Chapter Five #2
Catching her breath, she approached the fireplace where the fire had already been prepared.
Taking the tinderbox from the mantelshelf, she crouched beside the fire and lit it, watching as the tiny sparks sprang into life before blossoming into flames that curled around the kindling, growing in size and engulfing the logs.
Then she stood back and tossed the wig and mask onto the flames.
The fire hissed, emitting thick gray smoke, and she watched until it settled into the steady rhythm of crackling flames, the wig and mask now turned to ash.
Then she approached her washstand, dipped a cloth into the water, and pressed it against her cheek. Though her face would sport a mark in the morning, it would fade in a day or so.
That was a skill she’d learned as a doxy: the ability to predict, with some accuracy, how long bruises, welts, and cuts would take to heal. It was a hazard of her career, for which she, and others, were handsomely paid.
As she rinsed out the cloth, a knock came on the door and Hermia entered.
“Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s asking to see you.”
Cordelia nodded and exited her bedchamber, her stomach fluttering as she made her way to her employer’s study. When she knocked, a low voice bade her enter and she slipped inside. Mrs. Dove-Lyon sat at her desk, shrouded, as usual. Two sharp eyes regarded Cordelia from behind the black lace veil.
Two chairs had been placed in front of the desk. One bore a woman in a bright-green gown, her iron-gray hair fashioned in an elaborate array of curls, dotted with tiny flowers. The other was unoccupied.
“Isidore—” Cordelia began, then she broke off as Mrs. Dove-Lyon gestured to the empty seat.
Isidore frowned, her gaze settling on Cordelia’s cheek, which still burned from where Sir Iain had struck her.
Cordelia sat and placed her hands together on her lap.
Her employer tilted her head to one side.
“Does your cheek give you pain?”
“Only a little,” Cordelia replied, “and it will fade with time.”
“So it should be gone by next Saturday?”
Knowing better than to ask about the significance of next Saturday, Cordelia nodded.
“Good. Then we can proceed with your retirement from my establishment.”
“My…?”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon leaned forward, her eyes gleaming from behind her veil.
“For what purpose did you think I asked you to see me, Miss Flowers?”
Cordelia winced at the use of her name.
“I-I thought…” Cordelia gestured to her cheek.
“You thought I would blame you when a visitor takes liberties?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon shook her head and tutted. “I might be known for valuing a profit, but consent always takes precedence. Do I not value consent above all, Isidore?”
Isidore nodded. “Of course.”
“Sir Iain Leaney has committed transgressions in the past,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon continued. “It’s plain to see that in your case, he tried to take that which he had not paid for—and, more to the point, that which you were not prepared to give.”
She placed her elbows on the desk and leaned forward.
“Miss Flowers…Cordelia…it has given me great pleasure to evict Sir Iain from my premises. At least now that he’s barred from ever returning, I do not have to bother myself with him.
Not that he poses a danger to the women who come here seeking a husband.
He’s been partaking of our games for over five years, yet has not once asked himself why he has never emerged as the victor. ”
Cordelia raised her eyebrows.
“Surely you don’t think the winners of my games are determined by pure chance?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said. “I flatter myself in my ability to match those who are perfect for each other, even if they may not agree with me at first. And it is for this purpose that I’ve asked you to see me tonight.”
“For what purpose?”
“You wish to reside in the country, do you not?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said. “And I understand that you want a family of your own. A husband to love whom will love you in return, and children to nurture.”
“How do you know…” Cordelia began, then she shook her head. “Most women wish for that, don’t they?”
“Most, but not all,” came the reply. “Isidore and I have been discussing you, and Isidore told me that—”
“Isidore ought not to have told you anything,” Cordelia said, glancing to the woman on her left.
A sigh came from behind the veil. Mrs. Dove-Lyon reached for the decanter on the desk, poured a measure into a glass, and pushed it toward Cordelia.
“I only have your best interests at heart, Cordelia,” Isidore said.
“As do I,” the woman behind the desk added.
Cordelia’s heart tightened at the softness in her employer’s voice. Did she, like every other soul employed at the Lyon’s Den, wear a facade to conceal a tender, loving heart?
Cordelia took another mouthful of her drink. The flavor burst on her tongue, then the liquid slipped down her throat and warmth radiated through her body.
“How can I ever hope to find a husband, ma’am?” she said.
A soft laugh came from behind the veil.
“My dear girl, you know the true nature of my business here, do you not?”
“Yes, you find rich wives for titled men, but—”
“Oh, no, my dear, you’re quite mistaken.
I admit that impoverished titled men come here to find wives and, foolish creatures that men are, they believe that to be my primary concern.
But my clients—my real clients to whom my loyalty is directed—are the women who come seeking a husband.
For each woman, I devise a game to find their perfect partner.
Many of the men who come here—men such as Sir Iain Leaney—will never find a partner here, because I would never inflict them on a woman. ”
“But I’m a doxy,” Cordelia said.
“And? Does that render you undeserving of a loving marriage with the right man, or incapable becoming a mother? The women who come to me do so because they would be spurned by London Society—because the world is incapable of seeing their worth. Do you believe that you have no worth?”
Cordelia shook her head. “It matters not what I believe.”
“Then will you take heed of what I believe, my dear? You deserve to be granted what you yearn for. You have a loving soul and are capable of making some very fortunate young man blissfully happy. And, to that effect…”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon opened a drawer in her desk and pulled out a ledger, flicking through the pages.
“Aha!” she said, placing a fingertip at the top of a page. “There we have it. Eighteen thousand.”
“I beg pardon?”
“Your fortune, my dear,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said. “More than enough to tempt the competitors.”
“Eighteen thousand…pounds?”
“That’s right. Naturally, I’ll waive my usual arrangement fee. Consider it a retirement gift.”
A swell of hope rose within Cordelia’s heart. “You mean…you intend to find a husband for me?”
“Yes, my dear girl,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said. “Isidore and I have devised the perfect game, which, with your consent, will take place next Saturday. If you’re in agreement, I’ll just need you to sign this.”
She reached into the drawer and drew out a stiff piece of paper covered in a cursive script and bearing a crest in the shape of a lion’s head. Near the bottom, the scriptwriter had inscribed the name Cordelia Anne Flowers.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon picked up her quill pen, dipped it into an inkpot, and held it out.
Cordelia took it, but hesitated.
“Have faith, sweet girl,” Isidore said. “Trust us to know how best to secure your happiness.”
Cordelia stared at the two women—the veiled figure who had taken her in when she’d caught her stealing on the streets, and the seasoned doxy who had taken her under her wing and befriended her.
Between them, they had taken the street whore with nothing to live for and given her a home, a purpose, employment.
And, in the end, a fortune.
Whom else could she trust? Certainly not the man who had violated her then sold her into prostitution, nor the countless others who’d used her body for physical gratification while they dreamed of better women…
Cordelia paused and closed her eyes, pushing to the recesses of her mind the image of a man with honey-blond hair and eyes the color of cornflowers.
Not all men were evil.
Before her resolve crumbled, Cordelia placed her signature on the bottom of the parchment then returned the quill pen to Mrs. Dove-Lyon, who added her own signature.
“Witness, if you please, Isidore.”
With a nod, Isidore took the pen and added her signature. Then Mrs. Dove-Lyon placed the contract in the drawer, which she pushed shut and locked.
“Excellent,” she said. “I shall make the announcement tonight and we’ll have a suitable husband for you by the end of next week.”
“As easy as that?” Cordelia said.
“Precisely.”
“Wh-what if I don’t like him?”
“In this game, you’ll get to choose which competitor is the victor.
You’ll be given leave to reject them all if none are to your liking.
But, once you have pledged yourself, there will be no reneging, so you must choose wisely.
Do you still wish to proceed? I can destroy the contract if you do not. ”
A husband. A man of her choosing…
The chance to live in the country, to have a family of her own, to live like a normal, respectable woman. Happy and fulfilled.
Marriage to a stranger was not without risk, but Mrs. Dove-Lyon was famed for making successful matches, bringing together lost souls who had given up on love.
What made Cordelia so different to the rest that she couldn’t find love?
Not what. Whom.
James.
But he was beyond her reach. If nothing else, marriage to a stranger would help her to forget him, to save her from withering away like Echo, the nymph from Greek mythology, pining for that which could never be.
A thin, bony hand took hers and Cordelia looked up to see Isidore watching her, her eyes filled with compassion and love.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I wish to proceed.”