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

Chapter Fourteen

G emma woke quickly, heart racing, pulse pounding. Hand to her breast, she drew in one breath and then another until she’d steadied herself. The room was unfamiliar, but the reason she was here was not.

“Captain Broadbank.” His name spoken just above a whisper added another layer of calm she hadn’t realized she needed. Odd how quickly she’d come to rely on the man. True, he was arrogant and more than a bit overbearing, but he’d come to her rescue more than once the previous evening.

“I didn’t really need rescuing the first time,” she declared aloud.

There was a knock on the door and Mrs. Pritchard opened it and beamed at her. “Good morning, Miss Atherton.”

Gemma noted the woman carried a tray containing a teapot, creamer, teacup, and saucer. “Good morning.”

Mrs. Pritchard pulled the door closed. “I brought you a nice cup of tea to have while we fill your tub with hot water for your bath. Breakfast will be brought up after you’ve had a chance to bathe and dress.”

Gemma felt as if she were in the middle of a whirlwind. Mrs. Pritchard spoke while she moved about the room, straightening the counterpane on the bed, and plumping a pillow behind Gemma before coming to a halt at the foot of the bed, her hands to her waist.

“My dear,” she said cheerfully, “we have much to do before your wedding to his lordship later today.”

Gemma slipped from beneath the covers and donned the dressing gown that had been laid out for her. Like her borrowed nightgown, she could have fit another person inside of it, but once she belted it, the fit would not be a problem.

“Have the rest of my things arrived this morning?” She certainly hoped they had. If not, what would she do? Did her father intend to embarrass her by sending two of the scullery maids’ worn-out dresses from the rag pile instead of one of her gowns? What of her books and the small looking glass her mother had given her years ago?

“Not as yet.”

Worry filled Gemma, but she hesitated against the urge to confide in Mrs. Pritchard. Father became incensed whenever he caught her conversing with any of the servants, insisting she was not to befriend those in his employ. Would the captain mind if she spoke of her worries to the housekeeper?

“Is something wrong, Miss Atherton?”

“Yes, actually, but I am not quite sure where or how to begin…” her thoughts and voice trailed off, thinking of the possible repercussions if she managed to irritate her husband-to-be just hours before they wed.

The woman took matters into her own hands before Gemma could decide and led her to the small table beneath the window. “I’d be happy to listen. Worries often seem easier to bear once shared with another.”

Gemma slowly smiled at the woman. “It has been a very long time since I confided in anyone. It was not allowed in our house. I confess to being more than a bit concerned as to the captain’s reaction if he feels the same way as my father. I would hate to have us at cross purposes on our wedding day.”

“You have a good heart, Miss Atherton. The viscount is devoted to his family and is a fair man, but he has been in the Royal Navy since he was a lad.”

“Has he always been such an arro—er…confident man?”

Mrs. Pritchard smiled. “That he has, Miss. Rising through the ranks and receiving his captaincy was quite an honor.”

“I wonder how easily he will adapt to life on land,” Gemma ventured.

Mrs. Pritchard freshened Gemma’s teacup before answering. “He has excellent connections, beginning with his father, Earl Templeton. However, he will probably be loath to use them.”

“In that case,” Gemma replied, “I believe I should begin as I mean to go on.”

The older woman smiled encouragingly. “A sound plan. How can I help?”

“It must have been quite dark last night…” she glanced at the two dresses hanging in the open wardrobe but didn’t know what else to say. Had Mrs. Pritchard already noted the two dresses? She must have since she’d swept into the room last night with the nightrail and dressing gown for Gemma to borrow after the two veritable rags were delivered.

With a pointed glance at the dresses, the kindly housekeeper motioned for Gemma to remain seated and finish her tea. “His lordship sent word to Madame Beaudoine. She is to arrive promptly at ten o’clock this morning.”

Gemma’s eyes rounded. “She is one of the most sought after modistes in London.”

Mrs. Pritchard agreed. “We have much to do before she arrives.” She poured Gemma’s tea. “I’ll have the men bring the water in.”

Gemma set the thought of her dresses aside, wondering where the tub was, or if they’d be bringing the tub with them to set up in a corner of her bedchamber. To her surprise, the housekeeper opened the door on the far wall revealing a lovely copper slipper tub. She couldn’t wait to relax against it. She hoped to soak away the tension from last night that had returned when she’d noticed the tattered servants’ garments her father had sent in answer to her request for her wardrobe. He must have taken them from the servants’ collection of rags they used for cleaning—he’d insisted their servants’ uniforms were of high quality.

“Drink up!” the housekeeper urged, bustling to the door to fling it open wide. “Careful not to spill, gentlemen,” she warned, as they carried water to the dressing room beyond.

Gemma watched with interest. She hadn’t had the pleasure of a separate dressing room with a tub in her parents’ town house. Their living accommodations, while more than sufficient for her, had been the subject of much discussion as of late. Her father was the type of man who never found satisfaction with all in his sphere. His need to be constantly adding to his coffers so that he would be on par with the elite of society was his never-changing goal.

Once the tub was filled, and the housekeeper shooed the footmen out, she turned to Gemma. “Now then, have you finished every drop?”

She laughed softly at the question that sounded as if the housekeeper were asking a young child and nodded.

The housekeeper hesitated. “Do forgive me, your ladyship, I forgot my place in my bid to make you comfortable.”

Gemma rose from the table and rushed over to take the woman’s hand. “You have nothing to be forgiven for. You’ve been wonderful, arranging for a cup of tea and a hot bath.” She smiled and added, “Besides, I’m not a viscountess yet. To tell the truth, I’m having trouble believing this is all not a dream.” Meeting the older woman’s gaze, she asked, “Would you please pinch me?”

Her request had the worry leaving the woman’s eyes. Gemma sighed. She didn’t want to ruffle any feathers among the captain’s staff. She was the newcomer and would be the one to adjust to how things were run. She imagined him standing at the top of the stairs, a hand to the railing, barking orders to all in his employ. Would he threaten to hang any dissenters from the chandelier since there were no yardarms handy? The image lightened her heart.

“Thank you, your ladyship.”

“I’m still Miss Atherton, if you don’t mind.” When the housekeeper nodded, she continued, “There is so much for me to learn about how the captain—”

“His lordship,” she was reminded.

“You see? It will take time for me to accustom myself to the fact Captain Broadbank is the new Viscount Moreland. Society can be so confusing,” she stated.

The housekeeper agreed with her while she led the way to the dressing room where steam rose in whirls above the surface of the tub. “Do you need assistance getting into the tub?”

Gemma shook her head. “I believe I can manage quite well, thank you.”

“Shall I give you half an hour to bathe, or will you wish to soak for a bit longer than that?”

Wouldn’t that be wonderful? A tub of her own to soak in for as long as she liked! Another time, she reasoned, there was so much to do, and she still wanted to speak to the captain before they married. Worry that her father had not been as easily convinced they would marry today ate at her. One worry melded into another as a horrible thought occurred. What if the lecherous lord refused to let her go? Had her father already sealed the bargain with the exchange of coin for her hand? Could a signed marriage contract be ignored? Where in Heaven was her brother in all of this mess?

“Miss?” The housekeeper’s voice brought her back to the present and the first item to check off the mental list she’d created while waiting for her worries to subside.

“I’m so sorry to be woolgathering while you have been standing here waiting for my response. Half an hour, I think.” Meeting the other woman’s gaze, she was pleased to see that was the time allotment the woman seemed to have hoped for. “As you mentioned, we have much to do.”

“There’s a bell pull by the corner. Ring if you need help before then.”

“I will, thank you.”

Mrs. Pritchard closed the door softly behind her.

Gemma undressed quickly and slipped into Heaven. “Oh, lavender!” She hadn’t noticed the tiny flower buds or the faint scent until her toe swirled the water as she stepped into the tub. Chastising herself not to worry about what she had no control over, Gemma languished for a few moments before reaching for the round of soap and a linen cloth Mrs. Pritchard had placed on the bench beside the tub.

She was dry and once again dressed in borrowed nightclothes when she answered the knock on her door. “It’s open!”

Mrs. Pritchard entered the room with a deep blue gown across one arm. She studied Gemma from head to toe before speaking, “I’m so glad you did not to attempt to wash your hair alone. From the length of your braid, it must reach below your waist.”

Gemma agreed. “I washed it just yesterday morning.” She sighed, “It is more than a bit unwieldy, and I cannot remember it ever having been cut. Truth be told, I have asked on more than one occasion, but my father’s staff always had the same response…they were not allowed to. I would dearly love to have it trimmed.”

The housekeeper nodded. “I shall see to it, this morning if you wish, your—Miss Atherton.”

“Thank you. I know you’ll be busy today, but I would not want to embarrass his lordship with frazzled ends sticking out from my coiffure .” She hesitated before adding, “I confess to being mortified my father did not see fit to send at least one of my gowns last night.”

“His lordship had this delivered earlier.” Mrs. Pritchard offered the gown. “Shall I help you dress?”

Gemma hesitated. “I’m afraid I did not even think to rinse out my chemise last night.”

The housekeeper nodded to the bed. “You were exhausted, Miss, and it is part of my job to see to your comfort. I had your garments laundered while you slept.”

Tears pooled in her eyes. She steeled herself to blink them away. It would not do to cry today of all days! She would show the viscount how happy she was to be marrying him. He would never know she still harbored the fear that she would disappoint him as she’d disappointed her father. Why else would he send rags for her to wear?

“I’m grateful. Thank you, Mrs. Pritchard.”

The woman nodded. “Shall I help you dress?”

“If you wouldn’t mind buttoning me up in a few moments, I’d appreciate it.”

She glanced at the timepiece pinned to her dark blue serge gown and shooed Gemma behind the changing screen. “Hurry now,” she urged. “We still have to trim your hair before arranging it in a style befitting a viscountess.”

At Gemma’s sharply indrawn breath, the older woman nodded. “That is who you shall be after you and his lordship wed.”

“I shall do my best not to do, or say, anything to upset his lordship.”

“I doubt you could do anything to upset him,” she soothed.

“Bringing Grandfather’s—” she stopped before admitting she’d met him at The Lyon’s Den!

The housekeeper waited for Gemma to continue, but she shook her head at the woman. “Not important.”

A knock sounded on the door. “Ah, that will be Lettie. You met her last night. His lordship asked, and we agreed she would be an excellent choice as your new lady’s maid—that is if you agree.”

When Gemma did not answer right away, Mrs. Pritchard apologized, “Forgive me for neglecting to ask if you wished to bring your own lady’s maid with you.”

Gemma did not want to admit she’d never had a personal maid before. “Of course, Mrs. Pritchard, do not give it another thought. You and his lordship have been more than accommodating and so kind. Thank you for thinking of me.”

“Of course. Come in, Lettie!”

A short while later, Gemma’s hair had been trimmed and arranged to the satisfaction of both her new maid and the housekeeper. A glance in the looking glass above the washstand eased at least one of the worries she carried. Her appearance would not bring shame to the viscount. She would do all in her power to add to his consequence, not drag him down as if she were a millstone about his neck.

Finding her appetite, having not eaten much the day prior, she polished off her breakfast.

“You look beautiful, Miss,” her maid gushed.

“With the help of you and Mrs. Pritchard,” Gemma reminded her.

Lettie shook her head. “You cannot argue with the gifts the good Lord gave you, Miss.”

The housekeeper agreed. “The rest is just trimmings—ribbons and such. I do believe I hear the front door. That must be Madame Beaudoine arriving.”

Ready to face the next big step of the day, she followed the women downstairs where the modiste and two young women stood, their arms overflowing with what appeared to be either dresses or yard goods.

Madame Beaudoine nodded to Mrs. Pritchard and greeted Gemma. “ Alors ! You must be beyond excited at the prospect of marrying today, Miss Atherton. No ?”

Gemma smiled at the effusive modiste. “I am.”

“Hanson?” Mrs. Pritchard motioned for him to have two of the footmen relieve the women of their burdens.

The modiste inclined her head in thanks, clapped her hands together and swept down the hallway as if she knew where she was going.

Mrs. Pritchard eased in front of Madame Beaudoine and nodded to the two footmen standing in front of double doors to open them. “His lordship suggested we use the downstairs sitting room as it is much larger than the upper one.”

“Forgive me for ignoring you, ma petites . May I present my right hand, Mignonette, and my left, Yvette. I would be lost without them.”

Mrs. Pritchard smiled at the introduction and glanced at Gemma. “Madame Beaudoine, may I present Miss Gemma Atherton—soon to be Viscountess Moreland?”

The modiste put an elegant hand to her breast and sighed. “Your coloring! His lordship was quite correct in his estimation of your figure and the colors that would flatter you most.”

Gemma looked from one woman to the next, but no one disagreed with Madame Beaudoine as she directed the footmen to lay out the gowns they’d carried in for her. “I hope you haven’t gone to too much trouble on my behalf, Madame Beaudoine. I would not want to have taken you from another customer.”

A slight nod from the woman as she motioned to Mignonette and Yvette was all the reply she gave while she either nodded or shook her head to the array of ready-made gowns the women had brought with them.

When the selections had been made, Lettie held out her arms to take the first two gowns and headed behind the dressing screen. “Oh, Miss!” she exclaimed. “This deep rose color will look lovely on you. Such a beautiful gown.”

Gemma let herself be helped into the first gown, beyond grateful that she would have a gown or two to wear that would not embarrass the viscount as her father had obviously intended.

With her new maid’s assistance, she dressed quickly only to find herself under the modiste’s scrutiny. Unnerved, as she’d never had any of her wardrobe created by London’s highly sought-after modiste before, she asked, “Is something wrong, Madame?”

The modiste tut-tutted, sweeping her hands around the sides of the dress, motioning for Yvette to hand her pins, while Mignonette stood with the next dress draped across her arm. After making minor adjustments, she seemed satisfied. “Yvette, just a few alterations. Do them quickly,” she directed. “But correctly.”

“ Oui , Madame,” Yvette was quick to respond.

“Now then,” she said as she turned and beckoned Mignonette to come forward. “Ah, I hope you do not mind trying on dresses that were not made specifically for you but will have to do on such short notice.”

Gemma would never forget the viscount’s kindness, ensuring that she had a suitable gown or two to wear—that it was Madame Beaudoine was more than a bit surprising.

She gasped, remembering she’d clobbered him over the head with the fireplace poker for his troubles. What must he think of her? Why was he still insistent that they marry? Did he have a hidden agenda he had yet to divulge? Would he be making demands of her once they were wed that she would not be able to fulfill?

“Here now, Miss.” Lettie gently took her by the arm and steered her toward the burgundy settee and helped her to sit.

In a daze, Gemma let herself be led. “I beg your pardon. I’ve only just remembered I need to have a word with Viscount Moreland.”

Mrs. Pritchard chose that moment to return to the sitting room and was quick to respond, “His lordship is otherwise engaged for the next two hours, at which time the vicar will arrive for the ceremony.”

Gemma’s belly clenched as unease swept through her. She needed to ask after his injury, but if she could not do so in person, she’d do the next best thing and speak to him later. “Would you please tell his lordship that I was hoping to inquire after his injury…er, that is, his health earlier but was distracted?”

Mrs. Pritchard’s eyes lit with delight. Did the woman know Gemma had been the one to give the viscount the lump on the back of his head? She didn’t remember the viscount acting as if he were in pain—nor did she notice a bandage on the back of his head.

She remembered being afraid of being locked in by her father and dreading the thought he would force her to marry Lord Harkwell. After being swept away to Templeton House, she had been overwhelmed by the prospect of not only being married to the handsome, overbearing man who’d rescued her yet again, but anxious with worry that she’d fail in that regard. Viscount Moreland deserved far better than her. He deserved a woman of excellent breeding, familial connections and pleasing countenance. Not a petite no one with an overblown figure…she failed to meet any of those requirements.

Gemma noticed the silence and swept her gaze about the room. Madame Beaudoine and her seamstresses were discussing alterations to a gown the color of moonbeams. She’d never seen anything like the gossamer creation the modiste was holding. Her fingers itched to touch the fabric. Would the silver overlay be soft or stiff?

Madame Beaudoine beamed at her. “ Exquis! No?”

Gemma mirrored the modiste’s smile. “It is beyond exquisite. I’ve never seen another gown like it.”

“I do not replicate my designs, Miss Atherton,” the modiste informed her.

“I beg your pardon, Madame Beaudoine. I’m quite in the dark about the designs of gowns as I’ve never had the opportunity to visit your shop before, or any other modiste for that matter. My father selected my gowns. I was never asked what I thought or would like to have.”

“That is all about to change, Miss,” Madame Beaudoine advised. “Viscount Moreland has placed an order for an entire wardrobe for you.”

She placed a hand to her breast and could feel the fluttering of her heart. “Oh, but I—”

“His lordship wishes his new viscountess to be dressed in the latest fashion, but he also asked that I come back with fabric samples so you may choose for yourself.”

Her eyes filled with tears, and though she tried to hold them back, one slipped past her guard. Clearing her throat, she rasped, “Thank you for telling me, Madame. I have so much to be grateful for—so much to thank the viscount for.”

“You may thank his lordship later. Right now, you must try on this dress. It is the one he wishes you to wear when you marry.”

Gemma rose from the settee and walked slowly toward the silver gown. The closer she got, the more entranced she became. Her gaze met the modiste’s. At the woman’s nod, she touched the sheer overlay and marveled at the softness and sighed. “He has excellent taste.”

The modiste studied her for a moment before agreeing. “In his choice of bride, as well.”

“I will do all in my power to live up to his expectations.” Hesitating for a moment, she reached for the dress. “I’ve always wondered what it would be like to wear moonbeams.”

A loud bang, followed by a shout had the women looking at one another in shock.

“Wait here,” Mrs. Pritchard ordered.

Before the woman made it to the double doors, they were flung open wide.

Gemma swallowed her shriek of terror as a livid Lord Harkwell rushed into the room, grabbed hold of her, and rammed a pistol into her belly.

“No one move, or I shall be forced to shoot her!”

Pain from his direct and nasty jab with the pistol stole her breath.

Harkwell’s evil chuckle had her meeting his gaze. He leaned close and, in a low voice, reminded her, “You owe me, Gemma, for more than the embarrassment of putting a pistol to my gut in front of my peers.”

Shock held her immobile as he grabbed hold of her arm, spun her around until her back was against him. He put the pistol beneath her chin and dragged her over to one of the large windows. This could not be happening! Would he tell Mrs. Pritchard and the others in the room where she’d boldly held off his attack with her grandfather’s dueling pistol? Her reputation would be in tatters and Viscount Moreland would have no choice but to change his mind and return her to her family.

Tears welled up and escaped before she could dig deep enough past the pain in her stomach to stop them.

Questions raced through her brain.

Would she marry the viscount in a dress of moonlight, or would he set her aside now that Harkwell had forced his way into Templeton House to lay claim to her?

How much coin had her father promised the man holding her at gunpoint? Had Father already paid the man?

Lord, please help me…I cannot marry this man. Help me escape!

Her captor trained his pistol on the women who stood clustered together. “Stay back,” he warned.

Heavy footfalls drew closer to the room, but Gemma did not dare move her head for fear it would force Harkwell’s finger to pull the trigger, ending her life.

A sob worked its way up her throat, but she refused to let it out. She had to be strong! She refused to let her father and the horrid lord win. She racked her brain to come up with a way to distract the man enough to ease the pistol from beneath her chin and noticed the room had gone eerily silent.

The only sound was the erratic beat of her heart as fear for the women filled her. She may end up having to leave with the lord, but she did not want anyone to be hurt because of her father’s promises to the money-hungry, overstuffed, offensive man. “Please,” she begged, “do as he asks. I’ll not have any of you hurt because of me.”

She hadn’t realized she was crying until she tasted the salt of her tears. “I’ll come along quietly, your lordship, if you promise not to shoot anyone.”

His answer was increasing the pressure of his pistol’s cold metal barrel digging beneath her chin, forcing her head further back. “Your father lied to me. I will not be lied to by an Atherton again!”

His grip on her upper arm was punishing, but it paled in comparison to the weapon bruising the underside of her chin—poised to end her life. She prayed for the safety of the women gathered in the sitting room, and then prayed He would keep the viscount safe. Colin was a good man, only trying to fulfill his new duties to his family and title as he stepped into his role as the next Viscount Moreland.

The room and its occupants faded into the background as she continued to pray. Her tears fell in earnest as she whispered one last prayer, “Lord please send a woman worthy of the viscount’s love.”

A deep voice answered from behind her. “He already has, Lass.”

Harkwell jolted, his fingers digging cruelly into her upper arm.

She gasped in pain.

“Let her go,” Moreland commanded.

Harkwell laughed—and all bloody hell broke loose!

Moreland growled, grabbed Harkwell’s pistol before the man had stopped laughing. The coup d’etat— a right cross, knocked the lord to the ground where he lay unmoving.

The room came alive with a shout as a clash of deep voices sounded in the room.

Gemma tried to be strong—to keep standing, but the room began to tilt dizzily to one side. With a cry of utter despair, she gave in to the darkness.

Colin caught Gemma to him before she slipped to the floor. “I’ve got you,” he rasped, scooping the unconscious woman into his arms.

“Colin!” Edmund strode over to where he stood cradling his bride-to-be. “Is she hurt?”

“Aye. See the bruising beneath her chin?”

His brother’s eyes darkened with the rage Colin fought to tamp down inside of himself. If he let it loose, he’d kill the bloody bastard for what he’d done to Gemma.

“Where’s Hanson?” he asked as they walked down the hallway to the foot of the stairs.

Edmund frowned. “Took a nasty blow to the head. I’ve summoned Dr. McIntyre.”

“What in the bloody hell happened? I was only in the stable for a quarter of an hour and heard a shout as I entered the alley.”

“I was coming down the stairs as Hanson answered the door. It flew open before he had a chance to step out of the way. Harkwell must have put his shoulder to the door as it was opening. Sounded like a bull hitting the broadside of a barn.”

“Is Hanson awake?”

“Aye, with a bump on his forehead and looking a bit glassy-eyed, which is why I had one of the footmen summon your physician.”

“My ships’ physician is aboard…” His voice trailed off as he realized he no longer had a ship to captain. He was one of the landlubbers he had no use for.

“Dr. McIntyre will be here shortly,” Edmund remarked. “Best put Gemma to bed.”

He agreed with his brother’s summation of what needed to be done. “Fetch her lady’s maid.”

“When did her lady’s maid arrive?”

Viscount Moreland sighed. “Lettie has been assigned the task. She’s stout of heart—a country lass. She should be able to sit with Gemma until she wakens.”

He waited while Edmund asked one of the grim-faced footmen standing at the ready to fetch the maid.

When his brother turned his attention back to him, Moreland asked, “Where are my men?”

Edmund halted in his tracks. “You didn’t notice?”

He shook his head. “I heard the commotion and Gemma’s cry. One look in the window and knew I had only a few moments to act. I entered through the side door to the alley. Harkwell never knew I was behind him.”

“You didn’t notice Perkins, then.”

“No.”

“Your man was using the length of rope he’s never without to tie up Harkwell.”

He nodded. “And Grant?”

His brother pointed to the front door. “Guarding the front.”

Moreland ascended with his precious armful and paused halfway up to advise, “I’m expecting Captain Coventry.”

“I’ll come for you when he arrives.”

With his brother guarding his back, and his men giving instructions to the footmen as to how to protect the perimeter, and all those within the walls of Templeton House, Colin continued up the stairs. He drew in a deep breath, praying he would not start to shake before he could put Gemma down. He turned the knob and eased the door open with his shoulder.

The sharp intake of breath, and the way Gemma stiffened in his arms, had him leaning down to murmur softly, “I’ve got you, Lass. You’ve nothing to fear.”

She relaxed in his arms and pressed her face to the hollow of his throat.

Fear raked its icy fingers through his gut as the image of Gemma being held at gunpoint replayed in his brain. He’d nearly lost her! Cradling her to his heart, he vowed she would never be subjected to such treatment again.

“Colin,” she rasped. “Where’s Lord Harkwell?”

He drew in a steadying breath and caught the faint scent of lavender. Looking down into her troubled gaze, he told her, “My man, Perkins, has him under guard until the Watch arrives.”

When she did not respond, he informed her, “I want you to rest. We have a few hours before the vicar arrives.”

Their marriage must take place as soon as possible so he could protect Gemma with his life and his name. A glance had him realizing now was not the time to reveal his thoughts on the matter. She’d suffered a shock.

Would she recover before the vicar arrived? What if she didn’t?

“Are you hungry? I could have Mrs. Pritchard ask Cook to prepare a light meal for you.”

“I do not think I could stomach anything right now.”

He tensed at the reason she wasn’t hungry and fought against the need to return to the sitting room and pound the bloody daylights out of Harkwell. The man had folded far too easily after only one punch. Mayhap he’d take his brother up on a session at Gentleman Jackson’s establishment. He sighed knowing he wouldn’t. He preferred an all-out donnybrook—Marquess of Queensberry Rules, to the fine art of pugilism, though he might enjoy the exercise and a target to concentrate on.

“I’m sorry if you’re upset with me, your lordship.”

“Bloody hell, Gemma! You were held at gunpoint by a man who is most probably in possession of your dowry.”

She pressed the palms of her hands against his shoulders and eased back to lock gazes with him. Would she lambast him for using coarse language while speaking to her?

“Would you please set me down? I’d like to sit on the bed if I may.”

Without a word, he placed her on the mattress and put a pillow behind her back. Her eyes widened as he tended to her, but she didn’t say anything.

“Lettie should be here in a few minutes. I asked Edmund to send her to you.”

“Mayhap she should spend some time with Mrs. Pritchard. I know Madame Beaudoine, Yvette, and Mignonette must surely need time to recover from the shock of that man’s intrusion and threats.”

His lips twitched but he did not smile—not yet. He straightened to his full height and stared down at the woman who had hold of his heart with both hands. Did she realize it yet? To distract himself from how quickly the lass had captured his heart, he asked, “What about you? Do you need time to recover?”

She lifted one shoulder in an elegant shrug. He was about to chide her for not answering him verbally when there was a knock on the doorframe. A glance over his shoulder revealed Lettie standing there looking a bit calmer than he expected. Did none of the women in this household act as he expected them to?

“There you are, Lettie.” He studied her closely, but she didn’t seem to be trembling or teary-eyed in the least. Spending most of her life in the country must have strengthened her resolve and her backbone. “I’m happy to see that you were not harmed. Will you be able to sit with Miss Atherton while I take care of matters downstairs?”

“Of course, your lordship. I’ve already asked Mrs. Pritchard for a tea tray.”

“I am so sorry to have fainted,” Gemma rushed to say. “I should have stayed with you and the others.”

Lettie surprised him, by scooting around him to the edge of the bed to reach for Gemma’s hand. Holding on to it, she assured Gemma that everyone was no worse for the wear and were in fact so proud of the way Gemma managed to retain her composure while being held at gunpoint.

He couldn’t agree more. Pulling a chair closer to the bed he urged the maid to sit. When she started to protest, he used the one tactic that he knew would convince the young woman to sit. “I wouldn’t want Miss Atherton to strain her neck looking up at you.”

She nodded, thanked him, and sat.

“Is there anything I can get for either of you before I speak to the Watch?”

Lettie looked at Gemma, waiting for her to speak first. “No thank you, your lordship,” Gemma replied. “I am quite sure we shall be fine.”

Lettie spoke up. “I believe a gentleman by the name of Coventry has arrived—as I was coming up the stairs.”

He inclined his head to the ladies, thanked Lettie, and strode from Gemma’s bedchamber, wondering where his brother was if Coventry had arrived. Had something else occurred that he needed to know about?

Moreland lengthened his stride, reaching the top of the stairs quickly. He reaffirmed his vows to protect Gemma with his life and to provide for her as he bounded down the stairs. When he reached the bottom he paused, knowing with a certainty he could feel in the very marrow of his bones, in spite of what his head told his heart, he loved the plucky lass upstairs. Gemma Atherton would lead him on a merry chase with her bold actions and bright sweet smiles.

God help him, he couldn’t wait for the chase to begin.