending. Jilted by a woman chosen for him by his father, Nathaniel swore
off marriage and embraced the life of a steadfast bachelor.
Louise Hartfield is a talented
seamstress with a disdain for the ton's rigid expectations. Trapped by
her mother's antiquated insistence that as the elder daughter she must wed
before her younger sister, Louise scoffs at the idea of conforming to such a
preposterous rule.
When Nathaniel and his friends
bet on whether love can transcend class, they turn to Mrs. Dove-Lyon, whose
Lyon’s Den hosts their daring experiment. As Nathaniel and Louise navigate
society’s expectations, they find themselves drawn together in a quest for true
love. Will they defy tradition or succumb to its demands? In this high-stakes
gamble for love, who will emerge victorious?
Chapter One
The Lyon’s
Den, London
London 1819
The
Lyon’s Den was a haven of opulence and excitement, a place where fortunes
shifted like the tides of the Thames and where the city’s elite gathered to
flirt with chance and sometimes, in its shadowed corners, engage in secret
rendezvous. Inside, the chandeliers bathed the main room in a warm, golden glow,
and the delicate clinking of crystal drinking glasses mixed with the low hum of
conversation. It was a world of daring wagers, whispered secrets, and dreams
born on the turn of a card.
Amidst
the velvet-draped tables and the rich aroma of aged brandy, Nathaniel, Marquess
St. John, stood amid the decadence, a reluctant figure caught in the whirlwind
of society’s expectations. Skilled in matters of strategy, business, and
diplomacy, he clutched his glass, his thoughts drifting far from the table game
before him.
With
the stakes high, Nathaniel was here to gamble, but not at these games. He had
always been a master of control, his every move calculated, his determination
unwavering. But tonight. He took a deep draught of the fine brandy, the signature
burn making its way down his throat. Tonight, he hoped he was up to his
mission.
“Lord
St. John, it’s a pleasure to see you here this evening.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon greeted
him, her voice warm with surprise. “I have to admit, I wasn’t certain it was
you. I even doubted my steward when he notified me you were here. I had to see
for myself.”
“Ah,
Mr. Boyet. How is he?” Nathaniel remembered the man clearly. Boyet made certain
he didn’t get into any trouble, but that was years ago before he left to serve
his country.
“He
is very well.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon looked him over. “You haven’t changed. You look
just as I remember you.”
Absently
stroking his chin, he smiled as he greeted the proprietor of the Lyon’s Den. As
always, she made a striking entrance. Of moderate height and with a slender
figure, she radiated a silent strength that commanded attention. Her eyes
gleamed with knowledge and confidence and spoke volumes about the experiences
she had faced over the years. She effortlessly transitioned between the roles
of a shrewd businesswoman and a woman with heartfelt compassion.
Nathaniel
knew her better than most. Colonel Lyon, her deceased husband, was a distant
relation of his, a third cousin twice removed.
His
smile set the woman to laughing. “To what do I owe this delightful surprise?”
He sipped her excellent brandy. “You don’t usually venture out of your private
salon.”
“I
couldn’t help but notice that you’re not enthusiastic about gambling, though, I
do not ever remember a time when you did enjoy the gambling floor. I suspect
you’re here for another reason. Come, bring along your brandy, and join me
where we won’t be interrupted.”
Before
he could respond, she headed for the door, and he followed her toward what he expected
was her private salon.
He
stepped into a room filled with plush, vibrant-colored fabrics—deep burgundies,
regal purples, and shades of gold. The furniture, upholstered with the finest
silk, had not changed since his last visit.
Other
furnishings were strategically placed—a Louis XVI writing desk, a Queen Anne
side table, and a beautifully carved Chippendale armchair. Each piece told a
story of refined taste.
A
collection of well-worn leather-bound books on the writing desk suggested that
Mrs. Dove-Lyon enjoyed literature as much as the scandal sheets that were neatly
stacked next to the tomes. A framed painting of her beloved husband, Colonel
Sandstrom T. Lyons, hung above the marble fireplace.
Tasteful
artwork graced the walls, along with a collection of pastels, as well as pen
and ink drawings, all by local artists. Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s signature floral
arrangement of fresh flowers—white roses, red tulips, and variegated green ivy—
of which she handpicked and arranged daily, graced a small table and gave the
room a faint, soothing fragrance.
It
was a room anyone in elite society would find comfortable. He appreciated the decor,
but he preferred a more casual atmosphere.
A
pang hit Nathaniel unexpectedly. He used to call on her at least twice a month,
but after his return from Waterloo and steadily assuming more and more of his
aging father’s responsibilities, his visits had become less frequent. How time
had gotten away from him.
She
sat in a high-back armchair and gestured for him to take the seat beside her. “What
is all this, Mrs. Dove-Lyon? You’ve always called me Bessie. I thought we were
on better terms than that.”
He
lowered his head and tried to hide his smile as he took the offered seat. If
anything, Mrs. Dov—Bessie always spoke her mind. Society rules be damned. “I
must confess, Bessie, gambling is not my preferred pastime. I work too hard for
my money to let it slip through my fingers.”
“That
is not a secret, at least not to me. Although, I’ve watched your cousin Richard
take your mare, Amber Blaze, through her paces on several racecourses and wager
quite handsomely. He handles the temperamental mare well. For a moment, I
thought you might be here to make a wager on the success of her race in the
Regent’s Derby. But no. You are not a gambling man. But you do make me wonder.
You do not need to come here to drink. Your cellar is almost as fine as mine.”
That made her chuckle. “And you did not ask for me.”
He
took a fortifying sip of brandy.
She
took a quick breath and placed her hand over her heart, then leaned toward him.
“Tell me, Nathaniel, are you here for help finding a wife?”
“Absolutely
not.” He nearly spit out the brandy. “I would come here and gamble before I approached
you for a match, not that you wouldn’t make an excellent match. Marriage is not
something I’m eager to pursue. Although it would greatly please my father.”
He
had come close enough to marriage once before. He slammed his mind shut at the
thought of that debacle. He gulped down the rest of his brandy and placed the
empty glass on the small table next to him. “I’m here because, while I do not
gamble, I find myself involved in a wager and need your assistance.”
Bessie
studied him and said nothing for three, perhaps four heartbeats.
“After
declaring you’re not a betting man. You have my undivided attention.” She
poured three fingers of brandy into his glass and warmed her tea with a splash
of hot water.
“May
I discuss a hypothetical situation?” He had planned and rehashed how to propose
what he wanted to do and still he was unnerved.
“Of
course.” She rewarded him with a dimpled smile. “Hypothetical discussions often
lead to the most interesting insights.”
“Excellent.”
Nathaniel eagerly moved forward in his chair, ignoring her purr. “How might two
people bridge the gap and promote a greater understanding of each other if they
came from different social backgrounds?”
“A
fascinating topic, indeed. You surprise me, Nathaniel. This is far from why I
thought you came here.” Bessie leaned back. “To bridge such a gap, one would
require a setting that encourages interaction between the people on an equal
footing, where status and titles are set aside. Does that sound the least bit
familiar?” She gestured around her room.
“Precisely.”
He nodded, pleased she was agreeable. “Here at the Lyon’s Den, you created the
perfect surroundings, but your establishment is limited to your elite invited
guests and those whose marital fate has been placed in your hands. Outside
these walls, nothing like it exists.” He scooted to the edge of his seat. “Now,
imagine a scenario where people from different social backgrounds can easily
interact with each other without the constraints of title, holdings, or
position.
“I
believe it is quite possible, so much so that in discussing the idea with
others, I’ve been challenged to prove that my idea is achievable. I’ve been
charged to bring a variety of people together under the premise of a social experiment.”
“An
experiment, you say?” Bessie raised an elegant eyebrow. “What sort of
experiment?”
“Ah,
that’s the intriguing part.” Nathaniel’s eyes twinkled, and one corner of his
mouth curled slightly upward, giving him a mischievous expression. “Participants
would interact without the burden of their social identities. Their true
characters would come to the forefront, unhindered by titles, expectations, or
rules. The experiment would be declared a success if the interactions resulted
in the participants connecting.”
“It
sounds both daring and enlightening.” She raised her teacup and studied
Nathaniel over the rim. “But would society truly embrace such an experiment?
The lines between the classes run deep.”
“Society’s
expectations often restrict the potential for genuine connections.” He looked
off at nothing in particular and gave his response a great deal of thought. “Yet,
imagine if such an experiment were orchestrated with the utmost discretion,
ensuring that participants engage willingly and authentically.”
“A
delicate balance indeed.” She nodded.
If
he read Bessie correctly, she was open to the idea. “To ensure success,
participants must be carefully selected, and the environment must be conducive
to shedding the trappings of their usual roles. The participants must be
themselves. You, of all people, are aware of the essence of this hypothetical
experiment. Imagine if participants had different social backgrounds, each person
with their unique strengths and weaknesses.”
“And
what would be the ultimate goal of this experiment? You could never divest the ton
of their rules and prejudices.” Bessie leaned in toward him, eager for his
answer.
“To
demonstrate that shared experiences, values, and aspirations can be common
across all strata of society. An opportunity for true understanding and,
perhaps, even for connections to flourish into lasting friendships.”
“Are
you looking for lasting friendships?” Bessie sat back and stirred her tea.
“I
have more than enough lasting friendships and do not need any others.”
She
put her spoon down, took a sip of tea, and replaced the cup on its saucer.
“You
paint a compelling picture, Nathaniel.” A knowing expression lit her face. “But
executing such a venture would require immense finesse and discretion.”
“Finesse,
discretion, and perhaps a skilled orchestrator behind the scenes.”
“A
maestro of sorts,” Bessie titled her head and studied him carefully, “guiding
the experiment toward its outcome?”
“Indeed,
a maestro with a vested interest in the harmony of the results.”
“You
mentioned you needed my help with a wager.” Bessie brought the subject back to
her expertise.
“I’ve
mentioned that I discussed this social experiment with my friends.”
* * * *
Three
days earlier, in a dimly lit private drawing room, Nathaniel lounged
comfortably in his favorite armchair at St. John Abbey, his home in Manchester
Square, surrounded by three of his closest friends. The room bore the
unmistakable mark of a man whose interests ran deeper than what appeared to be
on the surface. Bookshelves lined with well-loved volumes hinted at a mind
constantly in pursuit of knowledge, a trait that set him apart from his peers
and would do him well as the next Duke of Stirling.
The
evening progressed with his friends Archibald Hargrave, Charles Waverly, and
his cousin Richard St. John.
Archibald
Earl of Wainwright, a close confidant of Nathaniel, was a charming man who tended
to blend into the background in social situations. A man of medium build and with
a genial way about him, he had neatly groomed sandy brown hair and hazel eyes that
reflected a quiet intelligence. Though appearing ordinary, his strength was in
his unwavering loyalty and keen sense of humor, which often served as a relief
during challenging times and made him an indispensable companion.
Charles
Viscount Breton, another steadfast friend in Nathaniel's circle, embodied a
reserved yet reliable presence. He, too, was of average height with a solid,
unremarkable build. His dark, neatly combed hair framed a face with a strong
jawline and kind brown eyes. A keen supporter of Archibald, Charles was like a
younger brother who followed his elder brother’s lead, in this case Archibald.
He possessed a calm and collected demeanor that complemented the more spirited
personalities of Nathaniel and Richard.
A
twist of fate had made Nathaniel and Richard fast friends. Nathaniel was the
Marquess of St. John, while his cousin Richard St. John, was the son of Baron Ashbourne.
The similarity in their title and surname, however, was not the only source of confusion;
their physical resemblance was equally striking. Their strong athletic
physiques hinted at men who played hard, and their dark hair, styled in a
similar fashion, only accentuated the uncanny likeness that marked their faces.
Yet, amidst the likenesses, even up to their intellects a keen observer might
see a subtle difference in the coloring of their eyes. Nathaniel’s eyes were a
striking blue, while Richard’s tended toward a captivating shade of green. Despite
this slight difference, both men were an amalgam of aristocratic refinement and
charismatic charm. And their similarities didn’t change as they grew older. It
appeared the older they became, the more they looked alike.
Here,
Nathaniel and his friends, all men of the ton, gathered around a
well-polished table, glasses of brandy in hand, in an atmosphere charged with
anticipation.
“Richard,”
Nathaniel’s eyes sparkled, and an unrestrained grin spread across his face. He
didn’t try to hide his enthusiasm. “This social experiment is not merely a
whim. It’s a vision, a vision of a society where genuine connections are
nurtured, unburdened by society’s expectations.” He turned from Richard and
sought out the others. “Archibald. Charles. You both understand.”
“Nathaniel,
we’ve heard your arguments before,” Archibald said as he rolled his eyes. “You’re
proposing something quite radical. You’re asking society to cast aside
centuries of tradition.”
“Indeed,”
Charles nodded his agreement. “It’s a lofty idea. But do you honestly believe
it can work? Connections transcending class and station?”
Nathaniel’s
attention shifted to Charles, recognizing how he supported Archibald. Rarely
did he make a statement, much less a decision, without mimicking his friend.
“I
do, with every fiber of my being.” He searched Charles’ face, then Richard’s.
“There are places right here in London”—his brows nearly collided with his
ever-deepening furrow—“where it exists and is accepted.” How could his friends
be so blind?
“Accepted
by a few, but not by the majority. You may be able to lose your social status
for an evening, possibly even a weekend, but not much longer.” Archibald
swirled the brandy in his glass as he stared at it. “I would be careful, my
friend. Your ‘society’ responsibilities will catch up with you sooner or later.”
He took a deliberate gulp of brandy, his unwavering gaze locked onto Nathaniel.
He knew at once that his friend didn’t agree with him.
“Do
you not see?” Nathaniel persisted, unwilling to give up. “We’re on the cusp of
a new era, gentlemen. New industries are being developed. Cities are bursting
with people from the farmland looking for work. They are accumulating wealth,
some exceeding those with old money and even moving into positions of power. The
rigid constraints of the old world will not stand much longer. It’s time to
challenge the status quo to prove that the rules are antiquated and obsolete.”
“You’re
like a dog with a bone, unwilling to give it up. What will it take?” Archibald
chuckled, his expression softening as he grew more serious. “I assume there is
no deterring you.”
“No.
There is not.” Nathaniel was certain his idea would work. It had to.
A
sudden brightness gleamed in Archibald’s eyes. Delighted with himself, he
slapped his hands on his thighs. “Very well. How about this—we’ll place a wager
on your experiment’s success. We’ll each put in one thousand pounds, a
significant sum, mind you.”
“Yes,
a wager indeed. I’m always up for a wager,” Charles said as he turned toward
Archibald. “But how will we know if the experiment has succeeded or failed?”
The
room was quiet for several moments.
“There
will have to be a judge. Who would know anything about such an experiment?”
Richard took a sip of his brandy.
“I
know,” Charles nearly came out of his chair. “Mrs. Dove-Lyon shall be the
ultimate judge of your experiment’s success. Her Lyon’s Den is the only
establishment I know of that comes close to what Nathaniel proposes. If she
deems the experiment a success, the winnings are yours, Nathaniel. If not, you’ll
part with quite a hefty sum of blunt.”
The
others stared at Charles, stunned at his very perceptive and workable
suggestion.
Nathaniel’s
heart raced as the weight of the wager sank in. Bessie Dove-Lyon’s discerning
judgment carried immense importance, as did the considerable sum each of them
was willing to stake.
“If,
by some unlikely chance, you don’t emerge victorious,” Richard leaned in toward
his cousin, a devilish glint in his eye, “I’ll kindly accept your Amber Blaze
in place of your coin. You know the mare’s always had a soft spot for me, far
more than you. I swear there are times I believe she thinks I am you.” He
paused, a sly smile curling on his lips.
“That
is not unusual. Even the Prince Regent has problems telling us apart.”
Nathaniel shook his head.
“And
speaking of amusing mix-ups earlier today at Tatterstalls, once again, Lord Templeton
thought I was you. He was engrossed in betting on some trivial affair and
referred to me as Nathaniel. Close call, I’d say. He was wagering on something
as absurd as the number of oysters one could devour in fifteen minutes. I was
tempted, I confess, but even with my penchant for daring wagers, I couldn’t
take that particular challenge. At least not in your name.”
Nathaniel
shook his head. “I thank you for your kind consideration.” He gave his
attention to the others. “Very well. I will ask Mrs. Dove-Lyon for her assistance.
It seems you three doubt we can exist without these restrictive rules, but I
have every faith in the experiment’s success. And when Mrs. Dove-Lyon declares
the outcome, mark my words. genuine connections will indeed be made. They will defy
the odds.” Or so he desperately hoped.
Richard
raised his glass in salute. “To Nathaniel and his grand experiment—may it
reveal the truth, whatever that may be.”
“To
Nathaniel.” Archibald and Charles joined in Richard’s toast.
* * * *
Now,
he sat in a comfortable wingback chair in Bessie’s salon, a half-filled glass
of brandy in his hand.
“I
suppose I should be pleased that my reputation has brought you to me.” Bessie’s
smile was like a flicker of candlelight, mysterious and subtle.
Nathaniel
realized that he had no idea what was going on in her head. He let out a
breath. He would find out soon enough.
“I
do find your experiment intriguing,” she said, a spark of interest in her
voice.
“You
alone will decide whether the experiment has been successful or not. And, of
course, you will get a part of the wager for your efforts.” He noticed her
eyebrows arch ever so slightly, a subtle sign of her growing interest.
“Experiment
sounds so…scientific. I’d rather call it a social challenge. You don’t want to
scare people away.”
“You
have a good point.” Was Bessie really going to help him? “Very well, social
challenge it is.”
“I
will decide on each of the challenges and how they will be judged. The goal of
each one will be create interaction and connections among different people.”
Bessie held his gaze as if she were a cat ready to pounce on an unsuspecting
mouse.
Well-played,
Bessie. He nodded.
“Of course. I’m sure your challenges will be quite fitting for what we want to
prove.” Of all the people he knew, Bessie was the only one who was up to snuff
for this project.
“And
you will be the primary subject.” The woman didn’t try to hide her smile.
A
painful expression flashed across his face. He should get up and walk out, call
off the entire project.
“I
have no intention of making any connection.”
“All
the more reason why you are the perfect candidate. It’s no challenge if the
subject is willing. You just said it yourself. You have no intention of making
any connections. No, Nathaniel. You are the perfect person who can play this
part. Keep in mind that you don’t have to marry the person; just make a good,
solid connection. The more I think about it, the more I see that you are the only
person for this. With a bonus for me if you ‘connect’ with a woman. Your father’s
gratitude.”
He
gulped down the rest of his brandy. When the challenge was completed, he would
explain to the woman, should he connect with one, that this was an experiment, a
game, nothing more. Surely, she would understand.
“Very
well,” he said. “I will be the subject.” He took a deep breath, satisfied with
himself that he had the answer to that problem.
“Good.
Once the contract is signed between you and me, it is final.” As final as the
tone in her voice, he suspected. Nathaniel had heard her hard-earned,
no-nonsense business voice many times and had nothing but respect for it.
“The
contract is binding on both our parts. Neither of us can change the terms or
back out without forfeiting the full amount of the wager, so think hard before
you agree. Three thousand pounds is a hefty sum for you to lose.”
“I
don’t plan to lose. For me, it is not about the money.”
“If
you insist.” She went to her desk, wrote her instructions on a note, and tugged
on the bell pull for assistance.
The
steward stepped into the room. “Yes, Mrs. Dove-Lyon.”
“Mr.
Boyet, have a footman bring this to Mr. Hughes at Chancery Lane. Have him wait
for a response.”
Boyet
nodded and left as quietly as he entered.
Bessie
went to the cellarette and poured her guest another brandy.
“We
can wait here while the document is drawn. It shouldn’t take long. I have the
modiste coming at teatime. We will need to be finished by then.” She handed
Nathaniel the brandy. “Now, let us discuss my fee.”
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