Eight Hunting Lyons (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)

Chapter Two

C aptain Colin Broadbank stepped inside the doors of the notorious Black Widow of Whitehall’s establishment and into The Lyon’s Den.

He strode through the gentlemen’s lounge and the smoking room to the main gambling room. His steely gaze swept the large expanse as if he stood on the quarterdeck of his ship taking note of those around him while keeping a weather eye on the horizon as he barked out orders to his officers and crew.

He was jostled from behind and turned to see whose eyesight was deficient to the point they neglected to note his broad, six-foot four frame, and dark blue military coat denoting his rank as captain of a vessel in His Majesty’s Royal Navy.

Soft brown eyes silently beseeched him to forgive her a heartbeat before her gaze widened and she slipped through the crowd to the back of the room. Broadbank had known fear and confronted it head-on as was expected when serving in His Majesty’s military forces. The stark look of terror on the slip-of-a-lass’ face had his protective instincts locking into place, ready to face the enemy. He stood with his weight evenly distributed on the balls of his feet, ready to spring into action to defend—or if need be, maim her pursuer.

The lord chasing the beauty with midnight hair came to a halt as Broadbank moved to stand in his path. Intercepting the man, he grasped him by the upper arm and shook him hard enough to rattle the man’s brainbox—or cause the lord’s stomach to roil, sending the man in search of the privy. Either occurrence would suffice.

“Dashed inconvenient,” the younger man mumbled, swaying on his feet. He frowned. “Kindly move.”

Broadbank’s gaze locked with the drunken lord’s. Disgust filled him as he pictured the man laying hands on the petite beauty with the womanly curves and soft brown eyes. Instead of replying, he crossed his arms and felt the seams go taut. Blast! He’d have to make time to visit Weston’s and have the seams let out, or have another coat made. It had been a few years since he’d taken the time to do either. It was unavoidable now.

The man’s confusion was obvious as he narrowed his gaze until his eyes crossed. “Don’t believe we’ve been introduced. Name’s Hinchcliffe.” He paused to add, “Lord Hinchcliffe.”

“Broadbank,” he rumbled in reply. “Captain of the HMS Britannia .”

Hinchcliffe’s eyes widened as another man moved to stand beside the one holding him. The man’s smile put Hinchcliffe at ease—it disappeared when then the man asked, “Have you started a brawl without me, Brother?”

“Care to join me?”

“I should say not. Rumor has it the Black Widow of Whitehall doesn’t approve of dust-ups before midnight.”

Broadbank chuckled and released his grip on Hinchcliffe with a warning, “Stay away from that young woman.”

“I should say not, her dowry outweighs her!”

Broadbank growled. “Stay very far away from her.”

“Now see here—” Hinchcliffe spun, distracted by the cheers of the crowd.

Broadbank strode toward the group, shoulders back, eyes narrowed on his prey—the scurvy landlubber who’d made the mistake of laying hands on the brown-eyed lass who’d caught the captain’s attention just a moment ago. The bastard had her backed against the wall. Her eyes were riveted to her pursuer as Broadbank made his way through the crowd toward her.

Anger burst through him as he increased his pace. In a voice that demanded obedience, and would have had underlings jumping to attention, he bellowed, “Stand down!”

The young woman didn’t move, but her gaze narrowed as she lifted her reticule—and jammed it into her attacker’s stomach.

Murmurs of surprise swept the room as the captain laid his hand on the would-be attacker’s shoulder and squeezed until the man cried out in pain.

“I said stand down,” he repeated in a low commanding voice.

“Not bloody likely. She’s got a pistol to my gut!”

Broadbank’s gaze met the woman’s. She gave a slight nod to indicate she did indeed have a weapon pressed against the man’s belly.

His lips twitched as he fought the urge to laugh at the incongruous situation. The attacker had become the attacked!

“Do something before she shoots me!”

“What would you have me do?” Broadbank calmly asked. “It appears to all and sundry you had every intention of pursuing this young woman no matter the cost—or her wishes.”

“I didn’t plan to hold her captive with a pistol!”

Broadbank nodded. “Obviously you planned to use your size to intimidate and overpower her.” Turning toward the young woman, he asked, “Are you all right?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Encouraged by her calm manner, he asked, “What is your name, Lass?”

The other man sneered. “Her name’s Miss Atherton, and she’s worth her weight in gold!”

“How do you know my name when we’ve never met?”

The man opened his mouth to speak, but a glare from the captain had him closing it.

Locking gazes with the young woman, Broadbank held out his hand, palm up. “I’ll take the pistol you’ve stashed in your overly large reticule, Miss Atherton.”

She stared at him for a few minutes more before replying. “That would not be to my advantage, now would it?”

“I do not believe firearms are allowed inside Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s establishment,” he replied. “If the gentlemen in attendance are not allowed to carry them, I feel quite certain the ladies would be held to the same standard. Wouldn’t you?”

“I suppose so. I would not want to be given special treatment.” She hesitated before removing the pistol she’d hidden in her reticule. “Do be careful,” she said, handing it to him. “It belonged to my grandfather and is a cherished heirloom.”

He nodded, admiring the intricate carvings on the barrel of the dueling pistol for a moment before tucking it into the waistband of his trousers.

Without a glance at the instigator, he barked, “Leave now, or find yourself hanging from the yardarm of my ship while crows peck out your sightless eyes, striping the flesh from your rotting bones!”

The man’s face lost all color an instant before he fainted at Broadbank’s feet. “Blast!”

“You seem to have that effect on people, Colin,” his brother remarked. “Mayhap you should stop shouting or try a more civil tone?” His brother chuckled, adding, “Do leave off with the nautical threats unless you wish to spend some time explaining yourself to the Admiralty.”

Broadbank ignored his brother and bowed to Miss Atherton. “If you would excuse me for a moment, Lass. I need to remove this barnacle.”

He bent and lifted the man off the floor and over his shoulder as if he weighed nothing. A glance was all it took to have one of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s men walking toward him. He instantly recognized the posture and confidence of a man who’d served king and Country.

“Allow me to take him off your hands, Captain.”

“Obliged.” He wondered if the man had served as a foot soldier or dragoon. That he’d seen action was obvious from the look of his one hand—he’d been badly injured. “You’ve served our king proudly,” he paused, giving the man time to acknowledge his words and respond.

The other man met his gaze. “Aye…in the regiments. Name’s Titan.”

Broadbank surmised that no one in the Black Widow of Whitehall’s establishment would use their name, given the extreme measures the widow went to hide her identity, wearing widow’s weeds with a veil covering her face.

He eased the unconscious man off his shoulder and onto Titan’s. “My thanks, for relieving me of this landlubber and for your service.”

Titan’s gaze met his. “And yours as well, Captain.”

A soft sound had him turning to let his gaze focus on the beauty before him once more. Entranced as much by her actions as her curvaceous figure, black-as-night hair, and warm brown eyes, he noted her cheeks flushing a soft rose. Had he been staring for longer than was proper? Mayhap it was because he was staring in the first place. Either way, he did not intend to apologize…it would be a waste of time. He cleared his throat to state, “I trust you are unharmed, Miss Atherton?”

“Er…yes, Captain—”

He bowed. “Broadbank. Colin Broadbank.” His gaze met hers, and he slowly smiled. “At your service, Miss Atherton.” Offering his arm, he waited for her to place her hand on his forearm before covering it with his much larger one. Pleased that she was not trembling from the encounter, he turned and escorted her through the crowd toward the waiting proprietress.

“Ah, Captain Broadbank. I see you have made yourself comfortable in my establishment.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s smile was echoed by his own.

“I’m not one to let others take charge, Mrs. Dove-Lyon.”

“That remains to be seen, Captain,” she replied, cryptically. “Would you mind escorting Miss Atherton to my private room? I need to have a word with her.”

He observed, but did not comment, on the way the lass trembled right before she lifted her chin to meet the direct gaze of their hostess. She appeared to ready herself to face what would no doubt be a dressing down from the widow. Brave lass . The need to protect her trebled as he glanced about him—they were surrounded by gentlemen, no ladies in attendance. Obviously, another of the widow’s rules he’d neglected to remember.

Loath to leave her, intent on finding out more about Miss Atherton, he smoothly took her hand from his arm and lifted it to his lips. His gaze locked on hers. Pressing a kiss to her knuckles, he rumbled, “I shall be right outside the door, should you have need of me.”

“Really, Captain,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon protested. “That will not be necessary.”

He ignored the widow. His attention was focused on Miss Atherton. The color leached from her lovely face. She was afraid . In that moment—or mayhap when their eyes first met, he vowed not to let anything happen to her. “You shall be quite safe with Mrs. Dove-Lyon,” he assured her.

“Thank you, Captain.”

His gaze shifted to that of the gaming hell’s owner. “I shall remain outside the door until you have finished your discussion. I need to speak with you both.”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon frowned before waving him away. “Leave us.”

He raised one brow and stared at the veiled woman until she acquiesced. “If you wouldn’t mind, Captain Broadbank.”

With the barest hint of a smile, he bowed to the women and quit the room. The door closed behind him, and he was surprised to find Titan had offloaded his burden and returned. “What did you do with that scurvy bottom-feeder?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

The man’s eyes lit with humor, and he suspected the man may have dumped his burden rather unceremoniously out the rear door. After his initial meeting with the widow, Broadbank had reconnoitered Lyon’s Gate Manor, taking note of the exits and entrances. The back entrance would cause the least number of problems…unless there was an outbuilding at the edge of the gardens, which may be more advantageous when one needed to get rid of a body—or an irritating person.

Their gazes met and held, recognizing like men of action and few words. Their silent communication having been established, they took up positions on either side of the door and settled in to wait.