Page 6 of Always the Lyon Tamer

Moreover, the gentlemen appeared to be accustomed to it. There they were, taking orders from women they would not look twice at if on the street and would perhaps actively ignore if they met at a ball.

Rebecca’s gaze was caught by a movement to her left. She was not alone. Five or six other ladies, all wearing masks of different colors, were seated along the railing of the gallery, all looking down at the gentlemen playing their games.

A lady in Lyon’s Den apparel had come up the stairs and was whispering in the ear of another of the masked ladies. Rebecca could not help but watch.

What was happening?

Rebecca swallowed. There was more than one plot occurring here tonight, and if they were all fortunate, all would leave here with a gentleman.

Would she?

“Titania?”

Rebecca jumped, turning to see another of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s ladies smiling. She was wearing the most incredible gown she had ever seen—more lace and embroidery, more diamonds sewn into the fabric than she had believed possible.

Titania.That was the codename Mrs. Dove-Lyon had given her. She had almost forgotten, in her obsessive viewing of the gentlemen below.

The woman was smiling. “Do not concern yourself, Titania. We do not use real names here. We are discretion itself. You may call me Hermia.”

Rebecca nodded, sure she would simply not remember.A Midsummer Night’s Dream, then?It seemed fitting. Half of this seemed a nightmare, the other half-dream.

“I am one of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s ladies, and she wished me to inform you that your dream is almost ready,” said Hermia with a grin. “You will be signaled by her in a moment, and then it will begin. You must prepare yourself for excitement, for power—and for the game.”

Before Rebecca could reply that she was not ready, and perhaps it would be better if she just went home, Hermia had disappeared.

Rebecca had not seen her move. She had simply melted into the distance, which did nothing to calm her nerves.

Catching the eye of the lady seated beside her, she looked at her hands in her lap. She needed to stay calm, that was all.

Swallowing, she lifted her gaze to the gambling floor. Newly arriving gentlemen were walking in, one with his head held high as though he had been here a thousand times before, the others looking nervous.

Only when one of them looked up curiously did Rebecca gasp.It was John.

John fought theinstinct to rub his eyes to ensure he was not dreaming. The impulse was strong. Places like this simply did not exist.Not in London. Not in England.

And yet, here he was. After being ushered through a lounge and then a smoking room packed with noise and smoke that stung the eyes, he was standing in a large room with a high ceiling that did not seem to be of this world.

None of it could be real; the wild costumes beggared belief, there was music coming from somewhere, but he could not fathom where—and the smells…

No, if he were unsure whether this was real or some sort of wine-induced dream, the smells alone would persuade him this was reality. No dream could smell like this: the heaving scent of too many gentlemen all in one place for far too long.

John walked past a table of gentlemen guessing how many cards a woman was holding, the loser removing a piece of clothing if he was the furthest from the truth.

He shook his head, moving around other tables.

Was that—was that a snake in a cage on that table?John’s stomach lurched, and he increased his pace. He could accept some strange strip game; he could accept the smoking room and its noise and chatter—but not snakes.No, thank you.

The next table caught his attention for a few minutes. There was some sort of fascinating knife throwing game, and only when one man pulled away his hand too soon did the table erupt with laughter.

“I am sorry, sir, you know the rules,” said the lady with the knife, expertly flicking it from one hand to the other. “Goodbye.”

The gentleman picked up his jacket with very poor grace as his companions jeered. Beneath the jeers, even he could see, was relief it had not been them.

John swallowed. He was not entirely sure whether this was the sort of place for him. He had imagined it being full of beautiful women, and though there were women here, they were in charge and hardly dressed for the delight of their guests.

A pleasure palace. That was what the Lyon’s Den was. A place where gamblers were made of the strangest kind, and where gentlemen could find wives who were a little more wild and bold than the typical fare one found at Almack’s.

That was what he had heard—but then, what had he not heard?