He smiled at her. “Hopefully, this will all be over soon. Tell your husband he is welcome to visit the Den anytime. I will buy him a drink celebrating the arrival of your son.”
“He would like that.”
She walked into the townhouse and let the butler and housekeeper fret over her before she insisted on being left alone in the drawing room. Diana leaned her head back against the sofa and closed her eyes. She felt hopeful that Clara would be found and suspected it was because of Mr. Devons’s reassurance.
The corners of her mouth curved up as she reflected on meeting London’s most notorious club owner. He’d not been what she expected. She would be forever grateful to him for his kindness. She doubted they would ever speak again and would never confess this aloud, but she was glad to have met him, if only for a moment.
Chapter One
London—1850
Diana, the widowof Lord Hensley and young mother of the future Duke of Huxton, smiled as she listened to Lady Prescott explain her plans for her next needlepoint creation. She smiled, but her mind wandered. It wasn’t Lady Prescott’s fault, or the topic for that matter. For years, she’d enjoyed discussions on needlepoint, but recently, such conversations left her restless. She was bored. The thought startled her. Diana had no reason to be bored. She was exactly where she should be, having tea with other ladies who were either married or widowed, their seasons long gone.
Yet at thirty-one, she had the alarming feeling she wasn’t doing what she should be. The first few times she felt it, she assured herself it was only because of her grieving process. She’d lost her husband, Stuart, two years ago and even now still missed him fiercely. But deep down, she knew this was different. It was the blasted article. She didn’t understand why it rankled her. It shouldn’t.
“What do you think, Diana? Shall I do the landscape next or the dog portrait?” Lady Prescott said, snapping her out of her odd thoughts.
Diana smiled. “I think the landscape would be lovely and a wonderful gift.”
Lady Prescott nodded. Diana wondered how old she was. She couldn’t be much older than herself. Diana’s eyes roamed the room, taking in all the various factions of ladies congregating for tea at the Duchess of Peyton’s home. Once mired in scandal, the duchess’s events were now quite popular, and her invites highly sought-after. Diana was always invited as her sister married into the duchess’s family years ago.
She continued to peruse the room, assessing the little groups that formed at these society gatherings. Standing in the middle of the enormous drawing room were the young ladies considered the smashing successes of the season. They would be married before the end of the year.
Her focus shifted to another group: the firmly on-the-shelf wallflowers who congregated at the tables closest to the room’s walls. They sat with the ease of someone who accepted they wouldn’t ever marry but understood they must attend the never-ending events of London society. Her gaze continued to the group that comprised the ladies who were neither smashing successes nor wallflowers. Diana, during her season, would have been considered one of them.
A sigh escaped her, and the ladies at her table glanced at her with concern.
“Is something amiss, Lady Hensley?” Lady St. James asked.
Diana flushed. “I’m fine. I’m feeling a little out of sorts. I think I will go for a walk around the room.”
Diana stood, and Lady Prescott appeared ready to join her. “Please stay. I will return momentarily. I need a bit of movement.”
Standing over her friends, some whom she cherished dearly, she could see a variety of lace caps pinned to their heads. The slips of fabric matched the ladies’ dresses to perfection, just as hers did—the perfect accessory for a middle-aged married woman. A wave of restlessness shot through her, and she had theirrational thought that it was the dratted pieces of lace’s fault. She turned and made her way not around the room but to the foyer. She needed a moment away from everything.
She did her best to walk gracefully, even though her mind screamed to run. Diana continued to survey the room as she walked, taking in her sister’s group of friends. They were all married but somewhat different from Diana’s circle. None of those ladies wore a cap or seemed as if their lives had passed them by. She frowned at her cruel thoughts. Life hadn’t passed her friends by.
Diana tore her gaze away. The urge for silence and privacy intensified within her. A howl escaped the scandalous Lady Hawley while she spoke with friends. The woman’s laugh was almost as notorious as her reputation. She didn’t seem to mind that most of society found her unsuppressed chortling shocking. Or maybe she didn’t care?
At events, Diana often spotted her laughing from the depths of her being. What must it be like to be so carefree, she wondered? Rumors of late suggested she was planning something over-the-top. Some said it was likely prompted by her fury at discovering that her estranged husband had taken one of her closest friends as his lover. Diana supposed eventually all would be revealed, but tonight the lady appeared completely unconcerned about society’s opinions.
Lady Hawley’s group consisted of married ladies who flouted convention. As Diana walked by, she spotted the much-talked-about woman, who smiled back. Diana’s eyes widened. Not once could she remember a time that Lady Hawley had ever greeted her. The lady’s smile dimmed at Diana’s expression. Horrified that she may have unintentionally cut her, Diana smiled back, but Lady Hawley had already turned away.
It wasn’t Diana’s intent to ignore her. Regardless of one’s reputation, she didn’t believe in rudeness. She was just surprisedthe lady had said hello. In all the years they were both out in society, they’d never spoken to each other.
She continued to the door, finally arriving in the vast but quiet foyer. Sighing, she wandered before stopping at a massive gold mirror spanning most of the wall. She stared back at her reflection. Her eyes narrowed as she studied her perfectly acceptable features. She had a heart-shaped face framed by brown hair. Her eyes were probably her best physical trait. Her husband once said he had never seen a blue so lovely.
Yet as she gazed at herself, it wasn’t her physical features she assessed. She pondered if the woman staring back at her was really who she wanted to be. It unnerved her that she was having such thoughts.
Her eyes moved to the lace cap on her head with small emerald bows. The dratted thing was both an annoyance she wanted to fling off and also something that gave her comfort. She pulled a piece of paper from the pocket of her skirts and unfolded it. Diana frowned at the caricature. It was a lady in a gown similar to her own with brown hair and a lace cap. She read the words under the picture.
The uneventful but much-needed steady ladies of London society
Sighing, she looked away from the annoying article, not needing to read anymore. Diana had studied it numerous times since it came out. It stated there was a group of ladies who were the backbone of London respectability. Without them, society was likely to fall into chaos and sin. No specific women had been pointed out. Instead, the writer provided a list of key traits that personified these types of ladies. All the qualities Diana embodied made a respectable marriage match: middle-aged, kind, elegant, morally strong, and content with their role.
She sighed. She was the epitome of a mature, uneventful, and proper lady. Yet an emotion stirred within her. One that challenged her to break free of the description that was very much her.
“Diana, are you all right?”
