There were meant to be twenty people seated at the elaborately set dining table of Lord and Lady Selworthy this Friday, October 20. Despite that the Season and the summer were long over, Lady Selworthy had been able to write a more than respectable guest list. Parliament was sitting a fall session, and there were titles enough to be had for a fine dinner and a conversable evening.

Miss Olivia Ribercombe was not impressed by the company. She was aware that she should be. She knew that a country miss from Suffolk, however pretty and well connected, should be overwhelmed by the honour of dining with Lord This and Lady That, and the Dowager Such and Such. Certainly her cousin, the Honourable Catherine Selworthy expected that Olivia would be overcome. She had listed all the titles and all the noteworthy details of the august expected company all the long afternoon. She had urged Olivia to cultivate the acquaintance of her dinner partners, but not that of Simon Lyne. Olivia was to display no interest in Mr. Simon Lyne of Lyne Court, Wessex. Mr. Lyne was Cousin Catherine's prey.

Of course, Cousin Catherine could not have known that her warning would be in vain. Cousin Catherine had not known that the Chippendale chair next to her at table would be empty when they sat down to dinner after delaying the meal some three-quarters of an hour.

Simon Lyne had not arrived for the dinner, and Olivia recognized that she harboured an unkind amusement at Cousin Catherine's plight. She thought she was not normally a young lady who enjoyed others' discomfort, but Cousin Catherine was an appalling vexation. With her mama, Miss Ribercombe had come to spend a month in London with the Selworthys, Lord Selworthy being Mrs. Ribercombe's brother. Olivia had arrived with every expectation of finding her cousin Catherine a congenial companion and confidante. She had been disabused of the notion the first day, when Catherine had announced that she had no time to spend with her country cousin, but had to be in company with her bosom friend, Miss Andover.

Olivia had taken the rebuff in her stride. There was enough of interest in London--shops, drives, routs and parks not to mention the Tower, the 'Change and the great houses--to interest her for the month and more. And her commonsensical mama commiserated on Catherine's irritating ways, and strove to make Olivia's London stay a success.

The visit had only a week left to run.  The dinner party this evening was, if Olivia was any judge of the matter, a last attempt by Lady Selworthy to impress upon her sister-in-law the high position which Lady Selworthy held in society. That Mrs. Ribercombe was not interested in the heights or depths of society, Lady Selworthy would not have believed.

There was not one person of brilliance about the table, Olivia judged, and precious few of common intelligence. Her mama of course, and perhaps her uncle Selworthy, and that Dowager whose name she could not recall, on her uncle's left. In fact, the empty seat beside Catherine was possibly the most interesting thing in all the chamber. How dull was it possible that Mr. Simon Lyne would have been? Was he really as handsome as Catherine had intimated? Was he really as interested in forming an alliance with Catherine as she had stated? If so, why? Could he not divine that Catherine had no interests beyond clothes and gossip? His was one of the oldest families in Britain. Why then should he seek Catherine for wife when her father, a mere baron, could not add to his consequence? He was wealthy and celebrated. The Black Lion, Catherine said he was called; a play on his family name that extended to his family crest, a black lion rampant. Olivia admitted to herself that she was most curious about Mr. Simon Lyne.

Olivia smiled at the gentleman across the table who appeared mortally tongue-tied. She lent half an ear to the monotone description of his own successes in the late war which were being catalogued by her partner on her left. Mr. Lyne had a great deal to answer for, she thought. He had upset Lady Selworthy's dinner plans, had rendered Catherine distraught and ill-tempered, and had not even sent a note to explain his dastardly non-appearance. He must be ill-mannered, discourteous and churlish indeed. Where could he be?

***

Simon Lyne was not at all certain where he was. He lay stunned and breathless and tried to think what had happened.

He had left his home in good time for his attendance at Lord Selworthy's dinner party. He had swung his malacca stick lightly as he stepped out his front door. He enjoyed a good walk to these Mayfair engagements. A carriage was a nuisance and a horse little better. All the great houses stood within a thirty minute radius of his own handsome home; the exercise kept him fit, and the possibility of footpads added a touch of danger that kept him alert. He always carried his late father's sword stick, but had never had to use it. A good right hand jab had served him well on one or two occasions, but he had yet to arrive late or even ruffled at a social engagement.

 The party itself had promised to be a modest entertainment. Lady Selworthy laid a good table, but he had no doubt that he would be partnered with Catherine Selworthy. That young lady had not concealed her intention of attaching his interest. Well, he was adept at avoiding lures, and it was imperative that he attend the dinner. He needed to influence the gentlemen who would be in attendance regarding a bill that was to be presented to the House of Lords that week. There would be enough titles around the table to make his presence mandatory. He could suffer through the dinner and speak with the gentlemen during the port. He did not stand in Parliament himself, though he held one of the oldest demesnes and one of the greatest fortunes in England. He had considered taking a seat in the House of Commons, but found that at least for the present he could make himself useful influencing those in the Lords.

He shifted and groaned. Something--whatever it was that he had fallen on--was displaced and moved disconcertingly. His stick jabbed in his ribs cruelly, his right shoulder ached, and he lay still again, thinking.

The black night, reeking of coal smoke and without a moon, had gathered about him as he walked. There had been theatre-goers entering their carriages in Grosvenor Square. Two of his friends who resided in Davies Street were heading for Watier's and invited his company. A house was ablaze with torches in Mount Street, expecting guests no doubt, and one or two ladies of doubtful virtue lurked on the corner of Berkeley Square. Berkeley Street, which held Selworthy's rented house was long, and on this dark evening, it was quiet and empty. The lamps, for some reason, had not been lit. Ahead he had seen the lights that must be Lord Selworthy's establishment. He had crossed the road with long strides.

And that was it, he realized. He had fallen in a coal hole. Of all the preposterous, unlikely, incredible, stupid accidents…he had fallen down a coal hole! Oh they were common enough; the round lids dotted streets all over Mayfair. Every house had a cellar, joined by a corridor to the house's coal store underneath the street. The coal was delivered by the coal dealer and shoveled into the coal store by means of the hole in the street. The covers were not uncommonly left open, or were opened by mischievous youngsters or drunken youths. But usually they were kicked shut by the next passerby, or an irate driver fearing for his horses' legs. Simon had never before failed to see an open one in time to avoid it. But tonight, this night of all the nights, he had been well and truly caught.

He removed his stick from his ribs. He discovered, to his dismay, that the sword had slid out a little and that his left hand had learned that fact before his brain. His palm stung and a sticky warmth informed him of the cut even as the pain did. He rammed the sword home, and dug in his pocket for his handkerchief. His right shoulder pained him as he wrapped the handkerchief around his hand. He contemplated his circumstances before trying to move. The coal hole floated very faintly about six feet above him. If he could get to his feet, he could reach the lip and heave himself out. He could be home and changed and back to the Selworthys', and his important conversations, only very slightly late.

He rolled on his left side and tried to lever himself up with his elbow. It sank among the pieces of coal without finding a purchase. He rolled to his stomach and attempted to bring himself to his knees. The coal rolled down an incline behind him, and he slid with it. Now the hole was some seven feet above his head. He attempted to climb the incline…the coal merely reorganized itself and the hole was eight feet above his head.  Obviously he was not going to get out the way he had come in. But he had learned a great deal about the properties of coal in storage.

Very well, he would find the door. The coal would be at its lowest point near the door where scuttles would be filled. He slid the rest of the way down the incline. He got to his feet with difficulty and found himself very near a wall. By dint of sliding his fingers he found a vertical crack. Three feet away he found another and allied to that crack he found a hinge. The door. But it would not push open and he could find no handle. No doubt a simple hasp and pin on the opposite side held it closed. He backed up as much as possible and, putting a good deal of strength into it, he kicked the door. It slammed open with a satisfying shriek of metal and crunch of wood.

It was still pitchy dark. He felt his way along what seemed an interminable length of corridor and came to another door, this one substantial and immovable.  He pounded on it for an age.

He had paused for rest when at last he heard fumblings on the other side. The door swung open and there stood a butler with a lamp, a footman armed with a heavy candlestick, and a stout kitchenmaid with a carving knife.

Their faces, as they beheld him, were incredulous. Simon thought his dishevelment must be even worse than he feared. Had he not been in such a hurry, he would have appreciated their expressions more. He found his voice and determined they were Lord Selworthy's servants. They seemed to know who he was. Simon handed his stick to the butler, vaguely wondered where his hat had gone, and pulled out his watch. He was near two hours late. So much for his hope of returning home to wash and change.

At his request, Simon was with haste conducted to the butler's rooms. He asked the butler to present his regrets for his delay to the company abovestairs. He did what he could with the warm water and soap brought to him. The footman brushed him down as best he was able. The kitchen maid of her own volition fetched a bandage for his hand, and within fifteen minutes he presented himself at the door of the dining room. With a nod he indicated that the butler should open the door.

***

So Mr. Simon Lyne had been unavoidably detained, and would be with them before twenty minutes passed, Miss Olivia Ribercombe mused after the butler's announcement. A quarter of her attention was involved in smiling politely at her table partner's boring recollections. What might have detained Mr. Lyne? Business, or gambling? Quaffing ale with a friend, or wine with a lady? If he was so very handsome and eligible as her cousin declared a lady might have delayed him. Or perhaps not a lady.

Olivia's musings were interrupted as her aunt indicated that the ladies would leave the gentlemen to their port. The entire company was on its feet, when the butler opened the door and sonorously announced Mr. Lyne.

A communal gasp sucked the air from the chamber momentarily, and Olivia bit back an errant chuckle. The elegant, handsome Mr. Lyne so much idolized and promoted by Cousin Catherine and Lady Selworthy looked thoroughly disreputable. Though he had clearly attempted to clean himself up, he had missed a smudge across his forehead, and his hair looked hastily ordered. His tastefully embroidered white waistcoat was banded with black streaks, and his dark coat was blotted with even darker marks. The state of his pantaloons and shoes was beyond mention. And his left hand bore a bandage.

The company found its voice, and Mr. Lyne was pelted with questions. "What can have happened?" "Foot pads?" "An accident? A runaway horse?" "A careless driver?" "Thieves!"

"A coal hole," Mr. Lyne declared.

In the silence that followed Olivia's chuckle sounded like a bell.

"A coal hole, and a careless fall," Mr. Lyne reiterated.

Olivia stopped laughing when he searched her out with a sharp stare. She met the speculative black gaze squarely, and received a charming, and undeniably audacious, grin from the gentleman. She was suddenly very pleased that she was wearing a new jonquil sarcenet gown, and had had her brown curls styled by a fashionable London hairdresser.

The other gentlemen in the chamber began to laugh, and soon the ladies were carried from the room on a wave of mirth. The dining room door closed on the peers and aristocrats.

Olivia wished she might remain. No doubt Mr Lyne would be toasted with port and brandy and the gentlemen would hear the whole story. She would have given much to hear the tale. But her place was the drawing room, where the ladies buzzed with the oddity of the event and Mr. Lyne's effrontery.

"He should have returned to his home. Imagine presenting himself in such a state." Lady Selworthy was not amused.

"Imagine!" Catherine parroted to Olivia. "Well, I am happy to be forewarned. I care nothing for his fortune or address if he cannot conduct himself like a gentleman."

"You know nothing of it, gel. He's wanting to talk to the men about that Bill before the Lords. He'll get their ear with this escapade," the Dowager stated.

Olivia was certain the dowager had spoken the truth of the matter. Mr. Lyne had put principles and duty before his own consequence. She could not but admire him.

"I shall not entertain a person with so little regard for his importance, no matter what his fortune," Catherine was prating.

Olivia swallowed a rude rejoinder, and crossed the chamber. "Mr. Lyne was hurt," she said to her mother.

"I saw his bandage," Mrs. Ribercombe said. "If the Dowager has divined things rightly, Mr. Lyne is to be commended. To make a joke of such a fall, in order that he might see through his wish to speak to the gentlemen! He must be sadly shaken."

"Catherine is saying that she will have none of him, that now he is a laughing-stock. I think that gentleman will never be an object of idle humour, not with his square jaw and determined air." Olivia was aware that her emphatic statement had caught her mother's attention. She was relieved when the chatter of the other ladies engulfed them.

They were given tea by Lady Selworthy as she attempted to restore dignity to her evening party.  The conversation became general and there were several animadversions on the carelessness of tradesmen. Olivia's opinion was that mischief had more likely caused the coal hole's cover to be set aside, but Catherine cried her down.

Lady Selworthy's attempts to ignore the incident were ended when the gentlemen rejoined the ladies. They bore Mr. Lyne with them on a gust of port and good humour.

Olivia noted that he had wiped the smudge from his forehead, and that he was indeed every bit as handsome as Catherine had first rhapsodized. She was conscious of a wistful wish that she need not go home next week; she thought that life in London had just attained a new level of interest. She watched Mr. Lyne as he conversed briefly with his unbending hostess and encountered Miss Selworthy's hastily turned back. He contemplated that narrow back briefly then looked across the room and encountered Olivia's interested gaze. She did not look away, even when he grinned again. The audacious, inviting smile lightened his dark face marvelously.

She surveyed him as he crossed the room to stand before her. Her heart beat a little faster as he bowed gracefully.

"Miss Ribercombe, I believe?"

She dropped a slight curtsey in answer, and nodded, "Mr. Lyne."

"You are from Suffolk I understand."

Olivia's brown eyes questioned his interest. "I am. My mother and I return home Friday week."

"It is a remarkable coincidence that I have a great-uncle living in Suffolk, I think not ten miles from your home."

Olivia mentally considered the list of her neighbourhood's occupants. "Mr. Alexander Cookham?"

"The very same. And I am invited to spend Christmas with him."

They exchanged a delighted smile.

"Won't you sit down, Mr. Lyne?" Olivia found a sopha near to hand and seated herself. "You must ache from your fall, and I must admit that I wish to hear the entire story, if you would not object to telling it again."

"If it keeps me in your company, Miss Ribercombe, I shall tell you more than you could wish to know. And perhaps," Mr. Lyne continued, "I may call upon you tomorrow and tell it all to you again."

Olivia could not misunderstand the speaking look that accompanied his statement. Cousin Catherine had been correct. The Black Lion was a man of many parts. A shiver of pleasure, a frisson of joy rippled through her. She looked ahead to Christmas and wondered what the new year would bring...