Gesturing to the decanter and crystal glasses on the table between them, Mrs. Dove-Lyon asked, “Sherry?”
Charlotte nodded.
Once their glasses were poured, the black-veiled woman eased back in her chair and stared at Charlotte with calm attention. “Now, why don’t you tell me why you’ve sought my assistance.”
“I understand you have a talent for making impossible matches within the haute ton.”
The Black Widow laughed. “More a highly developed skill than a talent, but yes, I have had significant success in that arena. Are you in the market for a husband?”
“I am,” Charlotte confirmed. “But I have some specific requirements.”
A pause. “Oh? Such as?”
“I need a gentleman of extreme wealth, impeccable family pedigree, and the highest social influence. He must be someone who inspires awe and envy in all who know him and all who wish to know him.”
“Is that all?”
The Widow’s dry tone was unmistakable but Charlotte would not be deterred by the challenge her requirements might present.
She leaned forward, finding the shadow of the other woman’s gaze. “Allow me to be crudely blunt, Mrs. Dove-Lyon. I want…a king.”
A smile curved behind the veil. “I’m afraid they’re all rather taken.”
“A prince, then.”
The Widow chuckled and took a sip of her sherry, not bothering to reply.
Charlotte sat back in her chair. A rush of frustration made her next words testy. “What is the highest youcanprocure?”
A moment of silence followed her curt demand before the other woman spoke with an undeniable hint of censure at Charlotte’s disrespect. “I should be able to get you a duke.”
“As long as he possesses the qualities I’ve listed, I suppose that should be good enough.”
“Hm.” There was a curious note to the single syllable. “Your demands are not terribly unusual, yet I suspect they are motivated by something far darker than ambition,” the Black Widow mused. “Anything you say here will be between the two of us only. The more I know about your desires, the more I shall be able to accommodate them. What is it you truly want to gain in this union, Miss Dickson?”
Charlotte took a heavy breath and spoke the truest word she knew. “Revenge.”
There was only a brief pause then the Black Widow lifted her glass in a toast.
“Now, that is something I can work with.”
Chapter Two
It was notthree days later that Charlotte and her aunt attended the first ball of the London social season, a crucial step in Charlotte’s scheme. Even though she had Mrs. Dove-Lyon enlisted to assist her in making a proper match, it was still necessary to do her due diligence in making the rounds of the marriage mart. She would have to see and be seen with all the right people at all the right parties in order to present herself as a proper match to a peer of the realm and increase her chances.
Entering the opulent ballroom, she attempted to channel her mother’s endless sophistication, poise, and charm. It was not something that came naturally to her. Her mother had been the star while she’d always been content to reside within the warmth of her mother’s glow, avoiding the full light of center stage.
At twenty-two, Charlotte was not a fresh young debutante, naive and innocent of the world. Having grown up amongst the artists and poets and thespians of Europe, she was quite familiar with revelry in all its forms and had attended parties that occasionally went on for days. But the world of London’s social elite—with its many rules and manners and mores—was utterly foreign to her.
Gratefully, despite the free-spirited life she’d enjoyed, her mother had ensured that she was well-versed in proper etiquette and all the other expectations of polite society. She’d just never had cause to use them until now and the presence of such affectations felt awkward and forced.
Despite her very real physical discomfort at being under so many curious glances, she held her head high and stepped into the ballroom with all the grace she could muster. Strolling sedately beside her aunt, she tried to appear pleasant and approachable even as she gathered strength in recalling her purpose. This was no time for uncertainty and doubt. She could not afford to be soft. Not when those she conspired against were so undeniably heartless and cruel. She needed to be focused. Determined. Mercenary.
The ball was being hosted by the Countess of Byrne, a widow whose daughter and only child was making her come out. That, of course, meant the ballroom was nearly filled to overflowing with eligible bachelors along with the obligatory selection of debutantes and their chaperones.
Aunt Daphne had been quite plain in expressing to Charlotte that she would have her work cut out for her on the marriage mart. Being considered well past her prime when most of the other young ladies were barely eighteen, and a foreigner in some respects, made it difficult enough. Add to that the scandal of her mother’s elopement and her subsequently unconventional life on the Continent…
Charlotte would not be easily accepted amongst the haute ton.
