Georgiana waved a hand dismissively. “Nothing of import.”
Lady Tremley nodded once, looking down to confess to her skirts, “I judged you harshly when you appeared.”
Georgiana laughed. “You think you are the first?” She leaned back in her chair. “I am Anna.”
The marchioness’s eyes went wide. Georgiana was used to shock from proper ladies when she treated them as equals. It was the first test; the one that proved their mettle. “Imogen.”
The lady passed.
“Welcome to The Fallen Angel, Imogen. You may trust that whatever is said between us is shared only with Chase.”
“I have heard of you. You’re his . . .” She stopped, rethinking the word doxy, choosing a rhyming one instead. “His proxy.”
“Among other things.”
The lady hesitated, fiddling with the gold satin. Georgiana thought it was not a common action for the wife of one of the King’s closest councilors. “I received an invitation from Mr. Chase. I am told there is a woman’s club.”
Georgiana smiled. “No sewing circles or reading societies to be found, I am afraid.”
Lady Tremley’s gaze turned shrewd. “I am not as simpering as you might imagine.”
Georgiana let her attention fall to the bruise on the lady’s face. “I don’t imagine that you are simpering at all.”
Lady Tremley flushed, but Georgiana didn’t imagine that it was embarrassment that caused it. No doubt, if the woman were here, she’d long passed embarrassment at her husband’s actions. She was well into anger. “I understand that to gain acceptance, I must provide information.”
Georgiana was still for a long moment. “I don’t know where you would have heard such a thing.”
Imogen’s gaze narrowed. “I am not a fool.”
“Who is to say that Chase does not already have this information? As you must have heard, we’ve a file thick as his thumb on every important man in London.”
“He does not have this,” the lady said, lowering her voice and looking to the door. “No one has this.”
Georgiana did not believe that for a moment. “Not even the King?”
The lady shook her head. “It would ruin Tremley. Forever.” There was something in the words, eagerness. Excitement. The heady triumph that comes with revenge.
Georgiana leaned back. “We are aware that your husband steals from the exchequer.”
Lady Tremley’s eyes went wide. “How do you know that?”
It was true.
How had West known it, dammit?
How had West known it and she hadn’t?
She collected herself, took a second run. “And we know that he pays it to fund the arming of our enemies.”
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.