It was a real threat. Any jeweler in town would be thrilled to set up here to buy gems from desperate gamblers. And if her family was unceremoniously tossed out, there was nowhere else for them to establish themselves. It had been a godsend that they found the Lyon’s Den.
“I am, of course, willing to try,” Amber amended hastily. “But I do not remember the design.” She looked at Lord Byrn. “Do you have a sketch of it?”
His hands lifted in a gesture of confusion. “Only the description I gave you. A blood-red ruby and eight diamonds.”
“Seven,” she corrected. “And that is not enough if you want me to recreate a brooch to match a set from the time of William the Conqueror.”
Lord Byrn blew out a breath as he stared at her. His expression was heavy, and his…well, his eyes were quite lovely. She hadn’t noticed it before now, but they were the most striking shade of green with just enough blue to make them the color of the rarest form of emerald. They startled her enough to cut off her breath and words.
“Could you do it from a painting, perhaps?” he asked.
She frowned. “If it were a good painting.”
“The very best, I’m told.” He nodded as if that decided it. “I shall come for you tomorrow at three. I’ll say you are a cousin or something from the Continent with an interest in portraiture. That should gain us admittance. The family is quite proud of the damned thing.”
She blinked. “What thing?”
“The portrait of the dowager countess wearing the brooch back when she was first presented at Court. Painted by Joseph Wright of Derby. He’s quite famous.”
She nodded. Even she had heard of the man. But painting faces and painting jewelry were two different things. Still, she had no room to argue, though she searched and searched her thoughts for a reason. Mrs. Dove-Lyon had no such reservations.
“Excellent, my lord. She shall be ready. We shall await you at the Dragon’s Hoard.”
Chapter Two
Elliott Rees, Earl of Byrn, opened his eyes to a room flooded with sunlight and a screeching headache. As usual, that headache was called Mother.
“Good morning, Mother,” he groaned.
“Morning! It’s one of the clock in the afternoon!”
Of course, it was. After he’d left the Lyon’s Den, he’d moved on to two other dens in the vicinity and connected with his wilder set of acquaintances. The drink had been plentiful, the gambling even more so, and he had managed to gather several useful tidbits about the peerage and their charges. The best information was that Lord Carderby’s youngest son had been sent down from Harrow for creating a secret language and teaching it to his friends. Since they were boys, the pack had become obnoxious with their game and had been disciplined.
However, young Peter clearly demonstrated an exceptional mind and a talent for codes that the Home Office would find very useful one day. Elliott had recorded that note and several others before leaving the paper on the writing desk near the window. He now saw with approval that his secretary had taken the missives while Elliott slept and would already have them recorded and filed in the appropriate categories for later reference.
Unfortunately, none of that made the least difference to his mother.
“You promised, Elliott. You said you would attend luncheon at the Smitherbees’ home. You expressed an interest in meeting their youngest daughter.”
He had not. In fact, he already knew that Ada Smitherbees and her mother had an unfortunate interest in gambling. He’d noted that last night when her carriage had been waiting outside the ladies’ entrance to the Lyon’s Den. A quick chat and a shared bit of tobacco with the coachman had told him more than he wanted to know about the Smitherbees.
“Now get up, Elliott. We will leave in—”
“She gambles, Mother.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. All ladies gamble. Why, even I…” Her voice trailed off as Elliott stared hard at her. Eventually, she deflated. “How badly? You know I went to school with her mother.”
He remembered. He always remembered details like that. “The mother has lost thousands of pounds this year alone. The daughter shows every sign of continuing the tradition.”
His mother took the news with her usual dramatic flair. She slumped against his bedpost and set her palm to her forehead as if checking for a fever. “You’re sure?” she said in a feeble tone.
He didn’t respond because he knew he didn’t need to. Plus, his head ached abominably.
“Of course, you’re sure,” she muttered. “And you’re always right.” She lowered her hand and glared at him. “But you have to marry someone. I work my fingers to the bone, trying to find you an appropriate wife, and you always find some excuse.”
A gambling habit was not a petty excuse. The Smitherbees could lose a few thousand pounds a year without a blink. Elliott’s family could not. And though their finances were immeasurably better since he’d taken the reins, they were not buried in blunt like so many of his mother’s friends.
“You have to marry, Elliott, and soon. If you won’t do it for an heir, then do it for Gwen’s sake. Your sister needs a married woman to get her out of those books. Someone who can take her to parties and introduce her to an appropriate husband.”
“Someone like Lord Dunnamore?”
His mother huffed out a breath. “Will you cease prattling to me about Lord Dunnamore? You don’t remember what it was like after your father died. I was terrified, I tell you. Terrified. And Lord Dunnamore was one of your father’s oldest friends.”
Old was the significant word. His sister Diana had been seventeen. Lord Dunnamore had been nearing sixty with grown children of his own. And Elliott had been in school, so he hadn’t known to object. Hell, he hadn’t known anything except his own grief.
And so, Diana was married off to a man three times her age as a sacrifice to his mother’s fear. That was bad enough, but then Lord Dunnamore had mismanaged their family finances until Elliott came of age. His other sister, Gwen, had retreated into her books and never come out. If it weren’t for the companionship of his father’s by-blow, Lilah, Gwen’s voice would likely turn to rust from disuse.
All of which was to say that he did not think kindly of Lord Dunnamore, even more now that Diana was trapped in a sickroom with the elderly man. But his mother could never hear a word of criticism without hours of self-indulgent tears, so Elliott had found it easiest to spend as much time as possible away from her. Which was difficult given that she had barged into his bedroom without leave.
All these thoughts filtered through his mind while she continued to prattle on about the injustices of ungrateful children. In the end, Elliott settled for expediency.
“Mother, you are correct.”
Naturally, she did not hear him the first time, so absorbed was she in her own words. Despite how it worsened his sore head, Elliott pitched his voice loud and hard. “Mother! You are correct!”
“Why I never.” She blinked. “What did you say?”
“You are correct that it is high time I rose from my bed. I will not thank you for waking me. I had a long night—”
“I do not wish to hear what you were doing!”