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

Chapter Four

B roadbank caught the woman before she landed on her curvaceous bottom. He still felt the impact of her body colliding with his. “Is it a habit of yours to throw caution to the four winds?”

Gemma struggled to catch her breath.

“Easy now, Lass.” He gently slid his arms beneath her and carried her over to the settee. When it didn’t sound as if she’d managed to draw in enough air, he soothed, “You’ll be right as rain as soon as you stop trying to control your breathing. Let your body recover without your interference.”

Her eyes met his. What was it about Miss Atherton that had him coming back to check on her when he had every intention of perusing Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s collection of young ladies in need of a husband? He’d heard rumors—albeit from his brother, Edmund, who was known to collect unfounded on dits and repeat them without checking their veracity, that half of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s marriage-minded ladies were considered unmarriageable because of their financial situations…the rest were hellions or bluestockings.

Miss Atherton was without a doubt a hellion.

The panic he noted in the depths of her soft brown eyes disappeared as she drew in the first normal breath since they’d collided. “There’s a lass.” He eased her onto the impossibly blue and white settee. He was unsure why he noted the overbold color; mayhap it was the sharp contrast of her dark-as-night hair and pale-as-parchment heart-shaped face.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon spoke from behind him. “I daresay, your Miss Atherton has managed to cause more than one scene this evening, Captain.”

He straightened to his full height, but before he could comment, she asked, “May I have a private word with you?” He nodded and she turned to Gemma. “Give us a moment, would you Miss Atherton?”

“Yes, of course,” she rasped, hand to her temple as if to soothe an ache building there.

The widow walked toward a curtain hanging near one corner of her office, looking over her shoulder to ensure that he followed. He was surprised when she lifted the curtain to one side revealing a door.

Once inside, she closed the door behind him and crossed her arms beneath her breasts. Before she could speak, he asked, “What is so important that you feel it necessary to leave Miss Atherton to her own devices while she’s recovering from having the wind knocked out of her?”

“I believe you are responsible for her suffering from such a state.”

She was right, but that didn’t mean he had to admit it to her. He needed to apologize to Miss Atherton. Broadbank clasped his hands behind his back and locked gazes with her. “I had no idea she would be plastered against the door as I opened it.”

“And strode forward without looking, leading with one of your massive shoulders!” the proprietress accused.

He could not believe the audacity of the woman standing before him. How dare she insinuate he acted without thought. As captain of the HMS Britannia , he never acted without thinking matters through to more than one possible conclusion. “Mrs. Dove-Lyon, if you were on board my ship—”

“Yes, yes,” she grumbled, waving her hand in front of his face. “I’d be contemplating my life expectancy while an unwilling guest in the bowels of your boat.”

“ Ship ,” he corrected through clenched teeth.

Her voice dripped honey as she asked, “Was there something you wished to discuss?”

Holding on to his volatile temper, he kept the anger from his voice. “Has her family requested your services because she’s a hellion?”

The owner of The Lyon’s Den tilted her head to one side as if considering him before answering. Used to having his questions answered immediately, he frowned.

“You are not on board your ship at the moment,” she reminded him. “Do cease trying to intimidate me by barking commands or frowning at me. I am not at liberty to disclose personal information with regard to my clients.”

“Not even if I am interested in making an offer of marriage?”

“Did you not pay attention to the rules of my establishment?” Her voice sounded strained as if she were holding back the need to shout at him. “You do not get to simply offer for one of my clients. You must win a wager.”

“I heard the part about the wager, but did I not just do that when I defused the situation between Harkwell and Miss Atherton before passing his unconscious form off to Titan? She had a bloody pistol planted against his belly, and I distinctly heard more than one man placing a wager on the outcome and assume money changed hands.”

“I thank you for your timely interference,” she soothed. “However, that does not qualify as winning one of my wagers.”

Broadbank took a step forward as a loud thump sounded on the other side of the door. He spun around and pulled it open in time to see Miss Atherton raise her knee and connect with Harkwell’s bollocks.

The man let go of her, falling to his knees cupping himself. She stood over him, hands on her hips. “If I had my grandfather’s pistol right now, I would not hesitate to shoot!”

“I see my decision not to return your pistol was wise.”

Gemma spun around and scowled at him.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon stepped around the fallen man, shifting her skirts so as not to touch him. Opening the outer door, she summoned Titan who was halfway across the room. His look of mild concern had Broadbank wondering if this occurrence was not uncommon—and happened nightly.

Titan’s gaze met Broadbank’s, and another silent discussion commenced. Neither of them knew how or when Harkwell reentered The Lyon’s Den, but they would get to the bottom of it.

“Please take Lord Harkwell to the gentlemen’s retiring room.”

Miss Atherton’s brows rose in surprise. “Do you mean to tell me the gentlemen who frequent your establishment require such a room?”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s delighted laughter filled the room. “You are a breath of fresh air, my dear. I would not wish to bore you with the various or numerous reasons the room is used. Suffice it to say that yes, it is required.”

“I see.”

“I doubt you do, but that is neither here nor there.” Turning to the captain, she lifted her chin as she studied him. “I do believe you would enjoy entering one of the many games of chance we offer here at The Lyon’s Den.”

Broadbank had no desire to comply with the woman’s wishes, having already had to handle more than one crisis this evening. Blast it all, it was her club. If he hoped to seek her aid in finding a bride—and he was on the verge of offering for Miss Atherton, he’d best acquiesce. “Do you have a suggestion as to which I should begin with?”

She practically beamed at him. “Without question the brandy wager in the gentlemen’s lounge.”

He bowed, spun on his heel, and quit the room. Stalking through the doorway, unease slithered through his gut. He detested brandy.

“Colin!”

Broadbank paused to look over his shoulder. Relief speared through him. “Edmund. What have you uncovered?”

Edmund started to answer, but Broadbank held up his hand—“First, I have a wager to win in the gentlemen’s lounge.” He focused on that one goal— he would not lose!

“Wait!” His brother was hot on his heels.

Not bothering to turn around he asked, “What is it?”

“What’s the wager?”

“Something involving brandy,” Broadbank grumbled.

“What in the bloody hell are you thinking?” his brother demanded. “You have no stomach for brandy.”

Broadbank drew in a deep breath, preparing to face whatever lay beyond that door. For good measure, he sent up a silent prayer to St. Michael, the ultimate protector from evil, as he had for years before every battle at sea.

He walked through the haze hanging in the gentlemen’s smoking room and entered the lounge, pausing when an unholy stench filled his nostrils.

“What in the name of God is that horrible smell?” his brother demanded from behind him.

“Vomit,” Broadbank rumbled. He was more than familiar with the scent, as most of the new recruits suffered from seasickness until they gained their sea legs.

Scanning the room, he took in the scene before him. A half-dozen well-dressed men were in the process of puking up their guts. Two, in what he assumed were a matched pair of porcelain vases from the Ming Dynasty, three had managed to find chamber pots, while one stood covered with dirt, a bedraggled plant in one hand and the planter he’d pulled it from in the other.

Edmund pulled his handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket, folded it, and covered his nose to block out the stench. “Are you certain you want to do this?”

“I asked Mrs. Dove-Lyon which game of chance I should start with.”

His brother chuckled. “Let me guess, she suggested brandy? Canny woman. Does she know you cannot stomach the stuff?”

“Highly unlikely,” Broadbank replied. “It may not be much of a challenge as I do not believe anyone present will be able to down more than a sip were I to challenge the lot of them.”

“Excellent notion! I’ll announce the challenge.” His brother muscled past him into the room. “I’ll wager fifty pounds not one of you can manage to swallow, and keep, a mouthful of brandy in your guts—against my brother, Captain Colin Broadbank of the HMS Britannia , who will down a snifter!”

The men straightened, wiping their mouths with their handkerchiefs or sleeves, taking turns setting down their vases, pots, and planter. The lord still holding the plant weaved toward him like a landlubber trying to find his sea legs. “What do you get if you win?”

Colin was not willing to share the whole of what he hoped to win. Instead he told them who challenged him, “Mrs. Dove-Lyon specifically asked me to wager with brandy here in the lounge.”

The duo who had desecrated the priceless vases joined the plant killer. The taller of the two mumbled, “Most unusual. Normally, she has a female in mind when she sends us off.”

“Sends you off?” the captain inquired.

“Aye.” One of the men who had been attached to a chamber pot stepped forward. “Depending on the hour, and her inclination, her rooms are devoted to a specific wager. At the moment, this one is dedicated to swilling brandy.”

“I see.” Had he mentioned to the Black Widow of Whitehall that he couldn’t stomach brandy? Remembering her victorious smile, she had somehow learned of it. Praying he did not disgrace himself, he let one of the servants pour him a snifter of the godawful stuff, while the other servants removed the vessels of vomit.

Before he could ask if there were any other chamber pots handy, the servants returned with the pots. From the odor that followed them into the room, he didn’t bother to ask if they’d been rinsed. They hadn’t. At least they were empty—for the moment.

With one last glance at his brother—who curiously held a chamber pot at the ready, Broadbank lifted his snifter high, toasting the group of men surrounding him. Wishing with all his might it was a glass of rum, he gulped down the vile stuff in time to watch the others follow suit.

A glance about him had him wondering if he was destined to lose this ridiculous wager. His stomach roiled ominously. By all that was holy, he would not succumb to the will of his guts.

Miraculously, one after another, the men regurgitated the brandy they’d swallowed. While his brother still stood at-the-ready next to him.

Edmund raised a brow at him, and Colin lost the battle he fought. His aim was true as he gave back his share of the vile stuff.

The other men leaned against one another, congratulating themselves at winning the wager. “Pay up,” one of the taller men said as he frowned at Edmund. “What the devil is your name?”

“Would help to know who is going to be paying us the blunt,” another added.

“Edmund Broadbank, gentlemen. I do hate to spoil your fun, however, you all lost the bet.”

As a group they stumbled toward the Broadbank brothers, one of the men pointing at Colin. “He didn’t keep down a bloody drop of brandy.”

Edmund slowly smiled, patted his brother on the back and agreed. “True, gentlemen.”

The men seemed immensely satisfied with his ready agreement.

“However, I never wagered that my brother would keep the brandy in his guts,” he reminded them. “I said he would down a snifter of it.”

The shocked silence had Colin placing his hand on his brother’s shoulder and accepting the folded linen handkerchief from him. “Thank you,” he rasped.

A few of the servants once more accepted the various pots while others handed out damp linen cloths to everyone.

Grateful for the coolness of the cloth, Broadbank wiped his brow, the back of his neck, and then his face. Afraid he’d missed a spot, he turned to his brother who swept his gaze from the top of his brother’s head to his toes before nodding to indicate all was well.

Relieved, Colin turned to the others. “Thank you for an enlightening experience. I’m afraid I neglected to inquire, but does one have to ask Mrs. Dove-Lyon before attempting another wager?”

“Only if she asked you to return to her office after you’d placed and competed for the wager.”

Broadbank nodded and motioned for his brother to follow. Once they were in the hallway, he groaned, “I could use a tot of rum to wash this foul taste from my mouth.” He glanced at his brother. “Do you think she’s got any stashed away in this den of iniquity?”

Edmund slowly smiled. “Having your best interests at heart, that was the first thing I did upon entering. Follow me.”