For the first time since Charlotte had joined her, the Black Widow of Whitehall turned to gaze at her. “Your lack of confidence borders on the offensive. This is why you came to me.”
“My apologies. I have a tendency to speak rather bluntly. I’m afraid my life up until now has encouraged in me a freedom of thought and expression that is not so readily accepted in this foreign society,” Charlotte confessed. “Truly, I meant no offense.”
“Hmm,” the lady replied, neither rejecting nor accepting Charlotte’s apology. “Due to the nature of these unexpected circumstances, you must decide quickly. The marquess growsimpatient,” she noted with a nod toward the far corner of the gaming room.
Charlotte followed her gaze to see a tall, black-haired, impeccably dressed man standing before a large bouncer as he appeared to be making some rather sharp demands.
Scorching heat infused her body in a breath-stealing wave.
It was him. The Marquess of Redington. The third person on her list of people she hated. Fate couldn’t possibly have such a cruel sense of humor.
“Heir to the Duke of Lindley and blessed with every one of your desired qualities and then some,” the Widow noted casually. “Do you want him, Miss Dickson?”
Charlote hesitated. She had no idea why. But in that long moment before her reply, she allowed her gaze to take in the sight of his impressive form, the stern yet inexcusably handsome lines of his profile, the way he commanded attention with a bare minimum effort.
He would make a formidable ally.
But he had made his position clear earlier tonight. He was her enemy.
“No.”
Her reply clearly surprised the woman beside her as Mrs. Dove-Lyon turned to face her more fully. “No?”
“Anyone but him,” Charlotte noted even as an odd resistance seemed to rise within her. She honestly couldn’t be certain the resistance was due to the idea of taking the marquess as husband or to her own rejection of him. She was self-aware enough to know that if the unfortunate incident at the ball had never happened—if he’d never looked at her with such contempt and growled such an insulting accusation, she’d likely have accepted him without a second thought.
She had no illusions that the arrangement she sought was cold-blooded in the extreme. But the boldly attractive marquessprobably could have tempted her to hope for some of the other benefits marriage could provide. Intimate benefits.
“Are you sure?” the Widow pressed.
Charlotte gave a hard shake of her head, not even realizing it belied her words. “Quite sure. I would just as soon see that man brought to his knees than brought to the altar.”
The vehemence in her tone hovered in the air for a long moment as the Widow simply stared back at her—the other woman’s gaze a mysterious and unsettling shadow behind the concealing veil. Then the Widow turned to look down at the marquess. The silence extended long enough that Charlotte began to worry that she’d once again been far too candid.
Just when she decided she’d have to apologize, Mrs. Dove-Lyon looked back at her and gave a subtle gesture. “That too, can be arranged, my dear.”
Tensing at the sultry, suggestive note in the other woman’s tone, Charlotte asked, “What do you mean?”
“Frankly, your reaction intrigues me, Miss Dickson. And I’m feeling rather generous this evening. If you’d like to see the marquess humbled before you…I could arrange that.”
A strange thrill raced along Charlotte’s nerves, lifting the fine hairs on her nape. Heat once again infused her blood. With her breath shortened, she turned her gaze back to the man below. At that moment, the bouncer gestured in their direction, causing the marquess to lift his dark, penetrating gaze. For a moment, Charlotte feared he might recognize her. Then she remembered that she was swathed head to toe in her cloak. At best, he might get the impression of a shadowed face. Besides, it was clear when his features transformed into a heavy scowl that his current wrath was directed to Mrs. Dove-Lyon.
Even with an expression so fierce and impatient, he was compellingly handsome.
“For an additional fee?” she asked before she could think better of it.
“No, darling, for my amusement,” the Widow declared, a smile evident in her tone. “I’m rather attracted to the drama of the idea. And I suspect that if anyone can bring the very proper lord down a peg or two, it might be you, Miss Dickson. Of course, you will be required to display a certain flare for drama. You will also have to be capable of projecting a bold authoritative command,” the Widow added slyly. “But I don’t believe you’ll have a problem with that.”
Without even waiting for Charlotte to agree to this new scheme, the other woman turned and strode purposefully away from the balcony. “Come along. You’ll have to ready yourself while I make the necessary arrangements.”
Chapter Five
Still uncertain exactlywhat was being suggested, Charlotte’s curiosity and a lingering thrill urged her to follow the other woman through a door and up a flight of stairs to the uppermost level of the club. Mrs. Dove-Lyon knocked on a door along a short hallway and was immediately given leave to enter. Stepping into a modest sized room that appeared to mainly be in use as a dressing room, Charlotte noted the presence of a stunning woman in a red silk robe sitting at a vanity. Though she appeared to be in the process of unpinning her hair, the woman glanced over her shoulder at their entrance with a look of query in her eyes.
“Pardon the intrusion, Mademoiselle Amélie, but I have a unique request.”
Amélie lowered her arms, allowing her hair to fall down her back as she turned toward them more fully. “Of course, Madame,” she replied, her words heavily accented in French.
“I’d like you to assist Miss Dickson by allowing her to borrow one of your costumes for the evening. She’ll also need a mask to disguise her identity and any other accoutrements you deem appropriate.”
