Chapter Three
Georgie stepped out into the garden, pausing only to draw in a deep breath of spring air. She shrugged up her shoulders, then breathed out through her nose, releasing the tension that had been building from the moment she’d signed the contract with the Black Widow of Whitehall.
The rush of excitement gone, doubt settled in its place.
Had she really committed to finding her own husband and tossing her father’s plans for her aside?
And most impossibly, had she done it here, at the Lyon’s Den?
After Mrs. Dove-Lyon laid out the rules of the matchmaking game—which would commence in a few short hours—Georgie wondered if her courage was deserting her.
When she’d left the relative privacy of the ladies’ rooms for the garden, she’d taken a wrong turn and found herself crossing the gaming floor.
Awareness had prickled like heat under her skin, and it had taken every ounce of strength she had not to scurry around like some country mouse even as she knew she caught the eye of more than a few curious onlookers.
She’d kept her gaze locked on the garden doors until the last moment, when she turned, as if drawn to a dark corner in the room.
Had she’d seen a familiar face in the crowd?
No. It couldn’t have been.
It was impossible…wasn’t it?
And yet, their eyes had met, and a bolt of awareness had struck her as surely as lightning in a summer storm. But how could Tom Blakey be here? He was in Spain—if he was still alive. And there was no way he would have had the coin to play at these very expensive tables.
Besides, she told herself, the man she saw was older, and his clothes far more refined. Gone was the closely tied neck cloth and messy hair of a boy who’d preferred traipsing through the woods to sitting around a card table.
“Are you quite all right, my lady?”
The question came from Miss Lily Duigood, the baroness’s companion, who was acting as a chaperone of sorts to Georgie while she was in London. Miss Duigood was a pleasant young woman, perhaps a few years older than Georgie, with thick curly dark hair and pretty hazel eyes.
“I’m fine, now that I’m out here,” Georgie replied. “Come, let’s take a walk and enjoy the flowers.”
Unlike the cavernous gaming floor of the Lyon’s Den, with its sumptuous furnishings and dimly lit corners, the gardens were burgeoning with the new life of spring.
Hints of soft pink hyacinths, yellow primroses, and the delicate purples of crocuses punctuated fresh green foliage.
Designed to make the most use of the relatively small space, the garden had winding paths inviting visitors to explore, and artfully placed benches provided a quiet place to sit and enjoy the greenery.
Of course, with meandering paths and lush verge, a place like this would, come nightfall, make the perfect opportunity for a nighttime tryst.
Blood rushed into Georgie’s cheeks as she recalled the clumsy but heady kisses she and Tom Blakey had once shared in the far-flung corners of the Whetherby estate.
They’d played together as children—or rather, Georgie had taken it upon herself to ensure that her brother Gabriel and Tom were not getting into trouble, lest Gabriel would be punished.
As the years passed, Georgie had become far too fascinated with the steward’s adopted son.
“This is pleasant,” Georgie said, reaching for polite conversation as one might grasp onto the sides of a boat in rough seas in the hope to steady her frayed nerves. “Are you a lover of nature, Miss Duigood?”
“Very much,” she replied, and Georgie was struck by her sincerity at the answer. She paused, reaching out to examine the leaves of a nearby currant bush, already a deep green. “Whoever is looking after the garden loves their work.”
Georgie was far from a gardener, but she couldn’t help but agree.
Since leaving Whetherby, she was struck by how lush and thriving so many of the gardens were here.
At home, farmers were already complaining that an inexplicably dry spring was going to make for a difficult year.
And there had been far too many of those, which was why her father had been so eager to see her married to Lord Sharpe.
“Let’s go explore it, shall we?” Georgie asked, eager to lose worries for a little while. “I thought I saw one of the other ladies ahead of us. Perhaps we can acquaint ourselves with our fellow entrants in this game.”
Miss Duigood nodded, and the two walked in easy company along the paths. Georgie looked back only once, merely to convince herself that the man she’d thought she’d seen across the floor was not Tom Blakey.
Her first kiss, and her first heartbreak.
Georgie’s heart squeezed at the memory of their last meeting.
The boy who’d held her hands and promised to take her away from Whetherby and its crumbling estate.
He’d been so earnest in his offer. So sincere.
She’d claimed his heart, he said. And he would do everything he could to win her.
She just needed to wait, just a little while, until he went and made a fortune worthy of her.
It had been a foolish thing to offer. And she’d told him so. She couldn’t make him understand her father had plans for her. That their union would have been impossible.
“Look ahead,” Miss Duigood said, pulling Georgie’s attention out of the depths of those memories as she pointed to a wall of thick boxwood hedge with a gap artfully framed with ivy-covered columns. “I think that is a small maze. Would you like to explore?”
“As long as there’s no minotaur waiting at the center,” Georgie replied.
“I suspect in a place like this the only dangers are to one’s reputation,” Miss Duigood said, leading them both past the entrance, and she waited for Georgie to nod which direction to take first. “This reminds me of the gardens at Vauxhall.”
“Except even more scandalous,” Georgie said as they rounded a corner. She let go a sigh. “But I suppose my reputation was in tatters the moment I reached out to Mrs. Dove-Lyon.”
Miss Duigood gave Georgie an encouraging smile.
“You are trying to gain some control over your own life,” she said. “There is nothing to be ashamed of. You remember what the baroness said?”
“‘The only way for a woman to ruin her reputation is to let others define it,’” Georgie said in an overly dramatic French accent. If only she had the baroness’s confidence. “I can’t help thinking that is something easier said than done.”
The two ladies walked along, and Miss Duigood, perhaps sensing Georgie’s mood, turned the conversation to more mundane topics when they spotted two ladies walking ahead.
“I wonder if those are the other ladies taking part in this game?” Georgie asked, her curiosity piqued. “Shall we find out?”
Eager to feel not quite so alone in this husband-seeking venture, she picked up her pace, and with Miss Duigood alongside, followed the pair as they approached the dark green boxwood hedge that formed an outer wall of the maze.
“Good afternoon,” she called out when she was close enough to make her presence known.
They both paused and turned toward Georgie.
While both women were gently bred, it was easy to see that one of them, clad in an elegant, soft-green muslin dress with a matching wool pelisse with elegantly embroidered flowers along the cuffs and collar, was of a higher social rank than the other.
She wore no bonnet, and her light-brown hair was pulled back in a simple but elegant knot at the back of her head.
She had an unmistakable aristocratic bearing, but smiled warmly at Georgie.
“Good afternoon,” the woman replied, returning Georgie’s rather clumsy greeting with a bright smile that appeared genuine. “I assume you are here for the matchmaking game?”
The two followed the dark-green boxwood hedge, meeting up with the lady who was, like Georgie, accompanied by another woman in a simple but well-fitted frock that marked her status as a gentle companion.
Georgie nodded, a crush of relief coming over her. “My name is Lady Georgiana Hawthorne, and this is my companion, Miss Lily Duigood.”
“Miss Mariah Morehouse,” she continued, her tone bright, gesturing to the woman beside her. “This is Miss Imogene Howard.”
“A pleasure,” Georgie replied.
“Miss Amanda Fairfax is nearby,” Miss Morehouse continued. “She will also join us for Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s game.”
Georgie was curious to ask Miss Morehouse what brought a woman who looked as sensible as any she’d met to the Lyon’s Den for a husband, but seeing as Georgie was not inclined to share her own secrets, she kept her question to herself. Miss Morehouse was far more open about the affair.
“I am not at all certain about the need for the theatrics associated with this week’s events,” Miss Morehouse continued. “I would much rather just pick one and be done with it.”
“I suspect it is for the benefit of Mrs. Dove-Lyon,” Miss Howard said. “I have heard she will be charging for those who wish to watch.”
“Watch?” Georgie asked, her voice breaking in a rather unladylike squeak at the prospect.
She cast a glance at Miss Duigood, the blood rushing to her cheeks as the idea of being on display had as much appeal as reciting Fordyce’s Sermons.
“I don’t want spectators. It’s enough I am here. ” The scandal would be bad enough.
“Do not trouble yourself,” Miss Morehouse said, so unbothered by the idea that Georgie didn’t know whether to be shocked or impressed. “Once you are married, the ton will move on to the next scandal like the ravenous beast that it is.”