Elspeth had not expected a rapid response to her hastily scribbled message to the proprietress of the Lyon’s Den, but one had been received by the time she had finished her bath. The one-line message—Please come at four—had included a separate page of instructions on how to find and enter the building. They had arrived promptly, and, using the ladies’ entrance, they had climbed a narrow flight of stairs into a small receiving room where they had been met by a tall, muscular woman who had introduced herself only as Helena.
And without any further explanation, Helena had led them through a larger room filled with women dining on some of the finest bone china Elspeth had ever seen. Not what she expected to see in a gaming establishment. They had then entered a room filled with clusters of chairs and tables, obviously meant for casual conversation. On the left side of the room, three tall windows overlooked a massive room below, and Helena paused near one of the windows.
“This is the ladies’ observation gallery.” She nodded toward the room below. “That is the main gambling floor. For your own safety, women are not allowed down there without a staff escort. Please wait here, and I will make sure that Mrs. Dove-Lyon is ready to see you.” With that, Helena pivoted and was gone.
Elspeth leaned toward the window, watching the roiling crowd of men below them, which seemed to ebb and flow around the gamingtables spread across the floor like so much storm surge off the coast. All three windows were open and the raucous noise from below added to the snarls of conversation from behind them.
“The fourth circle,” Elspeth repeated.
Eleanor, who had described the establishment as a “nefarious gaming hell but one known for many other services,” had told Elspeth little else about the owner or the hall itself. She had heard tidbits about it, of course, here and there. Snippets from friends or servants about the goings-on inside. Outrageous wagers. Bets the size of a king’s ransom. Surreptitious meetings. Clandestine dalliances.
Altogether not a place a respectable young woman should the seen, even with a chaperone. Few people, however, worried about the reputation of a thirty-year-old spinster, and as they had made their way through the room, Elspeth had recognized two duchesses, a variety of countesses, and at least one of the patronesses of Almack’s.
What kind of place is this?A disreputable place filled with reputable people.
“What is he doing?”
Elspeth blinked at Sinclair’s question. “What?”
Her maid pointed at the far corner of the gaming floor. “That man. It looks as if he is balancing a pint of ale on the top of his foot.”
Indeed it did. Tall, blond, and wearing an exquisite kit of dark-red and purple silk, he stood on one foot, a stein balanced on the tip of his lifted slipper. A parrot performing a carnival trick. With some amusement, Elspeth recognized the man. Scott Hervey. The second son of an earl whose name she could not remember. A decent dancer, with more of a sense of balance than he currently demonstrated.
Sinclair’s brow furrowed. “I do not understand. Why would he—”
A woman moved in beside her, skirts rustling as she leaned against the window. “Ha! Hervey’s at it again.” She waved to a group of ladies behind her.
Elspeth stared at her. “Again? Does he do this often?”
The lady laughed. “Oh, yes. Almost every day. He never learns. He has a substantial fortune but not a lick of brains.”
“Oh, he has plenty of brains,” a woman behind Sinclair said. “He just does not care to use them. He says it tires him out to do much thinking.”
“That’s because he prefers to think with an entirely different part of the body.”
The ladies who had crowded around them burst into laughter, as Elspeth felt her cheeks heat.Oh, dear.She glanced at Sinclair, who still watched the scene below with a focused fascination.
Gentlemen clustered around Hervey, money changing hands with quick jerks and obvious calls. When the betting dropped off, the foot would waver, the stein quivering. Betting would resume with haste, even as the ale settled.
Elspeth grinned.He’s playing them like a barker at a fair.And she quickly spotted his accomplice, the one man holding most of the bets and encouraging the others to join in or raise their stakes. Hervey’s valet. She had seen the two strolling in the park, which she had thought somewhat unusual. Valets were not often public creatures.
“What is his longest time?” Elspeth asked.
“Twenty-two minutes, so far,” came the answer.
She nodded. “He probably could go longer,” she said to Sinclair. “But he’ll quit when the bets are right.”
Sinclair scowled. “Why wouldn’t he go as long as possible?”
“He’s performing, and they will tire of the game. And when they do, the bets will drop off and will not rebound. See how he watches them?”
Sinclair observed the scene a few more moments. “How do you know this?”
“Believe it or not,” Elspeth said, “I learned about it at a lecture at the Royal Academy. On statistics and human nature.”
Elspeth felt a tap on her shoulder and looked up at Helena. “TheLyon will see you now. Please follow me.”
The cluster of women around them fell away as they left the windows, closing behind them as they jockeyed for position to view the action. From the observation room, Elspeth and Sinclair followed Helena through one laid out like a smaller version of the gaming floor below. A variety of tables and dealers lined the edges and center of the room, and women—who were much more somber than the ones they had left behind—participated in cards and other betting games. While the room still held a loud disharmony of voices, they were all more measured than the men. At the far side of the room, Helena led Elspeth and Sinclair down a tight spiral staircase, where the taller woman paused.
