Page 4 of The Scarred Lyon

“I will not lie about my past, Mother. You see, Mrs. Dove-Lyon, my parents are genuinely ashamed of me. Although they claim to love me, they want me out of their house and married to someone respectable, preferably someone with a title, or at least a knight or baronet of good standing. I agreed to their suggestion.”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon wrote in her ledger. “And who was this married man?”

“The late Earl of Southen. I live in the country in a cottage provided by the earl.”

“Upon my word, Augusta,” her mother said breathlessly. “To speak of it so frankly.”

“Mother, I was in love. Most desperately in love. I am not ashamed of my feelings. How else could we be together? He was married, though not happily.” Augusta turned her attention to Mrs. Dove-Lyon. “My parents spread the word that I had married a country squire, Hannibal Cheevers. In recent years, that fictional story shifted to portray me as a widow.”

“Do you wish that fabrication to stand?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon asked pointedly.

Augusta frowned. “I am not certain. I do not wish to lie to any prospective husband, but then, nor do I want to chase away any possible man of interest.”

“You must keep up the fiction,” the viscountess exclaimed. “No man of title and wealth will have you otherwise. Is that not right, Mrs. Dove-Lyon?”

“It depends on the man, my lady. Some are quite desperate to marry, especially when they find a woman with money. Your daughter will have a substantial dowry, I assume?”

“Yes, the viscount will provide a dowry if one is required.”

“It will be required. There is also the matter of my fee.”

Augusta’s mouth dropped open when Mrs. Dove-Lyon named the price. The amount was outrageous! “How eager you must be to be rid of me, Mother”

“We are paying these various sums because we do love you, Augusta! Do you think we would wish to see you shunned by society if the truth were to come out? And it will, people talk. We want you to be settled and comfortable. Content. You were a mistress to an earl. To many, you might as well have been selling yourself in the East End!”

“That is not entirely true, my lady,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon interjected. “A mistress to an aristocrat holds a certain weight in Society. But since no one knows of this arrangement, it’s a moot point.”

Tears hovered, but Augusta refused to shed them. She didn’t doubt that her parents loved her, at least her mother. But deep down, she knew they were ashamed of her for running away with a married earl. Even now, all these years later, Augusta couldn’t quite explain why she had acted so recklessly. Had it been youthful inexperience? Had she just wanted to defy her parents, who were pushing her toward marriage to older, titled men? Was it to challenge society and its stifling rules? Or maybe, it had just been that the charming earl had made her knees weak, and she’d wanted to explore the mutual, intense attraction between them? Or perhaps it was a toxic mix of all these rationalizations. Those first few years they were together were the happiest she had ever known, as if she were living a fairy tale. She’d heard that love could make a person act irrationally.

Her mother opened her reticule and set a slip of paper on the desk. “Regardless, the point is that I want no one to know about it. You will keep our confidence?”

“Of course, my lady. All my dealings with clients are confidential,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon replied firmly.

“The bank draft, as agreed.”

“I would suggest we keep the fiction in place for the time being,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said, reaching for the draft with her gloved hand. “If Augusta wishes to reveal the truth to the man, that is for her to decide. Allow me to explain how this works. In most cases, men and women are separated into different areas. I have an observation gallery accessible only to the ladies, where they can watch the gambling area below. There, the lady in question can secretly observe the men to see if any of them catch her fancy.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon tapped her pen against her veiled cheek. “But I have a special case that may interest you, Mrs. Cheevers. Come tomorrow night. The man will be here gambling. He’s a duke.”

“A duke!” her mother exclaimed. “That is quite a catch!”

“What is the catch, Mrs. Dove-Lyon? What is wrong with this duke?” Augusta asked.

“You are shrewd, Mrs. Cheevers,” Mrs. Dove-Lyons responded. “He is a little older than most of my clientele.”

“How old?” her mother interjected.

“He will soon be forty years of age, my lady,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon replied. “He was maimed in a war in Upper Canada. He wears a mask covering the left side of his face.”

“Oh, dear Lord,” her mother cried, clearly horrified. “Is there someone else? A younger baron, perhaps? As I said, we will even consider a knight or baronet, if needs must!”

“Mother, please. Tell me more, Mrs. Dove-Lyon.”

“If you wish to meet him, Mrs. Cheevers, I can arrange a private room for you. You can ask questions of each other, and if you feel he does not suit, you can choose another.”

“As one picks a fresh loaf of bread from a costermonger’s cart,” Augusta murmured.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon laughed lightly. “An apt comparison. Do you agree?”

Augusta nodded. “I will meet with this duke. I assume he wishes to marry to try for an heir.”