Page 3 of A Very Roguish Boxing Day (Wicked Widows’ League #25)

N o food was brought to Gwendolyn’s room that day. She assumed it was a return to her brother’s method of starving her into submission. She tried to while away the hours with a book, but unsurprisingly, she couldn’t focus.

There was no word from Mariah. As the shadows grew long and stars finally emerged, Gwendolyn’s spirits sank to a new low. Perhaps she should try to sleep. Whatever Mariah had been planning, it had obviously fallen through.

As she was opening the wardrobe to retrieve her night rail, Gwen jumped as a sharp rap came not at the door but the window. Hand on her heart, she tiptoed across the room and peered into the back garden.

Three women stood on the ground below. Squinting through her spectacles, Gwendolyn recognized one of them as Mariah.

At Mariah’s gesture, she opened the window. “What is it?” she called quietly.

“Yer rescue party!” Mariah stage whispered. “Catch!”

Something soft smacked Gwendolyn in the arm. She did not catch it. With her poor vision, catching had never been her forte.

But she fumbled with it long enough to realize it was a rope.

She caught it on her sixth try. “Tie it around the bedpost,” Mariah called, “then throw the other end down.”

Gwendolyn complied, her fingers shaking. She didn’t relish the idea of going out the window. She was not what you would call dexterous, and there was a good possibility she would break a leg, for all that her bedroom was only one floor above ground level.

But anything was better than being trapped in Joseph’s clutches, and she was determined to try.

“Yer cloak!” Mariah called. “Don’t forget yer cloak!”

Gwen grabbed the plain wool garment, tossed it down, then steeled herself. Keeping a tight grip on the rope, she swung one leg and then the other through the window frame. Tamping down her fear, she lowered herself as carefully as she could.

She lost her grip on the rope almost immediately, but she had managed to dangle herself low enough that she only fell about six feet. And she landed in a bush, which would have been mortifying under normal circumstances, but tonight served to cushion her landing.

“Thank you,” Gwen whispered, dusting leaves off her skirts. “I…”

She trailed off, astonished, as one of the two strangers scrambled up the rope more gracefully than Gwendolyn could walk across a room.

The woman pulled the rope up behind her, then leaned out the window, giving a jaunty salute. “I’ll await your signal!” she hissed. “Good luck, Miss Gwendolyn!”

“What…? How…?” Gwendolyn sputtered.

The other woman, whose red hair Gwendolyn could make out in the moonlight, didn’t answer. Seizing Gwendolyn’s elbow, she hustled her across the garden with surprising strength, given that Gwendolyn was probably four stone heavier. “That’s Mrs. Robinson. She works for Astley’s Amphitheatre.”

Astley’s Amphitheatre employed a variety of circus performers, which explained the woman’s adroit ascent.

It did not explain what she was doing in Gwendolyn’s room. “But what is she doing?”

“Someone has to be there to throw the rope back down,” the redheaded woman explained. “So you can sneak back in come morning.”

“Sneak back in?” Gwen tripped over something in the dark but managed not to fall. “Why would I want to sneak back in? I’ve just escaped!”

They had reached the doorway connecting their garden to that of their neighbors, the Hugheses. The woman turned to Mariah and pressed her hand. “Thank you, Mariah. You did the right thing in coming to us.”

Mariah curtseyed. “Thank you, m’lady.” She turned to Gwen. “Now, don’t you worry, Miss Gwendolyn. Yer in good hands. I’ll see you in the morning.”

She slipped back toward the house as Gwendolyn’s new friend opened the gate. Peering around the edge of the door, she gestured for Gwen to follow.

Although Gwendolyn had no idea who her new companion might be, she did not hesitate. Mariah seemed to trust her, after all.

Besides, even being kidnapped by pirates was probably a better fate than remaining in her brother’s clutches.

They scurried across the Hughes family’s garden, then repeated the process twice more, creeping through the gardens of Mr. Henry Burbage and the Thompson sisters.

As they passed through the final garden door, her companion sighed with relief. “That was quite the adventure, wasn’t it? But here we are.”

Gwendolyn had to work to keep up with her brisk stride. “Where is here? And… I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name.”

“I’m Charlotte Bennet, the Marchioness of Sylvan.” The woman gave her a dazzling smile as they stepped into the warm light filtering through a tall window. “And this is Matron Manor. Home of the Wicked Widows.”

“Who are the Wicked Widows?” Gwen asked as Lady Sylvan led her inside the stately house.

“You could call it a club,” her companion replied, leading her down a corridor of polished wood. In spite of the late hour, beeswax candles twinkled in the sconces spaced evenly along the walls.

Something felt different about the space. Gwen realized with a start that the portraits lining the walls were all of women, without a gentleman to be seen.

The marchioness smiled as she opened a door. “Here’s our leader, Lady Wyndam.”

The parlor, which was tastefully decorated in shades of burgundy and cream, was illuminated by a dozen candles. Seated on the striped silk sofa was a woman who looked old enough to be Gwen’s mother. Her dark brown hair was streaked with grey. She had high cheekbones and an angular face. When she pushed to her feet with the assistance of a mahogany cane, Gwendolyn saw that she was quite petite. Gwen was on the shorter side herself, but this woman was an inch or two shorter still.

Gwendolyn made an awkward curtsey. “Lady Wyndam, I can’t thank you enough for your help.”

The countess nodded crisply, then resumed her seat. She gestured for Gwen to take one of the Chippendale chairs facing the sofa. “It’s no trouble, child. Your maid, Mariah, told us all about your situation. You’re one of us now.”

A maid brought in a tray of tea. Gwendolyn hadn’t eaten all day and could scarcely tear her eyes off the pastries artfully arrayed on a plate. But Lady Wyndam’s words managed to penetrate her fog of hunger. “Oh! But I’m not a wicked widow!”

Lady Wyndam thumped her cane against the Axminster carpet. “Certainly, you are!” She gestured to the tea tray. “Go on, dear. I know you’re hungry.”

“Thank you,” Gwen muttered, snagging a crumpet.

“Now,” the countess said, “returning to the matter at hand. Did you or did you not speak vows to a man who is now dead?”

“I did,” Gwen admitted. She took a bite of her crumpet and groaned at the delicious buttery taste.

Another thump from the cane. “That makes you a widow.” A gleam came into Lady Wyndam’s eyes. “And are you, or are you not, going to beat your brother at his own game?”

Gwendolyn swallowed the bite she’d taken. She had never beaten her brother, not once in her life. Her parents had always made sure he had received whatever he wanted, and Gwen had been left with the scraps.

She lifted her chin. Not this time.

“I would certainly like to.”

“Hear, hear!” Lady Sylvan called, clapping her hands. “You have come to the right place.”

“That you have,” Lady Wyndam said firmly. “Now, Mariah has informed us that your brother plans to have your marriage annulled and that a doctor is to examine you tomorrow morning to see if the marriage was consummated.”

Gwendolyn’s cheeks burned. “That is correct, my lady.”

The countess leaned forward. “And what will the physician find?”

Gwen looked down at her crumpet. “That I am a maiden.”

Lady Wyndam waved this off. “No matter. The Wicked Widows can take care of that.”

Gwendolyn peered at her, confused. “You can?”

The countess nodded crisply. “It happens that your timing is fortuitous. Twice a year, Madame Heron, the proprietress of the Thalia theater, hosts an auction.”

“A particular kind of auction,” Lady Sylvan added, waggling her eyebrows.

Gwen didn’t see how this could help her. “Oh? What kind of auction?” she asked, taking a sip of her tea.

“A bachelor auction,” Lady Wyndam said.

Gwen came within a hairbreadth of spewing tea across the room. She just managed to swallow it down before she came up coughing.

Once she regained the ability to speak, she glanced from the countess to the marchioness and back again. “I… I think I misheard.”

Lady Wyndam rapped her cane. “You heard perfectly, and I daresay you understood my meaning as well. Each lot in the auction is an attractive bachelor. The highest bidder will receive one night of that bachelor’s company .”

“It’s precisely what you need,” Lady Sylvan added.

Gwen set her plate aside, too nervous to eat despite the gnawing hunger in her belly. This was happening so quickly! She’d spent most of her life assuming she would never marry, as she wasn’t what you would call conventionally attractive. She’d always been plump, even as a child, a condition that had remained unaltered as she reached womanhood. She supposed that some men did find her full bosom appealing, but in her experience, it only attracted the wrong kind of attention. She was careful to choose dresses with a high neckline, which she usually paired with a fichu for good measure.

Throw in the fact that she was a bespectacled bluestocking whose specialty—bees—wasn’t a topic most people had any interest in discussing, plus her utter lack of success in the years since she made her debut, and it seemed only logical to resign herself to a life of spinsterhood.

The result was that Gwendolyn hadn’t given much thought to the prospect of making love to a man. It hadn’t seemed likely that she would ever have the opportunity.

And yet, tonight, opportunity had rapped at her door. Or rather, her window.

As unexpected as this turn of events was, she didn’t need time to consider the Widows’ suggestion. If giving up her maidenhood would mean that Gwendolyn would get to keep Great-Aunt Agatha’s bequest, setting her up for the rest of her life as an independent woman, she would sleep with the devil himself.

But surprisingly, Gwen found that a part of her was excited by the prospect of spending the night with one of the Thalia’s hand-selected bachelors. Surely, women would not be willing to pay for the privilege of sharing a bed with these men unless doing so was a very pleasurable experience.

Gwendolyn had never experienced that sort of pleasure before. She had no idea how one would even go about it.

But now that the prospect was dangling before her, she found that she wanted to seize it with both hands. She wasn’t just willing.

She was eager .

She nodded crisply to Lady Wyndam and Lady Sylvan. “I’ll do it.”