Chapter One
Isabella Rossi, Belleto her closest friends, was a master at controlling her expressions. Her solicitor, Frank Green, would never guess she was uncomfortable with their discussion.
“You are well situated, Miss Rossi. I assure you, you can purchase a house, a husband, and three lovers, and have plenty left over.”
She arched a manicured ebony brow. “Now, Frank. You know that I’d never need to purchase lovers. ’Tis the other way round in my world.”
His cheeks grew pink.
She loved earning his blushes. It had been the highlight of her visits these past few years, when she no longer had to worry whether she’d have enough to live on when she aged out of her profession.
She’d been open with him from the beginning, not wanting to work with anyone squeamish about the fact that her funds were derived from her role as a courtesan.
“I beg your pardon. Of course. You get my meaning, though.”
“I do. Thank you.”
“I’ve been telling you for years that you have enough to retire. Why not do that and find a husband in your own time?”
“If I wanted to continue to woo men, I’d keep working and get paid for it. I prefer to be up-front with them about what they are getting and to have some choice, rather than settling. In return, I’m happy to give them something they need.”
“If I may be so bold as to ask, why?”
“Why do you choose to work with more women than men?” She flipped a hand. “Men are tiresome, needing constant pandering. Even when they want me to be in charge”—she grinned as Frank’s face flamed again—“I still must toe a line between too much and too little. They are so fragile.”
“Then why marry?”
She frowned at the invasive question, but it was fair given their conversation. And she’d entrusted him with enough details of her personal life and her money. There was no point in drawing an arbitrary line at this. “I am two-and-thirty, and I want children. More, I wish my children to have some chance at respectability, which means marriage. Besides, I am at the end of my patience with contracted partnerships that include end dates. The idea is to choose someone who will not require quite so much fawning. Indeed, I’d appreciate obsequiousness toward me, for a change.”
Frank returned her smile. “Where do you plan to purchase such a creature? I have not heard of a market for those.”
“Ah, you needn’t worry about that. My role has always necessitated having quiet sources of information, and my patrons are generous with the offer of favors.”
He blinked, his mouth dropping open.
She couldn’t resist. “A satisfied customer is a friend for life.”
Her peals of laughter at his beet-red face did much to alleviate her discomfort with the topic of buying a husband.
Belle paced theladies’ waiting room. With no eyes on her, she’d been unable to draw her mantle of faked calm around herself. She kept shaking her arms out to dry her sweaty palms and to loosen the nerves quivering through her.
She had chosen not to share her source with Frank, but he would recognize the name of the woman she was waiting to see. Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon, the Black Widow of Whitehall, was never discussed in drawing rooms, but most of London whispered about her behind closed doors.
Belle had no doubt that Mrs. Dove-Lyon knew exactly who she was and why she was there, despite never having told a soul about this plan. The woman likely had a list of Belle’s past benefactors as well. After all, in addition to the gaming hell in full swing a floor below, the widow ran a very elite matchmaking service catering to a specific niche of British men and women. There were those like Belle, who had extensive funds but a threadbare—or worse—reputation. And there were the many men on the lower level, whose gambling losses or other debts far exceeded their purses.
The proprietress was extremely selective in who she was willing to match. Belle only hoped that rumors of the woman’s past as a courtesan were true, or close enough that she’d be willing to work with Belle.
She wondered how, if the rumors were true, Bessie had managed to secure marriage to Colonel Lyon, as the Lyon family was well respected in London circles. After all, who would want to marry a courtesan? It did not seem to matter that men came to marriage with numerous liaisons behind them, some including courtesans. Some even had current mistresses. However, most still expected their brides to be innocent in all the ways of the world.
Sighing, she threw herself into a chair. What if even the Black Widow of Whitehall could not help her?
A door across from her opened. She’d been met at the side door of the blue building by a scantily clad woman who’d shown her to this room via a deserted stairway and quiet hall.
A middle-aged woman in a rather severe black dress beckoned her. “Mrs. Dove-Lyon will see you now.”
Belle stood, smoothing her skirt in order to give her sweaty palms one last furtive swipe. Following the woman into the next room, she entered an office, darker than the waiting room, holding a massive desk. The dim chamber held other furniture in a similar style—large dark pieces with ornate curves that looked several decades old.
Behind the desk stood a woman wearing a bonnet with a veil that covered all of her face except her mouth and chin. With more candelabras behind her than in front of her, even her uncovered features were obscured. Like her assistant, she was in all black. She gestured to a guest chair, and Belle meekly followed the unspoken order. It was perhaps the first time in her adult life she’d acted this meek. By sixteen, she’d had to fend for herself to have a roof over her head and food to eat. Navigating her chosen path took a fierce concentration on self-preservation that did not allow for timidity.
