Chapter Two
A few weeks later…
Augusta Cheevers stepped down from her family’s carriage, gazing at the multistory blue building on Cleveland Row, then moved aside as the footman helped her mother, Viscountess Hampton, out of the carriage. She couldn’t believe she had agreed to come here.
“We shall not be long, Thomas. Tell the coachman to wait,” the viscountess said. “Come, Augusta. Before anyone sees us.”
“Why? Is this place disreputable?” Augusta asked as her mother took her arm and led her to the side of the building.
“It is a gaming den,” her mother murmured. “But it is also a matchmaking service. And you need one. Mrs. Dove-Lyon and I agreed on the particulars. We must use the ladies’ entrance here.”
Augusta remained uncertain about how the agreement had come about. It all came down to the fact that her parents wanted to be rid of her, and that aspect cut deeper than she cared to admit. “Perhaps I could look for a position as a paid companion,” Augusta suggested.
Her mother looked horrified. “That is out of the question. You are the daughter of a viscount. Imagine the talk! No, marrying you to a suitable man is the only solution to this…this—”
“Problem? I am problem for you and Father. Is that it? More so than usual?”
“You are soon to be without anyone to look after you. And you refuse to move back home.”
“Father will not allow it, you know that, Mother. After all that has passed between the three of us, we agreed that this is the only solution. However, now we are here, I am having—”
The door opened, and a woman looked at them inquiringly. “How may I assist you?”
“Viscountess Hampton and my daughter, Mrs. Cheevers, are to see Mrs. Dove-Lyon. We have an appointment.”
The woman opened the door wider. “Of course, Viscountess. Mrs. Cheevers. Welcome to the Lyon’s Den. I am Helena. Please come into the parlor. Mrs. Dove-Lyon will join you both presently.”
Augusta and her mother followed Helena into a plush parlor, tastefully decorated in gold and burgundy that was even more elegant than the one where her parents entertained.
“Shall I bring tea, my lady?” Helena asked politely.
“No, thank you,” her mother replied. “We shall not be here that long.”
Helena nodded slightly and left the room.
She had barely been gone a few minutes when another woman entered.
Dressed entirely in black, with a heavy veil concealing her face, she made a striking impression.
She sat at the desk, facing them. Without a word, she opened the desk drawer and took out a ledger.
“I am Mrs. Dove-Lyon. And this is your daughter, Augusta, I assume?” She dipped her pen into the inkwell, ready to take notes.
“I am Augusta Cheevers, nine-and-twenty years of age. I’m not married, but I was in a long-term relationship with a married man.”
“Augusta!” her mother cried.
“I will not lie about my past, Mother. You see, Mrs. Dove-Lyon, my parents are genuinely ashamed of me. Although they claim to love me, they want me out of their house and married to someone respectable, preferably someone with a title, or at least a knight or baronet of good standing. I agreed to their suggestion.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon wrote in her ledger. “And who was this married man?”
“The late Earl of Southen. I live in the country in a cottage provided by the earl.”
“Upon my word, Augusta,” her mother said breathlessly. “To speak of it so frankly.”
“Mother, I was in love. Most desperately in love. I am not ashamed of my feelings. How else could we be together? He was married, though not happily.” Augusta turned her attention to Mrs. Dove-Lyon.
“My parents spread the word that I had married a country squire, Hannibal Cheevers. In recent years, that fictional story shifted to portray me as a widow.”
“Do you wish that fabrication to stand?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon asked pointedly.
Augusta frowned. “I am not certain. I do not wish to lie to any prospective husband, but then, nor do I want to chase away any possible man of interest.”
“You must keep up the fiction,” the viscountess exclaimed. “No man of title and wealth will have you otherwise. Is that not right, Mrs. Dove-Lyon?”
“It depends on the man, my lady. Some are quite desperate to marry, especially when they find a woman with money. Your daughter will have a substantial dowry, I assume?”
“Yes, the viscount will provide a dowry if one is required.”
“It will be required. There is also the matter of my fee.”
Augusta’s mouth dropped open when Mrs. Dove-Lyon named the price. The amount was outrageous! “How eager you must be to be rid of me, Mother”
“We are paying these various sums because we do love you, Augusta! Do you think we would wish to see you shunned by society if the truth were to come out? And it will, people talk. We want you to be settled and comfortable. Content. You were a mistress to an earl. To many, you might as well have been selling yourself in the East End!”
“That is not entirely true, my lady,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon interjected. “A mistress to an aristocrat holds a certain weight in Society. But since no one knows of this arrangement, it’s a moot point.”
Tears hovered, but Augusta refused to shed them.
She didn’t doubt that her parents loved her, at least her mother.
But deep down, she knew they were ashamed of her for running away with a married earl.
Even now, all these years later, Augusta couldn’t quite explain why she had acted so recklessly.
Had it been youthful inexperience? Had she just wanted to defy her parents, who were pushing her toward marriage to older, titled men?
Was it to challenge society and its stifling rules?
Or maybe, it had just been that the charming earl had made her knees weak, and she’d wanted to explore the mutual, intense attraction between them?
Or perhaps it was a toxic mix of all these rationalizations.
Those first few years they were together were the happiest she had ever known, as if she were living a fairy tale.
She’d heard that love could make a person act irrationally.
Her mother opened her reticule and set a slip of paper on the desk. “Regardless, the point is that I want no one to know about it. You will keep our confidence?”
“Of course, my lady. All my dealings with clients are confidential,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon replied firmly.
“The bank draft, as agreed.”
“I would suggest we keep the fiction in place for the time being,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said, reaching for the draft with her gloved hand.
“If Augusta wishes to reveal the truth to the man, that is for her to decide. Allow me to explain how this works. In most cases, men and women are separated into different areas. I have an observation gallery accessible only to the ladies, where they can watch the gambling area below. There, the lady in question can secretly observe the men to see if any of them catch her fancy.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon tapped her pen against her veiled cheek.
“But I have a special case that may interest you, Mrs. Cheevers. Come tomorrow night. The man will be here gambling. He’s a duke. ”
“A duke!” her mother exclaimed. “That is quite a catch!”
“What is the catch, Mrs. Dove-Lyon? What is wrong with this duke?” Augusta asked.
“You are shrewd, Mrs. Cheevers,” Mrs. Dove-Lyons responded. “He is a little older than most of my clientele.”
“How old?” her mother interjected.
“He will soon be forty years of age, my lady,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon replied. “He was maimed in a war in Upper Canada. He wears a mask covering the left side of his face.”
“Oh, dear Lord,” her mother cried, clearly horrified. “Is there someone else? A younger baron, perhaps? As I said, we will even consider a knight or baronet, if needs must!”
“Mother, please. Tell me more, Mrs. Dove-Lyon.”
“If you wish to meet him, Mrs. Cheevers, I can arrange a private room for you. You can ask questions of each other, and if you feel he does not suit, you can choose another.”
“As one picks a fresh loaf of bread from a costermonger’s cart,” Augusta murmured.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon laughed lightly. “An apt comparison. Do you agree?”
Augusta nodded. “I will meet with this duke. I assume he wishes to marry to try for an heir.”
“As I said, you’re very perceptive, Mrs. Cheevers. I daresay you have the right of it.”
Why else would a titled gentleman want to marry? Augusta couldn’t fault him. A duke, of all people. Given his scars, he probably visited town rarely, which suited Augusta well. “What time should I come?”
Duncan tapped the roof with his walking cane, and the carriage came to a halt.
The window slid open, and his coachman, Briggs, peered in. “Yes, Your Grace?”
“I will debark here and walk the rest of the way. Return at the front entrance of the Lyon’s Den in two hours.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
He felt utterly silly wearing the gold half mask and wished he had bought one that matched his skin tone more closely.
Once on the walkway, he hurried toward Cleveland Row, feeling the cold breeze as winter neared.
Duncan tightened his greatcoat to keep warm.
Thankfully, breeches were falling out of fashion, which he appreciated since he despised wearing stockings.
He preferred cotton twill trousers and short boots.
He pulled his hat lower; it was a topper he had bought in Quebec, lined with beaver fur to keep his head warm.
He left his walking stick in the carriage because he disliked it as a fashion accessory, though it was handy as a weapon, if required.
Still, Duncan doubted he would need it tonight.
As Duncan turned the corner, he froze. Under the flickering gas lamp, he saw a beggar holding out a dish. The man, missing his legs below the knees, sat on a wheeled cart. He wore a tattered British Army corporal’s uniform, marked by two stripes on his sleeve. He seemed no older than thirty.
Following the Battle of Waterloo in 1815, the army and navy discharged countless soldiers and sailors, leaving the men without proper lodging or occupation, especially those who had been wounded in the line of duty.
Duncan had read in the newspapers that the number of homeless people in London had increased as a result.
And here was the proof. His heart ached at the sight.
“Where did you serve, Corporal?” Duncan asked.
“Second battalion, 95th Foot. Waterloo. Cannister shot took off my legs.” The man pointed to Duncan’s mask. “And you, sir?”
“The American War of 1812, Upper Canada. The Battle of York, 8th Regiment of Foot.” Duncan reached into his pocket and dropped several shillings and a gold sovereign into the bowl. “Find yourself a warm bed and a hot meal.”
The British government should have cared for this man in recognition of his sacrifice. Instead, he had been thrown to the cobblestones like yesterday’s rubbish.
The man stared into the dish, then glanced up at Duncan. “Thank you, Captain. I’m guessing you were one, by the way you stand.” The man was not wrong. “This will put me up in a room for quite a few weeks. Unlike other poor sods in my position, I’ll not throw your charity away on cheap gin.”
The soldier looked clear-eyed enough, so he no doubt spoke the truth. He also spoke without much street slang, indicating some education. “What is your name, Corporal? Do you have a family?”
“Samuel Barlow, sir. I have no family.”
Duncan pulled his card from his side pocket and dropped it into the dish. “My address here in the city. Come to this place in one month. I will leave instructions with my staff, and they will look after you until we can make further arrangements.”
The man picked up the card. “The Duke of Allenby?” he whispered.
“Captain Duncan Bamford, at your service.”
The man gave Duncan a crisp salute, and Duncan returned it. “No more begging. Find a decent room and good food.” Duncan dropped two more sovereigns into the bowl.
“Aye, Captain. Thank you. One month, I’ll be there.”
Duncan rounded the corner, fury simmering within him. By the fires of Hades, he would make it a point to attend the spring session of Parliament, and those stuffy elites would hear what he had to say about the shameless, disrespectful treatment of these former soldiers and sailors.
Once he reached the front door of the Lyon’s Den, his anger still lingered, and he released his frustration by pounding and kicking it with all his might.
The door flung open. “Here, none of that racket, sirrah!” The man’s eyes widened. “Captain Bamford?”