Page 5 of The Fortune Hunter’s Gamble

“But we will require a chaperone, won’t we?” Darling Lily blushed as soon as the words were out. “Unless, I suppose…”

Everyone seemed afraid to say the word widow, as if she were a boggart who would upset the bowl of cream if recalled to her status, or a paper doll that would melt in a storm of tears. Sophronia sniffed.

“I suppose I might be an acceptable chaperone for you.” That was the magical transformation that marriage performed on a woman’s life: one’s virtue became far less a matter of public interest than one’s property, situation, or influence.

“And I daresay we might invite my Aunt Edmons to London, if you require a more sober companion,” Sophronia added. “She will claim she cannot leave Papa, though it might do him good to be left to his own devices for a change.”

Foxleigh had a loyal staff to look after the needs of its master; arranging her father’s comfort had been the first among Sophronia’s preparations for marriage. Nevertheless, Emily Edmons had made it the task of her life to look after her brother and his family, a burden Sophronia had never tried to relieve her of, as Aunt Edmons was a nurturing sort while Sophronia was not.

That would be one way people would try to dispose of a widow, however—relegate her to the support of someone else’s family. All the more reason for Sophronia to take up an occupation of her own devising.

Lily threaded the string of her reticule around her fingers, an anxious gesture. “So we will go to London. And I will marry Giles.”

“Only if you wish to,” Sophronia said firmly.

Lily made a face. “He is a baron’s heir. He will inherit Standen Park. My son would be a peer. I should not wish anything but to make my papa happy and myself secure.”

The Colonel had communicated as much in his letter, implied where not overtly stated. Sophronia’s stomach twisted as if those reticule strings were wrapped around her waist.

She had let similar calculations persuade her into marriage. Henry Hinton was wealthy, respected, and the leading partner in a bank that was largely upright in its dealing with customers. He had built her a country home so she could be close to her father. He had been generous with her pin money, if exacting about how she spent it, and he had eventually, if with loud complaints, allowed her to frequently leave London for Hungerford to tend to her father in his various ailments.

Henry had never caused her public shame, and if in private there were any number of small secrets or humiliations, well, she was not acquainted with any married woman who did not have something of the same experience. Adoration and constant affections were for couples in Gothic novels, where the heroine was a persecuted innocent and the hero a noble sort who endured manifold tortures for her sake. True and constant love was an invention that belonged to the exalted world of the poets, impracticable in ordinary life.

“You will marry whom you wish, Lily Westall,” Sophronia decided. “I promise you that.”

Lily’s brown eyes shone with gathering tears. The catch in her voice said everything. “Oh, Soph—Mrs. Hinton. Truly?”

“I am Sophronia to you,” Sophronia said with a firmness she did not feel.

Sophronia was not a heroine, nor was she the least bit romantical, but she had a sound head for management. She would make an excellent schoolmistress, as a matter of fact. And in the meantime, she would take charge of the matter of Lily’s marriage, ensuring that the girl had the best possible future.

She would make it her mission to be as wise and careful with all the women and young girls of her acquaintance. She would be, not a matchmaker, but a match prover, if there were such a thing. She would save other young woman from the fate she had known by helping them ensure their chosen man was compatible and congenial, a companion in their interests if not their heart and soul.

It did not matter that Victor Rowden was in London. Sophronia had not crossed his path all the other times she had been in London, so the chances of that happening now were slender.

And even so, she was a married woman and a widow. He would not affect her as he had before. Youthful infatuations, like youthful dreams, were behind her. She had become a woman of purpose, and he, if the gossip ran true, was a rogue going to hell in a handbasket as fast as his sins could row him down the river of damnation.

If love—passionate, enduring, romantic love—had once been among her girlhood dreams, it was not a consideration now. She was sadder, older, and wiser. Sober, where she had once been spontaneous. Reserved, where she had once been a burning flame.

If there were parts of that girlhood self that she missed, there was no point indulging in sentiments of regret. She would take up her duties as chaperone to Lily, guardian of those local girls who needed her, and future headmistress of Hinton’s School for Girls.

Victor Rowden did not have the power to hurt her again.

CHAPTER TWO

The London papers liked to gossip about how many fortunes Victor Rowden had to lose, since he seemed to squander money regularly. He was known for tossing down thousands at the table in a single night, yet he would rise, write a draft on his bank, and hand over the slip of paper as if he had several fortunes hidden somewhere. And he must, for how frequently he lost.

Tonight, it was happening again.

The majordomo of the club, Bosley, rapped lightly on the door of the office, then entered. Most of the ground floor of the Albion was devoted to the parlors and dining areas, with kitchens beside. The first floor held the gaming rooms and the library, while the much smaller second floor held a warren of rooms that served as offices and, for Rowden and his partners, occasionally a berth when the night blurred into day.

Rowden looked up from the correspondence that he had delivered to the club, not his residence, where his letters were likely to come under the Baron’s inspection. Bosley had, as a consequence of his long service in a position of high authority, adopted an impassive expression for each crisis, difficulty, and potential problem he was trained to spot. But the tall Cheshire man had a different implacable set of his face for each circumstance, and Rowden had learned to read them.

He set aside a very interesting letter, closing it at the broken seal. “Who is it this time?”

“A country squire named Eatwell, sir. Lost three thousand pounds to the setter at the hazard table and has now moved to Macao, where he stands to lose a thousand more.”

Rowden slid the letter into a cubbyhole of his walnut desk. Normally he didn’t turn a hair when a green boy down from university, a fat country gentleman, or a careless peer or peer’s wife lost several thousand pounds in an evening. The Albion had to pay its bills somehow, and losses were what made the thrill of winning so keen. Besides, the club, by design, was known to be a place for the middling sort, so it rarely saw the breathtaking turns of fortune that might happen in a night at Brooks’s or White’s. But that did not mean a man determined to ruin himself could not find a way.