“You have a knack for euphemism, Miss Hypatia. Seven Dials is located in the rookery of St. Giles, a hotbed of thieves, drunks, and cutthroats,” Rhys said. “We will not venture into the slum without reinforcements.”
“Do you mean to hire guards?” Maggie asked.
“That was one of Newton’s assignments. While guards will provide protection against casual cutthroats, they will not suffice against more serious enemies.” Rhys’s mouth formed a tight line. “Before we venture forth into London, I will need to negotiate an armistice with Garrity and Sweeney.”
Thinking of the ruffians that had besieged them, Maggie swallowed. “Aren’t you afraid they’ll attack first and ask questions later?”
“Indeed. That is why I need an intermediary, one with the power to keep Garrity and Sweeney in check. Newton has arranged for me to meet with her tomorrow.”
“Her?” A woman had the power to control the cutthroats?
“Tessa Black-Todd—now Mrs. Harry Kent. She’s the granddaughter of Bartholomew Black, a powerful cutthroat who rules over the London underworld.”
“How do you know her?”
“It’s a long story.” Rhys lifted the curtain. “It appears we’ve arrived.”
Seeing as how Maggie was a Goode and the mama of a trouble-prone child, she knew evasion when she saw it. She made a mental note to ask more about the mysterious Mrs. Kent later. For now, she peered eagerly out at the accommodations—and her breath lodged in her throat.
This was Mivart’s? Sweet heavens, it looked like apalace.
Lit by street lamps, the Palladian façade gleamed white as the moon against the night sky. It stood four grand stories, and the entrance was flanked by fluted columns, gleaming conveyances jostling for prime parking space. Liveried footmen dashed forward to assist well-dressed patrons from their carriages.
Entering the hotel was like stepping into a faerie tale castle. The marble floors gleamed so much that Maggie feared she might slip on them. For once, even Glory was quiet, her jaw slack and gaze wide as she took in the opulent lobby. Everywhere was polished wood, silver, and shining glass. Red carpeted stairs flowed up a grand stairwell.
As Rhys was met by the hotelier, who bowed low and greeted him as “Your Grace,” Maggie couldn’t help but stare at the guests milling about the lobby. Even though it was nearing midnight, people were heading out, draped in velvet, jewels, and finery so resplendent that Maggie thought they must be royalty. She gave a self-conscious tug at her traveling cloak, which was twice dyed over and fraying at the seams.
Glory’s hand crept into hers. “Are you sure Mr. Jones…um, I mean, Ransom, has the correct hotel, Mama?” she asked, her voice hushed with wonder. “Are we really staying here?”
Maggie and Rhys had agreed that it would be best to share his true identity with Glory but to withhold the fact that he was her father for now. It was for Glory’s safety. If the cutthroats discovered that she was Rhys’s child, she might also become a target.
Moreover, too much was unsettled between Maggie and Rhys. She didn’t want to confuse Glory…or raise the girl’s hopes.
Learning that Rhys was a duke seemed to have no quelling effect on Glory’s affection for him. Instead, she’d pestered him with questions. How many servants did he have? How many houses did he own? Did he sup with the queen?
As per his style, he’d provided matter-of-fact answers. He’d lost his houses and servants because of bad investments. And yes, he had been at Court, but it had been quite some time since his last visit. He was trying to rebuild his fortune by locating the inheritance left to him by his uncle, the diamond they’d located at St. Candida being part of that trove.
Being part of a grand treasure-seeking adventure had sent Glory into paroxysms of delight. She’d given Rhys her word—and a pinky swear—to carry on with discretion. It wouldn’t do for others to catch wind of the missing treasure; the last thing they needed were rivals for the prize.
To prevent undue scrutiny about Glory’s presence, she would be presented as Uncle Horatio’s former ward and now Rhys’s. As the widowed mother of Rhys’s new “ward,” Maggie would have a socially acceptable reason to be there as well, one that would not cause undue gossip and speculation.
Now she squeezed her daughter’s hand.
“Ransom knows what he is about,” she said. “We’ll be in our chambers soon enough.”
The hotelier himself led their party to rooms on the third floor. Rhys went to attend to some business, leaving Maggie, Hypatia, and Glory to explore their accommodations. They began with Maggie’s sitting room. Done in shades of cameo blue and cream, it was fit for a queen. And Maggiefeltlike a queen when she discovered that Rhys had arranged a lady’s maid for her. Bertha, a cheerful, no-nonsense sort, greeted her with a curtsy and told her she would get to work unpacking.
“I didn’t bring much,” Maggie said ruefully, thinking of the two black dresses, one nightgown, and set of plain unmentionables in her trunk.
“Oh, I wasn’t talking about what you brought, ma’am, but what came for you earlier. It’s all in the bedchamber.” A twinkle lit Bertha’s eyes. “A mountain of boxes from some of the finest shops in London.”
Entering the bedchamber, Maggie saw that the maid hadn’t exaggerated. Stacks of boxes stood by the canopied bed. Although she didn’t know the names of the establishments stamped on each, the gilt curlicues and flourishes left no doubt that they were exclusive. Lifting the lid of a flat dress box stamped “Maison de Rousseau,” she parted the tissue wrapping…and her breath caught.
The dress was the finest she’d ever seen. It was a ball gown, wholly impractical given that she would have no occasion to wear it, but she couldn’t stop herself from reverently stroking the rich emerald silk.
“Oh, Mama, that color will look beautiful on you,” Glory said with a sigh.
“But how did all this get here?” she murmured.
