Page 5 of The Scarred Lyon

“As I said, you’re very perceptive, Mrs. Cheevers. I daresay you have the right of it.”

Why else would a titled gentleman want to marry? Augusta couldn’t fault him. A duke, of all people. Given his scars, he probably visited town rarely, which suited Augusta well. “What time should I come?”

Duncan tapped the roof with his walking cane, and the carriage came to a halt.

The window slid open, and his coachman, Briggs, peered in. “Yes, Your Grace?”

“I will debark here and walk the rest of the way. Return at the front entrance of the Lyon’s Den in two hours.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

He felt utterly silly wearing the gold half mask and wished he had bought one that matched his skin tone more closely.

Once on the walkway, he hurried toward Cleveland Row, feeling the cold breeze as winter neared. Duncan tightened his greatcoat to keep warm. Thankfully, breeches were falling out of fashion, which he appreciated since he despised wearing stockings. He preferred cotton twill trousers and short boots. He pulled his hat lower; it was a topper he had bought in Quebec, lined with beaver fur to keep his head warm. He left his walking stick in the carriage because he disliked it as a fashion accessory, though it was handy as a weapon, if required. Still, Duncan doubted he would need it tonight.

As Duncan turned the corner, he froze. Under the flickering gas lamp, he saw a beggar holding out a dish. The man, missing his legs below the knees, sat on a wheeled cart. He wore a tattered British Army corporal’s uniform, marked by two stripes on his sleeve. He seemed no older than thirty.

Following the Battle of Waterloo in 1815, the army and navy discharged countless soldiers and sailors, leaving the men without proper lodging or occupation, especially those who had been wounded in the line of duty. Duncan had read in the newspapers that the number of homeless people in London had increased as a result. And here was the proof. His heart ached at the sight.

“Where did you serve, Corporal?” Duncan asked.

“Second battalion, 95th Foot. Waterloo. Cannister shot took off my legs.” The man pointed to Duncan’s mask. “And you, sir?”

“The American War of 1812, Upper Canada. The Battle of York, 8th Regiment of Foot.” Duncan reached into his pocket and dropped several shillings and a gold sovereign into the bowl. “Find yourself a warm bed and a hot meal.”

The British government should have cared for this man in recognition of his sacrifice. Instead, he had been thrown to the cobblestones like yesterday’s rubbish.

The man stared into the dish, then glanced up at Duncan. “Thank you, Captain. I’m guessing you were one, by the way you stand.” The man was not wrong. “This will put me up in a room for quite a few weeks. Unlike other poor sods in my position, I’ll not throw your charity away on cheap gin.”

The soldier looked clear-eyed enough, so he no doubt spoke the truth. He also spoke without much street slang, indicating some education. “What is your name, Corporal? Do you have a family?”

“Samuel Barlow, sir. I have no family.”

Duncan pulled his card from his side pocket and dropped it into the dish. “My address here in the city. Come to this place in one month. I will leave instructions with my staff, and they will look after you until we can make further arrangements.”

The man picked up the card. “The Duke of Allenby?” he whispered.

“Captain Duncan Bamford, at your service.”

The man gave Duncan a crisp salute, and Duncan returned it. “No more begging. Find a decent room and good food.” Duncan dropped two more sovereigns into the bowl.

“Aye, Captain. Thank you. One month, I’ll be there.”

Duncan rounded the corner, fury simmering within him. By the fires of Hades, he would make it a point to attend the spring session of Parliament, and those stuffy elites would hear what he had to say about the shameless, disrespectful treatment of these former soldiers and sailors.

Once he reached the front door of the Lyon’s Den, his anger still lingered, and he released his frustration by pounding and kicking it with all his might.

The door flung open. “Here, none of that racket, sirrah!” The man’s eyes widened. “Captain Bamford?”

Chapter Three

Duncan’s eyes narrowed. The man certainly looked familiar. No, it cannot be. “Sergeant Mannix?”

“Aye. But tonight, I’m known as Egeus.” Mannix lowered his voice. “Come with me to the cloakroom. It’s the door on the right.”

Duncan followed his ex-sergeant into the room. “You work here?”

“Aye. Mrs. Dove-Lyon hires ex-military as escorts. I’m an attendant of sorts.”