No matter what she had to do, Eliza would make certain Cassandra achieved her dream, and their younger sisters got their chance.
Eliza’s shoe clip caught inside her hem. As a cold, metal streetlamp abruptly halted her tumble, sheoomphed aloud. She should have thought to take off her shoe buckles before she’d run out into the night!
Steadying herself, she snapped off the clip and slid it into the coat’s pocket. Immediately, she resumed her flight, not bothering to check her hem for damage. Even if the lamplight’s pale flicker had been emitting enough illumination to see clearly, she dared not pause for long.
Every stop increased her already considerable peril.
Proper young ladies did not walk through London alone. And, alone or not, proper young ladies never raced through the London night.
Then again, she was not a proper young lady anymore, was she?
She—and her sister—had been banished. Sent home. Humiliated.
Harbury, the Patronesses agreed, deserved the greater blame, but they contended, there must have been some reason he’d chosen Cassandra. Some subtle, improper gesture on Cassandra’s part that had drawn his eye.
The very idea that innocent, hopeful Cassandra, was in any way at fault kindled a rush of heat up Eliza’s neck. She practically burned with the need for vengeance. One way or another, she would make Harbury pay, and she would help her sister.
Eliza slapped the back of her hand against her lips, throttling a scream of pure frustration. Briefly, the light, familiar scent of lambskin overwhelmed the less pleasant smells of the street. Then, she hurried on, making her way first onto King Street and then into St. James’s Park.
She’d fled her godmother’s town house in a footman’s cloak and one of Asquith’s beavers. But she hadn’t changed out of her gown. Should a passerby look closely enough, the fichu she’d used as a makeshift veil would mark her as female.
Heavens!She wished she were a man. If she were a man, she could do as she pleased. If she were a man, she’d challenge Harbury to meet her at dawn.
Should this plan fail, she decided on a swift inhale, she would challenge him anyway. The gamekeeper at Willowhurst Manor had taught her to be an excellent shot.
She had to be drawing close to the blue building at the terminus of Cleveland Row by now. Since arriving in London, she’d learned the address described in the letter housed an infamous club known as the Lyon’s Den.
A place of secrets and shadows. A place where lives were made and ruined on the turn of a card. A place whereiniquity and decadence met destiny. A place, on the authority of her mother’s letter, where a young woman in desperate circumstances might turn.
While Almack’s was ruled by five ever-watchful Patronesses, the Lyon’s Den was presided over by a single woman—the Black Widow. But the Black Widow commanded her fiefdom with the same absolute authority as the Patronesses. And, like Almack’s, Eliza expected the gaming hell to contain a seething hotbed of backstabbing virulence.
At least there, the virulence would not be paper wrapped in pastels, breeches, and demure conversations. There, she could meet her fate without the comfort—or distraction—of illusion.
In choosing the Lyon’s Den, Eliza, not those pudding-faced Patronesses, would be choosing her future, whatever future that may be.
Drunken singing and boyish laughter sounded from somewhere behind her. She inclined her head, adjusted her “veil,” and turned another corner. Finally—finally—the blue building materialized out of the fog, the lower windows glowing like beacons of warmth.
Or heralds of hell.
Two large black doors at the center were the gentleman’s entrance, this much she knew. The ladies’ entrance was to the right.
Would the women who guarded the door allow her to enter, distressed as she was?
She must look mad in a man’s coat and beaver, with a fichu over her face, and muddied white slippers peeking out from beneath.
What if they turned her away?
She couldn’t give up now. Her life—and the lives of her four sisters—depended on her success. She would gain entry by anymeans necessary, and she would find a way to meet with the Black Widow herself.
A coachman whistled as he navigated the alleyway to the right of the building. Inspiration’s flash set Eliza’s blood buzzing.The mews!There had to be a way into the building through the mews. She stuffed her gloved hands in her pockets, inclined her head, and strode with a man’s confidence toward the stables.
In the rear of the building, she spotted a door guarded by a huge, scowling fellow. She studied him for some moments, devising and discarding several plans. Then, a shout and a curse sounded from inside the stables.
“Snug!” someone called out. “Assistance please.”
Eliza stepped backwards into shadow. Scowling, the man took in one, careful sweep of the yard before heading in the direction of the curse.
Surely an auspicious sign!
