Chapter One
London 1818
“Why are youhere?”
Charlotte Dickson looked across the elegant tea table to meet her aunt’s querying gaze. She appreciated the bluntness of the question.
Though the Dowager Countess of Henmere was the younger sister of Charlotte’s father, prior to fifteen minutes ago, they hadn’t been in each other’s company since Charlotte was a very small child. No doubt, her letter announcing her impending arrival in London had come as a surprise to her aunt.
“Don’t mistake my question, dear,” the countess added when Charlotte didn’t answer right away. “I’m delighted to have you back in England after so long, despite the visit being triggered by such a sorrowful loss.”
The genuine sadness in the older lady’s eyes tugged sharply at the pain in Charlotte’s heart. Her mother had been gone for months now, but the incredible wound left by her death hadn’t even begun to heal. She had, however, become exceptionally adept at avoiding that debilitating pain. Forcing the heft and breadth of her grief back into the farthest corner of her being,she lifted her chin and repeated what she’d already explained in her letter. “I wish to find a husband.”
The countess leaned back in the plush armchair. Her casual posture belied her quietly assessing stare.
“And I will certainly sponsor you for a season, if that is your wish.” Her lips tilted upward. “Having no children of my own, I find myself invigorated by the prospect. But I suspect there is something more to your sudden desire to enter London society.” Lady Henmere gave Charlotte another curious look. “I hope you know you can trust me to be fully honest.”
The woman was far more perceptive than Charlotte had anticipated. Half-truths were not going to satisfy the countess. Taking a breath, she acknowledged the rise of fury that burned through her chest as she considered what had driven her from the life she’d adored in Paris to the colorless city of London.
Charlotte was not a vengeful, angry person. Not really. Not at her core. But very recently, for the first time in her life, she discovered that she could truly, deeply hate someone.Twosomeones to be exact. It was not a natural feeling. But the debilitating, numbing grief that had been her constant companion since her mother’s passing allowed Charlotte to revel in her uncharacteristic wrath. Perhaps a bit more than she should.
She’d discovered it was far more productive to indulge the anger than to drown in sadness.
Keeping her voice even, she met the other woman’s steady gaze. “In Mama’s last months, she was terribly ill. When it became clear she would not recover from her ailment”—thickness gathered in Charlotte’s throat, but she swallowed it down—“she faced her death in the way she faced everything—with grace and compassion and selfless concern for the inevitable suffering of those who would miss her most. She accepted what she couldn’t change…with one tragic exception.”Her stomach churned and her voice hardened. “Several weeks after her death, when I finally felt capable of sorting through her things, I found a letter she had sent to her parents.”
The countess gasped softly as dread mingled with the grief in her eyes.
“Itbeggedthem to forgive her and allow her to return to the home of her youth,” Charlotte continued, her jaw tense with the words she was forced to say. “In her final days, she pleaded for their mercy and their love. Do you want to know their response?”
Lady Henmere’s lips parted but all she managed was a small nod.
“They sent the letter back—seal unbroken—with a single message scrawled across it:Sender Unknown.” Charlotte’s fingernails bit into her palms as she tightened her fists in the folds of her skirt. A choking thickness threatened to close her throat but she forced herself to speak past it. “Unknown.Their own daughter. My mother died still longing for their forgiveness and understanding. They couldn’t even be bothered to read her letter.”
Silence followed her explanation as her aunt closed her eyes and took a deep breath. After a long moment, she opened them. Compassion softened her voice. “Your mother deserved so much better. It breaks my heart to know she experienced such a deep disappointment.” She tilted her head. “But I’m afraid you still haven’t answered my question. Why are you here, Charlotte?”
She did not know her aunt well enough to discern by the other woman’s tense, drawn expression whether she would be an ally to her purpose. The countess had no significant reason to help her. Her aunt had stayed in correspondence with her mother—their friendship continuing even after Charlotte’s father died and her aunt married the wealthy Earl of Henmere.But there was no guarantee that the woman’s affection and loyalty for her brother’s widow would transfer to their only child.
The tremor that rolled through her body might have been an internal warning to reconsider her purpose. Charlotte ignored it. She would not be deterred—not even by her conscience.
“Mama’s parents disowned her because she’d refused to marry the wretched man they’d chosen for her and married my father for love instead. Their social ambition was so strong it trumped their love for their own child.”
Charlotte lifted her chin and spoke with cold, unabashed ire. “I’m here to find the wealthiest, most powerful husband in London. And once I am his wife, I will ensure the Viscount and Viscountess of Eastleigh have every door they’d ever wanted open to them slammed in their faces.”
The countess’s eyes widened at the vicious admission. “You would marry for the sole purpose of vengeance?”
Charlotte didn’t hesitate. “I would.”
Her mother may have desired peace and forgiveness in her final months, but Charlotte never could.
For eloping with the penniless son of a Scottish baron, Sarah Dickson had been dealt a swift and cruel punishment. Disowned. Discarded. Her very existence denied. Lord and Lady Eastleigh’s evil ambition could not go unanswered. If her aunt would not help her in that endeavor, Charlotte would find another way.
“You must know this will not be an easy task to accomplish,” the countess noted.
“I will not fail.”
The other woman made a short sound in the back of her throat and a hard glint entered her gaze. “We’ll need some help.”
A few minutesbefore midnight the next evening, Charlotte left her aunt’s townhouse in Mayfair to travel by unmarked carriage to an appointment with a mysterious woman known as the Black Widow of Whitehall. She was the proprietress of the Lyon’s Den, a successful and popular gambling club renowned for its unusual bets and other entertainments.
