Page 3 of The Lyon's Pretty Pugilist

The whimpering maids wrapped their arms around each other.

Nicolas tilted his head and listened. Since they were gathered on the second floor, the knocking was faint. But Perkins was correct; someone was pounding on the front door.

“’Tis not spirits,” Nicolas declared. If only it were, because a live-human caller in the middle of the night during an angry storm was potentially more dangerous than an ancestral ghost or a reanimated monster. Preparing for the worst, Nicolas retrieved the pistol his brother had hidden in the side table years ago.

Sandwiched between Perkins and Silas, with Bridget on their heels, Nicolas descended the stairs and crossed the foyer. His compatriots cowered behind him as he exhaled, then opened the door.

A group of soaked men stood in front of him. The wind blew their great coats about, and lightning lit up the sky behind them.

Nicolas lifted the pistol, aiming it at the man closest to him. He’d never shot anyone before, but no one had ever shown up on his doorstep in the middle of the night. He had no qualms about killing the lot of them if it meant protecting his family.

“Good evening.” Palm up, the bloke who seemed to be in charge presented the men behind him. “We are the Wolf Pack, and we are here to see Lord Shiredale, so please holster your weapon.”

Was Nicolas supposed to know about the Wolf Pack? He’d never heard of them. And he’d be damned if he was dropping his weapon. He kept it aimed at the man’s forehead. “If you wish to speak with the earl, make an appointment and come around at a decent hour because you have terrified our staff, my mother, and my sister.”

“I’m not terrified.” Bridget stepped beside Nicolas. “But what do you want with our father?”

“He is expecting us,” the man said.

“In the middle of the night?” Nicolas asked.

“Ihavebeen expecting them,” his father’s weary voice declared behind him.

Nicolas had been so preoccupied with answering the door that he hadn’t noticed his parents descending the stairs.

Now, his father approached. His mother stood amongst the gawking staff, her hands clasped together in prayer.

Nicolas dropped his arm, letting the pistol hang by his side.

“What is this about, George?” his mother asked.

“Have you not told your family?” the man asked.

Nicolas slid his gaze from the stranger to his father. “Told us what?”

“Blue Cliff Manor now belongs to the Black Widow of Whitehall,” his father said.

“Who in the blazes is that?” Nicolas asked.

His father opened his mouth, then clamped his lips tightly. If they hadn’t been surrounded by strangers, Nicolas would have shaken the answer from the old man.

“She is the proprietress of The Lyon’s Den,” the leader of The Wolf Pack said.

Nicolas did not favor gambling. However, once upon a time, he had visited the notorious gambling hell with his two best mates, who loved nothing more than a risky wager.

“Lord Shiredale owes the widow a considerable sum of money,” the man explained. “He was given until midnight last to pay his debts. He used Blue Cliff Manor as collateral.”

Nicolas glared at his father. “Explain.”

“I’ve lost it.” His father’s whimper was beyond pathetic. “I’ve lost everything.”

“Oh, George. Gambling? Again?” his mother asked.

Once they were alone, Nicolas would throttle his useless father. “We’ve already sold the London house and now you’ve gambled away our family seat?”

His mother dropped to her knees. “Where are we to go? What are we to do?”

“How could you, Father?” Scowling, Bridget backed away from the door to squat beside their mother. “Shh,” she whispered over and over as she rubbed her back.