Charlotte couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. The neighborhood seemed respectable, and the house itself, painted a pretty pale blue, looked perfectly innocuous. They entered the premises through a small iron gate and Charlotte paused to takein the meticulously kept garden. Tall trees encircled the edges of the small space, giving the property a measure of privacy.
A broad-shouldered, thick-necked footman who greeted them at the door was the first oddity she could notice. He demanded to have their names, speaking in a low growl that brought Cerberus to mind, and Charlotte suspected his purpose was more to guard than it was to greet. After Mrs. Warsham gave their names and confirmed they had an appointment with Mrs. Dove-Lyon, he directed them to a separate entrance—a second oddity—where they were met by a strikingly tall woman who wore her luscious black curls platted and twisted into a chignon and whose dark eyes were framed by thick, black lashes. She seemed to be expecting them and introduced herself as Hermia. They followed her along a hallway, its marble floors covered by a wide runner with an exquisite red and gold design that extended up the mahogany banister staircase. Raucous laughter, music, and noises of merriment reverberated throughout the house but grew distant as they climbed to the second floor. Hermia led them across the landing and stopped in front of a door, which, after knocking, she swung open and announced their arrival most unusually.
“They’re here,” Hermia said, with shocking informality, and without announcing their names.
The innocuous-looking, pale-blue house had certainly taken a strange turn.
Hermia ushered them inside a large room and then retreated. Charlotte looked to see that it housed a sturdy mahogany desk, a bookcase crammed with all manner of books, and a seating area consisting of a plush, red velvet settee and three matching chairs. A regal-looking woman, clad in a long-sleeved, fitted black dress made from the finest silk and donning a black veil, rose out of her chair from behind her desk and greeted her guests.
Mrs. Warsham and Lady Rose both lifted their veils. Charlotte followed suit, but their hostess kept hers in place.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet us,” Mrs. Warsham said.
But Mrs. Dove-Lyon had already turned her attention to Charlotte.
“And who might you be, my dear? The daughter of one of these lovely ladies, no doubt?” The woman’s gauzy black veil hid her features, but her voice was confident and firm as though she never doubted herself and checking whether she’d guessed Charlotte’s identity correctly or not was an unnecessary courtesy. Charlotte felt a tinge of admiration.
“May I introduce my daughter, Miss Charlotte Rose,” Lady Rose said.
“I’m pleased to meet you, ma’am,” Charlotte said.
“The Rose of Mayfair.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon peered at Charlotte’s face. “Lovely,” she said. “A true gem. Such beautiful green eyes paired with a pale complexion, and—” she touched a lock of Charlotte’s hair—“what an unusual color; it’s like the sunrise. A perfect combination. I can see why you earned your moniker. Yet, you remain unmarried.”
Charlotte’s cheeks heated.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon gestured toward the red sofa, indicating to the three women that they should sit. She then took a seat across from them. “Well, ladies, might I assume this meeting has something to do with Mrs. Warsham’s son and this lovely rose?”
Charlotte gasped.What is she talking about?
“I’m not aware of any such discussion.” Lady Rose turned the color of snow lilies. “Georgianna said nothing of the sort in her letter to me. All she asked was that we meet, and I only allowed Charlotte to come along because she insisted upon it. As of yet, I have no idea why Georgianna requested that we meet at your establishment.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon raised her eyebrows. “No idea at all?”
“None. All Georgianna said was that the two of you were acquainted and that you are a very clever woman who’d helped her solve a problem once before.”
Mrs. Warsham cleared her throat. “Yes, it was many years ago. When Mrs. Dove-Lyon was—”
“We are not here to discuss me or my past.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s voice struck the air with the force of Zeus’s thunderbolt.
Mrs. Warsham fell silent.
“Now, how can I be of service, ladies?” Mrs. Dove Lyon dropped the hardness from her tone.
Mrs. Warsham cleared her throat. “You will no doubt have heard that since our return to London, my husband and Sir Benedict are at odds again.”
“I did hear about some sort of scuffle at a certain gentleman’s club,” she said.
“It was more than a scuffle,” Lady Rose interjected. “Sir Benedict came home wheezing and clutching his chest. I thought he was going to die right in our drawing room. He’s not been in the best health, and the dredging up of an old feud is downright dangerous. I am certain Georgianna is equally as worried for her husband.”
“Of course. I am grieved both for the detrimental effect on his health and for the health and happiness of my dear friend Julia and her family. But there’s more at stake than that—” she inhaled before continuing—“my son Hugh stands to inherit quite a large fortune from my papa upon his marriage.”
“I’ve heard as much.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon leaned forward.
“So, you see, it will not do to have General Warsham running about making enemies of half the men in London when my son needs to find a wife.”
“Why do you say, ‘half the men in London’?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon asked. “Isn’t this feud strictly between your husband and Sir Benedict?”
“It is now, but do not underestimate the general. He thinks like a military man. He is used to fighting battles with an army, not alone. He will want to mobilize support, which he will find amongst his friends—those retired officers and colonels who served with him—and what now looks like an unpleasant incident could turn into a war with people taking sides and turning against one another.”
