Chapter Five #2
At the last minute—and forgetting about her buckles, which were far more likely to be missed anyway—she’d grabbed the ring from her box.
If relinquishing the gift meant happiness for her sisters, her grandmother would approve. After all, without telling her son, she’d given her most valuable pieces to her five granddaughters while she still lived.
Eliza tugged off the ring. “I don’t know how valuable it is, but it must be very much so.” She laid it carefully on the table. “It’s two centuries old. There are twelve rubies in total.”
“I will have Mr. Gold appraise it.”
The widow rang a bell. A servant immediately appeared. She wrote a quick note, waved the paper in the air to dry the ink, and handed the servant the paper and Eliza’s most prized possession.
Again, they were alone.
“Don your veil,” the widow instructed. “While we’re waiting, we will visit the ladies’ viewing gallery, which overlooks the main gaming floor. We’ll have a brief look at the gentlemen in attendance this evening and then continue our conversation.”
Eliza refastened her fichu. Then, by Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s side, she strode through a ladies gaming room.
Behind the veil, she was no longer the hoyden twin. No longer one of five orphaned girls. Behind the mask she was a mystery lady.
A woman here by choice, ready to seize her fate. A woman who was going to demand exactly what she wanted, whether that be marriage to a man who would defer to her or a blindfolded kiss from an arrogant marquess.
As they came to the balcony, the widow directed Eliza’s attention to the gaming floor. “Start there, at the far table.”
She pointed out an elegantly attired, sharp-featured man.
“His title is Neville. A fifth-generation earl. Related to Harbury on his mother’s side.”
“I am well-acquainted with Neville.”
“Disapprove of him, do you? And yet is he not the opposite of his cousin Harbury? Conscientious? Proper. Gentlemanly. I’m certain he would always take his wife’s needs into consideration.”
“Yes.” Likely, he would. He would also be a complete, insufferable bore. She made up a reason to refuse him. “He is…too close a friend to my godmother’s son, Lord Asquith.”
“Moving along, then. Next to him is Baron Blackwell. But, also, I believe, a confidant of Asquith’s?”
“Yes.” And the object of her youngest sister’s unrequited affections. Poor Annette. “Lord Blackwell will not do, either.”
Her gaze traveled over the room, searching for a man who looked as if he might be congenial. She discarded several possibilities. Too old. Too stiff. Too stuffy.
Finally, she returned to the original group.
One man among them, she did not know. He was young (influenceable?) and handsome (not strictly necessary, but nice) and his mannerisms appeared polished. She felt nothing like the draw she’d felt toward the marquess, but he seemed acceptable enough.
“Who is the man in conversation with Blackwell? Is he a gentleman?”
The widow appeared not to breathe for a second. “Yes. Jonathan Vane is a gentleman. He was raised abroad by English parents and only recently returned to our fair shores.”
The widow glanced between Eliza and Mr. Vane, clearly calculating.
“If you like his appearance,” she continued, “we will consider him. A solid choice, in fact. No title, and not well-connected, but he has recently purchased an estate of considerable size and is perfectly respectable, congenial, and polite.”
If this Mr. Vane were trying to make his mark in Society, he would value her familial connections, would he not?
“Where was he raised?”
“Switzerland. His father was a respected diplomat. He passed several years ago. Not much is known about his mother. Reclusive, I understand. She, too, died a few years past.”
So, like her, Mr. Vane was an orphan. Eliza eyed him carefully. But for his shirt, every article of clothing the man wore was a shade of brown. Everything about him, in fact, said steady. Reliable.
With him, she would not have to experience any messy, chaotic emotions like she’d just experienced with Redver. No heady mix of fury and passion. No confusing, inexplicable sense of connection.
“Vane,” she repeated, testing the name. “Mr. Jonathan Vane.”
“Shall we return to the office?”
She followed the Black Widow into her office and reclaimed her chair. Once they were both settled, she asked. “How soon could you facilitate a marriage to Mr. Vane?”
“Is that what you wish?”
“Mrs. Dove-Lyon, you pointed out that to wed is the quickest, safest path to back to respectability.”
“I did,” she agreed. “But let us be honest with one another.”
“Honest?”
“What happened earlier in the evening affected you deeply. You can see you are angry…but are you not also a bit intrigued?”
“How could I not be angry?” Eliza’s words came out in a rush. She did not understand how expulsion from Almacks could be intriguing. “Harbury’s thoughtlessness ended my sister’s marital hopes.”
“Anger seeks to devour, Miss Wainwright. And anger without action is dangerous, indeed. Anger, turned inward, festers, eventually consumes. But the same sentiment, when used wisely, can precipitate change.”
Eliza frowned. Anger, she’d always been told, was best throttled.
Avoided.
And yet she’d felt angry most of her life. Angry at her father. Angry at injustice. Angry that men repeatedly did unto women what they would loathe having done unto them.
Redver must be an alchemist, because he had turned all her fury into passion, and she’d melted in his arms.
The madam leaned back into her chair. “When I asked you if you were angry about what happened this evening, you assumed I was exclusively referring to Almack’s. But that wasn’t your only adventure, was it?” She paused. “Do you trust me enough to tell me about what went on above stairs?”
“Above stairs?” she asked innocently. She’d been lulled into believing she would not have to discuss the incident.
“I know you recognized the Marquess of Redver. I know you kissed him.”
Eliza sucked in sharply.
“Redver and Harbury are seldom out of each other’s company.
If, as I suspect, your godmother will insist that Harbury make amends to your sister, you may find yourself in the company of the duke and his friends quite frequently.
If you haven’t been formally introduced to Redver yet, he will certainly recognize you when you are. ”
“He won’t,” she quickly assured. “He-he didn’t see my face. I told him to cover his eyes before I removed my veil.”
The widow’s surprise was enough to set her own veil swishing. “And he complied?”
Eliza nodded.
“Interesting…” She drummed her fingers. “I would have expected a gently bred young lady to find the experience distressing, but you don’t appear worse for the wear.”
“Are you suggesting I am not gently bred?”
“You ordered a man in an advanced stage of deshabille to put on a blindfold and then kissed him. If your sister had done such a thing—”
“She’d still be having the vapors,” Eliza admitted. She still wasn’t sure why she’d done what she done. But she knew she had never felt so vital. “I had to challenge him. He is arrogant and insufferable.” And passionate and compelling. “He mistook me for a lightskirt.”
The widow shook her head. “The woman he mistook you for is not what you would call a lightskirt. In fact, she came to me much as yourself, in search of a way to meet a need.”
A strange sensation shivered up Eliza’s spine. “Are you saying that you arrange assignations for proper ladies, too? Ladies who do not work in that, ah, trade?”
The widow straightened the inkwell at the top of her blotter. “What I’m saying is that we strive, here at the Lyon’s Den, to meet the needs and desires of all our patrons.”
The reflection of the candle’s flame cast a tiny white glow on the widow’s smooth, onyx ring as she laid both her gloved hands flat on the desk.
“What you need is a respectable marriage. But what do you want, Miss Wainwright?”
Unbidden, she’d the sensation of hot lips against her neck. A warm, insistent hand against her spine. She relieved that heady, heady sense of power. What she wanted was a sense of control. What she wanted was vengeance—if not on Harbury—than on a close conduit.
“What I want, Mrs. Dove-Lyon,” she said coolly, “is to see the Marquess of Redver on his knees.”
“I thought you might.” The widow’s laugher fluttered her veil. “I have a proposition for you. Would you be willing to take a small risk to teach the marquess a lesson he will never forget?”
“And what of my respectable marriage?”
“My dear, if you are willing to enter your marriage slightly more experienced than most, I believe I could arrange for you to have both. Scientia potentia est.”
“Knowledge is power,” Eliza translated. She leaned forward. “I’m listening…”