Griffith rose slowly from his chair, now relieved he hadn’t had more to drink. This lady had no idea what she was walking into, or she would have at least brought a Derringer pistol.

“Pardon me,” he heard her say to one of the barmaids in what was obviously a cultured accent, as though her clothing didn’t give her status away. She wasn’t able to finish her sentence, however, mostly because the barmaid she’d inquired of was too busy handing out the ales at the other end of the bar.

The noise in the room began to subside, as the occupants heard and saw the newest arrival. A lady in this disreputable bar would rouse the most determined sailor from his ale. Griffith grimaced as he heard the low hum of talk that wasn’t the rowdy conviviality of a few moments earlier. This conversation held a tone of suspicion and interest, both of which portended trouble for her. After all, she was clearly an interloper trespassing on their domain.

Damn it. It seemed likely he would have to interfere.

“Who’s this, then?” The voice came from behind Griffith, and he turned, seeing the man wobble up to his feet, a predatory tone in his voice.

It wasn’t one of Griffith’s shipmen, unfortunately. If it were, he could command him to sit back down. To ignore one of Griffith’s direct commands meant immediate dismissal.

“I am looking for someone,” the lady said, raising her chin—and her hat pin—as she turned away from the bar to face the man.

The man walked toward the bar, a lewd grin on his face. “Looking for me I’d say. How about we grab a drink and get to know each other? I’ve always wanted to have a la—” But he stopped speaking as she raised her arm and stuck the hat pin into the man’s chest, making him yelp as he took a few steps backward.

Well. He had to applaud her response time, even if her response itself was bound to cause even more trouble than just appearing in the pub in the first place.

“I am looking for someone,” she repeated, punctuating each word with a poke as the man grimaced. “And I suspect it is not you.”

Griffith’s body tensed as he anticipated how the man, and his companions, would react. She didn’t belong here, and they would protect their environment with force, if necessary. Even against a lady.

Sure enough, the man’s table companions rose, their postures clearly indicating violence. There were far too many of them to take out just with a chair. He’d have to try diplomacy. He rose from his seat.

And if diplomacy failed, he’d upend a few tables.

“Now, gentlemen,” Griffith began, walking toward the scene as he held his hands out in a placating manner, “there’s no need to make a fuss, the lady—”