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“Oh.” She paused and would have asked another question if the coach hadn’t drawn to a stop outside a blue painted building at the end of Cleveland Row, just past St James’s Palace. She was shocked. This hardly seemed the kind of locale for a respectable lady. But then she wasn’t a respectable lady anymore, was she?

Uncle Seb opened the door, climbed out and offered his hand to help her alight. She then followed him up the stairs. The man who let them in seemed rather strange for a butler—he looked more like a professional pugilist or a soldier. He conducted them up the stairs and left them in a well-appointed parlor. Uncle paced the room restlessly while Cecey sat nervously on the edge of her seat, her reticule clasped tightly in her hands.

The clock on the mantelpiece ticked ten agonizingly slow minutes away, until finally a door opened, and a servant entered with a tea tray followed by a woman attired all in black with a veil covering her face.

She offered her hand to Uncle Seb, “Mr. Monk.”

Uncle took it and said, “Thank you Mrs. Dove-Lyon, for seeing us at such short notice.”

She inclined her head and turned to survey Cecelia, who had, like Uncle, risen when the lady entered the room. She curtsied to the woman.

“This is the young lady in question?” the lady asked.

“My niece, Miss Cecelia Woodrow.”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon crossed her hands over her stomach and nodded. “Pretty little thing, and an heiress to boot. I don’t think there will be any difficulty in finding her a suitable husband, Mr. Monk.”

Cecey stiffened. Well of course, she supposed this must be what the lady was to do for her, but she couldn’t for the life of her see how. She lived in a most peculiar location, and despite her very respectable appearance, Cecey had never heard of her. She could hardly be said to move in the first circles, surely? Unless Uncle meant to give her to some merchant, eager for a lady of birth as his wife? A shudder of horror went through her as the vision of a fat, middle-aged man of coarse manners and a bulbous nose rose in her imagination.

“Thank you, Mr. Monk,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said with a wave of her hand, “I would like a few minutes alone with your niece. Theseus here,” she nodded to a man standing in the doorway, “will give you a tour of the facilities while we chat.”

Uncle Seb was clearly taken aback by this high-handed treatment but merely bowed and left the room, leaving Cecey to take a seat on the couch, while Mrs. Dove-Lyon busied herself with the tea things. She offered Cecey a cup of steaming hot brew, picked up her own cup and sipped, and said, “Now my dear, tell me exactly want happened at Mrs. Pennington’s ball.”

And Cecey found herself telling her. The truth, not the fabrication she had told Uncle Seb.

She found the recounting of Lord Bidenden’s violence, when it became obvious what his intent was, and her realization that she was about to be ruined in a very permanent way, made her shake. For she had never been subjected to such a show of brutal male strength before, nor suffered such a terrifying assault on her person. Tears started to her eyes and Mrs. Dove-Lyon passed her a handkerchief in silent sympathy.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon set down her teacup and folded her hands in her lap. “I foresee no difficulties in securing a husband for you, my dear. But it will require you to play a part in the proceedings. Tell me, if you were offered the choice between Lord Bidenden and Lord Kenrick Layne, which would you choose?”

Cecey gripped her hands tightly around the sodden handkerchief and said tightly, “Neither. Lord Bidenden is a blackguard and Lord Kenrick a coward. Why would I wish to ally myself with either?”

“Indeed. And yet Lord Kenrick did come to your rescue like a gentleman.”

Cecey swallowed the lump in her throat and bit her lip. “He did, but it is obvious he does not wish to marry me. It is why he ran, after all, for fear of being forced to it. There can be no other explanation for that.”

Mrs. Dove Lyon but did not comment.

Why Cecey blurted out the next bit she didn’t know afterward, but the words burst forth before she could stop them. “He never wished to kiss me again after the first time.”

“Lord Kenrick kissed you?”

Cecey nodded miserably. “A year ago, at a ball in the gardens. I thought—” She shook her head and straightened her backbone. “But I was mistaken. He was just flirting with me.”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon patted Cecey’s clenched hands. “Yes, he is an unstable and erratic young man. Never mind, we will find you someone suitable. You will be married before the end of the month my dear.”

“Who?” asked Cecey her heart racing.

“A titled gentleman, one who is handsome of visage, not too old, and despite his quite dreadful reputation, actually possessed of more honor than most men. Does that sound to your taste?”

“I suppose . . .” Cecey said, her head going around in circles trying to identify who he might be. Mrs. Dove-Lyon clearly had someone in her sights.

“Who . . .?” she asked again.

“I have yet to make the arrangements, so I will not raise hopes prematurely.”

“I—I see.” Cecey took a breath and let it out. “Well, what happens next?”

“You will return here tomorrow night to take part in a little game. For I really feel the two gentlemen involved in this sorry affair deserve a little punishment, don’t you?”