Chapter One
“This way,” Reverend Leighton said, his voice low and his jaw set as he steered her through a narrow corridor and into a larger space beyond.
Augusta Booth, daughter of the Viscount Whitfield—or the former Viscount, she supposed, as her father would likely be stripped of his title given his new accommodation at Newgate Prison—stepped over the threshold.
And entered into a world she had never imagined existed.
The main room sprawled before her, vast and dim. Oil lamps were mounted along the walls, their flames guttering in the draft, catching the brass fittings on the bar that stretched along one side of the room.
“This is a gaming hell,” Augusta said, not a question but a statement as the obvious became clear.
She had read about such places in the scandal sheets, places where men of means squandered fortunes on dice and cards. But why had Reverend Leighton brought her here?
Why had the man who had taken her into his home since she was three years old brought her here?
He did not look at her. “Be quiet and follow me,” he said, his eyes already scanning the room ahead.
Augusta felt a curl of unease in her stomach. This was not the Reverend Leighton who delivered impassioned sermons every Sunday, nor even the self-righteous man who had scolded her for reading novels by candlelight.
This was a stranger in a vicar’s clothes.
“Why have you brought me here?” she whispered.
He guided her forward, his hand firm on her elbow. “This is not the time for questions, Augusta.”
He guided her through the doors and down a long, empty hallway. For a second, she felt relief. Until they entered the next room.
They were moving toward a raised wooden platform at the far end of the room, with a bare, elevated stage and a single lamp positioned above it, like some grotesque parody of a theatre.The men’s conversation had quieted as they moved through the crowd.
She planted her feet, yanking her arm from Leighton’s grasp. “I demand you explain yourself,” she said, her voice louder than she intended. “I am not moving another step until you tell me what is happening.”
The buzz of conversation around them faltered. Heads turned. Leighton took her elbow again, his grip tight enough that she could feel his fingers through the fabric of her sleeve.
“Compose yourself, child,” he hissed. “You are making a scene.”
Augusta looked around the room again. The men were not playing cards. They were not throwing dice. They were not even drinking with the raucous enthusiasm she’d expected in a place like this.
They were watching. They were watchingher.
“No,” she said, the word a puff of air. “No.”
“You have no choice,” Leighton said, his voice soft and reasonable, as though he were explaining why she could not have an extra slice of cake. “Your father’s crimes have left you without prospects, without a dowry, without a name that any respectable man would wish to take as his own. My reputation and my standing have suffered by association. I cannot afford to keep you, and there is nowhere else for you to go.”
“I would rather work as a scullery maid,” Augusta said, her voice shaking with fury. “I would rather scrub floors until my hands bleed.”
“No one would hire you,” Leighton said. “Not with your name. Not with your father’s name in all the papers.” He leaned closer. “But these men don’t care about your name. They care about your breeding.” His eyes flicked over her face. “Your… fertility.”
Her cheeks flushed, and her heart rate sped up.
This?
She swallowed dryly. This couldn’t happen.
“I will not,” she said.
“You will,” Leighton insisted. “And you will thank me for arranging such an advantageous situation.” He gestured toward the platform. “Now, shall we?”
Augusta stood rooted to the spot, her mind racing. There had to be a way out. A door, a window, a sympathetic face in the crowd. But the men around her were strangers, and the few whose eyes she could meet in the dim light looked at her with nothing but curiosity or calculation.
