Georgina could—and usually did—trust her friends with her confidences, just as they entrusted their secrets to her.
Had she shared her plans, of a certainty they would have insisted upon joining her. They would also have pressed her for answers.
She nearly ran into the back of the man before her when the group she followed halted suddenly. Rising onto her tiptoes, she peered over their shoulders, relieved at the sight of another open door, and the gambling floor beyond.
Without warning, one of the men exhaled a plume of cigar smoke into her face. Her mouth opened to vent her shocked outrage. At the last second, she recalled thatshewas ahe,and snapped her mouth shut.
Tugging at her waistcoat in the way she’d seen countless men do over the years, she rounded the group and entered the Lyon’s Den.
She linked her hands behind her and sauntered forward, eyeing the ongoing games she passed with a considering eye, as if deciding which one she should join.
With effort, she kept her expression neutral. Inwardly, she marveled at the sights she beheld. She’d expected clusters of men shouting over tossed dice, or huddled over their cards, seated around green baize tables, and she did see some of that.
She also saw several other activities she could not hope to make sense of. Such as here, where three or four men chugged some truly abhorrent looking, chunk-filled brownish liquid from crystal glasses while spectators chanted,drink, drink, drink. When one of the men began to retch into the very glass from which he drank, she quickened her pace.
Next she witnessed a handful of blindfolded men who wandered about, arms outstretched before them. As far as she could tell, they were searching a shelving unit for something. She flinched, despite her best efforts, when one of the men abruptly screamed and cradled oneof his hands to his chest. Blood sprayed from the limb, making a God-awful mess. Evidently, he’d sliced it on…Georgina peered closer and stifled a gasp. An assortment of knives covered the shelves, their blades glinting with the reflected light from the chandeliers above.
Oh, how she wished her friends were here just now.
She moved on. When she glimpsed a woman playing her flute in an attempt to lure a lethal looking snake from a tall basket, and doing a fine job it by the look of things, she decided she’d seen quite enough. Spotting a woman carrying a tray of refreshments, she marched toward her.
The woman arched her brows in silent query and Georgina took the plunge, casting her voice as low as she could manage. “I wish to speak with Mrs. Dove-Lyon about a private matter.”
“Oh, aye? And you are?”
She thought she detected amusement in the woman’s eyes. She cleared her throat. “Mr. George Evans, miss.”
A slow smile spread over the woman’s face. “Aye,sir.If you’ll follow me?”
In the next instant, Georgina was led off the gaming floor, through a web of interconnected corridors, to a small parlor where she was bid wait.
The moment the door closed, Georgina swept her beaver hat from her head, smoothed her burgeoning curls into a semblance of submission, and eyed the chamber.
Stuttering candlelight and a burning fire in the grate illuminated walls papered in sedate-charcoal and pale-gray stripes. A pewter velvet sofa and two silver satin armchairs encircled a low, polished wood table. The usual sort of artwork adorned the walls. The parlor might grace any of the upper-class homes in the area.
But upon closer inspection, Georgina recognized wear in sections of carpet, lumps in the sofa cushions, and the strong smokey odor in the air said the candles were not fashioned of beeswax, but tallow.
She recalled what she knew of Mrs. Dove-Lyon taken from Lady Harriet’s description. She bore the moniker of the Black Widow of Whitehall because she wore her widow’s weeds to the exclusion of all else. No one knew precisely what she looked like beneath her black lace and netted cap.
A widow whose husband, a colonel, purportedly much older than her, died unexpectedly and left her this house—and a boatload of debt—had risen from the ashes to create this establishment. She had a reputation for being a hard-nosed businesswoman, for aiding women of means in procuring husbands, and for having an uncanny ability to obtain difficult-to-come-by information.
It was the latter that had drawn Georgina here, and she prayed the woman could help her. For that matter, she prayed shewouldhelp her. Georgina had only the names of her friends to proffer in hopes of gaining the woman’s cooperation—and a promise of payment for services rendered.
Minutes that felt like hours ticked by and she began to wonder if the proprietress meant to see her at all. She had nearly made up her mind to search out another servant to fetch her when the door to the chamber opened, and a petite woman who was nevertheless taller than Georgina, entered.
She wore the expected black weeds of widowhood, down to her netted black cap which concealed most of her hair, and all of her face, save for her mouth.
The woman angled her face toward Georgina, presumably taking in her appearance. Presumably. Georgina could not make out the widow’s eyes.
“How do you do, Lady Belfry? I am the proprietress of this establishment, Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon, at your service. I admit I am surprised to see you here.”
Georgina gasped at hearing her own name. The woman had not only discerned that she was no man, but knew her on sight? How wasthat possible?
Mrs. Dove-Lyon gave a small huff that communicated both chagrin and amusement. “I also admit to being a little awed, which is a rare occurrence for me, indeed.”
Georgina’s natural curiosity overtook some of her shock. “Awed, madam?”
“I have read each of your novels, Lady Belfry. I confess I was not a fan of romantic fiction before reading one of yours.” Her lips twitched. “I find your stories entertaining and somehow, true to life. I almost get the impression they describe events that actually took place.”
