“I have heard whispers about a woman called Mrs. Dove-Lyon. She runs an establishment called the Lyon’s Den. Ostensibly a gambling house, but there are rumors of another service she provides. A matchmaking service of sorts. For women in desperate circumstances.”
“Matchmaking?” Victoria felt her stomach turn. “You mean—”
“I mean that she has ways of encouraging suitable gentlemen to offer marriage. Discreet ways. Binding ways.” Her mother twisted her wedding ring around her finger, a nervous habit that had worsened. “Lady Fairmont’s cousin found herself in difficulties last year. Not as severe as yours, but significant. She visited Mrs. Dove-Lyon, and within a month, she was married to a wealthy merchant.”
“Mother, you cannot be suggesting I—”
“What else would you have us do?” The words burst from her mother. “Thetonhas a short memory for small infractions, but this? This will define you forever. Define us all. Margaret is seventeen, Anne fifteen. What chances will they have with a ruined sister? What chances will any of us have?”
Victoria closed her eyes, feeling the weight of her family’s future pressing down on her. She thought of her sisters’ bright faces, their innocent excitement about their eventual debuts. And she’d have destroyed all of it because she had been foolish enough to believe a forged note.
“How would I even—”
“The blue house on Cleveland Row. Number forty-seven.” Her mother spoke quickly, as if afraid she might lose her nerve. “You would need to go veiled, of course. This evening, while your father is at his club.”
The words hung between them, an invitation to a path Victoria had never imagined taking. She looked around the room, seeing all the small economies they practiced—the paintings sold last year, the gaps on the mantel where silver candlesticks once stood. They were genteel poor, maintaining appearances through careful management. But without decent marriages for the girls, even this modest comfort would eventually disappear.
“I will go,” she heard herself say, though the words seemed to come from far away.
***
Four hours later, Victoria stood before a narrow blue door on Cleveland Row, her face hidden beneath a heavy mourning veil she had borrowed from her mother’s wardrobe. Her gloved hands trembled as she raised them to knock, the sound echoing down the quiet street. The door opened immediately, as if someone had been watching for her arrival.
A footman in dark livery, his face carefully expressionless, led her through a dimly lit hallway that smelled of beeswax and something else, perhaps incense, or some exotic perfume. He showed her into a small parlor decorated in shades of black and deep purple, the curtains drawn against the afternoon sun.
She did not wait long. The door opened, and Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon entered with the grace of a queen granting an audience. Victoria had expected someone garish or obviously mercenary. Instead, the woman before her was draped in expensive mourning clothes, her face obscured by black lace that revealed only the pale curve of her jaw and the red slash of her lips.
“Lady Victoria Richmond.” The voice was cultured and smooth. “I wondered when you might arrive.”
“You know who I am?”
“I make it my business to know about all of society’s little disasters.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon settled into a chair, her movements precise. “Your situation has been thoroughly discussed. Lord Sterling has been most vocal about his version of events.”
Victoria’s jaw clenched. “Then you know I was the victim, not the instigator.”
“What I know and what society believes are often at odds.” The widow tilted her head, studying Victoria through her veil. “But I am not in the business of judgment. I am in the business of solutions. You require a husband. Immediately. Someone of sufficient standing to restore your reputation.”
“Yes.” The single word felt like surrender.
“My fee is one thousand pounds, plus ten percent of any marriage settlement. Everything you possess, I believe?”
Victoria’s breath caught. It was everything—her dowry and the small inheritance from her mother’s aunt. “How did you—”
“As I said, I make it my business to know.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon leaned forward slightly. “The gentleman I have in mind will participate in what I call the Riddle Challenge. Three riddles, traditional stakes. If he answers correctly, he wins five thousand pounds.”
“And if he fails, he must marry me.” Victoria’s stomach churned. “You are proposing to trap an innocent gentleman into marriage.”
“I am proposing to save your entire family from social ruin.” The widow’s voice held no sympathy, only cold practicality. “The game is completely fair. If the gentleman is clever enough, he wins a fortune. If not, he gains a beautiful, accomplished wife who will be so grateful for salvation that she will make him an exemplary partner. Where is the harm?”
Victoria thought of her sisters, of her mother’s tears, of the sneers that followed her even veiled and hidden. “Who is the gentleman?”
“That remains to be seen. I have several candidates in mind. All men of good fortune but perhaps lacking in caution. The type who might accept a challenge after sufficient wine and in the spirit of competition.” She produced a document from a drawer. “If you agree to my terms, sign here.”
The contract was dense with legal language, but the essentials were clear. Victoria would pay everything she had for Mrs. Dove-Lyon to secure her a husband through whatever means necessary. Her hand shook as she took the pen.
“One thing troubles me,” she said, hesitating above the signature line. “What if I am condemning some good man to a life of misery? What if he never forgives me?”
“My dear girl,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s lips curved in what might have been a smile beneath her veil, “in my experience, men who gamble away their freedom rarely deserve much pity. Besides, would you rather preserve the freedom of a stranger or save your sisters from spinsterhood and poverty?”
