Excerpt: The Lyon’s Saving Grace

PROLOGUE

Lieutenant Lord Alec Quinton stared at the carved wood device that had been delivered earlier that morning. He closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and tamped down on the overwhelming urge to toss the prosthetic leg into the fireplace and be done with it. But could not do so now that he had inherited the earldom and the responsibilities attached to it.

“The knee and the foot are articulated,” his valet and former midshipman remarked. “Impressive workmanship.”

While Reeves studied the device with one eye, Quinton marveled at the man’s readiness to embrace change and willingness to accept his own limitations. Reeves had lost his hearing in his left ear, along with the sight in his left eye, during the battle that had cost Quinton half a leg and his career in the Royal Navy.

Quinton had been on the middle gun deck, about to give the order to fire, when a direct hit from the French had blown their thirty-two-pounder guns free from their lashings, pinning him beneath one. Reeves’s quick action directing two seamen to use a broken spar to lift the gun off Quinton, while he fastened a tourniquet around his leg, had saved Quinton from bleeding to death. The memory of the fractured bone jutting through his skin haunted him still, as did the ship’s surgeon’s words: “There’s no saving his leg.”

Since Trafalgar, his heart and his mind had been in constant battle over the loss of his limb and his naval career. He had yet to fully accept either. Somehow, Reeves, who had been gravely injured by flying projectiles and debris, had been able to, while putting the past behind him.

His valet lifted the new wooden limb to study it more closely. “I think the shape and the extra padding added to socket will be a better fit.”

“At the first sign that it is abrading my stump, I am setting fire to it. I do not have the luxury of the time it takes to heal from another infection caused by an ill-fitting device. It takes far too long to heal ever since Trafalgar.”

“We both know the ravages an infection can wreak on a body,” Reeves said.

The valet’s words reminded Quinton of the battles they had faced at sea, fighting in the king’s name…and the final one on land to regain their health. He met his valet’s steady gaze. “I should have embraced the idea of the wooden limb as soon as it was suggested. Instead I balked and refused to listen.”

“But you have made great strides in your recovery, sir, and have healed to the point where you are ready to meet with Lieutenant Sampson…again.”

Quinton frowned. “I should have listened to my physician’s cautionary advice. Instead, I ignored the signs Sampson warned me about, and let my stubborn pride get in the way of common sense. Why in the bloody hell did I assume my stump would be accustomed to bearing my full weight for hours at a time when it hadn’t done so before? I alone am responsible for causing the injury and resulting infection.”

“It took me a very long time to regain my equilibrium,” Reeves reminded him. “I had to adjust to not only losing the sight in my left eye, but the hearing in my left ear as well. I understand being eager to regain something you never thought to lose, lieutenant.”

“You have adjusted far better than I, Reeves, and have been the soul of discretion while I have dealt with the blow of my brother’s death. Upon my inheriting the title I never wanted, you have been instrumental in helping me deflect the ridiculous hue and cry from matchmaking mamas of the ton seeing me as their daughters’ salvation.” Quinton raked a hand through his hair in frustration. “The only way I will be able to avoid Almack’s, the continued onslaught of invitations, unwanted flirtations, and—God help me—another attempt to manipulate me into a compromising position not of my own making…is to enter the Lyon’s Den.”

When Reeves remained silent, Quinton added, “But I shall enter on two feet… Albeit, one will be a wooden articulated foot. I intend to escape the prospect of marrying a debutante whose greatest aspiration in life is to marry a title without knowing, or understanding, the man attached to it.”

“Do you still hold with your plan to refuse all invitations until you have mastered using the new prosthesis?”

“Aye, while I prepare to try my luck in the establishment that caters to hellions and hoydens with enough coin to engage the Black Widow of Whitehall’s matchmaking services.”

“Best try on the leg, then, sir. Lieutenant Sampson guaranteed this one is far superior to the previous two.”

“Should be—it cost a bloody fortune.” Quinton let his valet help him put on the blasted wooden leg and adjust the fit.

 

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