Page 7 of The Lyon and the Lamb

She’d have to tread a careful path to ensure she got what she needed. She also had to hope no one found out about that clause concerning fostering in case it proved an insurmountable obstacle.

Sending up a silent prayer, Araminta held out her hand to shake on the deal. “I can’t thank you enough.” Reaching into her reticule, she handed over a card. “Here is my direction. Please send your bill and your contract via sealed letter to this address, and I’ll respond immediately.”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s voice was warm as she said, “I promise to find you a husband to both love and cherish, far more than you might have imagined possible. I predict not only good fortune, but much pleasure in your future, only . . . you must agree to whatever scheme I devise for you, even if it goes against your better nature. I trust you understand that the end justifies the means.”

Araminta did understand, and it sent a flurry of butterflies whirling around in her stomach. Love? Pleasure? Could such things be had with a man? She doubted it.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon bade her farewell and, in response to her call, Titan reappeared and escorted Araminta from the premises. She flipped her veil down before anyone could see her, pulled her cloak tightly around her shoulders, and set her face against the chill March wind that eddied between the buildings of Cleveland Row.

Belinda was waiting in the carriage. It was never wise to leave Belinda alone at the best of times, but knowing the importance of this particular visit, she couldn’t be persuaded to remain at their lodgings where she would at least have had servants about her. Araminta must decide what to share with her sister and what to keep to herself—it wouldn’t do to excite the girl.

She flushed, thinking back over her conversation with Mrs. Dove-Lyon. The woman had mentioned pleasure. There was no doubt she’d meant the marriage bed—a place where Araminta had found no joy whatsoever. And yet, she must endure it again if she was to conceive a child.

By the time she reached the carriage, the cold air had cleared her head, and the flush had subsided. Was she doing the right thing? Or was she about to rush headlong into the most terrible mistake of her life?

She had to risk it. She simply had to. Because if this ploy failed, both she and Belinda would end up destitute.

Chapter Four

After a further two weeks of agonizing soul-searching and uncertainty, Araminta was forced to act. The early shoots of April already bedecked the plane trees bracketing the London streets and she knew she was running out of time.

Her decision having been made, she was now ensconced in the ladies’ private room at the Lyon’s Den, awaiting the details of her fate from Mrs. Dove-Lyon.

A woman Araminta had never seen before swept into the room and introduced herself as Hermia. She curtsied, announcing, “I’ve come to prepare you for the night’s entertainment, ma’am. Allow me to assist you with the removal of your clothes.”

Araminta glanced around the room. It held various masquerade costumes on mannequins—the perfect way for her to maintain anonymity throughout the proceedings.

Putting aside her gloves, reticule, veiled bonnet, and winter pelisse, she waited patiently as she was divested of her remaining clothing. Worryingly, Hermia didn’t stop at her underclothes but insisted on continuing until she was naked and barefoot. A black cloak was thrown around Araminta’s shoulders, presumably for warmth while her costume was readied. It was thus a great shock when Hermia gave a brief nod of farewell and left the room.

As Araminta stood in the middle of the floor battling the urge to dress and run for dear life, the door opened again. She spun to face it, clutching the cloak tightly around her neck, acutely aware of her state of undress beneath it.

It was Mrs. Dove-Lyon, accoutered in her customary black, but wearing a dark cloak that matched Araminta’s and a full-face classical mask of comedy. She bore a tray.

“Good evening, Lady Lamb.” The widow’s tone was warm. “You must think my methods peculiar, but I assure you, you’ll have the result you want by the end of the night. You should be warm enough in your cloak—I’ve ordered the staff to keep the fires well stoked. Here’s something to fortify you while we wait.”

The Lyon’s Den proprietress sounded gleeful—she must be in her element when there was a matchmaking scheme in progress. Cowering within her cloak, Araminta hoped she could share the lady’s optimism.

“A simple repast of bread and fruit. And wine, of course. But I’ve added spices—as you’re going to meet your future husband tonight, your breath should smell sweet.”

Araminta’s stomach rose in revolt at the idea of food, but she took the glass gratefully and sipped. The liquid tasted delicious, and it had been mulled—she was tempted to quaff it in the most unladylike fashion but was aware of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s intense regard through the eyeholes of her mask.

“Thank you.” She cleared her throat. “Which masquerade costume will I be wearing?”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon crossed the room to a mannequin draped in a Grecian-style gown and removed the mask of tragedy suspended from it. She held it out.

Araminta stared at it. “Is this all?”

“Indeed. There’s to be a lottery tonight, and you’re the first prize. Whoever wins will spend the night with you, after which you’ll be married at the earliest opportunity. Gentlemen tend not to refuse to wed one of my clients after they’ve bedded them.”

Araminta almost dropped her glass. She took a fortifying swig of the wine. “What exactly do you mean by bedded them?”

“There’s an upstairs room prepared for you and the successful candidate. You’re a widow, Lady Lamb, not a blushing virgin, and no stranger to the marriage bed. You will, therefore, have discovered by now how important it is that your husband should not only be agreeable to you by day but acceptable to you by night. If the gentleman you choose from the three I’ve found for you isn’t to your taste, then the plan will be repeated with my second or third choice. Don’t look so alarmed! I don’t mean for them to bed you one after the other—there would be a proper time interval between. However, I’m renowned for my ability to choose well and I believe you’ll enjoy tonight more than you have enjoyed any other night since you were first wed.”

Araminta collapsed into a chair. It was now abundantly plain that she was not to spend the latter part of the evening in polite conversation over tea and muffins with her prospective suitors. She was shocked, outraged, fascinated—overwhelmed by such a jumble of emotions that she couldn’t speak. Obviously, she must refuse to go along with this abominable plan. It was something that polite society would abhor—she would no longer be a respectable widow, but a scandalous one, eschewed by the ton.

Eventually, she found her voice. “You mean that the gentleman is to make intimate love to me?”

“Yes. For your sake and his. He is truly a gentleman and will offer you marriage as soon as I make your identity known to him. That, I can guarantee.”