Chapter Ten
Tom’s valet held up two jackets for his inspection.
After spending years wearing the same red coat, having an entire wardrobe of them in several colors made dressing a far more involved process.
Luckily for Tom, his valet had excellent taste and seemed to enjoy pulling together the perfect ensemble for whatever the occasion.
Providing the man any guidance on tonight’s occasion, however, was impossible. Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s instruction said only to arrive prepared for activities in the private garden of the Lyon’s Den, and sharing the news with his valet he was involved in a matchmaking game was out of the question.
He pointed to one of the coats, and as his valet helped him into it, there was a knock at the door.
“Come,” he called out as he inspected himself in the mirror.
Why he was being so damned particular about his appearance tonight?
After their rendezvous yesterday at Hyde Park, Miss Morehouse had made it perfectly clear that her sole interest in Tom was his name and her ability to trust he wouldn’t run away with her fortune.
Whether or not the subtle pink threads in his waistcoat would complement his plum coat or his green one would hardly be of concern to her.
“Good evening, sir,” came a greeting from behind him.
In the reflection, he saw Benedict, the footman he’d spoken with yesterday. “Do you have news for me?”
The footman nodded. “I believe the gentleman in question is Baron Sharpe from Boxton, in Warwickshire. Though he does own a small estate in Cheshire as well.”
The same man then. “And what could you learn of him?”
“He is of a good fortune, with an overly pious persuasion,” Benedict replied. “He just passed his birthday of two and sixty.”
Old enough to be Georgie’s grandfather…no wonder she might wish for another suitor.
Of course, she wouldn’t have been the first young woman married to a much older man.
Indeed, unless something untoward happened to Georgie, which Tom dared not think about, she would easily survive him.
And a widow of means would have freedoms most other women did not.
“And no heirs, I assume,” he said.
Benedict shook his head. “Not that I could discover.”
“And how many wives has he had?”
“Two, thus far,” the footman said. “He was widowed a year ago.”
Tom turned on his feel, facing the man. “Excuse me, Benedict, if I misheard—did you say last year?”
“Yes sir,”
“That can’t be right.” Georgie told him she’d been promised to a baron when Tom had first asked Georgie for her hand. Unless he’d somehow been mistaken. That was four years ago, and he’d been so blinded by heartbreak he may have misremembered.
“It’s possible,” Benedict replied. “But I heard it from one of the footmen whose sister works as a kitchen maid at the Baroness D’Anville’s house. Lady Georgiana is staying with her.”
Did this maid overhear correctly? It was entirely possible she misheard, or even that Georgie may have deliberately misspoken.
It didn’t make any sense. Neither did this unsettling sensation in his gut.
Georgiana Hawthorne didn’t break rules. Hell, she’d hardly been willing to bend them.
Yet here she was, flirting with a scandal so large, breaking so many rules, determined to escape a marriage to a man she’d been promised to by her father.
And she was so determined to solve this herself.
I offered you my love, and my life, and you tossed it aside because I am not worthy of you. Perhaps you are unworthy of a man who would love you as well as I could. You deserve whatever fate befalls you.
She’d thrown his bitterness back at him, his own words stinging him like sleet. Did he truly believe she deserved whatever befell her? Idly his fingers found the bit of pink ribbon tied to the end of his watch fob.
“Did you want me to find anymore, sir?”
Benedict’s question broke through Tom’s woolgathering. He let go of the ribbon and ran a hand along his coat.
“I think that’s all for now, Benedict,” Tom said. “But do keep your ears open.”
The evening was fine when he arrived at the Lyon’s Den, sunset blazing across the London skies.
The evening was unseasonably warm, and as he entered the gaming hell, he handed off his hat, gloves, and topcoat to a waiting servant before being escorted to the gardens where he was met by the five other gentlemen vying for a wife.
Lanterns hung in the trees, casting a warm glow over the foliage, which, with the sky moving from deep red and orange to shades of indigo, added an air of enchantment to the garden.
While he’d heard rumors of the opportunity for scandalous liaisons in its shadows, Tom couldn’t help feeling a sense of trepidation for what was planned.
As in the first game, the ladies were not present, though they had been spectators.
But here, there seemed to be no place for them to observe whatever trial Mrs. Dove-Lyon had devised.
As if the thought had summoned her, a bell rang from somewhere in the distance, interrupting the idle chatter of the gentlemen and drawing their attention toward the glow of candlelight from inside the Lyon’s Den.
Mrs. Dove Lyon, flanked by two large fellows carrying large lanterns, walked toward them.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” she said. “I’m glad to see you have all returned for tonight’s game.”
“I hope it’s not charades,” one of the gentlemen said, which brought a small mumble of laughter from the crowd.
“That is one favor I can grant you, Mr. Quinton,” she said, then gestured to a servant who produced a large round box and flipped open the lid.
“Tonight’s game is called The Masked Token,” she announced. “Please come forward.”
One by one each gentleman was handed a black mask that obscured most of their face.
“You are to go into the maze,” she said, “where the ladies are wandering, waiting for you to find them.”
“Seems simple enough,” Mr. Crowley said under his breath, and Tom was inclined to agree, except that this was the Lyon’s Den, and Mrs. Dove-Lyon would not make it that simple.
“When you approach, they will have a question for you, which you may answer with a single word only. If your answer satisfies her, she will give you a token. Each gentleman must collect two tokens to proceed.”
Excellent. He would seek out Miss Morehouse, who already seemed determined to have him, collect his token, and move on to the next round.
“If your answer does not satisfy her, or you identify yourself,” she continued, “you will receive a black ribbon and be expelled from the game.”
One of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s acolytes walked solemnly past them, leading their way toward the start of this masquerade hunt.
Tom secured the mask to his face, adjusting it to ensure his vision would not be obscured, then rubbed his hands together, eager to get on with it.
He had no idea what types of questions the ladies might pose.
What if he came upon Georgie? The last time they’d met and he’d asked for her favor, she’d rejected him. Surely, she would not see him ejected from the game. Still, he might take extra care to avoid her notice, just in case he failed to answer her question to her satisfaction.
Once upon a time, they talked so easily; he’d prided himself on knowing what she might say before she’d had the chance to voice it.
Indeed, she too seemed to anticipate his every word.
And so many times, they’d been able to sit in companionable silence, because just knowing they were together had been enough.
She was out there, now, waiting. But not for him. The pang hit him like a lead ball, and he found himself putting his hand to his chest for a moment to dull a pain that shouldn’t be there.
“Gentlemen,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon called out, raising her hand, “to the maze. Your potential bride is waiting.”
Tom dropped his hand, allowing a cool resolve to fill the void where the pain had been. That heartache was a reminder of why he was here, why Miss Morehouse’s indifference and the fortune their marriage would grant him had to be enough.
Georgie clutched the small bag of tokens she’d been given by Mrs. Dove-Lyon before donning a mask and being sent to wander the meandering paths of the garden maze. Now, she was waiting to be caught.
How nerve wracking was it to be wandering alone at night, waiting for a stranger—or six—to find her?
Of course, Mrs. Dove-Lyon assured all the ladies that they were in control of their contact with each gentleman.
The men were not to speak, unless she chose to speak with them.
They could not approach—and certainly not touch—unless invited.
She breathed in, hoping the fresh evening air would settle her.
The moon was a sliver, a smile in the night against a backdrop of diamonds unfolded against a velvet sky.
Georgie closed her eyes, taking in the silence, the din of activity from the Lyon’s Den off in the distance.
The gardens were lit with lanterns placed creatively along paths, providing those who wanted to explore the gardens at night the safety to do so.
The sound of footsteps, muffled by the grassy floor of the maze, caught Georgie’s attention.
From out of the darkness, a masked gentleman appeared.
She tried to recognize him from his gait, which was ridiculous, considering she didn’t know any of the gentlemen very well, except of course for Tom.
But even his bearing had changed since their youth; living the life of a soldier gave his stride an air of purpose that was new.
So much about him seemed to have changed.
Once upon a time, he’d been so protective of her.
So eager to shelter her from the confines of a life lived solely to cause as little bother as possible.
What might have happened if she’d said yes?