Chapter One #2
In the next instant, Georgina was led off the gaming floor, through a web of interconnected corridors, to a small parlor where she was bid wait.
The moment the door closed, Georgina swept her beaver hat from her head, smoothed her burgeoning curls into a semblance of submission, and eyed the chamber.
Stuttering candlelight and a burning fire in the grate illuminated walls papered in sedate-charcoal and pale-gray stripes.
A pewter velvet sofa and two silver satin armchairs encircled a low, polished wood table.
The usual sort of artwork adorned the walls.
The parlor might grace any of the upper-class homes in the area.
But upon closer inspection, Georgina recognized wear in sections of carpet, lumps in the sofa cushions, and the strong smokey odor in the air said the candles were not fashioned of beeswax, but tallow.
She recalled what she knew of Mrs. Dove-Lyon taken from Lady Harriet’s description. She bore the moniker of the Black Widow of Whitehall because she wore her widow’s weeds to the exclusion of all else. No one knew precisely what she looked like beneath her black lace and netted cap.
A widow whose husband, a colonel, purportedly much older than her, died unexpectedly and left her this house—and a boatload of debt—had risen from the ashes to create this establishment.
She had a reputation for being a hard-nosed businesswoman, for aiding women of means in procuring husbands, and for having an uncanny ability to obtain difficult-to-come-by information.
It was the latter that had drawn Georgina here, and she prayed the woman could help her. For that matter, she prayed she would help her. Georgina had only the names of her friends to proffer in hopes of gaining the woman’s cooperation—and a promise of payment for services rendered.
Minutes that felt like hours ticked by and she began to wonder if the proprietress meant to see her at all. She had nearly made up her mind to search out another servant to fetch her when the door to the chamber opened, and a petite woman who was nevertheless taller than Georgina, entered.
She wore the expected black weeds of widowhood, down to her netted black cap which concealed most of her hair, and all of her face, save for her mouth.
The woman angled her face toward Georgina, presumably taking in her appearance. Presumably. Georgina could not make out the widow’s eyes.
“How do you do, Lady Belfry? I am the proprietress of this establishment, Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon, at your service. I admit I am surprised to see you here.”
Georgina gasped at hearing her own name. The woman had not only discerned that she was no man, but knew her on sight? How was that possible?
Mrs. Dove-Lyon gave a small huff that communicated both chagrin and amusement. “I also admit to being a little awed, which is a rare occurrence for me, indeed.”
Georgina’s natural curiosity overtook some of her shock. “Awed, madam?”
“I have read each of your novels, Lady Belfry. I confess I was not a fan of romantic fiction before reading one of yours.” Her lips twitched. “I find your stories entertaining and somehow, true to life. I almost get the impression they describe events that actually took place.”
Georgie gaped. The woman knew her name and that she wrote under the pseudonym G. T. Arlington? “But how did you—”
She waved a gloved hand in an elegant gesture of dismissal. “How is not important. Allow me to reassure you, however: Your secret is safe with me.”
“Thank you.” Georgina certainly hoped the woman spoke the truth, as there was not anything she could do to stop her talking, and keeping the public from knowing G.T.
Arlington and Lady Georgina Belfry were one and the same was essential to her continued success.
At least, that was the assumption both she and her publisher operated under, and neither was inclined to test the theory.
“As it happens,” Georgina went on, “I am an admirer of yours, as well.”
“Oh?” The widow cocked her head.
“Indeed. The information you provided my friends Mrs. Gwen Devereux and Lady Amelia Culver proved not only accurate, but invaluable. Without your assistance, I daresay neither would be in the position she is—happily married.”
The widow spread her ams. “May I assume that is why you’ve come to see me, Lady Belfry? You wish to procure a husband? You might have made an appointment and saved yourself the trouble of disguising yourself as a man and risking discovery—and scandal.”
“No,” Georgie said with, perhaps, a bit too much vehemence.
She made a concerted effort to compose herself and started again.
“That is to say, no, I do not seek a husband. As for why I did not make an appointment, I fear time is of the essence. What I need is information and I am happy to pay for it.”
“I see.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon moved toward the curtains and tugged a velvet pull cord discreetly tucked under the folds of fabric. “Let us sit and enjoy a cup of tea while we discuss the particulars.”
They made their way toward the small seating area, each taking one of the armchairs.
Before they’d fully settled, the door to the chamber opened and a woman entered, pushing a tea cart before her.
Like Georgina, she was garbed in male attire.
Unlike Georgina’s suit, however, which had belonged to her late brother, and had been fit rather loosely so as to conceal her too-noticeable curves, the servant’s garments hugged her body, not disguising her femininity in the least.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon poured two cups of steaming Ceylon tea, its smoky fragrance scenting the air. “Help yourself to milk and sugar. Now, how may I be of assistance?”
Georgina took her tea, black. She sipped and allowed the piping hot beverage to moisten her parched throat before replying.
“I am not at all sure you can, but I had nowhere else to turn. I am concerned about my late brother’s closest friend from childhood.
He and Drake, my late brother, purchased their commissions at the same time, some two years ago, then departed for the continent swiftly thereafter.
My dear brother died in battle a year ago, whereas his friend—”
“His friend?” The widow cut in. “May I ask this friend’s name?”
Georgina’s face heated in an instant. She sipped her tea again and set the cup in its saucer, keeping her eyes on her task. “Lord Theodore Arlington.”
To Georgina’s thinking, the name Arlington hung in the air between them like a resounding clang of metal on metal, thanks to the woman’s uncanny knowledge of her pseudonym, G.T.
Arlington. But Georgina could not waste time worrying over what conclusion Mrs. Dove-Lyon might draw.
Not with anxiety over Teddy’s welfare, or lack thereof, eating a hole through her stomach.
The widow set her cup and saucer aside, steepled her gloved fingers, and spoke. “Lord Theodore, ‘Teddy,’ Arlington, Viscount of Helmsley, future Viscount of Ainsworth. Recently retired from the military at the rank of Major. Much lauded for his heroics on the battlefield.”
Georgina lifted her chin and stared at the black netting as if she could see through to the woman’s eyes.
“Excellent. You know precisely of whom I speak. As you are undoubtedly aware, then, he returned home three weeks ago, today. Being that the season is in full swing, I had expected to cross paths with him by now, at some soiree or other, or at one of the parks, or even the theatre.” Georgina, never one for excessive socializing, was quite exhausted by her monumental efforts to see him, all of which had proved fruitless.
On multiple occasions, she had seen the beautiful Lady Catherine on the arm of Teddy’s cousin, Jonathan. In each instance, she’d hovered near them in the hopes of catching sight of Teddy, to no avail. When she could stand the suspense no longer, she approached them and asked after his whereabouts.
Catherine had raised her wispy brows in a look both elegant and haughty, as if she were a queen glimpsing a dirty street urchin, begging for a coin. “Teddy? You mean Lord Arlington, don’t you, Lady Belfry? As it happens, you just missed him.”
The woman had issued a blatant lie. Why? Unfortunately, Georgina could not demand an answer without making a scene.
Suppressing the vexing memory, she went on. “I have seen neither hide nor hair of him, and that strikes me as very odd. Prior to his deployment, Teddy…er…Lord Arlington was always the consummate man-about-town.”
The Black Widow poured more tea and Georgina felt her composure slipping. “You know of whom I speak, Mrs. Dove-Lyon. Do you know how he fares? Have you heard if he is well? You made mention of his heroics, but there’s too often a high price for those. Please, I’ll pay. If you know anything—”
Her words cut off when the woman raised her gloved hand. “I have some knowledge. Very limited, I’m afraid, and I must warn you: You might find what I tell you distressing.”
Her heart began to race and nausea rose up in her, causing her mouth to water like she might cast her cups. She swallowed hard. “What do you know?”
The gambling den proprietress’s lips flattened in a grim line. “He came home damaged.”
“Damaged?” Georgina repeated. “In what way?” Had he lost a limb? An eye? Had he contracted some horrible illness?
“I do not have the specifics. I know only that the damage is not of a purely physical nature and that the family has decided his issues are better treated elsewhere.”
Indignation bubbled up inside her. “Elsewhere? What the devil does that mean?”
The widow seemed to fix Georgina with a steady eye. “His parents have decided to send him to a madhouse.”