Chapter One
Dear Lady Thumbridge,
You did me a great favor, indeed. The doctors on Harley Street performed a miracle on my mouth. Like you, I now have a few gold fillings, but mine are larger than yours. As you had predicted, he placed crowns on top made of white porcelain. I dare say my smile hasn’t looked this fine since I was a lad.
Lady Thumbridge, I owe you a great favor. You are precious, and you shall remain ever mine, untouched by the claims of any other.
In everlasting gratitude,
George IV.
Melissa pressed the letter with the now broken royal seal to her chest and then stuffed it back in her reticule as she entered the notorious Lyon’s Den . With the letter folded over twice, it seemed like no more than a piece of paper, but it held her future.
Prinny owed her a favor but he still claimed her as his. What a dilemma.
If she played her cards well, it could be a favor from the regent. The problem was that the favor she wanted from the prince was not to be his favorite; she wanted to be free. And where else could she gamble with a treasure as great as her life and heart but at the Lyon’s Den ?
It became a final option, like many visits to Mrs. Dove-Lyon, but Melissa couldn’t let go of the hope the intimidating Black Widow of Whitehall provided.
Thus, Melissa held her breath while a well-dressed woman led her through the hall of the notorious gambling den, up a flight of stairs, and around the corner to a door. The woman, one of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s wolves, knocked unceremoniously then opened the door, and Melissa entered. She winced when the door clicked shut behind her. She was alone in the same chamber where she suspected her sister had been. The air seemed thick with anticipation, as though the room conspired to swallow Melissa’s future whole. This was the place where desperate women came in the hope of one last chance at a match. Fallen girls, ruined heiresses, and widows like her sought the expertise of the reigning queen of London’s nights, vices, and, some might say, the puppeteer of the Ton.
Melissa willed her pulse to stop racing. She was in the den of a lioness indeed and ought not to show the fear thrumming in her stomach. Mrs. Dove-Lyon wasn’t a woman to trifle with, and yet Melissa had come to make her demands and to put in a specific request for love. Plus her freedom from Prinny and a chance with the man of her affection. Perhaps these were too many demands at once but the truth was, Mrs. Dove-Lyon was Melissa’s only hope.
“Lady Thumbridge,” the older woman’s voice held a note of command as she gestured with an imperious wave toward the far end of the room.
Despite the weight of unspoken possibilities pressing upon her, she moved forward, each step resonating with a determined grace.
Her hostess wore an impeccably tailored black gown with long sleeves and intricate gold embroidery. Although, her hair showed the evidence of a skilled lady’s maid who’d piled the curls atop her head, most of it remained hidden beneath a black lace veil that was pinned to her hair.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Dove-Lyon,” Melissa curtsied.
“Hot chocolate?” Her hostess asked sweetly as she approached a coffee table facing the fireplace. She pointed palm-up to a settee at a right angle from the high-back armchair she already sat in. “Your sister likes it and it’s my favorite, so I took the liberty to have some readied for your visit.”
“Thank you ever so much,” Melissa sat and eyed the steaming pot. It had a charmingly rounded silhouette painted with elegant blue scenes of children playing in a meadow. And suddenly Melissa envied the children, for she’d rather wished to trade places with the fictional images of merry children.
“Your sister told me you had a special wish, and you’d be willing to pay the price for my service?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon got right to the point.
Melissa clutched the letter to her chest with her gloved hands. “I have a favor.”
“Then you’ve come to the wrong place. I run a business, and favors are not a commodity for sale.”
“Love is, then?” Melissa asked but immediately regretted doing so when Mrs. Dove-Lyon arched a brow. “Pardon me. I mean, I have a favor to call in, but it is rather delicate, and I need help with it.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon raised her chin and eyed Melissa. “Are you bearing the prince regent’s child?”
Oh, so she knew that she was Prinny’s mistress. Well, at least she didn’t have to explain herself then. Everybody just assumed the worst of her now.
“No.”
“Are you certain?”
“Absolutely.”
“Hmpf!” Mrs. Dove-Lyon leaned forward and poured herself, and then Melissa a steaming cup of dark brown hot chocolate. It was impolite not to pour for the guest first, and Melissa knew—she wasn’t a guest; she was a client. And Mrs. Dove-Lyon hadn’t accepted her demands yet. “So you wish for a match?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“But you are spoken for…”
Melissa clutched the letter in her reticule as if she could draw courage from it. “I need to leave the royal court to have a chance with the man I ahem… I—”
“Darling, I’m a matchmaker, not a matchbreaker. And I’ve been alive for long enough to know that our regent will not let me interfere with his choices of mistresses.”
“But he owes me a favor.” Melissa produced the letter.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon unfolded it, and Melissa saw her eyes trailing over the lines as she read the words.
“This is real. I recognize his hand and the broken seal.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon let the letter drop onto her lap. “But I cannot help you.”
Melissa felt the warmth draining from her face. “I don’t wish to return to society but must gain independence.”
“And what makes you believe this to be a difficulty?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon spoke with her chin raised again.
“Some girls at the court in Brighton face social ostracism and financial difficulties once they leave. None I’ve heard of ever found love.”
“I heard that the prince paid ￡500 in annuities until Mary Robinson received a pension.”
“Yes, she’s an exception. I’m under no illusion that the prince is in love with me. Not even close.”
“But you are in love?”
Melissa nodded.
“With another man?” her hostess pressed on from under the black veil.
Only Melissa had nowhere to hide and deflated.
“Who?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon pressed on.
Melissa hesitated because she was certain Mrs. Dove-Lyon would recognize the name. And yet, if she didn’t tell her who she loved, how could Mrs. Dove-Lyon make the match? Or at least make it possible?
“John Stonebridge.” There, it was out. For a flicker of a moment, Melissa took heart and felt relieved that she’d admitted it. She’d never told anyone how she felt about him.
“Your brother-in-law?” Now, she had Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s unwavering attention.
“Cousin. He’s my brother-in-law’s cousin. We’re not actually related… b-but acquainted. I’d like to deepen this acquaintance with him.” Melissa’s skin prickled as a cold sweat slicked her brow, her breaths turning shallow and uneven.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon cleared her throat. “Lady Thumbridge, you completely misunderstand the nature of my service. Women come to me with little to no prospects and either a man in their hearts or the wish for a certain kind of man. I make matches—”
“Love matches, Lexi said. And Shira, the nurse.”
“You spoke to Shira?” The older woman’s voice came shrill.
“And Mrs. Ada Stein.” Ada was a trump card. And now Melissa had let Mrs. Dove-Lyon know that she knew three other women who found love matched at her hand. After all, Melissa had the training and breeding of an earl’s daughter and knew when to leverage connections in society. It was no different in letting Mrs. Dove-Lyon know that Melissa had spoken to the other rather unconventional matches she knew about. “I want what they have with the man I love,” Melissa added for good measure.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon took a slow sip from her cup and sat it on her coffee table. Of course, Melissa had used Ada Stein’s name deliberately. Ada was the wife of one of the doctors on Harley Street, and she’d grown up under Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s watch. She was almost like a daughter to her.
“They were exceptions. I make matches when my clients are hopeless. Love is a happy accident.”
“I want to be one, too.” Melissa squared her back to show her decision had been made. She’d gladly be an exception of how to return to society with grace rather than an example of how not to fall from grace.
“What if he does not love you? Do you still want me to press for matrimony?”
“No.” Melissa hadn’t considered it, but she certainly didn’t want that. “I’m asking you to make the match possible. Love is something I have to take care of myself.”
A moment of silence followed, and then Mrs. Dove-Lyon gave her the letter.
“My fees are rather high. Can you afford them?” Despite her slightly hunched back and narrow shoulders, Mrs. Dove-Lyon spoke with the transactional sobriety of an experienced businesswoman. But Melissa had already gained some experience, too. A few weeks at the royal court had been even more educational than all her years at finishing school.
“I have a large fortune at my disposal; my late husband provided well for me, but his title will revert to the Crown since we had no heirs and nobody else in his family.”
“I see. If the prince disagrees, he’ll take your fortune.”
“And my home. So why not spend it on a chance to love?”
“Before he claims you—which he has in some ways.”
Melissa pinched her lips and nodded.
Even though her husband had thought through what would happen if he died and an heir existed, nobody expected his demise so soon after their wedding. Now Melissa was stranded. Hers had been what every titled marriage ought to be—a sparkling shell of wealth and splendor—but Melissa was ready to look beyond the packaging and get to the core of what life was about. And she had high hopes that John would lead her there.
“Have you posed for any of Cosway’s paintings when you were in Brighton?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon inclined her head as if she were taking Melissa’s measure for one of Cosway’s famous portraits.
“No.”
“Any other artists at the palace?”
“Never,” Melissa assured her.
“Hmpf!” Mrs. Dove-Lyon pursed her lips as if she were devising a plan, giving Melissa hope. A rush of excitement washed over her, and she held her breath, waiting for the older woman’s next question.
“I have one condition,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said.
Well, that was a little unexpected. “Whatever it is, I shall accept it.”
“Without hearing what it is?”
Prinny will claim me as a mistress in earnest and my fortune as a bonus the next time I return, but it’s only John I want. Nobody else.
“I trust your expertise and will follow your guidance. This is my last chance for love, Mrs. Dove-Lyon. I’m four and twenty and already widowed, appointed a mistress, and there’s little left for me to but wait to be discarded like some of the others.”
“You’ve met them? The other mistresses?”
Melissa was not going to answer about the goings-on at court. It was an unspoken rule to honor Prinny’s privacy once one was accepted into his inner circle, especially his bed. “Have you ever worked with any of the former mistresses? Maria Fitzherbert, perhaps?” It was well-known that she’d married Prinny, but the marriage hadn’t been accepted as valid because she was Catholic, and he would have risked the throne.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon inhaled profoundly and gave Melissa a sterner once-over that made Melissa shiver. “Very well, not every question needs to be answered.” She crossed her arms. “And you are absolutely certain you wish to liaise with the duke who lost his title?”
Melissa wanted to say yes or no and give her consent, but none of that would do justice to the feeling in her chest. She wished to stand on a mountain, spread her arms wide, and scream at the top of her lungs.
“I love John.”
“It was you who sent him to my family’s dinner. You brought him into my life—”
“He was meant for your sister,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon interjected.
“Never suited her, though.” But he suited Melissa. As soon as she’d seen his dazzling smile, intelligent eyes, and impeccable manners at the dinner table, she’d known she was falling for the man who’d been sent as her sister’s match. Melissa stepped back, but her sister loved another, and John lost his title as the duke. It was a long, complicated, tale that revealed John’s true character. Instead of being envious of his cousin, who’d taken on the title, John had helped him establish himself. He’d welcomed Lexi and Melissa to his castle and looked after the transition. John Stonebridge was a man who was strong, righteous, kind, and strikingly handsome. “He suits me, and I would like nothing more than a chance to show him.”
“You’re risking much for a chance,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said with the tone of a mother who’d been won over but wasn’t convinced it was the best course of action. “What if he doesn’t reciprocate?”
Melissa had no answer. It was possible but unlikely. He’d been so attentive to her, kind, welcoming, and she could swear his gaze lingered on her back when she left a room. Perhaps that was all. He might not even have her, a used woman, a fallen one. Or perhaps he felt about her as she did about him.
“So? Are you certain this isn’t a mistake?”
“I won’t know unless I try.”