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

Chapter Three

G emma’s belly roiled in earnest the moment the door closed behind the imposing figure of her rescuer. She’d disobeyed one of the owner’s rules. She was not supposed to leave the ladies’ observation gallery without express permission. She needed to use the necessary and had gotten turned around somehow and ended up on the ground floor in a large gaming room…filled with inebriated men. Though most were likely titled, she doubted many of them would have treated her with the respect the captain had—nor come to her rescue though, in truth, she hadn’t needed it, armed as she had been.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s very posture reeked of displeasure. Her black veil concealed the woman’s expression which increased Gemma’s worry. Would she go back on her word? After all, Gemma had ignored more than one of her rules.

Worry swept up from her toes as she watched the woman walk over to the side table and lift one of the crystal decanters and select a glass. She poured a splash of the amber-colored liquid and glanced over her shoulder. “Do sit down before you fall down, Miss Atherton.”

With that command, Gemma sat and watched as her hostess poured a little bit more of what she dearly hoped was not brandy. Not wanting to cause any more of a to do than she already had, she decided she’d take the smallest of sips, to discern by the flavor whether or not it was the brandy she detested.

“Have a sip,” the older woman soothed. “It will help calm your nerves.”

Gemma accepted the glass and touched it to her lips. Relief flowed through her as the welcome flavor of whiskey had her sighing in appreciation.

“We have something else in common,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon remarked, watching her drink. “I prefer whiskey to brandy myself.”

“I did not want to speak out of turn—especially since I’ve caused a scene without meaning to.”

“There are times when things happen beyond our control.” Meeting Gemma’s gaze, she added, “And times when fate steps in and sends someone to the rescue.”

Gemma sipped from her glass, considering her benefactor’s words. “Why do you think the captain stepped in? I had everything under complete control.”

“Then it was your intention to willfully disregard one of my rules and risk your person by entering the main gambling floor unescorted?”

“No! Of course not. I hadn’t meant to get turned around.”

“Hadn’t you?” the woman pressed.

Fear combined with worry slashed through her belly like a knife. Her head felt light, but she ignored the feeling, concentrating on maintaining her innocence in this debacle. “I was nervous and had to use the necessary. It’s a bit dark in the hallway. I knew I must have gotten turned around when I found the staircase but had no idea the stairs would lead me down into that room.”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon studied her long enough to have Gemma shifting on her seat. She wished she could see the other woman’s face. One could at least discern from the other person’s facial expressions what was going through their mind.

Finally, the woman spoke. “I accept your reasoning and apology. See to it that it does not happen again.”

“Yes, of course, Mrs. Dove-Lyon.”

“As to the stir you caused downstairs, I’m at a loss as to how you slipped past Hermia and Helena with a pistol on your person. Did they not search your reticule?”

“Hermia and Helena?”

“You must remember them…my guards at the ladies’ entrance.”

She sensed her answer would either bring more censure to herself, or to the two women who had taken note of the unusual size of her reticule but ignored it. Gemma had a feeling they had known she carried a weapon into The Lyon’s Den. Why hadn’t they taken it away from her if that was the policy? Why had they broken the rules for her?

Hoping she would not regret her decision, she prevaricated, “There were a few of us entering at the same time, and I was able to hide my reticule from their notice.” Before the woman could ask another question, Gemma asked one of her own. “Is everyone here named after characters in A Midsummer Night’s Dream ?”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon inclined her head in answer, then held out her hand to Gemma. “Your reticule. If you don’t mind,” she added.

Not wishing to anger her hostess, she handed it over.

“It is rather large and ungainly.”

“It is my own design.”

“Interesting. Do you have more than one of this size?”

“Er…no, actually. I made this just for this evening.”

“Did you bring your grandfather’s dueling pistol because you feared for your safety riding in the carriage I sent for you, or for the patrons who visit Lyon’s Gate Manor?”

Gemma knew she had to tell the truth as she’d already lied to keep Hermia and Helena from censure. “I mean no disrespect, Mrs. Dove-Lyon, but we’ve only met once, and I’ve heard of other establishments—”

The widow shot to her feet, hands on her hips. “Do not dare compare my establishment with any of the gaming hells in the stews!”

Gemma’s throat went dry as the woman’s anger washed over her. “I would never, that is, I…er…please, forgive me.”

With a curt nod, the woman sat down. “Now as to the commotion you instigated by stumbling your way onto the main floor, as I tend to believe you meant no harm and did not try to incite a riot in my establishment, I am willing to move forward and put this last hour behind us.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Dove-Lyon. I am truly sorry for causing a problem.”

Gemma briefly went over the chain of events in her mind from the moment she’d turned her back on the group of overly forward gentlemen—and the one who pursued her. She had let her fear show until she’d had her back against the wall. That’s when everything her brother had taught her fell into place and she’d put her hand inside of her reticule—the one she’d sewn to accommodate the length of grandfather’s dueling pistol. The comforting curve of the pistol grip in her hand, though still in her reticule, gave her the courage to place it to the blackguard’s belly.

“I may have had a moment of weakness escaping the first group of ungentlemanly gentlemen.”

“Ah, then that would be when you were rushing through the room and bumped into the captain?”

“Er…yes—were you there? I did not see you.”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon shook her head. “I have eyes and ears throughout my establishment. I maintain control at all times.”

Gemma set down her now-empty glass. Incredulous, she challenged, “You allowed those men to accost me?”

“My dear young woman, Lord Hinchcliffe merely chased after you.”

“What of the other man who sought to accost me?”

“Ah…Lord Harkwell. He’s a bit of an oddity.”

“I did not appreciate the way he tried to use his bulk to back me into a corner.”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon slowly smiled. “It appears he was off the mark if that was his intent, as you were not in the corner.”

Gemma frowned. “True. I let my guard down, and he intimidated me until I felt my back against the wall.”

“Ah, but you did not let him have the upper hand, did you?”

Gemma shook her head and then gasped aloud. “He still has my pistol!”

“Harkwell?”

Gemma shook her head. “No, the captain.”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s smile reached her eyes. “Would you like him to join us? You could ask him to return it.”

“Please.”

The older woman rose gracefully and made her way to the door, opening it. “Captain Broadbank, your presence is required.”

The room felt smaller with the captain’s imposing figure striding toward where Gemma sat. Feeling at a distinct disadvantage, wondering if he would honor her request and return Grandfather’s pistol, she met his direct gaze. Pinpricks of awareness had her visibly shivering.

He frowned in response. “Are you chilled? Did you not bring a shawl with you?”

Surprised by the censure in his tone, she shot to her feet, intending to lambast him with the perfect comeback. The flicker of surprise in the depths of his wintry-gray eyes had all thought but one disappearing… Captain Broadbank was disturbingly handsome.

Trapped between the blue and white brocade settee where she’d been sitting and his tall, muscular frame had worry creeping up from her toes. She tilted her head back to meet his gaze. She did not want him to think she was afraid of him.

As if he knew the direction of her thoughts, his lips twitched as if he fought the urge to smile. Did her predicament amuse him? Good Lord! Had he discerned that she was not chilled—that her shivers were the aftereffects of her body physically reacting to the very sight of him? Mayhap it was the cut or color of her new gown…was it overbold?

“Miss Atherton?”

His deep, rumbling voice added yet another layer of interest she did not want to feel for the man. Steeling herself to find her dignity and get control of her unbridled thoughts, she drew in a breath and frowned at him. “My pistol, if you don’t mind.”

His eyes widened at her request before he responded, “Ah, but I do mind.”

Gemma’s hand shot out toward him, palm up. “I demand that you return my grandfather’s pistol at once!”

“No.”

Gemma distinctly heard Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s delighted chuckle. She turned and frowned at her would-be savior—that is if the woman were to secure a marriage proposal for Gemma in the next twenty-four hours. “I do not find the captain’s rude reply to be humorous.”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon cleared her throat. “I merely find your response to Captain Broadbank to be refreshing. No doubt our good captain is used to everyone bowing and scraping before him.”

“If either of you were serving aboard the HMS Britannia , you’d both be in irons.”

Though the tone of his voice did not change, Gemma felt the chill of his threat in her very bones, but it had the opposite effect on her. She’d already taken the first stand against her father by coming to Mrs. Dove-Lyon. Her father’s constantly issued demands, changing rules he expected Gemma and her brother to obey, had her taking another now against the captain’s orders. Hand to her hips, chin held high, she replied saucily, “How lucky for Mrs. Dove-Lyon and me that we are not sailors aboard your boat.”

His gaze narrowed, dangerously. “’Tis a ship —not a boat.”

“Ship, boat, what is the difference?” she quipped. “The point is you have something in your possession which does not belong to you. It belongs to me, and I would very much like you to return it at once.”

“The size for one thing,” he grumbled as his frown deepened. “She is a 100-gun, first-rate ship of the line in His Majesty’s Royal Navy!”

Gemma had the distinct impression she’d somehow insulted the man standing before her by calling his ship a boat. “I am quite sure your ship is fully capable of defeating any foe—”

“That she has while under my command,” he interrupted.

“Needless to say, that has no bearing on the fact that you have not returned my pistol.”

“Will you be poking it into another man’s belly tonight?”

His calm tone of voice irritated her, but she strove not to show it. “If I feel threatened, yes.”

“I thought as much.” He spun on his heel and strode to the door and yanked it open. The behemoth standing guard did not bother to turn around. She sighed, wondering if she was the only person the captain unnerved as he closed the door behind him.

“I do believe you have managed to irritate our good captain,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said with a soft smile. “He has been serving in the King’s Navy for years,” she confided. “He is not used to dealing with polite society, as his older brother was their father’s heir.”

Gemma felt a bit unsteady, after her recent clash of wills with the captain. “Was?” she repeated.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon stared at the closed door for a moment before meeting Gemma’s questioning gaze. “His brother recently passed away from a virulent fever. As is expected among the quality , the captain has been summoned home as the viscountcy cannot be left vacant.”

“I would not have been quite so demanding, had I known of his brother’s passing,” Gemma admitted.

“Wouldn’t you?”

She shook her head. “I lost my mother…” her voice trailed off remembering how deeply she’d grieved. “I would have offered my condolences and been more understanding of his circumstances.”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon nodded. “Though I doubt Captain Broadbank would have asked for or appreciated it.”

“Do you believe he is impenetrable? Is his heart hardened by his life in the Royal Navy?”

A loud knock interrupted before her benefactress could reply. “Come in.”

The guard entered the room and closed the door behind him. “There is a disagreement that requires your handling, Mrs. Dove-Lyon.”

She rose quickly and rushed to the door. Pausing on the threshold, she turned to say, “Please make yourself comfortable, Miss Atherton. I shall return shortly.”

With that, the enigmatic owner of The Lyon’s Den closed the door behind her.

Gemma sincerely disliked being told what to do. At the very least, she’d hoped to meet more than one eligible gentleman this evening. “So far, I’ve been chased across the floor by Lord Hinchcliffe, bullied by Lord Harkwell until my back was against the wall, and then relieved of my grandfather’s dueling pistol by the wintry-eyed, impressive—yet imposing, captain of a 100-gun boat .”

She slowly smiled remembering his response when she referred to his vessel as a boat. “I did not mean to insult the HMS Britannia ,” she murmured. Staring at the closed door, she realized she wouldn’t mind having another chance to speak to the undeniably handsome Captain Broadback—she shook her head, mentally correcting her mistake, Broadbank . “Although his back is quite broad…his shoulders, too.” She sighed, enjoying the image of the man who’d left quite an impression on her.

The knock on the door surprised her. She rushed over and opened it to find a young woman trying to steady the large tea tray she carried. “Oh, thank you, Miss!”

Gemma held the door for her. “Where is Mrs. Dove-Lyon?”

“Dealing with a bit of a situation.”

Gemma surprised herself by asking, “Does it involve Captain Broadbank?”

The young woman filled one of the teacups and motioned for Gemma to sit.

She was absolutely certain it involved the good captain when her question went unanswered, and the young woman turned to leave.

Gemma rushed over to the door and stood with her back to it, arms spread wide. “You aren’t leaving until you answer my question.”

“I’m sorry, Miss, but I’m not allowed—”

The door opened abruptly, and Gemma flew backward, arms flailing as she fell.