A footman approached. “Your Grace,” he said. “Mrs. Dove-Lyon has requested that you wait for her in her study.”
Chapter Three
Christiana arrived atthe Lyon’s Den wearing a veil that concealed her face and glasses. Her plan had been to reacquaint herself with the club, but the moment she entered the opulent doors, a footman detached himself and bowed.
“Miss Nightingale,” he said. “Mrs. Dove-Lyon will see you now.”
Ah, so the notorious Black Widow of Whitehall had eyes and ears everywhere. For them to have recognized her upon entry, they must have been following her progress to the club. No doubt Mrs. Dove-Lyon also knew where Christiana was staying—and probably even the name of the maid who attended her.
Really, she ought to have predicted this.
“Very well,” she said, lifting her chin. “Lead the way.”
With another bow, the footman led her through a door guarded by several burly men. Behind it was a pleasantly appointed library, two full bookcases lining the walls and a desk in the far corner. Twin sofas sat in the center of the room, a tray containing tea and scones placed carefully on a table between.
“She will be with you shortly,” the footman said, and he left, closing the door behind him.
Christiana sat, not allowing her growing panic to manifest into anything unhelpful. Now that she was here, all she could do was present her case to Mrs. Dove-Lyon. The lady was a fellow woman, after all, and yes, she had been married, but she surely understood the unfairness that came from being forced into a marriage not of one’s choosing.
Christiana would rather remain in London and gamble back her father’s debts than marry a gentleman she disliked. And, in all her four and twenty years, she had yet to discover a gentleman she liked. Even her dancing master, over whom all the girls at St. Mary’s had swooned, Christiana had found mildly distasteful.
Perhaps the problem lay with her. No gentleman had ever foundherattractive. Even the dancing master, a notorious flirt, had never attempted flirting with her.
The lack of attraction went both ways, it seemed. And while she could hardly expect to fall in love with a husband, she would rather like not to be an object of disgust, where possible.
The door opened, and a lady encased in scarves and a veil entered the room. Unlike Christiana’s veil, which swamped her, this lady’s revealed her thin mouth.
Christiana rose. “Mrs. Dove-Lyon, I presume?”
“And you must be Miss Nightingale.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon made no attempt to shake Christiana’s hand and instead poured two small cups of tea. Christiana produced her father’s letter and proffered it. Last night, she had lifted the seal from the paper and read the contents, which had not been illuminating.
As requested, here is my daughter. My debts are paid.
“My father thinks to sell me off,” Christiana said coolly. “However, I am here to inform you I cannot countenance that.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon crumpled the letter into a ball and tossed it into the small wastepaper bin in the corner. “No doubt,” shesaid. “And yet as the holder of your father’s debts, I must insist on seeing them paid.”
Once again, Christiana was compelled to try to keep her temper. “I understand that. But you are proposing to sell me in marriage.”
“I have a client in search of a wife, and I believe you are the ideal candidate.”
“Because I have no choice?”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon looked at her for a long, weightless moment. “If that were all it took, I could have married him to countless other desperate young ladies. I chose you because I knew you would have what it took to endure the burden of this particular match.”
“Pardon me?”
“Do you think me ignorant of your dealings?” she continued. “You have been to my establishment plenty of times in the past, and I have seen you in a variety of environments. You are perfectly suited to the gentleman in question.”
“Andmypreferences?”
“Your preferences, I presume, are to escape a home life in which you have been given little freedom or choice for the past five years.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon sipped her tea, looking entirely at home in this library, discussing Christiana’s future as though it were a game of cards.
“I could pay—”
“You can pay nothing,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said sharply. “Your father has spentyearsamassing his debts, and they are not something to be taken lightly. However, in light of the current situation, I am prepared to exchange them for your hand in marriage to a gentleman of my choosing.”
Christiana’s stays felt too tight, although she wore them habitually loose. “And this suits your honor as a woman?”