Chapter Thirteen
If pressed to recount how she spent the night after Tom left, she would have found it difficult to decide if it had been one of tears, interrupted by fleeting moments of restless sleep, or the opposite.
All she did know was that her final night at the Baroness D’Anville’s home—which had provided her a much-needed oasis from the oppressive life under her father’s roof—felt the way one might imagine one of Henry’s wives, locked in the Tower, awaiting the inevitable.
Well, perhaps that was a little melodramatic.
Both the baroness and Lily had been with her half the night.
They helped her pack, attempted to cheer her by reminding her that by this time tomorrow, she would have someone to marry who wasn’t closer in age to the baroness than Georgie.
The comfort was cold, but she clung to it nonetheless.
With her father and Marcus demanding her return to Ashcombe House, there was only one conclusion to be had—her marriage plans to Lord Sharpe were being put into place.
If Tom was right—if somehow Lord Sharpe had only been widowed last year, then it wasn’t any doing of Georgie’s that kept the wedding postponed.
The baroness, upon hearing this news, vowed to make some subtle inquiries in the morning.
Why Tom had sought out this knowledge—indeed, why he had come to see her at all—remained a mystery.
Did he delight in reminding her why she still loved him, even as he was intent on marrying someone else?
Someone who would not love him, and he would not love in return?
It hardly seemed fair. Georgie would have loved him.
She loved him still. But to admit that to him was foolish.
Despite his promises, he had no real way to offer his protection unless he intended to marry her, which he clearly did not.
And with her father and Marcus in town, she no longer had the luxury of relying on anyone but herself.
She’d plainly hurt Tom’s feelings when she reminded him of that.
Was it merely guilt that had evoked his reaction?
Or was it something deeper? She was too heartsick to unravel it anymore.
It was only after a cup of a special tea Lily had brewed—an old family recipe, she said—that had allowed Georgie to sleep.
In the morning, she dragged herself from her bed and prepared herself for her final trip to the Lyon’s Den.
Lily accompanied her, and it occurred to Georgie as they climbed into the carriage that would take them to the Lyon’s Den that after today, the likelihood she would see her new friend again was low indeed.
Perhaps, if she did succeed in marrying Mr. Osbourne, or even Mr. Crowley, then she would invite Miss Duigood to come and visit her.
When the carriage arrived at the Lyon’s Den, Georgie pulled up the hood on the blue silk cape she’d chosen to wear.
The sun was blazing overhead, but with her family back in town, the relative ease with which she traveled through London evaporated.
Marcus had ruined her happiness once. Whatever his misguided aims might be, he would do it again in the name of protecting the family.
Not until the door closed behind her did she dare let go a breath.
“Come now, my lady,” Lily said, removing Georgiana’s cape and handing it to a nearby servant.
“Do you think for a moment the baroness would not use every connection she has to hide your true motives here? And Mrs. Dove-Lyon would never have made such a lucrative business for herself if she didn’t take the protection of her female clients very seriously. ”
“Rationally, yes, it makes perfect sense,” she said. “But nothing about my family has been rational for a very long time.”
Lily gave her an encouraging smile. “Before the afternoon is finished you will have a new fiancé, and those troubles will be behind you.”
Georgie wanted to give in to the optimism, but she was not so foolhardy.
There was no way her father would approve her marriage to anyone other than Lord Sharpe, and if he’d discovered what she’d been up to, she dared not imagine the consequences.
She would have to be married—and bedded.
A trip to Scotland should be enough to do the trick.
As they walked down the ladies’ entrance to the parlor, they were greeted by one of the Lyon’s Den’s major-domos.
“Lady Georgiana,” he said. “If I may, your companion can help herself to refreshments in the servants’ room or observe from the ladies’ gallery. You will come with me to the private dining room.”
Lily nodded, then turned quickly to Georgie.
“Good luck,” she said. “It will be over soon.”
Georgie watched Lily depart, never so eager to have an afternoon over in her entire life. Letting go a low breath, she followed the major-domo to a well-appointed parlor. There sat Miss Morehouse and Miss Fairfax, talking amongst themselves, enjoying tea, sherry, and exquisite pastries.
“Mrs. Dove-Lyon will join you shortly,” he said, before closing the doors behind him.
“Here we all are at last,” Miss Fairfax said, waving Georgie over. She was singular amongst the ladies for her unabashed excitement for the entire affair. “You must try the canelé. They are exquisite.”
Georgie walked toward them, a sudden bout of nerves robbing her of what little appetite she had.
“No, thank you,” she replied, smoothing her skirts and trying desperately not to fidget. “Do we know what the next game is?”
“Not yet,” Miss Morehouse said. “Nor do I know where the gentlemen are. No doubt sequestered as we are, awaiting instructions.”
“I think it will be some time before I wish to play another game,” Georgie said. “I shall stick to hosting balls and salons where all we speak of is society gossip and bad poetry.” And if she did marry John Osbourne, in all likelihood half the gossip would be about horseraces.
“Have a biscuit,” Miss Fairfax said, presenting her with a plate of delicate sweets artfully presented. “I find a little sugar to be soothing in moments of stress.”
Giving in to temptation, Georgie pulled a small biscuit from the plate and took a bite. The mix of sweetness, tempered with the bite of ginger and other spices was, if not an antidote to all her problems, a temporary salve for the worst of them.
Just as she took her last bite, the door opened and the familiar figure of Mrs. Dove-Lyon entered the room.
Behind her were the three remaining gentlemen in the matchmaking game—Mr. Osbourne, Mr. Crowley, and, of course, Tom Worthington.
The sight of him instantly drove away whatever momentary bliss the biscuit had offered.
He was elegantly dressed, his shoulders framed by a perfectly cut dark-green coat.
His gaze skittered over her, the briefest acknowledgment.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said, pulling Georgie’s attention away from him. “The final game is upon us.”
A movement of the widow’s hand, so subtle Georgie might have missed it if she wasn’t intentionally trying to avoid Tom’s gaze, produced a servant from the back of the room.
The gentleman came forward, bearing an elegantly folded piece of paper, each bearing the name of one of the ladies.
Georgie picked up hers from the pile and unfolded it.
A green button.
A handkerchief embroidered with the letters R.G.
A book containing a reference to a rose in the first ten pages.
A favor from a favorite lady
Georgie rushed through the rest of the list of seemingly random, and in some cases extraordinarily specific items with no known association to each other. She cast a glance over at her female counterparts, who judging by the contemplative frowns were just as confused as she was.
“I don’t understand,” Miss Fairfax said.
Miss Morehouse lowered her sheet of paper and turned toward Mrs. Dove-Lyon. “Is this by chance a treasure hunt?”
“You are correct,” their hostess answered.
“I suppose it’s better than the musical chairs,” Miss Morehouse mumbled, mostly to herself, as she returned her attention to her list.
“Each of you have been provided a list with an identical number of items,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon began.
“It is also equal in terms of difficulty as well. You will work in teams, to collect as many items from the list as possible before the bell strikes three. Those who collect the most points wins. The lady with the most points will have first choice of husband.”
Before the Black Widow of Whitehall stopped speaking, Georgie’s gaze snapped to Tom.
They locked eyes for just a moment before he looked away.
Why did her own body betray her so? Georgie’s heart went from a steady, respectable rhythm to a full gallop worthy of one of Mr. Osbourne’s beloved thoroughbreds.
First choice. An intangible possibility opened up before her. A possibility for happiness. Or heartbreak.
The uncomfortable truth pressed upon her like a corset laced by an overzealous lady’s maid. She wanted him. Wanted to believe he still loved her. Needed to know he would always be there for her.
Because she still loved him. The thought that Georgie might get to choose was unbearable.
She tried to steal another glance at Tom without his notice.
She did not succeed. His gaze met hers, as if he’d anticipated her attention.
Would he desire a marriage in name only from Georgie? How could she bear it?
Beside her, Miss Morehouse studied the list in the same way a starving man might examine the menu for a grand buffet. Her choice had always been clear, and she intended to win. But what if she didn’t?