The lady looked as though the wind had been taken from her sails, even as years of practice kept Georgiana from leaning forward in her seat and asking, Truly? Because she hadn’t entirely believed it when West had said it. If it were true, after all, the earl was guilty of treason. And he would hang for it if it were ever let out.
It was the kind of information that a man would kill to keep secret. And from the look of his wife’s face, he was not a man to hesitate when it came to violence.
Georgiana spoke again. “I am afraid, my lady, that the price of your entry to The Fallen Angel will be proof of these things that we know. However, before we continue, you must be very certain that you are willing to offer this proof freely to Chase. To the Angel.” She paused. “You should understand that once it is ours, given in exchange for membership, we reserve the right to use it. At any time.”
“I understand.” The marchioness’s gaze was full of eager triumph.
Georgiana leaned forward. “You understand that you speak of treason.”
“I do.”
“That he would hang if he were discovered.”
Triumph turned dark. Cold. “Let him hang.”
One of Georgiana’s blond brows rose at the unfeeling words. That Tremley was a bastard was of little surprise. That his wife was a Boadicea was entirely the opposite. “Fair enough. Do you have proof?”
The marchioness reached into her bodice and extracted several pieces of torn paper, singed around the edges. She thrust them in Georgiana’s direction. “Show him these.”
Georgiana opened the slips of paper, piecing them together on the red silk of her skirts. She scanned the incriminating text on them. Looked up at the wife. “How did you —”
“My husband is less intelligent than the King gives him credit for. He tosses his correspondence into the fire, but he does not wait to ensure that it is incinerated.”
“Then —” Georgiana began.
Imogen finished the sentence. “There are dozens more.”
Georgiana was silent for a long moment, considering the implications of this woman. Of her stolen letters. Of the way they might help her this very night.
They would win her Duncan West’s help and, by extension, they would secure her future and that of her daughter.
New information always gave her a heady thrill, but this – it was a good day.
“I am certain I speak for Chase when I say, ‘Welcome to The Other Side.’”
Lady Tremley smiled then, and the expression opened her, removed the weathered lines of her face. Returned her youth.
“You are welcome to stay,” Georgiana said.
“I should like to explore a bit. Thank you.”
The lady did not understand. “Longer than an evening, my lady. The Other Side is not simply a place to game. If you wish sanctuary, we can provide it.”
The smile disappeared. “I don’t require it.”
Georgiana cursed the world into which they were born – where women had little choice but to accept the danger in their everyday lives. The great irony of ruin was this – once survived, it brought freedom with it. Not so for women of propriety, of good standing. Of good marriage.
Bad marriage, more like.
Georgiana nodded, standing and smoothing her skirts. She had witnessed this particular circumstance enough times that she knew better than to force the issue. “If you ever do…” She trailed off, letting the rest of the sentence hang between them.
Lady Tremley did not speak, but she did stand.
Georgiana opened the door, and gestured into the lush hallway beyond. “The club is yours, my lady.”
Chapter 8
… The Fashionable Hour grows ever more fashionable, however, with Lady G— in attendance this week along with her charming Miss P—. The two will soon make the sloping hills of Hyde Park the only place to be seen, this author has no doubt…
… How the mighty have fallen! The Duke of L— has been seen pushing a pram through Mayfair! For a man so known for doing other, more violent things with his hands, these authors wish there were an artist present for this particular event, as we would like to have seen it commemorated in oil…
The gossip pages of the Weekly Courant, April 26, 1833
There was nothing worse than gossip pages. It did not matter that they made him a fortune.
Duncan West sat in his office on Fleet Street, considering the next issue of The Scandal Sheet.
The paper was his first business endeavor, started years earlier when he’d first landed in London. He’d designed it to capitalize on Society’s ridiculous interests in clothing and courtship, scandal and scoundrel. And to capitalize on the commoners’ universal interest in Society.
It had worked; the first paper made him scads of money – everything necessary to begin his second, infinitely more worthwhile paper, the News of London. It never failed to surprise and discourage him, however, that scandal had always and would always sell better than news and entertain more than art.
He knew he was the worst kind of hypocrite, after all, it was the paper he had to thank for his entire empire, but it did not make him loathe the business any less. Most days, he paid no attention to the contents of the rag, allowing his second in command to handle its business and content. But today the item that dominated the pages reserved for “Scandal of the Season,” was written and placed by West alone. It was a shot over the bow in the battle for Lady Georgiana Pearson’s marriage match.
He scanned the text, checking for misprints or unfortunate word choices. Unlike most who succumb to her fate, this lady has survived with cleverness, intelligence, and temerity.