Chapter Five #2
The baroness’s stark assessment of Georgie’s situation settled on her shoulders, dampening the swirl of emotion and turning it into something approaching resolve.
“You are right of course,” she said, nodding to both of them, giving Lily’s hands a little squeeze, then releasing them. “I must think of my future, not my past.”
The baroness looked Georgie up and down, then patted her on the cheek.
“Well now,” she said with a conviction that nearly took Georgie aback, “there’s the fire I knew was in there somewhere.”
Georgie wanted to hug the woman, but instead, she went to the mirror to ensure she was presentable. Satisfied, she asked Lily to help her don her silk cape before the two made for the door. She put her hand on the knob, when one final thought stopped her.
“Does the title need funding, do you think?” Georgie asked, unable to help herself.
Why oh why would she ask such a question?
While there was many a lord in need of money, she could never imagine Tom wanting hers.
Why was he playing a matchmaking game when he could so clearly have any woman he wanted?
“Not that I know of,” the baroness replied. “The Worthingtons are an excellent family. Perhaps—”
“If you please, my lady,” Lily said, just as the clock on the mantel chimed the hour. “But I think we must get Lady Georgiana to the Lyon’s Den in time for the evening to begin.”
“Of course,” the older woman said. “Go on with you both. I’ll be eager to hear about the spectacle in the morning.”
At precisely seven o’clock, Tom and ten other gentlemen were led into the main gaming hell of the Lyon’s Den.
Tables that were normally teeming with gentlemen trying their luck at games of chance were now repositioned to the far corners of the room.
The center of the room was clear, except for ten chairs placed in a ring.
“What on earth is this?”
The question, which seemed to Tom equal parts wariness and curiosity, came from Mr. John Osbourne, who looked over the gaming floor with suspicion.
“I assume it is part of the first game,” Tom said, casting a glance around the room.
Though the hour was too early for the more raucous activities he’d witnessed at the Lyon’s Den, a sizeable crowd had already gathered to watch.
Above, in the private gallery, shielded from general view, were the three ladies who’d hired Mrs. Dove-Lyon to find them a husband.
Miss Mariah Morehouse was one of them. He couldn’t see her, of course, but when they’d met earlier in the garden, she’d made her intentions quite clear.
She would make an excellent match, he’d decided almost instantly.
She was handsome enough, seemed capable of carrying a conversation, and wanted absolutely nothing from him.
Conveniently for him, he felt nothing except the most polite regard in return.
She was connected, which would suit his family’s needs well enough.
A marriage in name only, with the understanding of the production of heirs, seemed the most perfect solution to his predicament.
She hadn’t demanded his heart, which suited him perfectly well, since he had none to give.
Even if the other two ladies sitting with Miss Morehouse were prettier, or somehow excited his body, he could not imagine they would suit any better.
As he walked through the crowd, he found himself searching for Georgiana, even though he knew no gentleladies were allowed in the main gallery.
Perhaps it was simply shock at seeing her here earlier today that was playing a trick on him.
What in the hell she was doing here he couldn’t begin to guess.
He couldn’t imagine for a moment who had dared Georgiana Hawthorne, of all people, to come to a place like this. Where was her husband?
The idea of her husband kicked at Tom’s insides, and his mouth twisted at the thought, which was bloody ridiculous.
Of course, she was married by now—she’d been promised to another man since she was in leading strings, according to Gabe.
Tom chuckled bitterly to himself. The irony that she’d been bound to a man who would take his wife to a place as scandalous as the Lyon’s Den, given Georgie’s absolute devotion to her father’s rules—
The sound of a small gong dragged Tom’s attention back to the center of the room, where Mrs. Dove-Lyon stood on a small platform, flanked by two rather sturdy-looking fellows wearing the telltale uniforms of the establishment. She looked almost regal, like a dark queen presiding over her court.
“Gentlemen,” she said, her voice rising over the crowd, whose own voices fell to a murmur as she began, “welcome to round one of the marriage match.”
A round of applause and cheers rose from the corners of the gaming hell. She held up a hand, silencing them.
“Welcome to our first eleven participants.” She gestured to Tom and the others, acknowledging them with a nod. “By the end of the game, only six of you will move on to the next round.”
“I’m already nervous,” Osbourne murmured in Tom’s ear. “Though the odds are good enough I suppose.”
“This doesn’t look like charades at least,” another gentleman said, not bothering to disguise his relief. The chairs were facing outward toward the crowd.
“The game is a simple one,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon continued. “Before you are a ring of chairs. Above, there is a quartet. While the music plays, you will parade around the circle at whatever cadence feels natural to you. When the music stops, you must immediately find a seat.”
“But there are not enough chairs for all of us,” one of the gentlemen called out.
“Excellent observation, Mr. Lovett,” she said, and Tom could practically feel her amusement from behind the black lace of her veil.
“Any gentleman left standing is out of the game. At the end of each round, another chair will be removed, and the music will start again, until there are six chairs—and six gentlemen remaining. The winners will be introduced to the ladies over some refreshments in the private gaming room.”
“Seems simple enough,” Tom said to the gentlemen standing nearby.