Chapter Three
Marianne recognized the distinctive blue house from afar, though she had not seen it for many years.
Her father’s gambling had shaped her life, not least by forcing her first marriage to the wealthy industrialist, Victor Chawton.
No good came from cards and gaming, of that she was convinced.
But needs must, as Andrews had reminded her when fixing her veil that morning.
Marianne took a deep breath and gripped her reticule tighter. She had come this far. And if she turned back, a miserable fate awaited her by the side of Lord Thaddeus Albright.
I can countenance almost anything but that.
Walking quickly, before her nerves could fail, she found her way to the side entrance of the Lyon’s Den and gave her name to the intimidating looking woman on the door.
“Mrs. Smith to see Mrs. Dove-Lyon.”
She half anticipated resistance, but the bouncer nodded courteously.
“Mrs. Dove-Lyon is expecting you. Follow me, please.”
Without further ado, they ascended a narrow staircase redolent with the scent of perfume and tobacco.
Marianne’s heart pounded with nerves as they neared their destination.
Her skin felt clammy, and she fought an urge to push back her veil so she might at least see her surroundings clearly.
But amongst all her anxiety and confusion, she was certain of one thing.
No one here must realize my true identity.
Such was her resemblance to Aunt Clementine, that one look at her face would have Mrs. Dove-Lyon placing her immediately as the niece of Lady Sedgewick.
And no one in London, not even Bessie Dove-Lyon, would risk raising the ire of such a powerful patroness.
Marianne smoothed her hands over the skirts of her neat gray gown. She had opted for a muted, unostentatious look for this meeting. It was, after all, a business meeting. And six years of marriage to Victor had impressed upon her the gravitas of business.
The bouncer knocked gently on a door at the back of the house and a soft voice immediately replied.
“Come in.”
The bouncer opened the door and stood back to allow Marianne to pass through.
Her first impression was one of gloom. Curtains had been pulled tightly shut against the summer heat and two glowing oil lamps cast scant illumination on the scene.
As Marianne ventured further in, she saw a large desk set in front of heavily laden shelves filled with leather folders and books.
Behind the desk sat a veiled woman robed in purple satin.
The woman sat very straight, sipping tea from a porcelain cup.
Such was her presence that Marianne had an urge to curtsy.
“Mrs. Smith, I presume?”
Marianne nodded. “Thank you for meeting with me.”
“Not at all. Please take a seat.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon gestured toward a cabriolet armchair positioned opposite the desk. Marianne perched on the end of the leather seat and balanced her reticule on her knees. She felt less like a businesswoman and more like a terrified debutante being presented to the queen.
“Tell me what I can do for you, Mrs. Smith.”
It was impossible to read Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s expression beneath the heavy folds of her veil. Marianne took a breath.
“I need a husband.”
Silence.
“I can pay, of course.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon inclined her head. “Of course.”
Marianne was growing uncomfortably warm in the stuffy room. “I have just two requirements. He must have a country house. And he must allow me and my son to live there alone.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon took another sip of tea. “You require a marriage in name only?”
“Most emphatically.”
Did Marianne discern a hint of a smile from the older woman? If so, it was gone in an instant.
“To a man with a good country estate.”
“A country house is all I require,” Marianne interrupted. She linked her trembling fingers together. “It does not have to be grand.”
“I see.”
“I just need to get out of London.” The words came out before she could stop them.
“I believe I understand your position, Lady Brewood.”
Marianne froze. Her reticule slipped from her knee onto the deep oriental carpet.
“That is still your courtesy title, is it not? You married beneath you, but etiquette dictates you may use your previous title if you so choose. Or should I simply address you as Mrs. Chawton?”
Marianne slumped back in the chair. Her attempts at subterfuge had all been for naught.
“When did you realize my true identity?”
“From the start. My doorman recognized the livery of the messenger boy you sent over here. My recommendation is that you do not attempt to dupe me again, Lady Brewood.”
A hot flush of shame coursed down Marianne’s spine. She shook her head in distress. “I sincerely apologize. I only—” She made a hopeless gesture, unable to articulate the convoluted tangles of her reasoning.
“You wished to come here without your aunt finding out,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon finished for her.
“I wished to come here without anyone finding out.” Marianne reached for her reticule and pulled out a handkerchief which she pressed to her neck. In one smooth movement, she swept the unnecessary veil up and over her head. It was a relief to be rid of it.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon watched her closely. “Who else are you avoiding?”
She squirmed in the oversized armchair. This was a question she had hoped not to answer.
“It is important to be honest. The truth always comes out in the end.”
Marianne sighed in defeat. “My brother-in-law, Edgar Chawton. I believe he may harbor ill intentions towards me.”
“And your son?”
The prospect made tears fill her eyes. Marianne nodded. “Yes.”
She wondered if Mrs. Dove-Lyon would make light of her concerns, but her voice held no hint of mockery. “I will not ask why. It will be because of money. It almost always is.”
“Under the terms of my late father’s Will, I am to inherit an amount of money upon my thirtieth birthday.” Marianne wondered if she should divulge the rationale behind this: that her father had neither liked nor trusted Victor and hoped she would be free of him by then.
“I can guess at his reasoning.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon tapped on her desk impatiently and the lamp light flickered.
Marianne hurriedly continued. “Whilst I am unmarried, my son Toby is my next of kin. And Edgar is his official guardian.”
“I wonder that he allows the boy to live in London with your aunt.”
“Edgar has no fondness for Toby. No fondness for anyone, not even his own wife.” Marianne tightened her lips at the memory of all the awkward family dinners she had endured in their company.
“And your late husband’s fortune?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon left the question hanging.
“He made little provision for me.” Marianne lifted her chin, refusing to be shamefaced over this. “The running of the mills has passed to Edgar. But the house and everything else is held in trust for Toby.”
“I see.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon nodded sharply. “And when is your thirtieth birthday?”
Marianne exhaled. “In six days.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon did not miss a beat. “You wish to be married by special license, before then. So that your former brother-in-law has no access to your inheritance.”
She was not asking a question, but Marianne nodded all the same. A carriage rolled down the street outside, making her flinch with surprise. She had momentarily forgotten there was a world beyond this dimly lit room.
“You trust that I will find you a husband who is more honorable than this Edgar Chawton?”
Marianne made herself stay calm. “I do.”
She was pinning her every hope upon it.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon sat straighter. “And what of your aunt, Lady Clementine Sedgewick? Why can she not find you a Society husband?”
“She can indeed,” Marianne replied promptly. “But I do not want a man who knows me by my connections.”
“Whyever not, when they are so exemplary?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon balanced her china cup in its saucer.
Marianne found herself growing hot all over again. “I was married once before on the strength of my connections. Victor hoped that I would be his ticket to acceptance by Society. But Society is a fickle beast, Mrs. Dove-Lyon.”
The woman opposite inclined her head and waited for more.
The words poured out of her, as if a dam wall had been broken.
“Anyone who knows me as Lady Brewood has heard the gossip about me. My name and reputation are sullied, as you must know. I understand that many men would still be prepared to court me to gain favor with my aunt. But I do not wish to be courted by a man like that.”
Her outburst had left her breathless, but Mrs. Dove-Lyon did not allow her a moment to recover.
“Then you wish for a love match?”
“Not at all.” Marianne put a hand to her heart and breathed deeply.
“All I want is to be free.” She paused, surprised by her own announcement.
But it was true. “I want to live in a house where my son can run and laugh and play without concern. I want to spend my days unafraid of Society’s approbation.
This is why I ask for a country retreat.
And to live there alone. In return, my husband can anticipate full access to the fortune I will inherit in six days. ”
There. Her wildest hopes and dreams were out in the open. And Mrs. Dove-Lyon appeared to be seriously considering them.
“What manner of a husband do you expect me to find for you, Lady Brewood?”
“I would not presume to think that far ahead.”
It was a lie. She had thought in the half-light of morning about a young, smiling soldier needing a financial boost to climb the ranks. A vague, unspecific figure who would ride off to France with a song on his lips within hours of their wedding ceremony.
She dampened her lips and amended her answer. “Perhaps a soldier.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon nodded decisively. “I may have an idea. Return here tomorrow at ten in the morning.”
“So soon?”
“You wish to be married within six days?”
The reality of what she was doing stole her breath all over again.
“I do.”
“Then there is no time to lose.”