The Lyon’s Den, Whitehall, London
Ten in the morning
Elspeth stared atthe array of papers in front of her, fanned out over Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s desk like so many poppies in a field, each one holding the promise of relief if harvested correctly. A prodigious amount of work had been done in only a few hours to bring this to fruition.
Elspeth found herself impressed even as her gut clenched inabsolute terror. “This”—her voice broke—“this is a lot to absorb.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon nodded. “Take whatever time you need. Tea is on its way. That will help your nerves.”
Elspeth took a deep breath. “I am not usually so... hesitant.”
“You do not want to make a rash decision, even though time is of the essence.”
Pulling one stack of papers closer, Elspeth made a mental inventory of what lay before her. A contract to engage Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s services. An invoice with the deposit amount. The dossiers on five potential husbands. A list of wagers that the candidates would be competing in. “What if... what if I do not prefer the one who wins the wagers?”
“You will.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon pointed at the dossiers. “All five gentlemen have seen your dossier and have agreed to partake and to all the terms we will set. Today, you and I will eliminate two of them from the competition based on their dossiers. You will meet with the other three this afternoon, eliminating one more. The remaining two—if they still wish it—will begin the wagers tomorrow, and you will observe the tasks from a discreet distance. At the end of each day, you and I will discuss their performances and your impression. This has been a successful method of matching suitable partners for many years. You will be pleased by the winner, I assure you.”
A sharp rap on the door was followed by Helena entering with a silver tray. Mrs. Dove-Lyon made room on the desk, then nodded at Helena, who left silently. “Lady Elspeth, please read as we have tea. Ask any question that occurs to you.”
Elspeth closed her eyes a moment. It did not seem appropriate to pray over such an arrangement—but neither did she want to walk down the aisle with a man more than twice her age. “Yes,” she murmured as she started with the contract, a fairly straightforward document of one page. She signed the two copies before her, noted the invoice, and pulled the correct amount from her reticule. Shestacked the contracts, invoice, and pound notes together and slid them to the edge of the desk.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon remained silent, focusing on the preparation of the tea, which diffused a dark and fragrant aroma into the air, calming Elspeth as she pulled the dossiers forward and spread them in front of her, the names at the top familiar yet surprising. She knew—or knew about—all of them. Why would these men turn to the Black Widow of Whitehall for potential brides? She picked up the first dossier.
Scott Hervey, eight and twenty, he of the pint-on-foot wager from yesterday. Tall, blond, lovely to look at. Bloodline among the aristocracy, although theon ditabout why he had never married was rife with scurrilous accusations. Some illegal, none provable, but probably the reason behind his pursuing a bride in this manner.
Could be considered but doubtful. Elspeth set his dossier to her right.
Robert Livingstone, four and twenty, the grandson of a countess and a missionary. His father had also married a countess but remained England bound. Rumors said that Livingstone had traveled with his grandfather. She had met him once at a musicale, where he had been fascinated by the music if not the company around him, but he had struck her as more shy than aloof. Not very handsome but well-spoken and kind.
A possibility. Elspeth moved his dossier to the left, as Mrs. Dove-Lyon slid a cup and saucer toward the dossiers. Elspeth picked up the tea and sipped, finding it to be strong, soothing perfection.
Which made Elspeth pause and peer into the cup. She had not told her hostess how she preferred her tea, yet it was the exact sweetness and milkiness that she craved. She looked up at Mrs. Dove-Lyon, eyebrows arched, but the woman merely tapped one finger on the dossiers. “Keep reading, Lady Elspeth.”
David Montagu, thirty, the fourth son of a viscount but a baronet on his own, by decree, like Ella’s Gordon, following his success inshipping concerns. He respected Society but did not care for all its dictates. Horrible dancer, and theon dithad him buying a castle in Scotland, a fact seemingly confirmed by the dossier. No word on the condition of said castle or if he planned to occupy it on a permanent basis.
Maybe. Scotland remained an unknown territory to Elspeth. But the growing season was rather short. She set the dossier to the left, and drank more of her tea, grateful for its warmth and soothing nature. The heat spread through her body, easing some of the tension in her muscles. Then she stilled when she focused on the next name.
Timothy Rydell, six and twenty.Why is his name so familiar? Rydell.As in Ella’s husband? Youngest of eleven children born to the Duke of Embleton, nine of whom survived to adulthood. A prominent family in the aristocracy, his brother—now the duke—a recognized and respected voice in Parliament. Timothy had been inactive in Society for more than six years, most of which have been spent in America with family business concerns.
Elspeth frowned. Gordon and Ella also lived in America. And last night a messenger had delivered a packet of letters from Ella to Inmarsh house, letters she had spent most of the night devouring as if they were ambrosia from the gods. Had this man delivered them? Had he returned to England to find a bride, or had he turned to Mrs. Dove-Lyon because he felt an urgency to return to America? Elspeth’s chest constricted. Questions. She had so many questions.
That was probably a good sign. Very few questions had occurred to her as she looked at the others, outside the two major ones already on her list:Do you like to travel? What foreign places would you like to visit?
She set Rydell’s dossier on the left and picked up the last one.
Francis Stuart, five and forty. Not the Earl of Moray, but a cousin who lived near the Scottish border. Elspeth had danced with him, once upon a time. Handsome, if a bit dim, having difficulty speaking while he danced. He could not seem to manage both at the same time. Hetraveled a great deal, mostly in search of exquisite horse flesh, about which he knew a great deal and had been all too eager to share.
Perhaps not. She slide his dossier to the right.
Elspeth looked from one stack to the other, letting the details she had read wander through her mind as if they were geese trying to find bread tossed on the water by children. Elspeth—far too old for a girl’s fantasy—knew the perfect match did not exist outside novels and some overwrought melodramas. Nor did she search for love—another illusion in her eyes.
Instead, she sought someone who would understand her, share her dreams—or at least let her pursue them with squashing them. Was that also illusory?
“Separating the wheat from the chaff, Lady Elspeth?”
“Attempting it. You said they know about me as well?”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon nodded. “The basics, more or less. Like these. But I could see in your eyes that you know more about them than is on the page.”
