Chapter One
London, 1815
Lady Georgina Belfryhuffed in annoyance at herself and her seeming inability to quiet the butterflies swarming her midsection. Rumbling along in her father’s well-sprung carriage, moving ever closer to Cumberland Row in Whitehall, she laid a palm over her pillow-padded middle and drew a calming breath.
It was full-on dark now and she peered out one of the small-paned carriage windows into fog-shrouded streets, squinting against the glare of occasional streetlamps.
She would arrive soon. She must compose herself. She had chosen this course precisely because it was the only option open to her. She needed answers. Teddy was worth any effort, any fallout, any cost.
But, of course, there would be none of that. Because she could pull this off. She was merely playing a role—and she was used to managing alternate personas.
To most of the world, she was the unprepossessing daughter of the Baron and Baroness of Gladstone. Of diminutive height and average looks, and still unmarried at the ripe age of twenty-two, she was fast on her way to spinsterhood in the eyes of theton,and would remain so if she had anything to say aboutit—which she did.
She resided in her parents’ home at number 37 Rally Street, in a fashionable Mayfair neighborhood—thanks to her second persona having salvaged the townhouse from the moneylenders to whom her father had nearly lost the residence. That was a family secret.
Her interests ran to reading, perusing bookshops, especially the one her dear friend Margaret owned, and attending frequent salons of the Ladies’ Literary Society of London held at number 7 Dove Street, the manse of Lady Harriet Oglethorpe and Mrs. Margaret Sheridan.
The exclusive, invitation-only club operated under the cloak of respectability and convention as purported lovers of classical literature andbettering tractsfor ladies.
Indeed, she and her friends did enjoy reading the classics, very much. But they devoured works whose themes and subjects fell well outside the parameters society deemed acceptable for ladies. From lighthearted romantic novels to tragic exposés on women’s rights, or the lack thereof, particularly once the women married, from exciting, horrid novels to political treatises, from scintillating poetry to scientific and psychological studies, the ladies explored topics to their hearts’ content. If thetononly knew, the scandal would mark them all for life.
The Society numbered eight in total, and she counted each of the members as true friends. The most trusted of confidants, Georgina considered them closer than sisters.
As such, they were the only people—aside from her parents—who knew of her second persona, one G. T. Arlington, the best-selling romantic novelist of their time. To date, she had authored now five best-selling books, with a sixth on the way.
The carriage executed a sharp turn and she gripped the edge of the cushions with her black, slightly-too-large, glove-covered hands.
Not much longer now. Any minute, she would reach her destination, the Lyon’s Den, considered the most infamous gambling establishment in all of London.
Or rather, persona number three would. Tonight she was Mr.George Evans, a friend of her father’s in from out of town.
Recognizing the turn off for Cumberland Row, her pace skittered wildly despite her best efforts.
Closing her eyes, she mentally rehearsed her coming actions one final time. First, she would exit the carriage via the step Thomas would place.
No, she decided, eyes winking open. How could she so grossly miscalculate, after all her planning? No step. She must vault to the curb. Yes, she’d execute a jaunty vault. Then she’d march straight up the stone path to the front doors of the understated blue mansion.
Make thatswagger,ofcourse. She wasn’t thinking straight. Didn’t the cocksure men in her novels always vault from their carriages, swagger through crowds, and pass presumptively into gambling halls like it was their due?
The carriage rolled to a halt. She reached for the handle, then paused to remove her spectacles which she’d nearly forgotten she still wore. She folded them and set them on the cushion, swiped her palms down her waistcoat to smooth it and assure that the pillow beneath, used to enhance her girth, had not fallen out of place. Then, she flung open the carriage door.
A moment later she vaulted down. One ankle protested in earnest when she landed wrong. Nevertheless, she sent Thomas, her long-time groom, a “Cheerio, my good man,” and set off at a swagger, all confidence and verve.
Dressed as a man, with a letter of recommendation written in her father’s hand if questioned, her admittance was assured.
In the end,Georgie slipped into the gambling club with relative ease,attaching herself, as luck had it, to a group of young rakehells, whose raucous laughter and unsteady gaits said they’d imbibed a fair amount of spirits prior to their arrival. They paid no heed to her, loitering at their coattails.
The doorman, however, a large man with an intimidating scowl, fixed her with a suspicious eye—or so it seemed to her. When one of the young men began singingHealth to the King,and the others joined in, she raised her own voice in song.
“Come let us drink while we have breath, for there’s no drinking after deaaaath,”she intoned in a gravelly voice, and crossed the threshold into a large paneled, high-ceilinged foyer.
Once inside, she pulled her hat low on her forehead, pinched her gloves at her wrists, tugging them tight, and allowed herself a small, self-congratulatory grin. She’d done it. She’d made it in.
Then she glanced around her and her grin faded, along with her short-lived triumph. She’d somehow expected to find herself on the gaming floor immediately upon entering. Instead, she faced not one but two doorways. One door stood open, the other was shut. A darkened interior lay beyond the opened door. What stood beyond the closed door, God only knew.Bother. Now what? She had no notion other than a clear understanding she couldn’t simply loiter here.
In a split-second decision, she opted to follow the young men, most of whom had already passed into the darkened chamber. She hastened to catch up, wrinkling her nose when she found herself in a smoking chamber. With the scent of clove and tobacco smoke burning her nostrils, she silently bemoaned her decision not to ask her friends for advice this afternoon when their small club had convened at Lady Harriet and Margaret’s home.
She knew very well that fellow member, Gwen, also her editor, publisher, and arguably, closest friend, had visited Mrs. Dove-Lyon here once to make use of the woman’s unique matchmaking skills. Lady Harriet and another member, Amelia, had accompanied herbecause they, too, had been here and had experience in dealing with the so-called Black Widow of Whitehall.
