Chapter Eight

Hugh wasn't interested in playing games anymore. He wanted to find his mystery rose, learn her name, and gaze at her face unobstructed by a veil or darkness. He wanted to know everything about her—not because he cared to find out if she was suitable by society's standards; he would never allow society to dictate his happiness—but because he couldn't remember a time when he'd enjoyed himself more than the past two evenings.

As such, he'd disregarded his invitation to Lady Applebaum's opening party. He could not bear the thought of wasting the evening dancing with a myriad of newly minted debutantes, eager to please and desperate to marry. The woman he wanted was within the walls of the Black Widow of Whitehall's blue gaming den—or so he hoped. A small part of him dreaded the idea that she might never return after that drunken fool shone his flaming torch in her face and scared her out of her wits.

He understood why she'd run from the idiot, but why had she hidden from him afterward and then, obviously, fled the building? What was it about that man that had frightened her so? What, or whom, was she hiding from? There was only one way to find out.

"I need an audience with Mrs. Dove-Lyon." Hugh approached Hermia with his request. "It's urgent," he added.

To his surprise, Hermia answered with a knowing smile. "It's about time, Mr. Warsham. The Widow of Whitehall is expecting you."

"She is?" Hugh said.

"Follow me." Hermia escorted Hugh up two flights of stairs to Mrs. Dove-Lyon's study on the second floor, where the veiled widow greeted him from behind her elaborately carved mahogany desk.

"Mr. Warsham. I've been expecting you. Do take a seat." She gestured to a cushioned red velvet chair positioned across from her desk.

Hugh sat.

"I believe I know why you are here," Mrs. Dove-Lyon said.

"Yes, I imagine you know exactly why I'm here," Hugh said tightly.

"Are you certain you want her name, Mr. Warsham? Because if you feel resentful about being tricked into meeting a beautiful young lady, you can leave this office and continue as you were before."

Hugh hesitated. She was right. He was here of his own free will. The choice was entirely his own. And yes, he wanted her name—it frightened him just how much. He cleared his throat and remained seated.

The Black Widow chuckled. "Just as I thought," she said. "And who can blame you? She's a charming young lady and, as you will soon discover, breathtakingly beautiful as well. A true rose."

Hugh shifted in his chair. Clearly, the widow wasn't going to hand over her name. She was going to make him pay. It was all part of her game.

"How much?" he asked.

She cocked her head as though she'd misheard him.

"Money," he said, losing patience. "How much money do you want to reveal her name?"

Mrs. Dove-Lyon threw back her veiled head and laughed. "How sweet of you. But you needn't worry. I have already been paid a handsome sum for my part in this arrangement."

"What are you talking about?"

"Mr. Warsham," she said, standing up and reaching for a decanter of brandy and two glasses, "all I ask of you is that after I reveal the young lady's name, you listen to my full explanation of the situation, whilst keeping an open mind and heart."

Hugh's chest tightened. His veiled rose had said something similar. What in the world was going on?

Mrs. Dove-Lyon filled the two glasses with brandy and carried one over to Hugh. "The young lady's name is Miss Charlotte Rose," she said, handing Hugh the glass.

At first, Hugh did not register that anything was amiss. All he could think was how lovely the name sounded to his ears.

"She's the daughter of Sir Benedict Rose," Mrs. Dove-Lyon said.

Hugh's hand tightened around the glass as the realization dawned on him. "You don't mean—"

She nodded before retrieving her brandy and retreating behind her desk.

"My God!" he groaned. "Was she sent to make a fool of me? Or to harm my father in some way?'

"On the contrary, she was brought here to help both her father and yours."

Hugh snorted. "By whom? Her mama? Why would Lady Rose care to help my father?"

"Lady Rose's concern lies with her husband just as your mother's concern lies with your father."

"My mother? What does she have to do with anything?"

"It was her idea—all of it. Well, not the game; that's my forte. But it was her idea that you and Miss Rose meet. Love conquers all, etc."

"What? My mother planned this? She came here?"

Mrs. Dove-Lyon nodded. "She sat in that very chair."

Hugh almost jumped out of his seat. "That's ridiculous—she would never—" He stopped, remembering how he'd let it slip that he was going to Cleveland Row. He shook his head. "I don't understand," he said. "How did my mother get Lady Rose to agree to such a plan?"

"Did you not know that your mother was engaged to Sir Benedict before she eloped with your father."

Hugh blinked, too stunned to speak. "Is that what this feud is about?" he asked when he found his voice.

"That, and money. I think there was some dispute over owed debt. Who knows? It's ancient history. Your mother and Lady Rose have never quarreled and have remained friends for years. It is only their bullheaded husbands who insist on holding grudges and feuding. Lady Rose sat right there on that chair—" she inclined her head toward the chair beside him—"and told her daughter that if you had inherited even half your mother's admirable characteristics, then she trusted you to be an honorable and worthy gentleman."

Hugh stared at the dark liquid in his glass and frowned as he absorbed this information. He was stunned that his mother had taken such a bold step, engaging the Black Widow of Whitehall's services—stunned that she'd maintained a secret friendship with Lady Rose for all these years. Still, it didn't add up.

"How did you know I'd be interested in Miss Rose?" he asked the widow. "How could my mother possibly think such a far-fetched plan would work?"

"Because Charlotte Rose didn't earn the moniker ‘the Rose of Mayfair' for nothing. Every man wants her for himself, and if you wish to stand a chance, you'd better rush over to Lady Applebaum's immediately."

The widow's words cut into Hugh's heart. Was he going to have to compete with every man in Mayfair?

As though she'd just read his mind, Mrs. Dove-Lyon answered his question, "You don't have to compete; you've already won her. All you need to do is go to her. The rest will take care of itself."

"Thank you," Hugh said, standing up.

"Wait!" the widow commanded.

Hugh hesitated.

"I must warn you that after being spotted in the garden last night, Miss Rose's reputation is in serious jeopardy." She shook her head. "I gave her strict instructions not to lift her veil, but apparently, you persuaded her otherwise, and two men saw you together."

Hugh shifted his stance. "Did the rogues who spied on us recognize her?"

"Unfortunately. One of the men is her distant cousin—a nasty fellow called Lucas Richmond. The only reason he'd been allowed into my establishment was because he came with Lord Umbridge. Lady Rose informed me that Richmond was spurned by her daughter last year, so he'll likely want to use this information to take his revenge."

"What is to be done?" Hugh asked.

"There's only one thing to do when it comes to the serious matter of a young lady's reputation. Make an honest woman out of her. And if that is not your intention, then keep your distance."

Hugh fell silent as he contemplated her warning. She was right. Mrs. Dove-Lyon was right. His relationship with Miss Rose had gone further than friendship, despite the short time they'd known each other. He would have liked to get to know her better, but he didn't have that luxury now. He rubbed his forehead. It seemed too rash, but he had to act on his instincts. He had not stopped thinking about Miss Rose since the moment he'd met her. He could not let her go, and he would not treat her dishonorably or hurt her, so there was only one answer to this predicament, and it was marriage. Then a thought struck him.

"Sir Benedict will never permit a Warsham to marry his daughter," he said, looking up at Mrs. Dove-Lyon.

"Then don't ask, and take matters into your own hands," the widow said.