Matthew’s attention went from the building to the black-clad guard standing in front of the area, his feet planted in line with his shoulders and his arms behind his back.
“A military man,” Matthew murmured, wincing when he realized his coachman had overheard his comment. “Cummings, are you sure this is the right address?” he asked, lifting the letter to search for the address that had been included.
“Number nine, my lord. The Lyon’s Den.”
Matthew gave a start. “Thisis the Lyon’s Den?” He glanced back down to the letter, absently tugging on his earlobe.
“Yes, my lord. I brought your father here once or twice,” the coachman admitted.
“What the hell is a matchmaker doing with her offices in a gambling den?” he asked rhetorically.
“I… I couldn’t say, my lord.”
Scoffing, Matthew took a deep breath and said, “I don’t know how long I’ll be.” He glanced up and down the lanes leading to the house, immediately understanding why it had seemed as if they had taken a circuitous route to arrive at the address. The street in front of the house was entirely too thin to accommodate more than the width of a single coach. He tried to imagine how traffic moved—or didn’t—on a typical night, given the popularity of the gaming hell and was glad he wasn’t a gambler.
“Very good, my lord.”
Noting how the guard seemed to be watching him, Matthew stiffened as he approached the front door.
“Welcome, Lord Wingfield,” the man said, bowing before he reached for the handle.
For a moment, Matthew wondered how the guard knew him and then remembered the earldom’s crest was painted on the door of the town coach.
“How might I gain an audience with Mrs. Dove-Lyon?” he asked, waving the letter he still held in his gloved hand.
“Follow me, my lord. Titan can escort you to the proprietress.”
“Titan?” Matthew repeated.
“Yes, my lord.”
Before he could ask any more questions, the guard was leading him through a vestibule, past open doors to a gentlemen’s lounge and a smoking room. The unmistakable sound of a roulette wheel filtered from somewhere beyond, and suddenly another black-clad employee appeared. “Egeus?” the taller man said. From his bearing, it was apparent he was the man in charge.
“Ah, Titan. Lord Wingfield would like a word with Mrs. Dove-Lyon.”
“I’ll see to it,” the newcomer said.
Matthew nodded to Titan, but he suddenly stilled. A second glance had him furrowing his brows. “You… you look terribly familiar. Have we met?”
The man straightened and finally nodded. “At school, but if you could refrain from mentioning my real name, I would appreciate it. Here, I am known as ‘Titan’ by Mrs. Dove Lyon’s directive.”
Matthew’s attention was briefly caught by a movement below, and he noticed how the escort’s gloved left hand flexed before his kid-leather-clad fingers clenched into a fist.
“Since I can’t remember your real name at the moment, your secret is obviously safe with me,” Matthew assured him. He wondered if the escort intended to punch him should he say his name out loud. “Matthew Higby. I inherited the Wingfield earldom two years ago,” he said, shaking Titan’s hand. “I received a letter.” He held up the missive. “Seems my father’s gambling extended to this establishment, although this was the first I learned of it.”
For a moment, Titan’s features suggested he was attempting to remember something. “Must have been before my time,” he murmured. “I don’t recall seeing your father here.”
“Until this letter arrived, I had no knowledge of it. No notice of any vowels, either,” Matthew said, referring to an I.O.U. document. He followed Titan up a flight of stairs.
Titan glanced over and nodded. “Is that a letter from Mrs. Dove-Lyon?”
“It is.”
“Did you by chance have a bad harvest this year?”
The query caught Matthew by surprise. “Didn’t everyone?” he countered.
Titan arched a dark brow. “My employer’s ploy seems to have worked,” he murmured quietly.
