Chapter One #2
An image flashed in Georgie’s mind of Lord Sharpe. He was nearing sixty, tall and gaunt, with a long face. But even that might have been manageable somehow if it wasn’t for his countenance. He had a hardness to him that was unmistakable—a meanness to him, buried under a thin mask of righteousness.
“I am not overly particular if he is plain or handsome,” she said at last. “A kind disposition and a sense of humor would be far more appealing to me than anything.”
“Someone quite different than Baron Sharpe, perhaps,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon replied.
Georgie’s surprise must have been evident, for her hostess continued.
“I make it my business to know my clients, Lady Georgiana. And if I were in the business of trading my daughter to save my family fortunes, I would not be choosing that man to do it.”
Georgie let go a breath. She was an heiress with a respectable dowry and an inheritance through her grandmother that was outside the power of her father to touch. Though it would, upon marriage, belong to her husband.
“Come now,” the widow said, her tone almost softening. “Why not use the wealth you have to make your future your own? I have legions of satisfied customers.”
“I wouldn’t know how to choose.”
“How about a game,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon offered.
“What kind of game?” Georgie asked, wondering if this had anything to do with husband finding.
“I have at least a dozen men who are looking for a wife at the moment,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon offered, turning her head to the gallery below. “And a very limited number of ladies at present who are requiring my services. I am proposing a series of parlor games for the gentlemen to play.”
“Parlor games?” Georgie said. She’d heard quite wild tales of fisticuffs and auctioning of husbands, but neither of those were to her taste. Too rough. Too risqué. She was already far outside the boundaries of proper behavior. But parlor games? She liked those.
“Yes,” the widow said, turning her attention back to Georgie.
“I have two other ladies in a similar position to yourself. The games would be set over a week, allowing you time to meet the gentlemen, and perhaps discover if there is one or two you might suit. You should have a potential match by the end of the week.”
End of the week? That seemed so fast. But then, the banns had already been read once. Just twice more, and she would be bound to Baron Sharpe.
Georgie felt herself on the edge of a precipice. But she’d put herself here. She could not turn back. And how difficult would it be to participate in a few parlor games?
“Do we have an agreement?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon asked. “Trust me, a pretty thing like you could have her pick of men.”
“I’m one and twenty,” she said. “Isn’t that too old?”
“Hardly,” she replied with a small laugh. “Men simply are intimidated by a woman who understands the ways of the world.”
Georgie wanted to smile. She’d hardly had any experience of the world.
It had been a few blocks of London, and the boundaries of Whetherby, the family estate in the rolling hills and forests of Cheshire.
An estate that seemed to be crumbling under the weight of some impenetrable sadness.
She’d spent years trying to ignore it. Trying not to upset anyone, because there were already far too many troubles.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon raised her hand and snapped her fingers.
As if by magic, the door to the gallery opened again, and a young man in livery appeared with a small lap desk.
Sitting on top of it was a piece of parchment, ink, and a fine quill.
He set the desk in front of them, then retreated a respectful distance.
“Here is the opportunity to seize your future,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon continued. “This is a standard contract, the terms of which you should find agreeable.”
Georgie read over the document carefully. The Lyon’s Den would find Georgie a husband in exchange for the tidy sum of—Georgie blinked.
“A thousand pounds?” she said, unable to keep her surprise in check.
“I understand you have several times that to your name,” she said. “A small price to pay to have your pick of husband, don’t you think?”
“I don’t believe my father would support my dowry—”
“I am quite certain your father would be more than willing to provide you with your dowry,” the widow said, not at all bothered by her protest. “Like I said, I make it my business to know my clients.”
Her clients. Georgie sat up a little, her gaze lifting to the upper floors of the Lyon’s Den, where liaisons of a more intimate and scandalous nature took place. Heavens. Was she insinuating that her—
No. Georgie stopped herself before she could even begin to contemplate the secrets the Black Widow of Whitehall might own.
She returned to the contract. One thousand pounds. The price of her future.
“What if you can’t find me the right person?” she asked.
“Then the contract is void, minus a small fee. For expenses, you realize,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon replied. “And you may marry the baron. But I have yet to fail, my lady.”
Georgie let go a low breath. She could not marry the baron.
Not if she dreamed of even the smallest moment of happiness.
Love had never been in the cards for her.
Aside from a brief flirtation with Tom—which never, ever should have happened—that sort of romantic love was for fairy tales and novels.
But a life shuttered away in a dusty old ruin of an abbey with a man who, in another time, might well have been Cromwellian in his leanings?
There were some rules even Georgie could not obey.
Picking up the pen, she dipped the quill into the ink, held her breath, and signed the contract.