Never Judge a Lady by Her Cover
Page 7

Three minutes. Five at the most. And then she’d return. She was here for a reason, after all. There was a prize at the end of this game, one that, if won well, would mean safety and security and a life for Caroline that Georgiana could never give her.
Anger flared at the thought. She had power beyond imagination. With the stroke of a pen, with a signal to the floor of her hell, she could destroy a man. She held the secrets of Britain’s most influential men, and their wives. She knew more about the aristocracy than they knew about themselves.
But she could not protect her daughter. She could not give her the life she deserved.
Not without them.
Not without their approval.
And so she was here, in white, feathers protruding from her head, wanting nothing more than to walk into the dark gardens and keep going until she reached the wall, scaled it, and found her way home to her club. To the life she had built. The one she had chosen.
She’d have to remove the gown to scale the wall, she supposed.
The residents of Mayfair might take issue with that.
The thought was punctuated by a passel of young women spilling out of the ballroom, giggling and whispering at a pitch the neighbors could no doubt hear. “I’m not surprised he offered to dance with her,” one was crowing. “No doubt he’s hoping she’ll marry a gambler who will spend all that money at his hell.”
“Either way,” another replied, “she shan’t benefit from dancing with the Killer Duke.”
Of course they were discussing her. She was no doubt the talk of the ton.
“He is still a duke,” another offered. “Silly, false nickname or no.” That one was halfway intelligent. She’d never survive among her friends.
“You don’t understand, Sophie. He isn’t really a duke.”
Sophie disagreed. “He holds the title, doesn’t he?”
“Yes,” said the first, irritation in her tone. “But he was a fighter for so long, and he married so far beneath him, it’s not the same at all.”
“But the laws of primogeniture —”
Poor Sophie, using fact and logic to win the day. The others were having none of it. “It’s not important, Sophie. You never understand. The point is, she’s horrid. And enormous dowry or no, she’ll never land a husband of quality.”
Georgiana rather thought it was the leader of this pack who was horrid, but was clearly in the minority, as the woman’s minions nodded and cooed agreeably.
She moved closer, searching for a better vantage point. “It’s clear she’s after a title,” opined the leader, who was small and incredibly thin, and whose hair appeared to have been shot through with a collection of arrows.
Georgiana realized that she was in no condition to cast the first stone on coiffures, what with the fact that she had half an egret’s plumage in her own hair, but arrows did seem a bit much.
“She’ll never land a gentleman, even. An aristocrat is impossible. Not even a baronet.”
“Technically, that’s not an aristocratic title,” Sophie pointed out.
Georgiana could no longer hold her tongue. “Oh, Sophie, will you never learn? No one is interested in the truth.”
The words cut through the darkness and the girls, six in all, turned en masse to face her, varying expressions of surprise on their faces. She probably should not have called attention to herself, but this was definitely a case of in for a penny, in for a pound.
She stepped forward, into the light, and two of the women gasped. Sophie blinked. And the little Napoleon of a leader stared quite perfectly down her nose at Georgiana, who stood an easy eight inches above her. “You were not included in the conversation.”
“But I should be, don’t you think? As its subject?”
She’d give the other girls credit; they all had the decency to look chagrined. Not so their leader. “I do not wish to be seen conversing with you,” she said cruelly, “I would be afraid your scandal would stain me.”
Georgiana smiled. “I wouldn’t let that worry you. My scandal has always sought out…” She paused. “… higher ground.”
Sophie’s eyes went wide.
Georgiana pressed on. “Do you have a name?”
Eyes narrowed. “Lady Mary Ashehollow.”
Of course she was an Ashehollow. Her father was one of the most disgusting men in London – a womanizer and a drunk who had no doubt brought the pox home to his wife. But he was Earl of Holborn, and thus accepted by this silly world. She thought back on the file The Fallen Angel had on the earl and his family – his countess a wicked gossip who would no doubt happily drown kittens if she thought it would help her move up in the social structure. Two children, a boy at school and a girl, two seasons out.
A girl no better than her parents, evidently.
Indeed, lady or no, the girl deserved a thorough dressing-down. “Tell me. Are you betrothed?”
Mary stilled. “It’s only my second season.”
Georgiana advanced, enjoying herself. “One more and you’re on the shelf, aren’t you?”
A hit. The girl’s gaze flitted away and back so quickly that another might have missed it. Another who was not Chase. “I have a number of suitors.”
“Mmm.” Georgiana thought back to Holborn’s file. “Burlington and Montlake, I understand – they’ve got enough debt to overlook your faults for access to your dowry —”
“You’re one to talk about faults. And dowries.” Mary chortled.
The poor girl didn’t know that Georgiana had five years of life and fifty years of experience on her. Experience dealing with creatures far worse than a little girl with a sharp tongue. “Ah, but I do not pretend that my dowry is unnecessary, Mary. Lord Russell does perplex, however. What’s a decent man like him doing sniffing around someone like you?”