Apparently, for a hefty fee, the Black Widow was also available to assist young women in making advantageous matches with the gentlemen who frequented her club. Though Charlotte was initially resistant to the idea of enlisting a stranger for such a task, the countess assured her that the Black Widow was utterly discreet. Not only that, her methods had proven to be effective when extenuating circumstances challenged the usual route of husband-hunting.
Though her aunt had wanted to accompany her to the appointment, Charlotte had insisted upon going alone. She did not want to embroil the other woman any more than necessary in her plans. There was no telling how far she’d have to go to accomplish her goals, so the less in which the countess was directly involved, the less she could be held accountable for Charlotte’s actions.
Gratefully, she had her own money to purchase the Black Widow’s assistance—should she decide it was what she wanted.
Her mother had not died a poor and lonely soul despite her parents’ heartless rejection and the early tragic loss of her beloved husband less than four years into their marriage. Charlotte had inherited an unbelievable fortune in jewels and other extravagant gifts her mother had received from her admirers over the years. Sarah Dickson’s passing had been mourned across Europe. But not nearly with as much fervor as it was mourned within the heart of her only daughter. Charlotte would have traded all the jewels in the world for just a few more years with her mother. Instead, she would use her misbegottenwealth to destroy the two people who’d hurt her mother more than anyone else ever could have.
The building on Cleveland Row which housed the Lyon’s Den was larger than Charlotte had expected. Painted a pale blue, it rose four stories and housed what appeared to be small shops lining the street level. Though the shops were all closed at such a late hour, the rest of the building spilled light from its windows and displayed significant signs of life within.
As her carriage pulled to a stop, Charlotte leaned forward to peer out the window. Her aunt’s words of caution echoed in her mind. “You’ll have to be very careful, my dear, not to be seen entering or exiting the premises. Just a whisper of your presence at such a place could be your ruin.”
Another reminder of how different her existence would be once she entered London society. Charlotte’s life with her mother had never required such affectations or subterfuge. Within the bohemian community in which they’d resided, people were valued for who they truly were, not for what the world wanted them to be. Individuality and beauty of spirit were celebrated while ideals of soulless propriety were scoffed at.
Even so, she pulled her hooded cloak more securely around her face and form, concealing anything that might reveal her identity, before exiting the vehicle. As soon as she stepped to the pavement, a large hulking figure of a man stepped from the shadows.
“Can I help you, miss?” he asked, his tone polite and even.
“I’ve an appointment with Mrs. Dove-Lyon,” she answered in kind, keeping her chin lowered and her features in shadow.
The man nodded then gestured for her to follow him. He led her around the corner of the building. “This entrance is reserved exclusively for our female guests,” he explained gruffly.
Opening a door that revealed a quiet stairway, he gave a nod. As soon as she crossed the threshold, he closed the door behindher while he remained outside. It was all very mysterious and intriguing and certainly tickled Charlotte’s natural appreciation for the theatrical. The lighting was dim but she could hear the muffled echo of music layered with a wealth of voices and other indistinct noises. At the top of the stairs, she stepped into a small entryway where a woman awaited her with a quick but not unkind smile.
“Miss Dickson?”
Charlotte nodded.
“I am Hermia. I shall escort you to Mrs. Dove-Lyon. This way please.”
The elegant Hermia led her through lush and opulent interiors with thick carpets underfoot, silk-covered walls, and paintings that many would consider scandalous but which only partially piqued Charlotte’s curiosity. Having grown up amongst the inspired artists of Paris, she’d seen an endless array of subject matter portrayed in various forms. From the virtuous and mundane to the sensual and licentious. Though not shocked by the extremely carnal images depicted, she was a bit surprised to see that these examples were of exceptional quality and had likely been done by masters of their medium.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s taste in artwork—though undeniably wicked—was also quite expensive and rather impressive.
When they finally reached a door painted black, Hermia gave a sharp knock which was promptly answered by a call to enter. With a nod and another smile, Charlotte’s escort stepped away, leaving her to enter the Black Widow of Whitehall’s den alone.
The room was as luxurious as the other rooms she’d passed through, but Charlotte’s attention focused intently upon the woman—dressed in swaths of all black with a veil covering her face—rising to her feet behind a wide desk.
“Welcome, Miss Dickson,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said in a tone that was amiable and concise as she gestured to a pair of chairs facing the fireplace. “Do come sit and we’ll have a nice talk.”
There was only the briefest hesitation as Charlotte experienced a distinct sense that the next minutes would be instrumental in dictating the rest of her life. She only had a single moment to commit to her path or turn away from all of it.
She stepped forward with her gaze steady. “Thank you for seeing me, Mrs. Dove-Lyon.”
The Black Widow tilted her head and Charlotte thought she detected a faint smile behind the fall of the veil. “Of course. How could I refuse an audience with the daughter of the illustrious Sarah Bell?”
Charlotte had just reached the chair and tensed sharply at the woman’s words.
Once known in England as Miss Sarah Ballard then Mrs. Sarah Dickson upon her marriage, Charlotte’s mother had eventually become much better known across Continental Europe as Sarah Bell, a famous and beloved actress who’d graced the finest theaters throughout Italy and then France. Her popularity amongst the elite of European society was only surpassed by the utter devotion shown to her by the artists she so adored and supported in any way she could. A muse to many, her face and figure had been recreated countless times by artistic masters.
“How did you know?” Charlotte asked stiffly.
The other woman shrugged. “I know many things.”
“You knew my mother?”
“Knewofher,” the Widow replied as she swept forward to take a seat. “Her talent on the stage was such that her admirers’ praises reached us even here in the dull lanes of London, as did the very sad news of her passing. I do wish I could’ve seen her perform. I am deeply sorry for your loss, Miss Dickson.”
Swallowing past the constriction in her throat, Charlotte grasped hard to the anger that always arose with her grief as she took her place in the other chair. “Thank you,” she replied.
