“Your Grace.” Annabel tucked one foot behind the other, prepared to curtsy. Thea stopped her by offering her hand.
“None of that here, please. I was Thea in this room long before I was a duchess.” She turned to the older lady, whose elegant indigo dress complemented both her thin frame and her almost peach-colored hair. “Aunt Tavie, may I present Annabel Warren, the Marchioness of Ramsbury,” Thea said. “Annabel, this is my aunt, Octavia Foster, the leader of our outlaw band.”
The twinkle in the woman’s eye softened her regal bearing. “May I call you Annabel?”
“Please do.” Annabel liked this woman, this place. For the first time in weeks, she felt more like herself. “It will be much easier.”
“Then you must call me Tavie. Welcome to the London Ladies Charity Circle.”
“Thank you.”
The noise from the hall flowed into the boardroom, and Annabel marked familiar faces. She’d seen these women in ballrooms, some on the matron’s row but others on the arms of escorts or husbands, or at teas where the conversation was much more subdued.
Now they were on the arms of unfamiliar men, dressed for business rather than for dancing. The women took the chairs at the table, the men the ones behind.
Annabel’s dressmaker caught her eye and nodded with a wary smile. Others were openly curious.
Thea and Tavie took their seats, in front of a man who reminded Annabel of a raven in a navy and silver waistcoat, and beside a regal woman in a simple day dress the color of bluebells.
“Sit here.” Amelia indicated a chair. “I have to join Tavie and Thea, but you’ll be fine.” She nibbled her bottom lip. “Don’t flee at the conclusion. You’ll have all sorts of questions, and we’ll answer them. I promise.”
She turned with a swish of skirts and hurried to the head of the table, where she greeted the raven and the bluebell with warm embraces before taking her seat.
Tavie tapped a gavel on its sounding block. “The Circle will come to order.” She waited for silence. “We’re continuing our efforts to raise funds for the children’s hospital. Last month’s ball, hosted by Lady Ambrose, raised almost one hundred pounds.”
Polite applause filled the room.
“We add that to the total from the other events, and we’ve reached a total near three hundred pounds.” Tavie paused for more celebration. “Mrs. Fletcher has offered to host the next event.”
“A carnival,” the bluebell said. “A combination of a village fete and a traveling circus.”
“Won’t the costs be prohibitive?” an older lady in green asked from the far end of the table. “Prizes can be costly.”
“I’ve secured a venue and have already begun a drive for donated raffle prizes,” Mrs. Fletcher replied with a sweet smile. “Several food vendors are also interested in purchasing booth space. Any other expenses will be divided equally between the Circle and myself, which was the same agreement between the group and Lady Ambrose.”
She took her seat, and Tavie’s gaze swept the room. “All in favor?”
The vote was unanimous. Mrs. Fletcher and the raven exchanged winks and wide smiles.
Annabel wasn’t certain what had made Amelia so nervous about this meeting. Hosting balls and circuses seemed quite in line with what Society women did all the time, usually for their own amusement. These ladies were helping ill children.
She wished she’d known about them sooner.
“Moving on to the next item, business reports,” Tavie said. “Mrs. Ferrand, would you begin, please?”
“Certainly.” Amelia’s gaze flicked to Annabel as she cleared her throat. “I’m pleased to announce that Eamon Brewer has secured four new distributors and new storage space for the barrels that are aging. Mr. Fletcher and I are also finalizing plans for expansion of the distillery in Norfolk.”
“You each should have copies in front of you,” the raven said without looking up from his notes.
Eamon Brewer. Annabel recognized the name. Father owned a bottle of Brewer’s whiskey that he only brought out for special occasions. Jasper owned several.
“With this growth, we anticipate an increase in profits of ten percent in the next year,” Amelia said.
“Mrs. Ferrand has also paid double the monthly amount due to the Circle for her initial advance.” Tavie smiled at her niece. “Your Grace?”
Thea shook her head and smiled. “The Galloping Goat continues to make a profit. Despite concern over the train cutting travel time to London, we’ve been fortunate that travelers debark in Thetford near teatime. I’ve secured a coach and driver to take advantage. And the Thetford Women’s Preparatory School will welcome its first class this autumn. Lillian Graves, the headmistress, will join us next month to give a more detailed report.”
Annabel dropped back in her chair and snapped her lips closed, listening as Thea concluded and the next woman began her report.
*
“All those women own businesses.” Annabel sat in Tavie’s drawing room in the now-empty house. Their hostess had retired upstairs for a rest.
“Yes,” Thea said. “They’ve either continued the family business after the deaths of their husbands or fathers, or have begun their own.”
Women can’t own property. “How?”
“The Circle has operated for years, helping each other and selected newcomers take control of their own futures,” Thea said. “We work behind straw men who accept a salary to be the faces of the businesses. We loan capital for a modest return and provide advice and expertise when needed.”
“And the men never steal the businesses?” Annabel asked. No contract with a woman would be valid in court.
“The salary is very good,” Jocelyn Fletcher said as she plucked a biscuit from the tea tray. “And the women involved are more powerful than you think. A man who crossed them would likely pray for prison.”
“Jocelyn’s husband, Drake, represents Tavie, me, and Amelia.” Thea sipped her lemonade. “It’s a good thing he had the sense to marry Jocelyn and bring her in as a partner.”
“So your business is a business?” Annabel asked.
“Of a sort,” Jocelyn said. “I’m involved with Drake’s transportation enterprises on a daily basis. I also help the Circle members with discreet inquiries and introductions. My previous business provided me with useful connections.” She drew a deep breath. “I was the madam of the White Rose.”
