Chapter One
Miss Daphne Acres slipped through the garden gate and into the mews.
With a borrowed cloak of plain dark wool shrouding her slender form and covering her delicate features, she could only pray that no one would recognize her.
It was her one and only chance to make an escape.
Her one chance, she thought, to avoid the future her father and mother had laid out before her.
The hideousness of that future was too much to bear.
Married off to Lord Cecil Pozenby.
Daphne shuddered even under the too-warm wool.
The man was a toad. Short, fat, with a curiously large bottom and bowed legs, he resembled one to an unfortunate degree.
But it was not his appearance which had generated her assessment.
It was his character. Loud, overbearing, lacking in even the slightest hint of social graces, the man had the audacity to also eschew the basic tenets of hygiene.
In short, he reeked. The smell of him, unwashed and unkempt, would never leave her memory.
Nor would his unfortunate habit of breaking wind and laughing as if it were some greatly amusing jest. Terrible as all that was, it was the least of his many sins.
He’d paid a visit one afternoon and when an unfortunate housemaid had spilled a bit of tea on him as she removed his cup, he’d slapped the poor girl so forcefully she’d fallen to the floor.
He’d then proceeded to berate her mercilessly.
Daphne was cognizant enough of the way her parents functioned to understand that it wasn’t about desperation.
Whatever they might say about her very limited marital prospects in the wake of scandal, she knew the real reason behind their choices.
It was about punishment. Her parents were punishing her because they held her responsible for things that were not at all her fault.
Yes, she’d flirted with the tutor. Yes, she’d had second, third, and even fourth thoughts about marriage to the terribly aloof Viscount Lynley.
But in the end, she’d been determined to marry him as she had agreed.
To go through with the vision her parents held for her future—to somehow align themselves with a title.
Now, because that future was out of reach, she was being made to pay for it.
The injustice of that, after all that she’d endured already, was simply too much.
Of course, she was well aware that there had to be something in it for them beyond simply punishment.
After all, they did nothing if there wasn’t something to gain from it.
With her betrothal to Lord Lynley, there had been a financial arrangement that would have allowed them to keep some portion of her fortune.
Her maternal grandfather had left everything to her.
She’d only ever known Esther as her mother.
She’d been nearly twelve before discovering that the woman who had actually birthed her had died in the process and that Esther was in fact her stepmother.
Of course, her father had wanted to erase any mention or memory of his first wife with her connections to trade so she’d only ever been permitted to call Esther mother.
The word often stuck in her throat, of course.
No woman had ever, in the history of the world, been less maternal.
At the end of the mews, a simple black carriage, closed and discreet, awaited her.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon had been quite true to her word.
She’d said that she would send someone for her to escort her safely to the Lyon’s Den—a scandalous place, surely, especially for a young and unmarried woman.
As she neared the carriage, a footman in simple but elegant black livery jumped down and opened the door for her, helping her inside.
The doors had barely closed when the vehicle began to move forward.
It was not a long ride. In truth, the Lyon’s Den was no more than half a mile from her home, but it wasn’t the distance which prompted the need of the carriage.
It was simply a tool to aid in their subterfuge.
Disappearing into the sea of other simple black carriages reduced her risk of discovery.
As her parents had ardently prohibited her from seeking the matchmaker’s help, secrecy was a necessity.
They held Mrs. Dove-Lyon to blame for the unfortunate situation that had occurred with her former betrothed, Lord Lynley.
For herself, Daphne did not hold Lynley to blame, nor did she hold Mrs. Dove-Lyon accountable.
There was only one person who was truly responsible for the state of ruin which she now found herself in and that was none other than Lord Lynley’s cousin, Phillip Dorchester.
The scheming and conniving man had ruined her reputation by spreading false rumors of an elopement to cover his abduction of her—all to prevent Lord Lynley from meeting the terms of his inheritance so that Dorchester might claim it for himself.
Her reputation had been ruined in service to his greed and if she did not take action, her life would be ruined as well.
Thinking of what might have been, Daphne recognized one uncomfortable truth.
She was relieved not to have married Lord Lynley.
Yes, she would have been a viscountess. Ultimately, he would become a very wealthy man.
Between his fortune and the one that her grandparents had settled on her, they would have been one of the wealthiest couples in London.
But there was more to life than simply wealth and he had always seemed so very cold to her.
Always polite and always perfectly proper in all his interactions with her, there had never been a hint of warmth or affection.
When he’d asked for her hand, she’d seen her future laid out before her, devoid of any happiness or spark.
No passion. No affection. No love. He offered a life of duty, obligation, and unrelenting boredom.
She’d only accepted his proposal anyway because her parents had told her she must.
When the carriage halted, they were in a narrow alley that ran along the side of the notorious gaming hell.
Before she could disembark, four servants rushed out of that door carrying paneled screens.
The screens were unfolded and placed on either side of the carriage door, giving her an entrance to the building that was entirely shielded from view.
If nothing else, she thought, Mrs. Dove-Lyon was true to her word on protecting what was left of Daphne’s reputation, tiny shred though it was.
Once inside, Daphne was ushered up the stairs and into a small sitting room.
Decorated in shades of cream, gold, and black, it was lavish and quite beautiful.
But a glimpse at the frescoed ceiling revealed scantily clad nymphs and satyrs that would have scandalized even the most debauched members of the ton.
Averting her gaze quickly, she could do nothing about the blush which stained her cheeks when a concealed door within the paneled wall opened.
With hints of her features visible through the veil she wore, Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon appeared older than she had anticipated but was still quite exquisite.
Petite in frame and wearing a confection of black silk and lace that appeared more suited to the boudoir than the ballroom, she was simply magnetic.
An aura of power emanated from her that Daphne found herself quite envious of.
If there was anything the last several months had taught her, it was simply how powerless she was in her own life.
No one, she thought, had ever made Mrs. Dove-Lyon feel small and insignificant.
Certainly, no one dared to tell her what she must do.
“You are not what I expected, Miss Acres,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said.
“You are not what I expected, Mrs. Dove-Lyon.” Daphne matched her tone and her inflection perfectly. She had a sense that showing weakness would be an unpardonable sin.
A hint of a smile, barely visible beneath the lace edge of her veil, shifted her features. “Indeed. I find it most advantageous to never be predictable. Tell me what necessitated your urgency in arranging to meet with me.”
Daphne took a deep breath, grounding herself before spilling the horror of her impending future.
“My father is currently attempting to marry me off to Lord Cecil Pozenby. And I, quite frankly, would rather die. That is not melodrama or hysterics. It’s a simple fact.
Marriage to that man would be a death sentence. ”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon nodded. “Indeed, it would. I daresay holding one’s breath for the frequency and duration required to be in that man’s presence to the degree marriage necessitates could, in fact, induce a cessation of life.”
“You know him?”
“My dear,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon replied with droll humor, “everyone knows him. And avoids him at all costs. There isn’t a nosegay in all of England potent enough to mask his… aroma.”
Relief washed through her. She had Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s sympathies, and that was surely the first step in securing her services.
“Then you understand my dilemma perfectly. If I do not find a husband of my own within the next week, my father will force me to wed Pozenby. And quite frankly, I am very tired of men imposing their will on me.”
“Marriage may not change that, Miss Acres.”
Daphne nodded. “I’m aware. But it’s a risk worth taking when one considers the alternative.”
Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon surveyed the young woman before her with a critical eye. Her composure was remarkable. Her self-containment was enviable. And yet Bessie sensed within her a deep discontentment. This was a young woman searching for more—a young woman searching for herself.