Page 21 of The Lyon Rampant

He shook his head. No need to question his behavior—he was well enough off as he was, playing the rake, plotting the downfall of the French revolutionaries through the production of lead, and continuing the search for his heir. That was enough for one man’s life, was it not? Why complicate things by falling in love with someone who might not be all they seemed?

He dragged his thoughts back to the issue of the moment. “I don’t know that I’m qualified to advise you. I can say nothing except that I believe Miss Brent to be a worthy, reliable, stable person. I believe she takes great care of Miss Bellamy, who is sometimes prone to attacks of the nerves. If you were to open your heart to Miss Brent, and she liked you, you could find happiness together. Contentment at the very least. But in the end, the decision lies with you.”

Starveling bowed, then winced and rubbed briskly at his knee. “Excuse me—old injury. Thank you for listening, sir—I’m in your debt. If I can do you any favors, just ask for Starveling—although I’m ‘Starling’ in the world beyond these doors. I’ll mull over what you’ve said and do my best to shut the door on the past.”

Good luck to the man if he thought he could do that! The door to Piers’s own past was wedged open, and not until the war against Bonaparte was won would he consider closing it.

Starveling led him into the dining room, then made sure he was comfortably seated at his table before limping off into the labyrinthine depths of the gambling den.

Piers glanced around the room and nodded to several gentlemen he knew, but didn’t invite anyone to join him. His closest friend, Mr. Witherspoon, was absent, unfortunately. Never mind—it might be best if he were left alone with his thoughts.

He placed his order, then sat back contentedly to await the arrival of the soup, hoping it would be as delicious as the person who had made it. Devil take it! Where had that thought come from? He was in no position to think about any woman in that way, but the discussion with Starveling had shaken him up. He was so certain that he knew what he wanted, and where he was going—but occasionally, something like today’s conversation would make him pause, examine himself, and wonder if he knew what he was doing at all.

The soup had just been placed before him, and he was enjoying the appetizing aroma when one of the waiters arrived at his table and handed him a note.

“Forgive me, sir, but the sender of this note has requested that you speak to him as soon as possible. He’s waiting outside.”

Piers nodded, battling to conceal his annoyance. Who dared interrupt what was about to be a moment of pure pleasure? He laid down his spoon and unfolded the note. It was from Roland Chetwynd and the message was brief.

Piers stuffed it into his breast pocket. The soup was forgotten—he couldn’t think of food at a moment like this.

Roland had found Charlotte Lavoisier, and she had Oliver with her. There wasn’t a moment to lose.