Game…

Matchmaker Wilhelmina Montgomery helps cupid’s arrow find its mark in the drawing rooms of the Ton, effortlessly pairing even the most unlikely couples for a discreet fee. Perhaps not an appropriate pursuit for a lady…but with an ailing sister to care for, it’s Whimsy’s only hope at securing their future.

Set…

Meanwhile, penniless aristocrat Valerian St. David, Earl of Dashwood is society’s favourite matchbreaker; assisting those who want to escape engagement without being sued for breach of promise. Cynical, yes…but with no intention of falling in love himself, Valerian considers himself ideally suited to the role.

And match!

When Whimsy discovers that Valerian has set out to break the very engagement she has been painstakingly arranging, she refuses to allow this mysterious saboteur have his way. Yet she didn’t expect to find the handsome Earl so distractingly alluring. And suddenly, it seems that the Ton’s last two loneliest hearts are in danger of finding their match…in the most inopportune of places.

Also by Anabelle Bryant

To Love a Wicked Scoundrel

Duke of Darkness

The Midnight Rake

Defying the Earl

Regency Charms

Anabelle Bryant

www.CarinaUK.com

With sincere thanks and gratitude to my brilliant editor, Clio Cornish, for her unending encouragement and effervescent support. How lovely to know you share my vision.

To the entire Carina team for their dedication and hopelessly romantic cover creations and to Harlequin/HarperCollins for allowing me the opportunity to realize a dream with every novel.

This book is dedicated to my Aunt Maryann, who has politely listened to me rattle on about hopes, dreams, wishes, and concerns, even when she might have preferred to press mute, and who has always offered the most sincere advice in return.

And to my readers and friends; the start of a new series is thrilling and your genuine enthusiasm has been contagious. You have my heartfelt gratitude for reading and believing in me.

May all your days be charmed.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Book List

Title Page

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Endpages

Copyright

Chapter One

“We’re done for.” Valerian St. David, Earl of Dashwood, pushed an accumulation of bills to the side of his desk and eyed his brother sprawled across the threadbare chaise in a pose that mocked the gravity of their situation. “We haven’t enough to pay the creditors, nor our meager staff, never mind afford food and firewood. If we do not contrive a solution, we’re set to starve or freeze to death before the end of the month.”

Jasper appeared nonplussed. “We’ve ventured into dun territory before. You’ll find a means to keep us alive.”

The lackadaisical response abraded Val’s fragile hold on his temper. He would not mention his brother’s outlandish gambling debts. He would not suggest poor investments and irresponsible behavior were what landed them on the rocks. Instead he flicked his eyes to his father’s portrait, dusty and faded above the fire, if it could be called that, the meager log smoldering in the box nothing more than a cold insult; and instead, lamented how Jasper had grown into a duplicate of their deceased father, a popular, likeable gentleman who possessed a devil-may-care attitude void of one drop of responsibility. Jasper, as a second son to boot, was excused by society for most every indiscretion.

Perhaps Valerian’s silence conveyed what his words did not because the subject of his morose deliberations stood with alacrity and walked to the sideboard intent on a drink only to discover the brandy decanter bone dry.

“We have to find a solution, Dash. Conditions are truly grave when the brandy’s run out.” Jasper swept his eyes from left to right. “Isn’t there something here of worth?”

“So now I have your attention.” Val pinned his brother with a scathing glare. “There’s nothing left to sell. I pawned the silver to settle your vowels with that crooked gaming hell in St. Giles. I’ve sold artwork to repay the debt you owed Lord Rendly, and by work of determination, cajoled the bank into a few more weeks of credit. We’re in damned low water this time. We’ll have to give the staff notice so they can seek new positions. Cook and Turner deserve better than to remain in employ of two brothers housed in a ramshackle country estate where wages cannot be paid.”

“You’re doing it up a bit much. Turner has been our butler forever and Father’s butler before that. He would work here at Kirby Park for free if we asked.”

“You can’t possibly be suggesting—” Indignation laced Valerian’s objection.

“Not at all. Hold your temper. I’m merely stating the man will understand if his monthly wages are not forthcoming. I’d bet the old purse-pincher has abundant savings.”

A gleam lit his brother’s eye and Valerian interrupted before Jasper voiced the words. “We’ve already ascertained your success with wagers. Never would I, the sixth Earl of Dashwood, borrow funds from my butler.” Blameful accusations danced upon his tongue eager to be granted freedom, but speaking them served no purpose other than to blanket his brother with poor feelings and alienate the opportunity to discover a solution.

“Alas, pride comes into play.” Jasper checked the brandy decanter a second time, as if wishing would cause the liquor to appear. “Pride will be your downfall. You need to free yourself from the pressures of social opinion.”

Easily said, but a hard war won. Jasper was free to proceed through life without the burden of responsibility and he continued now in the same untroubled tone.

“We need a plan. Some type of purposeful action. It may take a little creative thinking, but we’ll figure this out.”

Valerian’s left brow climbed in speculation on cue with his brother’s brash optimism and liberal use of the word we. “I’m not in the mood for one of your havey-cavey schemes. We haven’t six pence to scratch with. You need to show more concern.” It was the closest he could come to implying fault, although in truth he should rail with anger from the impossible debt incurred by father and brother; debt leaving them notoriously entailed and cash poor, their reputation in desperate need of repair and any option to sell up efficiently eliminated.

Besides, he’d promised his father a recovery of Kirby Park, not abandonment invigorated by unholy debt and a rapscallion sibling. And yet he loved Jasper as he did their departed father, dearly and unconditionally. If only his brother didn’t test the limit of his loyalty so often.

“Concern? Worry? Those will get me nowhere fast. Where’s the sense in distress? It creates two problems instead of one.” Jasper tossed the crystal stopper of the liquor decanter from hand to hand in a careless game of catch. “If you mean to imply my investments failed to reach fruition, I will concede the point. Although I still believe a mousetrap is a viable invention. Mark my words someday they will be top-of-the-trees.”

“Perhaps when cats become extinct. Meanwhile someday will not put dinner on the table this evening. Had we a mouse or two I’d skewer them with a letter opener and roast them over that pathetic flame.” Both gentlemen slid their eyes to the firebox where a few dim embers glistened among the ash. “I’m hungry and embarrassed. How will I forestall the creditors this time? I’ve spent whatever meager savings Father left us on necessary estate repairs, food, and the barest living essentials after I repaid your debts. We need more than a plan. We need a miracle to alleviate these dire straits.” His stomach growled loudly but hunger did not pain him as much as failure.

“It can’t be that bad.” Jasper replaced the stopper and strode to the window before pivoting with renewed enthusiasm. “We still have the house and two horses.”

“Two?”

“I acquired another last evening.” Jasper’s mouth twisted with a wry smile. “It was a stroke of luck, really.”

“You were out gambling? Another horse means another portion of oats and hay.” Valerian exhaled deeply in hope of offsetting the additional burden placed on his shoulders. “And where is this wonderful example of horseflesh?”

“In the stable with your Arcadia. He’s named One-Eyed Jack and I’m told he has a touch of Arabian in his blood.” Jasper straightened his shoulders as if the statement elevated the news.

“I’m sure he has a touch of something.” Resigned, Valerian dropped into the desk chair. “Ridiculous name for a horse, but I presume his moniker was derived from the final card that placed him in your possession.”

“No. He only has one eye. Although I did win him in a tight game of vingt-et-un.”

Jasper chuckled as he responded, his lighthearted attitude toward life unblemished, while Valerian’s innards clenched with the responsibility of past debt and the promise of a bleak future. There was no one left to borrow from, nothing left to sell. If he didn’t resort to the most desperate measures, his prediction of death by hunger or cold temperature would prove true. He could see the headline of The London Times in bold print, Sixth Earl of Dashwood Perishes in Poverty, Nary a Shilling or Crust of Bread to His Name.

How did he arrive at this juncture? His father had squandered their savings, exploited the title, and died with neat efficiency shortly thereafter. Jasper, while the truest of brothers, had inherited his father’s despicable habits, more suited for wastrel than gentleman. His hardly controlled caper-witted antics had created more complications than Val wished to consider. True, Jasper meant well, but his investments had all proven futile, while the monies spent on mousetraps and the like could be heating rooms in the form of firewood. Valerian looked out the window and sized the ash tree on the front lawn. Perhaps he could chop it down, split the logs.

“I’ve got it.” Jasper clapped his hands together, delighted by the realization he intended to share. “You can get married.”

The unsettling strategic glimmer in his brother’s eyes raised the hairs on the back of Val’s neck, but as the zealous words reached comprehension, his entire body tensed in warning. He’d never considered his brother a lackwit. Impulsive, yes, but in a well meant manner. They had no money to support the likes of themselves plus a few aged servants. How would the addition of a lady-wife improve their lifestyle?

“A rich one of course.” Jasper’s devious proclamation bounced across the room. “You, my distinguished brother, could pose as a regular out-and-outer, ingratiate yourself into society, and land a wealthy wife. All our troubles will be solved.” His grin was as delusional as his proposition. “Of course, we’d have to go to London.”

“London.” Valerian’s immediate protestation nipped the end of Jasper’s statement. “That infernal city is the reason I dragged you back to Kirby Park, away from the gaming hells, business propositions, and otherwise troublesome temptations you find on every corner.”

“True enough, but here in the country, the plan is sure to fail. Events of the ton are where you’ll find my wealthy future sister-in-law.”

“Jasper…”

“Out here there’s not a female of refinement for miles with the exception of Widow Bartleton and frankly, I’ve seen better eyes on a potato.”

“Jasper.” His tone left no room for misinterpretation. “It’s a dishonest sham and I will not participate.” A familiar tightness wrapped round Val’s chest and he forced himself to exhale as he unclenched his fists. “Deception is hardly a strong foundation for marriage. What would I tell the lady when she discovers I am penniless?”

“Females are more interested in romance and emotion than fact. She might overlook the detail of your waning accounts once her heart becomes involved. You must admit, the idea has worth. And if you present the perception of affluence, but never directly reveal the state of the finances, it can hardly be labeled dishonest. You must admit that all relationships are built on a measure of deceit. Women use bust enhancers, lip rouge and fashion without a twinge of conscience. Besides, deception has such an ugly connotation. This is more of a faradiddle, an honest white lie.”

“An honest lie?” Val shook his head to clear his brother’s senseless prattling. “There must be something I can do to earn money and still keep my purpose from society’s ear.” He tapped his fingers against the desktop in a habit of deliberation. His eyes fell to the multitude of unpaid bills stacked as high as the inkwell near the corner of his desktop. “For the life of me, I’m only good at making a mess and ruining things.”

“Well, you can’t go around ruining young ladies. That won’t help our cause. But…”

Val closed his eyes and prepared himself for the completion of what was sure to be another idiotic suggestion.

“You could ruin relationships. You know, instigate problems to force two people apart instead of together. A sort of matchbreaker. I’ve known many a fellow who wished to be released from an obligatory relationship and I’m sure there are parents who disapprove of their daughter’s suitors or son’s impetuous choice in bride. You could become a man for hire, entirely in secret of course. Charge a fee and set someone free.”

Poised to dismiss Jasper’s ramblings with a grain of salt, Val initially disregarded the suggestion, yet the further his brother expounded on the opportunity to provide a service executed in secret and worthy of a tidy sum, the higher his ears perked to the idea. “A matchbreaker, you say. Someone to ruin relationships that weren’t meant to be. The idea has merit.” Especially given Val regarded romantic relationships as a colossal waste of emotion. Assisting those who wanted escape could prove rewarding. Perhaps it would ease the eternal ache of his past and the wrongdoing of one particular female.

“I can act as your agent. Arrange the situations and assignations, so you needn’t be associated with the darker side of business. I’ve the best connections. It is the perfect plan. Don’t you agree?”

Valerian forced his attention to his brother’s question. For some reason, Jasper took delight in his proposed role. Would his brother never learn or would he always be wooed by danger and bizarre circumstance?

Bizarre indeed, but perhaps the answer to their eminent demise. As startling a notion as Jasper suggesting a feasible solution, the idea could work…or, if the whole plan backfired, their irrefutable ruin would continue. Either way, the proposition presented a better fate than wasting away in their dilapidated country home. His stomach growled loudly as if to concur. He swung his eyes to his brother, the hint of a sly smile matched by Jasper’s encouraging grin, yet Valerian kept his reply between his teeth.

Chapter Two

Wilhelmina Montgomery settled near the cross-paned windows of the sitting room and watched a turtledove hop into a nest on a larch branch grown too closely to the glass. How comfortable and cozy the graceful bird appeared. A shiver rippled through her in contrast; the front room of Aunt Kate’s town house was drafty at best, although she didn’t notice the chill in complaint. Her eyes flittered to each corner adorned with feminine detail. One glance bespoke no gentleman lived thus, embroidered pillows and a floral Brussels weave carpet most notable. Yet other decorations declared a soft elegance. Small watercolor landscapes spotted the walls and delicate porcelain figures sat patiently on a shelf. Her aunt had opened her heart and her home and for that Wilhelmina would forever be grateful. Without her aunt’s generosity, she and her sister, Lavinia, would have no place to call home.

The fear of displacement smothered her heart in a hasty swath of regret. Security remained paramount, no matter their meager lifestyle proved difficult at times. Lavinia’s wellbeing and their sparse financial situation threaded back to the carriage accident that took their parents’ lives two summers past. Wilhelmina would never forget the horror of that evening, a night that left her with no mother or father, and a sister clinging to life.

Melancholy brought fresh tears to Wilhelmina’s eyes and she looked toward the gray London sky, her forlorn mood echoed in the threat of rain. With determination, she dismissed the feeling, unwilling to succumb to sadness. Exhaling firmly, she settled her hands upon the commonplace book resting on her lap and opened the cover with care.

Bits and pieces of her life were glued to each page in the thick leather volume preserving cherished memories. A pencil sketch of her as a baby, notes received on birthdays and special occasions, even her first dance card lay pasted in remembrance. She bypassed these pages in a flurry until she reached the final leaf in the book where an artist had drawn a miniature family portrait. Her mother’s expression warmed her heart and her father’s outlandish mustache restored a smile to her face. Wilhelmina missed her parents dearly and the simple happiness the four of them once shared. So much had changed.

Here in London, away from the modest country home that had been sold and settled, Wilhelmina and Lavinia led unadventurous lives. Aunt Kate spent money with caution, as she should. As daughters of a conservative peer, the sisters brought little to fortify the coffers. Lavinia’s needs were costly, but Wilhelmina begrudged not one penny.

At times a spark of despair for what her sister and she would never experience, the glittering ballrooms and opulent gowns, dared to woo her, but she swept it away with the same forceful purpose as one attended a flyaway ember from the fireplace, extinguished and forgotten. Her life was not designed for wishes and fanciful thoughts. Duty and responsibility were more important.

“Whimsy.”

Her aunt’s sudden beckon voicing her childhood name banished any remnants of sadness and Wilhelmina rose to greet the elderly woman at the sitting room door, happy for the diversion from her maudlin reflection.

“Good morning, Aunt Kate. Let me help you with the tea tray. Whysoever are you carrying it instead of the housekeeper?” Wilhelmina spoke in a loud clear voice to compensate for her aunt’s hearing difficulties, a natural progression of advanced age. She strode forward, arms outstretched and ready to assist with the silver, but her feisty aunt outmaneuvered with finesse.

“Do not fuss over me, dear. I’m fine.” Aunt Kate placed the tea tray on the buffet table before she continued. “Rose’s arthritis was bothersome this morning, so I went upstairs to Livie’s room for a dab of medicinal ointment. Then I insisted on carrying the tea caddy so Rose might apply the cream and rest while her joint pain subsides.” Her aunt paused and carefully filled two cups with tea before adding a spoonful of sugar to each. “While abovestairs, Livie asked if I might fetch you. She had trouble sleeping last night.” A concerned tsking followed the admission. “If only the doctor could ascertain how to permanently relieve the painful cramping in her legs.” Worry creased Aunt Kate’s brow before she raised troubled eyes. “Your sister is tired and hopes the sound of your voice reading one of those lengthy poems you favor will lull her into a peaceful nap.”

“Of course.” Wilhelmina smiled with delight. “And do not worry about her condition. Livie’s health has improved so much of late.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed as well. The therapy is worth every penny if it restores her strength and mobility. Her legs are becoming more reliable with each passing day and I believe the kneading of her muscles and the nurse’s insistence that she walk the room as exercise is the remedy. Thank heavens.”

Wilhelmina’s heart pumped a heavy beat. Without her aunt’s unfailing support, who knew what would have become of them? But how would she ever repay her aunt’s generosity and concern? Of late she’d considered ideas to generate income independently, but hadn’t any luck. As a lady, opportunities were limited and if she were to accept funds and the arrangement became revealed, she would shame her aunt more than benefit her obligation. Aunt Kate had shown only kindness and consideration, and as their only blood relation, Wilhelmina was very fond of the endearing woman, as was her sister. She could never bring embarrassment and scandal to her aunt’s doorstep.

The clink of china revived her attention and Wilhelmina replaced concern with relief. “I would be delighted to read Livie to sleep.” She turned to the bookshelf at her back and with the flick of her wrist tipped a volume into her palm. “Shall I share Byron, Blake, or Shelley?”

“That sounds like a poem in itself, although I’m sure anything you choose will suit. Livie and I wouldn’t know the difference between the three. We trust your decision.” Aunt Kate nodded with candid assurance.

“Perhaps I will teach her to recognize the subtle nuances between the poets’ styles.” Wilhelmina struggled to keep laughter from her voice.

“Then I’m sure she’ll find a restorative nap soon after.”

Warmed by her aunt’s teasing, Wilhelmina turned to the hallway and began the stairs leading to the second floor intent on seeing her sister well rested. She could never confess she’d memorized most of the poems before she’d sold her father’s book collection in an attempt to add to their meager savings. Sometimes she’d hold an open volume in her hands and turn the pages as she recited the poems of a different poet, giving the appearance of reading directly from the book even though it was the works of another. Livie never questioned why the book cover always looked the same and for that, Wilhelmina was thankful. She already carried the guilty knowledge many of her father’s volumes went to sale with pages torn loose, the same now glued firmly into her keepsake book downstairs.

She knocked on Livie’s bedchamber door and entered without pause. Her sister sat upright in bed, her hair tied with a bright yellow ribbon, her spectacles perched on the bridge of her nose. Everything was as usual, the bright white of her night rail a stark echo of Livie’s complexion and a constant reminder her sister rarely ventured outside.

“You should be resting.” Wilhelmina’s admonishing tone was ruined by her grin. “I’m sorry you were unable to sleep. Did the cramping hurt terribly?” When she reached the bedside, she resisted the urge to stroke her sister’s blanket-encased legs. Livie had made significant progress the last few weeks and it was distressing to hear she’d suffered through the night. What if they’d reached a barrier in the treatment and the daily massages would no longer relieve Livie’s pain? What if their greatest fear, that the atrophy would become permanent, proved a reality? How would anyone prevent the vicious leg spasms that began directly after the carriage accident and tortured Livie each night until the recent treatments? They’d consulted every reputable doctor in London to no avail until they’d discovered the massage technique practiced by Dr. Morris and his nurse. Wilhelmina’s chest grew tight at the threat of Livie’s painful episodes returning. She’d reassured Aunt Kate downstairs, but in truth, the same fear lurked in her heart.

“What is it?” Livie’s soft voice drew her immediate attention. “Why do you look so sad all of a sudden?”

Her mind reeled for a suitable answer; anything to reassure Livie and sustain the pretense she harbored no worry, yet lying was a skill she’d never perfected. One glance in her direction and Livie would know whatever she said was untrue. Wilhelmina dropped her eyes to the poetry book clenched so tightly in her hands her knuckles faded white. “Nothing. Now should we get started?”

“Not yet.” Livie clasped her arm. “I’m worried about my treatments.”

Sister kinship. Only a year separated them and they knew each other’s thoughts, emotions and ambitions without effort. “You needn’t worry. I’m sure last night was a minor setback. I believe your condition is temporary and your strength will return.” It was difficult for Wilhelmina to say more when her own concern dared surface.

“No, not that.” Livie released a thorough breath. “These treatments are expensive and the cost of a full-time nurse and the various liniments must be devastating to Aunt Kate’s bank account. I overheard the doctor speaking to her about payment.” She splayed a hand toward the bedside table where bottles, lotions, and ointments littered the glass.

“Are you sure you heard correctly? Was the doctor complaining?”

“Oh, I am sure of the conversation. Dr. Morris needed to repeat it twice so Aunt could hear him clearly. I assume they thought I was asleep even though they’d moved to the hallway.” Livie sighed, her hands wringing the blanket in her lap. “How will Aunt Kate afford my continued care? What if these costly treatments are so financially straining it creates hardship? I couldn’t live with myself if Aunt Kate compromised her lifestyle to accommodate my disability.” Livie’s voice trailed off as she continued. “The chair is not so awful.”

“What are you saying?” Wilhelmina’s eyes settled on the wheelchair abandoned near the window and she shook her head as if to refuse the notion, her heart aching at the thought.

“I’m worried I will bankrupt Aunt Kate, when in fact she has been our saving grace. I could never live with myself if that occurred.” Livie’s voice dropped to a whisper and desperation tinged the words. “Oh Whimsy, what are we to do?”

“Sisters think alike.” Wilhelmina settled on the corner of the bed and in consternation ran a finger along the coverlet’s lace edging. “I’ve had the very same thought for a fortnight, but for the life of me I can’t find a solution.” She set the book of poems down and wove her fingers in her lap before unfolding them to smooth her skirts. “Don’t worry. It’s going to be all right.”

“Is it? We’ve sold everything we own that holds any value, the house, the land, Father’s books. I know we’ve discussed this before, but maybe we should sell Mother’s charm bracelet.”

Wilhelmina’s attention shot to her sister. “What? No. I could never part with it. I’m sorry.” She searched the room for a distraction. Anywhere to rest her eyes besides her sister’s entreating face. “Mother believed it to be special and wore it always. It’s all we have of her now.” She fought against the lump of emotion in her throat. Why did everything have to be so difficult? “I could never sell it.”

“I shouldn’t have made the suggestion. I’m sorry. It was a poor idea and a temporary one at best. The bracelet holds fond memories for me as well. I remember as a child counting the five charms as each dangled from the delicate chain on Mother’s wrist. I’m just at a loss for a solution to the dire situation we face.” She dropped her gaze to the coverlet and picked at a small bit of thread. Silence consumed the room for several ticks of the long case clock near the door.

“Well, there must be some way I can generate income to assist Aunt Kate and pay for your treatments. Remember the evening Father gifted Mother with the bracelet? It was during their surprise anniversary party. The evening was such a success, everyone declared me the most delightful hostess. It was a joyous gathering.” She managed a slight smile with the reminiscent memory. “Perhaps there is some way I can arrange events to fit society’s needs.”

“Mother and Father’s party was a small country gathering. However would you keep an undertaking as grand as a ton social from Aunt Kate? She may not mix with the most elite dowagers but somehow despite her hearing impairment, she manages to acquire every word of gossip at her weekly tea; every courtship, betrothal, and wedding. She lives for news of the latest liaisons.”

Wilhelmina rose and paced the length of the bed before she spun, the quick juxtaposition causing her muslin skirts to wrap around her ankles. “That gives me an idea. Back home, friends were forever asking my advice. What if I served as a matchmaker of sorts? I could obtain the most pertinent information about suitors and present it to a young lady wishing to marry. It would be a useful service, but also one the lady would want to keep secret, securing my anonymity.” She paused, but impatient ideas forced her words out in a flurry. “The exchange of funds would never need to be revealed to anyone beside the two of us, thus eliminating any real chance Aunt Kate would discover my involvement. Once I collected a tidy sum, I could pay Dr. Morris in advance for your treatments relieving the strain on Aunt Kate’s savings.” Her voice rang with determination and newfound enthusiasm as rigorous as her momentum.

“The idea has worth, although to truly earn money you would need to advise the most affluent members of the ton. How would you manage it? We’ve barely left the house since we’ve arrived in London. Not to mention, whenever you get exceedingly nervous you become snippy and unreasonable. Some might label it argumentative.”

Wilhelmina threw Livie an exaggerated glare and then punctuated the action with a tolerant smile. “Stated with great diplomacy, dear sister. My nerves will need realignment and popularity does present a challenge, but not being well known will work to our benefit. This idea has merit. I distress at keeping anything from Aunt Kate after she’s shown only generosity and kindness, but if it means we’ll ultimately be able to pay the doctor, the end must justify the means.” She would strive to do anything in her power to help Livie and provide security for more treatments no matter how farfetched the idea or quickly formulated, it did hold promise. “Perhaps this plan can work.”

“As long as you don’t bite anyone’s head off. I’m accustomed to your quick wit and know you merely mean to deflect your agitation, but men prefer docile women.” This time it was Livie who wore the smile. “Men want females who are obedient, agreeable, and ornamental.”

“Spoken by someone who’s never been courted formally.”

Livie’s eyes slid to the lap desk resting on a chair beside the bed. Her expression contradicted Wilhelmina’s words and a flash of curiosity lit anew.

“Stuff and nonsense, Livie, what have you been reading while housebound? I can’t fathom where you gather your ideas. Aunt Kate hasn’t a single gothic novel in her home and I know as I’ve searched thoroughly. I can only suspect your friends are writing you with sordid romantic tales. A woman should never disguise her true self to please a gentleman, whether it be intellect, wit, or beauty. What is the value of a relationship built on falsity?”1

“Of course, you are correct, Whimsy. I place my complete faith in you. It’s high time you’ve overcome your tendency to stay at home just because I’m confined to my bed. There is no reason both of us should suffer because my legs are disagreeable. You’re three and twenty and more than lovely. You should be dancing in ballrooms and flirting with handsome gentlemen.” One couldn’t ignore the wistful yearning in Livie’s final sentence.

The realization caused Wilhelmina’s tentative determination to take root. True, she’d grown comfortable in a quiet existence despite they lived in the city. Their countryside childhood provided no real exposure to the ton and the thought of mingling with strangers, making clever conversation and securing relationships, presented a terrifying proposition. Her sister had always proved the light in the room. Wilhelmina enjoyed the comfortable security of shadow. Yet, she had to be strong, for Livie’s sake. “I fear you misunderstand. I have no intention of flirting with any gentlemen, and the only dancing I will do is for the cause.” She took a breath, settling into the idea and wondering if it truly could solve their financial woes.

Her heart weighed heavy with the thought of experiencing society without her sister by her side, but their plan could ultimately bring about that end, launching Lavinia into a glamorous ballroom as a surefooted debutante. She took a long breath and focused on the purpose of their plan before matching eyes with Livie who leaned forward with eagerness awaiting her answer. “I don’t know if I share your unfailing confidence, but you’ll always have my loyalty.”

“Excellent!” Livie reclined against the pillows propped near the headboard. “We are not so worse for the wear. If you polished up a bit, I’m sure you’d fit in with all the jewels boasting extensive wardrobes and silk slippers. You’ll need to purchase a new gown and assume a mysterious hauteur; then you’ll have clients in no time, whether it be anxious mothers or impatient daughters.”

“You make it sound terribly simple and I hope you’re right, because I haven’t an alternate plan.” Wilhelmina glanced down to the skirts of her simple day gown, a pale shade of a former pattern with twice turned cuffs and hems. She mentally cataloged the serviceable gowns in her wardrobe, which took all of two minutes, and then settled at her sister’s elbow. She wrapped their hands together, palm to palm as if in prayer.

Livie moved their hands to her chest, Wilhelmina’s charm bracelet jingling softly with the motion and Livie smiled, her blue eyes twinkling with delight. “You’ll succeed, Whimsy, I feel it in my heart.”

Chapter Three

Two weeks later

Valerian St. David, disgruntled Earl of Dashwood, muttered under his breath for the umpteenth time, questioning his brother’s sanity and cursing the words used to agree to Jasper’s outlandish scheme. Ensconced in Lord Rigby’s study, trapped in a borrowed velvet waistcoat that strained the breadth of his shoulders and pinched the waist, he slid a finger beneath his too tightly tied cravat and wondered how much longer the marquess would keep him waiting. According to Jasper, the man was rabid to disentangle his son from a certain path of destruction, a betrothal to Lady Fiona, Lord Nobles’ eldest daughter.

Having been out of society for a number of years and possessing not a shilling to shine on his sleeve, Dash didn’t care a fig for the complicated liaisons created by the ton. He sought relief from the debtors. He needed funds. Period.

He exhaled a deep breath of frustration and took survey of the dark-paneled room in which he waited with impatience. The study smelled of worn leather and old money. His eyes settled on a large glass case hanging on the adjacent wall where a display of brightly coloured butterflies, their wings tacked firmly to the felt backboard, epitomized his situation. He was trapped. Pinned. Owned.

“Dashwood, there you are.”

“Rigby.” Valerian swung his attention to the stout, ruddy-faced gentleman who rushed into the room and neatly closed the doors behind him. Of course, he was here. It was where the butler had advised him to wait.

During the carriage ride Val had decided to allow Rigby the majority of the talking. It was vital his purpose remain disclosed to no one beside the marquess. Once Rigby explained the circumstances, and the fee was settled, Valerian would agree to the absurd arrangement. He had little choice. If only he knew the means by which Jasper discovered Rigby’s desire to disentangle his son. Perhaps then he would feel more prepared for the sham he stood poised to perpetuate and the indecent matchbreaking that would ensue.

But that was not to be. Jasper had arranged the clandestine meeting, neatly explained the barest circumstances, and rode off on One-Eyed Jack without further conversation. Val had not seen him in two days and that did not bode well for London or the Dashwood bank account.

“Let’s get right to it. My wife is at the shops and while she enjoys spending my money, one never knows. It’s wise to take care of this situation with expedience.” Rigby approached with a confident air.

“True.” Val strove to maintain monosyllabic retorts. The less he contributed to the conversation, the better. Besides if the marquess wanted the matter to be done with due haste, minimal small talk served a dual purpose.

“Odd circumstance, but I find myself against a wall and I don’t like the position. My son, Leonard, is smitten. Poor fool. Taken in mind and heart by Lady Fiona and I won’t have it. The chit may be the fairest debutante of the season, but her father is the biggest mutton-head in England. He serves in Parliament two aisles from my seat and boldly uses his power to support reduced taxation. I could never condone my only heir bound to a family whose patriarch displays such alarmingly shallow intelligence.”

“Indeed.” Valerian inclined his head in agreement and cleared his throat to disguise the growl of his objecting belly. He skimmed his eyes over the far wall. Was there a liquor cabinet nearby? A brandy would be welcome.

“The debate is fairly academic. No man in sound mind would sustain reduced taxes benefit the majority, yet since the Battle of Waterloo and the social upheaval opposing higher income tax, a large population has championed its abolition. Lord Nobles has led the battle cry against my efforts and that of my colleagues. His limited scope of foresight will cripple this country.

“Now the girl may be as foolish as her father, I would not know, having never conversed with her, but the consideration signifies little. My son believes the sun rises and sets on the chit’s existence and has ignored my advisement he end the relationship and set his cap at another. Impetuous romantic heart of his. A curse from his mother’s side of the family. Women are plentiful in London. Leonard will be happier with someone else. Are you following, Dashwood?”

“Yes.” It seemed the right thing to say though Valerian’s mind reeled with the ridiculous logic constituting the marquess’ objection. The man would deny his son a future of happiness for his selfish unwillingness to associate with the proposed father-in-law.

Not that true love existed.

Valerian believed it as tangible as a unicorn.

Caroline proved that true years ago.

For less than a breath, his heart ached with the memory.

“Man of few words, are you?” Rigby approached, his eyebrows drawn, his forehead furrowed. “You do perceive the undertaking? I need my son disentangled from Lady Fiona with haste. Any further delay and Leonard may do something rash or worse, Parliament may begin to see reason in Nobles’ blather. I can’t take the chance.” A frown puckered his brow. “Lord Nobles is mad as hops if he believes he can convince the House of Lords to pursue financial reduction on the subject of taxation. He is brash and loud spoken and I will not have my name associated with such weak-minded theory.”

“Understood.” Rigby didn’t seem to mind the pithy answer, too engrossed in his own objective.

“Indeed.” The marquess nodded his head in affirmation. “Leonard will escort Fiona to the Collingsworth gathering tomorrow evening. I’ve already secured your invitation.” He reached into his left breast pocket and produced a letter written on ivory paper. “Your service comes highly recommended. A resourceful endeavor, if I may say, and of course, there is the matter of your price.” Rigby’s eyes flared, as if he wished to communicate everything left unsaid. “While an extraordinary amount, I’ll stop at nothing to see this through. Your associate explained the delicate nature of your finances and the oddity of circumstance.”

Rigby paused and a flash of conflicted sympathy colored his eyes.

Val’s right brow climbed. Delicate nature? Oddity of circumstance? The very devil. What did Jasper suggest to the man?

“When our business is completed, you’ll be richer by five thousand pounds.”

Rigby’s last three words yanked Val from his Jasperian considerations, and this time he remained silent, any final comment dissolved by the prospect of financial recovery.

Wilhelmina lowered the brim of her bonnet a full two inches before darting a glance beyond the overstocked shelves of McMulberry’s Literary Emporium. In a stroke of pure serendipity she’d visited Bond Street Millinery two days previous and found herself unwittingly involved in a conversation debating the intricacies of tatted blonde lace. Lady Rigby insisted the finest fripperies were imported from Belgium, while her companion, a formidable dowager with silver hair, insisted the most delicate creations originated in Spain. Wilhelmina, having entered the shop to purchase an agreeable muslin befitting a matchmaker’s gown, was drawn into the argument by fault of proximity and asked to settle the issue. She had no opportunity to object as a swath of each trimming was forced into her hands. Wilhelmina had chosen Belgium lace much to the overt disagreement of the silver-haired dowager who stormed off mumbling her discontent. In turn, she’d won the allegiance of Lady Rigby, who’d come to the millinery to purchase a gift for her son to offer the lady who’d caught his eye. Without pause, Lady Rigby launched into a lengthy dissertation on her yearning for grandchildren, thus presenting Wilhelmina the ideal opportunity to extend her matchmaking services. With alacrity, Lady Rigby accepted.

Now, awaiting an assignation with a woman she hardly knew, Wilhelmina hoped the marchioness proved the answer to her prayers. If things went well, Lady Rigby might inform other exacting mothers, anxious to see their sons and daughters settled, and Wilhelmina’s temporary foray into the business world could flourish.

She huffed a small breath to steel her courage. It all equaled money for Livie’s treatments. This solitary reason eased Wilhelmina’s anxiety and smoothed her far ruffled feathers touting she should not be in public unescorted nor keeping secrets from her aunt. The clock on the wall showed half past noon. She would need to craft a solid excuse for having stayed away so long. Since coming to live with Aunt Kate, life had proceeded with a predictable and simplistic pattern. She occasionally joined the tea social, favored morning walks to take the air, and often read a book in the modest garden behind the town house. She could never be labeled a social butterfly, her range of activities fairly conservative.

Much to her relief, Lady Rigby entered a heartbeat later. They made eye contact and together melted into the back shelves of the biography section, guaranteeing a modicum of privacy away from the Palladian glass windows decorated with literary enticements aimed to lure customers.

“Thank you for meeting me under such unusual circumstances, but if there is one place I know my husband would never enter, it’s a bookshop. Never mind the biography section. He’s too interested in his own point of view to expand his mind with ideas from others.”

“I see.” Wilhelmina thought it best not to remark further. The sooner she concluded their agreement, the better. “As I explained, it is vital my identity and purpose be kept secret, so your subterfuge serves us well. Do not give it another consideration. Now how may I help you?”

Lady Rigby darted her eyes left and right and lowered her head, her voice a conspiratorial tone. “My son is very interested in Lady Fiona. He speaks of her ad infinitum, and I can tell from the twinkle in his eyes, she is firmly planted in his heart. Yet for an unidentifiable reason, the lady appears reluctant. Leonard couldn’t be more dashing, his cravat is always freshly starched and his manners impeccable. He epitomizes the proper gentleman.” Her face displayed unconcealed worry. “I would despair were he heartbroken, but with your assistance, perhaps the lady may come to recognize the fine prospect my son represents.”

Wilhelmina considered the situation, despising her need to manipulate the truth and interfere in love’s path, but in truth, she would merely encourage the couple. Notwithstanding her reservations, matchmaking was a common practice among the ton and this effort was purely for Livie’s benefit. Were Wilhelmina to achieve success with this scheme, his mother’s recommendation would reach far within social circles ensuring more funds for her sister’s care. Her conscious inched closer to assuagement.

“Of course, I’m prepared to pay you handsomely if you accomplish this goal.”

The mention of money was the very incentive to snap Wilhelmina’s attention to the forefront. The ladies finalized the remaining details and Lady Rigby strode away, mixing with the other shoppers exiting the bookshop as if planning her son’s future composed a daily occurrence.

Not so for Wilhelmina.

Her heart pounded a fierce beat at the thought of entering society under false pretenses, conversing with strangers, and encouraging their advances. Her reserved, quiet nature was never challenged in the country and as of yet, her experiences in London had been limited to Aunt Kate’s weekly tea social. Attending large-scale engagements reached beyond her comfort, but she’d manage for Livie. For both of them, truly.

Head bowed for fear of being recognized by an acquaintance, Wilhelmina concentrated on the tips of her slippers as she swept from the bookshop and pushed forward into the crowded London walkway. Anxiety took a stronger hold with each step on the pavement, echoed in the rattle of carriage traffic and vendors hawking their wares. A newspaper boy’s call for customers was accompanied by the steady bark of a dog near his feet. The crack of a leather whip, a horse’s whinny, the sudden laughter of shoppers as they passed her within the crowded bustle, suffocated from all sides.

Had she not been lost in thought or preoccupied with manufacturing reasons as to why her actions were justified, she may have paid more heed to her progression and noticed the large wheel ruts, filled with gravel and murky water, just beyond the curb. Lost in deliberation as the dense crowd flowed along the pavement and parted for no apparent reason, Wilhelmina forged ahead, unaware the smarter patrons had moved aside to avoid the roadway disaster. By the time she’d realized her mistake, it was too late. She splashed into the pitted grooves and lost her footing, her best slippers, stockings, and hems drenched on contact with London’s thickest muck. Arms flailing in panic, her gloved hand landed upon a solid wooden banister and without a glance, she held tight, scrambling to hoist herself up before she fell bottom down in the middle of the avenue.

Yet a second later, the railing gave way, and a string of expletives filled the air no matter the loud din of the city surrounding her. Exuberant cursing continued, but there was no time to consider it. A gentleman splashed into the puddle beside her, the weight of his intrusion splattering muddy water across her cheek and chin. She sputtered an exclamation over his tirade as he chided her desperate attempt to gain leverage by use of his…arm.

Oh dear.

Wilhelmina met his gaze and her breath caught. London had resumed its bustle, dismissing the two muddied people knee-deep in dirty water near the edge of the walk; still she could hear nothing but the heavy thud of her heart.

“You have no idea what you’ve done.” A warning sounded in his voice as the words lashed her ears in a thunderous tone.

Oh, but she did. Paralyzed, Wilhelmina dropped her eyes and a heavy knot settled in her stomach. Muck squished between her toes. The grit of gravel and roadway scratched through her wool stockings. Her slippers were forever ruined and with no money to purchase a new pair, her careless, clumsy mistake left her utterly bereft. Yes, she knew the predicament well.

“Did you hear me?”

The impervious tone of his menacing question demanded her response. Wilhelmina shifted her attention to the right and skimmed her eyes from the top button of a black velvet waistcoat, higher over a tight-knotted cravat. She paused a breath to note the deep ridge in his firm set chin and then continued upward where her eyes lingered on his mouth for a reason she could not name…perhaps she waited on his next word.

A constricted sound emanated from his throat, clean shaved but for a shadow of dark whiskers and she shot her eyes straight to his, absorbing the fierce condescension evident in his intense glare. Despite the livid anger, his eyes glowed like the midnight sky, as blue as lapis lazuli, filled with glistening specks of light, part mystery and invitation, each framed by long lashes, black as coal, creating a brilliant contrast to the remarkable shade of his irises. Eyes that appeared furious.

For a split second, her mouth would not work; her brain completely preoccupied with the misfires of heart and mind. Then a more sensible part shook her loose and she formed the only words that seemed appropriate.

“I’m very sorry. I thought I’d caught a railing to prevent my fall.”

Some unexpected emotion flickered in the depths of his fathomless stare. Nothing she could identify as it disappeared before she could examine it. Still she took in his chiseled cheekbones, his obdurate glare, and her stomach continued to dance.

“That railing was my arm.” He huffed an angry exhale. “Sorry will not pay the cleaning bill, will it?”

The mention of money gained her attention. Would the gentleman expect reimbursement for the trouble she’d caused? Her eyes slanted over his shoulder to the haberdashery he’d most likely exited. It was the most expensive shop on Oxford Street. No wonder he appeared so angered. She ruined his boots, dirtied his suit, and who knew what else? He possessed very fine taste and she’d virtually bathed him in roadway filth. How would she compensate for her foolish mistake? She already needed new slippers and had yet to sew her matchmaker gown. Tears pricked at her lids but with resolute determination, she refused to let them fall, and curled her fists at her sides in fortification.

Seemingly mollified by her silence, the gentleman climbed from the ruined roadway and extended his gloved hand. With reluctance she clasped his palm, her fingers lost in his large grasp, and allowed him to guide her away from the pedestrian bustle who continued their daily business while her world grew smaller and smaller, one shilling at a time.

Chapter Four

He would throttle her as soon as he stopped looking at her, this unexpected interruption in way of delightful creature. Good God, she was lovely. Beautiful, despite mud splashed across her cheek and the glistening threat of tears in her eyes. He took a deep breath to diffuse his anger.

“You are troublesome.” It was the best he could manage under the circumstances, although a solemn intensity laced his tone.

“I certainly didn’t mean to be, although it’s rude of you to point it out as true.” Her previous intimidation appeared to have vanished, her tone gaining strength and prickliness as each word passed over her pretty blush lips.

Intent on finding his handkerchief, he reached into his breast pocket, realizing too late he had nothing to offer the lady; the ill-fitting coat not his. Jasper had gained it in a game of dice, literally winning the shirt and waistcoat off his opponent’s back. It had come in handy earlier, but served little purpose now.

“Are you all right?” Somehow the entire situation had gotten out of hand.

Her gaze fell past her serviceable gown to the tips of her muddy slippers and for an awkward moment she revealed not a hint of her thoughts.

“I will be, yes.” Her whisper held a sharp edge although a frown puckered her brow.

He removed his left glove and slanted her chin upward with the tip of one finger. Her eyes remained lowered, the fall of her mahogany lashes against her pink cheeks enough to make his chest ache for no reason he could label. He wiped away the mud on the slope of her chin, noting the delicate angle of her heart-shaped face, then with the pad of his thumb moved to do the same at the corner of her lips. Her eyes shot to his, a question hidden in their sable-brown depths. It stalled his progress to a slow, careful stroke. His breathing stopped altogether.

She jumped backward as if stung by a bee, neatly jarring into a random passerby before recovering her balance and gaining another step. She allowed the crowd to swallow her in their mass, lost to his sight before he could ask her name, or note the color of her hair beneath her tidy bonnet. Valerian turned with a disparaging mutter and one final expletive before pushing further down Oxford Street.

As he replaced his soiled glove, he considered the incident, thankful it had taken place after meeting Rigby and conducting his business at the pawn shop, the latter settling a heavy burden on his heart. Perhaps that anger, no, better to label it resentment, had permeated his sharp retort to the lady lost in the wheel ruts. In retrospect, the whole incident was not well done of him, but that bespoke of the desperation eating at his soul; the need to solve his financial woes.

How did one go about matchbreaking anyway? There were no rules of which he was aware, although Caroline taught him the darker side of affection. He scoffed, the reasons too plenty. Faced with Jasper’s ingenious scheme, the conclusive realization indicated Valerian would need a new wardrobe. One couldn’t borrow misfit waistcoats and parade around London ballrooms dressed as a buffoon. While he’d rusticated in the country everything he owned had gone out of style. He shook his head in hopeless resignation. Destitution had a way of hammering humbleness into one’s spirit. Pride nearly broken, it was time for dire measures.

After meeting with the marquess, he’d located a pawn shop and sold the one dear item he owned. The act effectuated emotion and threatened his resolve, despite his best efforts to squash the reaction. Selling his mother’s pearl pendant proved the desperate scrape at the bottom of the barrel. Fond memories of his father pinning the charm to the lining of his waistcoat for good luck during business ventures flooded his mind, rousing to break his melancholy were it not for the vague remembrances of his mother that followed quickly thereafter.

She’d died when he was still a lad, his father forced into the role of nurturer and provider. The old man had done a bang-up job in all the ways most important, free with his time, both loving and patient. He never wished to remarry and could often be found admiring his wife’s portrait when he believed no one observed.

Valerian shook his head in cadence to his footsteps across the cobblestones. His father had given him his mother’s pendant while on his deathbed. It was an odd little charm composed of a teardrop pearl with a silver clasp engraved in a scrolled design. The owner of the pawn shop had remarked on its unique craftsmanship. Val hoped it remained available when he pulled himself from debt because he never wished to sell it, vainly maintaining optimism Jasper would repair his ways before it became necessary. As of yet, things had not proceeded in any promising manner.

For now, the money he gained would be well spent on food, tailoring, and overdue wages for the servants, because in essence he had little else to his name beside a ramshackle country house, a filthy, ill-fitted waistcoat, and one rapscallion of a brother, whose whereabouts were Val’s next matter of business. The tempting scent of fresh bread wafted from the bakery on the corner where he’d paused and the comforting smell cemented his determination.

Recovering his horse from the post, he mounted and steered toward Barnaby Street. Turner recovered a scrawled notation from Jasper’s bedchamber. If the information proved correct, Jasper was spending the weekend at Randolph Beaufort’s town house, a friend from university. In all matters Jasper, Val embraced skepticism. University? He doubted good old Randy would prove the intellectual type.

A short time later Valerian aimed Arcadia down the narrow cobbles, his goal in sight. This section of London indicated wealth, a banquet of ne’er-do-well gentlemen swimming in lard, situated in row-houses where the only aspiration was to lessen the family coffers and explore the indulgent opportunities available to idle aristocracy. Val’s preconceived assumption strengthened as he approached the cream-colored residence. Some unidentifiable article of clothing hung from the second story wrought iron railing and the bright orange paint of the front door indicated the town house was one of tomfoolery more than ambition.

He threaded Arcadia’s reins through the iron loop of the hitching post near the curb and flipped a coin to the lad waiting for the opportunity before Val sidestepped a crooked topiary and climbed the four steps to drop the knocker. No one answered. Tamping down his impatience, he rested a palm against the left pilaster and leaned over the railing in an attempt to peer into the lower bow window, but thick drapery obscured his view. He pounded the knocker with measured force and skimmed his eyes upward where the sounds of a casement opening drew his attention. Jasper’s smiling face emerged soon after. He wore no cravat, his white lawn shirt gaping at the neck, his hair about his head in unruly direction. With observable effort, Jasper stifled a yawn before he spoke.

“Val, what are you doing here?”

Not for the first time, Valerian wondered the same thing.

“We need to discuss our endeavor. I am to begin tomorrow evening.” Perhaps the solemnity of his tone would produce a stroke of responsibility on Jasper’s part.

“I’ll be down in a jiffy.”

Perhaps not.

A few minutes later Valerian stepped into the ornate interior hall, the home proving much as he’d assumed. The furnishings were all the crack, from the marble tiled floor to the crystal wall sconces brimming with flickering candlelight to cast a dance of shadows on the crown molding. Any visitor would be instantly impressed, any light o’love automatically charmed. Everything was polished and perfect, that is, aside from Beaufort, who appeared unconscious, sprawled on the drawing room floor, one boot on, the other off, his face pressed awkwardly to the tassels adorning the corner of a cobalt-colored Persian rug. Randolph would have terrible creases in his cheek come morning.

“Where’s the butler? What exactly is happening here? And don’t give me a bag of moonshine, I want the truth.” Valerian examined his brother’s disheveled attire with a suspicious sweep of the eyes. Jasper appeared somnolent, but none the less for the wear. His assessment returned to the man on the rug. Beaufort looked completely out of sorts. “Should we help him up?”

“Don’t mind Randolph. He’s nursing the loss of his sweetheart.” Jasper grinned as he glanced to his friend on the floor across the hall. “He went off last night and got drunk as a wheelbarrow, then provoked the wrong group of men at the tavern and wound up with a facer.”

Val narrowed his eyes as he leaned closer, barely able to discern a mottled discoloration under Randolph’s left eye. “What role did you play in all this?”

“Must you always assume I’m to make a mull of something? I suggested an evening out to drown his sorrows. I couldn’t allow him to sit in all evening-tide lamenting his unrequited love.”

“I see.” Valerian prayed for patience. “So yours was a mission of compassion and empathy?”

Jasper paused long enough to dismiss the superfluous sarcasm. “Randolph has penned letters to a lovely miss in the country for over two years. They’d never met, but he developed strong feelings and intended to advance their relationship until their correspondence stopped without warning. His missives were returned unopened, so he traveled to the lady’s address only to discover she’d left with no further information.” He darted another glance to his friend on the floor, this time his expression a tad sympathetic. “It’s been over a year’s time, but his heart remains broken and I thought to provide him with a diversion to replace his fit of the blue-devils. Depression is a bottomless pit and I’d only good intentions. There’s no need for your picksome attitude. You would do the same.”

Valerian remembered his pathetic decline after Caroline’s jilt. She’d effectively crushed his heart with the heel of her boot. Despite severe scarring, the weak organ stuttered to life and he’d vowed its sole purpose would be to keep him breathing, nothing more. He’d kept that promise valiantly, letting no one in, nor any emotion out. It would appear Randolph would learn the same lesson. “May I assume he paid the liquor tab?”

“Randolph has deep pockets, but that isn’t the half of it. He’s invited us to make use of his town house while we’re in London. It solves all our problems, doesn’t it? I doubt you can disapprove now.”

“I wouldn’t be so cock-sure as of yet and it solves one of our problems, not nearly all of them.” Valerian advanced further into the home, stepping past Randolph, who appeared content on the floor. He entered the drawing room and made quick work of removing his ill-fitted garments, the cravat and waistcoat abandoned to an empty chaise. Poverty felt like an ever tightening vise around his chest and the undersized waistcoat emphasized the dire conditions. “Aren’t there any servants?”

“Randolph has them on a rotating schedule. They come and go so as to not disturb the carryings on.” Jasper did not seem the least concerned about his friend awkwardly positioned on the floor in the next room. “What happened to your clothing? It looks like you went swimming in a mud puddle.”

A vivid image flooded his mind and senses, an unbidden smile tweaked his mouth. “Are you sure we shouldn’t make Beaufort more comfortable?”

“I asked him before he fell asleep, and no. He likes it down there. Finds it comforting.” Jasper dismissed the question with eloquent sangfroid.

It was the same quality their deceased father possessed; the ability to take things at face value and not over-think the circumstances and consequences, to live life in the moment unfettered by concern. Valerian was cut from different cloth.

“So what do you suppose about staying in town?”

He could hear the underlying plea in Jasper’s voice and it played against his better judgment, but with the most logical rationalization, if Val were to find a way to achieve their matchbreaking business, London was a veritable bed of opportunity. Of course, he would need to keep a close watch on his brother’s waywardness, but that proposed nothing new. It could prove easier if they lived under the same roof.

“It would make sense, both of us residing here, although you will be under my perspicacious surveillance. We are here to recover from poverty, not sink further into the bowels of destitution.” Valerian schooled his voice with an unmistakable didactic tone and swept a glance around the interior. “Given our lack of financial choices, Beaufort’s generous offer is a boon, although it goes against my integrity to hang on someone’s sleeve.”

“Consider it a favor between friends.” Jasper poured two healthy portions of brandy and handed a glass forward. “So how did it go with Rigby?”

“As well as could be expected, I suppose. I’m to start destroying Leonard’s hopes and dreams as early as tomorrow evening.”

“So you’ve laced your endeavor with dismal intention. I expected that, although you’re the ideal person to execute this plan and the last man to act like a chocolate box over a pretty face. Why not consider the peaceful salvation your service will provide? I’ve heard Fiona is a regular church-bell. There could be no sanity shared when married to a gabster.” Jasper dropped into a nearby wingchair, entirely undisturbed by the implied ramifications of interrupting someone’s emotional goal, no matter his friend lay prone on the floor from unrequited love.

“I’ve known Leonard Rigby since Eton and I’m not so sure the boot isn’t on the other leg.” Val took a long swallow of brandy in hope it would smooth the wrinkles of his discontent, then glanced at his own boots, caked with mud and water-stained. An image of the unsettled beauty he’d met earlier flittered through his mind with intense clarity and this time he allowed it to remain. Perhaps if he concentrated on her delicate features and lovely sable eyes he could escape the ever present absurdity of this situation. He scoffed at the fleeting proposition. “Nevertheless it matters little. At the end of this venture we’ll be that much richer and on our way, albeit in a small stride, to financial recovery. That is as long as you mend your ways. If cavorting is on your schedule, make damn sure Randolph is doing the spending.” He flicked his eyes to the front window. “Where is One-Eyed Jack? Does Beaufort rent stalls in the nearby mews? I left Arcadia tied to a post near the curb. The last thing I need is to have my horse stolen.” Arcadia was the one constant in his life and a dear friend. A dependable, strong animal who didn’t talk back, spend money, or tread on his emotions.

“There is a stable around the corner. I’ll bring you afterward. Let me show you abovestairs and you can choose your room. I suspect you’ll need use of a tailor, although Beaufort has an extensive wardrobe. He may not mind if you borrow a coat or two.”

Valerian eyed the black velvet waistcoat abandoned on the couch with obvious distaste, then dashed his eyes to Randolph’s collapsed form. The vivid embroidery of his puce ensemble merged with the ambitious pattern of the Persian rug. “No, I think not, Jasper. Our tastes do not run parallel.”

Chapter Five

Wilhelmina returned home in great hurry. Having directed the hackney to let her off on the corner, she’d walked with vigor to Aunt Kate’s town house. A little out of breath and mentally disassembled, she rushed through the door and directly to her bedchamber, hoping no one would question her disheveled state of dress, although falling into a muddy puddle would supply a needed excuse for her tardiness if anyone inquired. Her thoughts whirled with a flurry of excitement and curiosity, but not from meeting Lady Rigby. Encouraging a match between Leonard and Fiona should prove easy since they already held each other in esteem.

Instead, her thunderous heartbeat and quivering nerves were due to the stranger and their interesting, almost intimate, encounter on the street. Why, the gentleman had been condescending, overbearing, rigidly stoic and undeniably handsome. She lingered on the last observation, recalling the wondrous shade of his eyes, the hard line of his chin, and the strength of his hand as he assisted her from the roadway. She should feel outrage at his treatment, and disapproval at his rudeness, but curiosity and desire swamped her, drowning the righteous objections and encouraging she relive the encounter with exacting detail.

Shedding her soiled skirts and slippers, and thankful she’d dried enough not to dirty everything in her wake, Wilhelmina dressed in a simple day gown and settled at her escritoire near the front window. Setting pen to paper, she detailed every specific she could remember about the mysterious stranger and their unlikely encounter. Then she allowed it to dry and pasted it neatly onto a fresh page in her keepsake book.

She paused, her fingers skimming the words. She could hear his voice in her imagination; the deep tenor of his words causing goosebumps to trace her arms. Good heavens, how fanciful. She slammed the book closed before burying it below the extra coverlet inside the trunk at the foot of her bed. Then she hurried to her sister’s bedchamber intent on regaling Livie with the details of her morning, but with every stride she reconsidered.

By the time she reached Livie’s rooms, Wilhelmina had decided it best not to mention the overbearing and terribly dashing gentleman on Oxford Street. Perhaps that encounter was one left to her heart and imagination. She’d never see him again, one stranger in an overpopulated city…most especially when she hardly left Aunt Kate’s town house. Truly, where was the harm in harboring one little fantasy about an elusive, mysterious stranger? It could lead nowhere except when replayed in her overactive memory.

In the same fashion as a monotony of mornings, she found Livie sitting upright in her bed, her eyes bright behind her wire-rimmed spectacles. A lap desk was pushed off to the side as if she’d been reading or writing earlier in the day.

“I have quite a bit of news to share. Are you up for the details?” With a cheery smile, Wilhelmina swept into the room intent on retelling her adventure with Lady Rigby in such descriptive language Livie would experience it too. A shadow of regret caused her smile to falter before she buoyed it back into place. Livie deserved a proper come out, extravagant parties, and a bevy of suitors instead of the torment served her by their parent’s carriage accident.

A shiver traced her spine with the ever present memory. The coach had lost a wheel, diverged from the roadway, throwing the driver to his death before rolling down a steep embankment and settling on its side. Their parents were killed, but the worst of the accident, if there existed any one pinnacle to be labeled singularly cruel, was that Livie remained pinned beneath Mother and Father’s bodies, her legs broken and useless, her strength weakened from blood loss and a traumatic strike to the head. She lay helpless under the weight of her beloved parents, waiting. One could only imagine what she heard during that time or the distraught agony of her thoughts while she suffered through the night.

Livie refused to discuss it at any length, and Wilhelmina prayed her sister was unconscious for the duration, as it took nearly ten hours before the coach was recovered from that countryside roadway ditch.

A violent wave of despair squeezed her heart. The accident had been Wilhelmina’s fault. She would never recover from her foolish decisions that night.

“Yes, yes. I have been able to think of little else.” Livie patted the comforter beside her. “Come and tell me everything.”

The following evening, under no guise, Aunt Kate and Wilhelmina climbed into a hired coach and left for the Collingsworth dinner party. Having received an invitation instigated by Lady Rigby’s meddling, Wilhelmina had the sharp mind to request her aunt accompany her, more of a companion than a chaperone although both labels applied. The mild manipulation of truth assuaged Wilhelmina’s burdened conscience. At first Aunt Kate had declined, knowing Livie would be left at home with only her nurse for company, but eventually she’d relented.

“You do look lovely, Whimsy. How clever of you to choose the lavender silk. A few bright trims and you’ve turned last year’s fashion into a bright vision, although I refuse to allow you to dissuade me again. One day very soon I insist on purchasing new gowns for you, most especially if you choose to become more active in society.” Aunt Kate tapped Wilhelmina’s knee with the tip of her fan. “I’m afraid I owe you an apology. I answered too quickly when you first presented this invitation. While we both worry over Livie’s welfare, I cannot neglect my duties in seeing you experience the season as well. Please know I am thrilled to accompany you this evening and hope tonight leads to many more exciting excursions.”

“Thank you. Of course I understand.” Wilhelmina offered her aunt a reassuring smile. “I troubled over the opportunity as well, but Livie insisted I accept and truly, she’s in very good hands. Nurse will likely have her pacing the room before she goes to sleep with the incentive she will soon take the same strides across a ballroom.”

“It is my wish. The two of you have experienced such tragedy, but Livie…I worry about her. She barely speaks of the accident and with the limitations of her condition, cannot escape for a time by visiting friends or strolling in the park. She is fragile in many ways. I shudder to think of her experiences that night.” Aunt Kate’s mouth pressed tight in a rueful grimace and for several long moments the only sounds heard were the carriage wheels revolving against the roadway cobbles. With a sigh, Wilhelmina wondered if her aunt would continue the conversation, the circumstances surrounding that evening tangled tight with heavy emotions, but no, they sat in quietude.

Eventually the coach slowed and when the steps were extended, it forced the women from their pensive considerations. Wilhelmina held tightly to her aunt’s arm and entered the Collingsworth residence. The town house was long and narrow, accentuated by the lengthy hall and ornamental moldings forming synchronized rectangles along the walls in varying shades of cyan. A footman took their shawls and at his direction, they ventured further into the home to a large drawing room, its interior decorated in peacock and ochre gold. Several people had already arrived, drinks were plentiful and small clusters of friends were gathered in corners, determined to flirt, socialize, and gossip. It was the trademark of any successful gathering, yet Wilhelmina hesitated, uncomfortable amidst the crowd. Her pulse jumped with insecurity all too anxious to remind she was nothing more than a country miss disguised as a city socialite and hired to bring together two people whom she did not know.

She bit her lower lit and steeled her courage. Best to get on with the task at hand. Moments later, her aunt provided the opportunity Wilhelmina desired.

“I see an old friend who I haven’t spoken to in decades. You don’t mind, do you, Whimsy? You’ll be fine?”

Relieved to disperse the need for fabrication, Wilhelmina nodded assent, and turned toward the drawing room, straightening her spine with hollow fortitude and dispersing an anxious quake of nerves. Armed with Lady Rigby’s detailed description, Wilhelmina noted Lady Fiona conversing in a quiet corner with two young ladies, one of whom she’d met previously when her aunt’s acquaintance brought her niece to tea. The ladies stood beside an overfilled bookcase where one guest held a volume in her gloved hands, the group’s animated conversation seeming to refer to the opened pages. How brilliant. Books posed a safe topic and talk of literature would serve perfectly were Wilhelmina to eloquently assert herself into their conversation and avail an introduction to Lady Fiona. She possessed a treasure trove of knowledge having read every book in her father’s expansive library before parting with the volumes. Feeling a trifle more self-assured, Wilhelmina stepped in their direction.

Valerian tugged at the hem of his waistcoat, relieved the tailor had had an adequate sample available when he’d placed his conservative order. He held no desire to be noticed and preferred the pretense of a more determined force from the shadows. The charcoal grey wool presented a respectable image, one innocuous, forgettable, and conducive to his goal. It was pure serendipity when he arrived at the same moment as Leonard Rigby. Valerian made haste to fall in step with his old acquaintance as he walked up the gravel drive.

“Rigby, is that you? It’s been some time.” Valerian extended his hand and offered a cordial welcome.

“Dash, this is a surprise and yes, it’s been years. I recall seeing your brother about town a few weeks ago, but I never anticipated your company. You’ve kept a low profile, although at times I too favor the countryside instead of the city.”

An odd moment passed as each gentleman knew the main reason Valerian avoided London. Memories of Caroline were too fresh at first. Every event, invitation, and stroll in the park served as cutting suggestion of what might have been, not to mention the public humiliation of enduring the flaming gossip of one’s fiancé being caught in flagrante delicto during the season’s most well attended gathering.

Worse, it forced one to engage an introspective examination of why such humiliation was perpetrated. Surely his intentions and emotions had been honest. Yet what had they been worth? The question evoked a wry smile. Caroline had measured his value in pounds and banknotes, not to be swayed by loyalty, devotion or something so trifling as love.

It had made for an easy choice. Returning to the security of somewhere dependable and comforting proved the best decision and Kirby Park had not disappointed. His well-loved childhood home provided seclusion and quiet; the perfect atmosphere to lick his wounds and forget – attempt to forget – Caroline’s infidelity.

Unexpectedly, country life grew on Val, like moss on a tree, one needing the other for survival until the thought of returning to London with its crowded streets and constant aristocratic demands paled greatly to the rolling green hills outside his window. His decision proved timely with the decline of his father soon after his return. He would never forgive himself if he hadn’t been there to tend his father during those final days.

Surely Leonard knew it by half.

“Responsibility, nothing more.” He answered the question and ignored the sharp twist in his heart.

“My condolences on your father’s passing.” Rigby’s words were sincerely spoken.

“Thank you. He is greatly missed.” Determined to take full advantage of his opportune arrival, Valerian inquired of the event as they approached the main entry. “I’m a bit out of practice. I don’t suppose you’d abide company until we are well underway?”

Rigby, in a noticeable hurry, didn’t allow the question to deflect his purpose. He indicated the main entry with a flick of his pointer finger and showed no hesitation. “Come along then.”

A servant dressed in Collingsworth livery opened the mahogany door and ushered them inside. “Let’s dispense of this mood and forge into the drawing room. You’re not on the hunt for a wife, are you, Dash?” Rigby hardly paused to hear his answer. “This season offers ladies aplenty.”

“Nothing so valiant, I assure you.” He resisted the urge to chuckle at the irony of it all. From his point of view, he remained emotionally numb to romantic relationships and all the better for it.

“Then I’ve no need to stand guard against the lady who’s stolen my heart. I’ll immerse you in the festivities by way of introduction. It’s the least I can do after initiating such somber conversation earlier. Grab yourself a drink and follow me.”

Valerian did as he was told although his brother’s words, of Lady Fiona possessing the same characteristics as a church-bell and his rebuttal in favor of Leonard’s vociferous tendency, rang with clarity. He lifted a snifter of brandy from a passing servant’s tray and followed Leonard into the fray. The room was crowded and served him well as he melded into the background and surveyed the best manner to proceed. Matchbreaking was not something he’d ever attempted before and, coupled with Leonard’s brimming anticipation at seeing Lady Fiona, his conscious needed a firm reminder of his dire financial straits. He took a long swallow from his glass, savoring the liquor he couldn’t afford in his own home, and maneuvered through the crowd with purpose. When Rigby stopped, Valerian sidled near the small grouping in a far corner of the room.

Two women stood cooing over an open book while a third female, a petite miss in a muted lavender-colored gown, had her back to the room as she faced the far shelf. Valerian watched as the woman traced a gloved finger down the spine of a tall volume, pausing as if considering her selection with great deliberation, before moving on to repeat the action with each subsequent volume. Her lingering stroke down each title caused his heart to tighten and his groin to heat, the visceral reaction catching him off guard. Perhaps the brandy impaired his reasoning.

Otherwise, there existed no rationalization for the quickening of his pulse and the innate level on which his body responded to the stretch of her palm tipping the binding, the subtle caress of her fingertip as it traced the gold lettering, and surprising most of all, her intense deliberation, though sight unseen, as she made a final decision and selected a volume from the shelves lining the back wall. He shook his head to extinguish the absurd fascination and forced his attention to the conversation underway.

Leonard launched into proper introductions but Valerian heard little, temporarily distracted as the petite miss turned, a cascade of wavy hair the exact color of burnt honey falling over her shoulder with the action. Before him stood the winsome miss who’d pulled him into a mud puddle the day before. Her eyes flared with recognition and he stifled the immediate chuckle that danced on his tongue. Oh, but the evening would prove interesting.

How could it be? Wilhelmina held her breath as introductions concluded, but the maddened beat of her heart drowned out all voices and words. Before her, impeccably dressed in fine grey wool, stood the mysterious tyrant who assisted her from the wheel ruts after she’d met with Lady Rigby on Oxford Street. His memory invaded her daydreams ever since, but her musings had been wrong, her assumptions incorrect. He was not devilishly handsome, his eyes not entrancing in the least. He was more. Much more. Her brain sputtered to produce some adjective that applied but all paled in consideration.

Good heavens, she would appear a bird-wit.

Wilhelmina extended her hand as he reached forward, only to drop the book she’d just claimed. With increasing mortification, she knelt to retrieve the volume and he did in kind. They bumped heads effectively on the way down to the carpet. His velvet murmur of amusement warmed her to the core, tracing over her skin and settling deep in her belly with a joyful fluttering.

“Now this is a surprise.”

There they crouched, two adults at knee level among the gowns and suits of a crowded drawing room affair. The filtered candlelight cast his chiseled features in shadow and all she could see clearly was the sharp angle of his nose, the dark slash of his brows. Wilhelmina’s heart stopped beating. She raised her eyes to his as someone adjusted their position above, allowing a fleeting sliver of light within their shadowed rendezvous. When his eyes met hers, midnight blue pierced her soul. Dragging a ragged breath, she failed to produce words, flippant, eloquent or otherwise.

“It would appear, my sweet, you have it in your mind to extinguish my existence; first by drowning in a mud puddle, and now by a rap to the head.”

If only something charming came to mind, but she felt a stuttering loss. Would her sharp tongue suddenly fail her when she needed it most? This disruptive grip of nervousness was his fault. He unsettled her to the core.

His lips, that delightful cleft in his strong chin, were but a whisper away, so close she could feel the heat of his exhale across her cheek, and his pervasive fragrance, a mixture of neroli and cloves, filled her nostrils and drenched her soul. What would it feel like to be kissed by such a dashing gentleman? She could only wonder, the intimacy unfamiliar, although that fluttering renewed in her belly…and other places too.

She swallowed hard as good sense forced a reply past her lips. “The fault is all mine.” With no wish to draw attention to their prone forms the words whispered from her lips as if an illicit proposition instead of an innocent plea for pardon. A sketch of a smile tilted his mouth and their gazes locked.

“Very well then, I claim no harm.” He clasped the book more firmly and placed a gloved hand below her elbow, bringing them once again to eye level. His arm brushed against hers as they re-entered the circle and his muscles, hard through the cloth of his waistcoat, caused her breath to catch and her brain to question the sudden and uncomfortable awareness of his body so near to hers.

Then he did the unspeakable, and reached forward to tap the front of her temple, his bare fingertip brushing through the wisps of her hair. “I presume the knock did not so much rattle your brain as your constitution. I assure you no one knows of the blunder beyond this congenial circle of friends.”

How dare he be charming and make mortifying matters worse? She’d never be able to converse, to engage Leonard and Fiona in flirtatious interplay, if he stood nearby watching, breathing. She cleared her throat and steadied her nerves.

Conversation had resumed when someone lifted the volume of poems from his grasp, and flipped it open to a random page. Wilhelmina gathered her wits and forced a smile. Best she ignore Lord No Name and carry on as if he didn’t exist.

But her vow proved impossible as he plucked the volume from Lord Rigby’s hand next and began reciting poetry in a delicious tenor that caused `flesh to prick her skin, no matter layers of clothing protected her heart. Her cheeks warmed and, all of a sudden discomfited, she could only focus on his voice reciting one of her favorite Byron poems. It was as if she was hearing it for the first time, his exacting enunciation and emotional intonation spoken in the most wonderful tones until he uttered the last syllable. Her heart beat a rapid applause.

“I wouldn’t have pegged you for a romantic, Dashwood.” Leonard Rigby nabbed the volume at the poem’s end and darted a glance in Fiona’s direction.

“Public presentation must be a family trait. Your brother and Lord Beaufort were walking through Mayfair last night reciting a Shakespearean sonnet.” Lady Childs twittered after the confession. “Or at least I believe it’s what the gentlemen attempted. Your brother keeps lively company while in town, does he not, Lord Dashwood?”

“Jasper and I are as salt and pepper, naturally paired, yet drastically different depending upon one’s taste.” His witty reply caused a ripple of laughter in the conversation while the ladies offered fawning eyes in his direction.

Lord Dashwood. At least now she had a name. And a brother named Jasper. Younger, perhaps, from the protective note buried in his flippant retort. She glanced in his direction as he conversed with Lady Childs, the lady seemingly delighted with his attention and blatantly flirting beneath lowered lashes. Some unreasonable emotion made Wilhelmina urge to disrupt the moment, but then distracted by Lord Dashwood’s fine profile, she lost the objective.

“I have always favored Byron, although I am fond of most poetry. The harmony of each verse and the fluidity of the words never fail to bring serenity to my soul. Who do you prefer, Lord Rigby?” Lady Fiona fluttered her fan and sent a coy glance in Leonard’s direction.

The action jolted Wilhelmina’s awareness to her purpose. Enough of pondering Lord Dashwood. His presence was more nuisance than aid. Here lay the perfect opportunity to fortify her effort and bring the matched couple together.

“I’ve always believed the same. By all means, let me begin.” Leonard Rigby cleared his voice and slanted his body as if reciting for Fiona alone. Wilhelmina admired his devotion.

“Rigby? Poetry? If my memory serves, at university you categorized prose as senseless drivel unworthy of the page unless the goal was set at seduc—”

“Indeed!” Lady Pridley interjected with a sharp rap of her fan to Dashwood’s forearm. “One does not point out a change in opinion, most especially when the lady prefers it otherwise.”

Wilhelmina snorted at the reprimand. Four sets of eyes swung in her direction and she camouflaged her delight with a cough. Lord Dashwood was proving entertaining if nothing else. She did not need his interference when things were proceeding so swimmingly between Fiona and Leonard. If their love match proved this simple, Wilhelmina’s payment was in reach before month’s end. The very idea brought a smile to her face, a balm to any lingering fears.

“Perhaps you misunderstood.” Leonard attempted to erase the abashed look on Fiona’s face at hearing Dashwood’s comment, but the dinner bell rang and the group dispersed. Wilhelmina watched closely as Fiona accepted Leonard’s escort into supper. She was left standing near the bookcase and that suited, as her equilibrium remained off kilter from her exchange with Lord Dashwood.

Aunt Kate came to claim her arm while Wilhelmina contemplated his irritating presence. One did not purposely expose another’s inconsistencies. It just wasn’t done. Despite her earlier enchantment, Wilhelmina wondered at the man’s fickle charms. He had displayed equally curious emotions when they collided in the roadway. Best she push the matter aside. Lord Dashwood fitted nowhere in her plan to match Leonard and Fiona, his presence mattering little in the larger scheme of things. Wilhelmina planned to see Leonard and Fiona happily paired despite whatever periphery nonsense her heart incited.

Chapter Six

Well, that was not well done of him. The disparaging glares cast in his direction when he contradicted Rigby’s announcement of a fondness for poetry were more unsettling than the notion of destitution. Well, almost. Surely poverty would offer him the opportunity for equal censure if he did not have a care. Nearsightedness as it pertained to conversation would do little to ingratiate his company if he abandoned finesse. His focus may be solely on destroying Leonard’s affection toward Fiona, but it would not be achieved in a heavy-handed manner, the likely approach employed by Leonard’s father.

Curse Jasper and his lack-witted idea. A more sensible policy would provide his brother stop gambling, wasting funds, and idling away time, as Valerian had warned him to do years ago. Instead Valerian was forced into a role of falsity, trussed up like a holiday goose in an uncomfortable sample ensemble. He clenched his teeth and revised his approach. Although the dinner bell had rung, several couples still milled in the hallway while others conversed near the windows. Time held firm for an alternate plan.

“Lady Collingsworth, may I beg a word?” He executed a polite bow and called forth his most charming smile for the evening’s hostess.

“Lord Dashwood, such a delight.” The older woman, fanning her face madly, offered him complete attention with a grin, the effusive scent of orchids floating around her person. “I’m so pleased you chose to attend. You’re looking well. I’d venture to say this return to London is quite timely as I rarely entertain once the season is in full swing.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it.” Not for five thousand pounds. He exhaled deeply, gathering his makeshift plan close to heart and producing another smile.

“Have you tried the curried shrimp? My cook prepared an exquisite menu and the appetizers are merely a taste.” She inclined her head to compensate for the loud conversation as the crowd moved toward the dining room. Her expression shifted from pride to question.

He returned her enthusiasm. “Everything has been lovely. Beyond my expectations, but may I inquire of the seating this evening? Would it pose an imposition for a slight realignment in regard to the meal’s dining arrangement?”

“Aah, romance.” An expression of slight misgiving, then realization dawned. “You have your eye on a particular lady, you scoundrel? And to think I believed your brother the rabblerouser in your family.” Her cheeks took on a crimson glow as if she spoke from experience rather than assumption. “Consider it done. Never would I stand in the way of blossoming affection, most especially when you’ve been absent from the social scene. It’s a genuine pleasure to have you at the table. Feel free to rearrange the cards to ensure you converse with the lady who has captured your interest. Good luck with your chase.” She fluttered her satin-gloved hand in the direction of the dinner table as if to encourage him to interfere with her meticulous planning.

“You flatter me, Lady Collingsworth, when it is I who should thank you for your gracious invitation on such short notice. I appreciate your agreeability.” He took a few steps to the right, anxious to reach the place cards before guests advanced to their seats.

“Nonsense, the pleasure is mine. Now you should be about your plan before my guests descend on the table and you’ll have no choice but to watch some other lucky gentleman woo the woman who’s turned your head.” She withdrew as she spoke. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to oversee dinner service.”

Three strides took him nearer the table but his steps slowed as he noticed Lady Montgomery intent on the same direction, her head bowed in the similar manner as when she’d found her way into a roadway ditch. He watched, bemused, as candlelight danced on the silky strands of her hair, hues of brandy and mahogany swept in a lovely style and pinned behind her neck with an ornate clip. Her eyes darted right and left as if ensuring no one noticed her purposeful presence, but how could one ignore her? There was nothing singularly unique about the gown, nor the coiffure or jewelry, yet her grace was natural, her beauty pure; as if she alone was the sole lady in the room.

She shot a second glance over her shoulder before her eyes bowed to the table. He watched with stunning anticipation as she palmed two seating cards and replaced them further down the table with the smooth efficiency of a practiced thief. If he wasn’t so intrigued by her actions, he might have admired her spunk and fortitude. She wore a triumphant smile. Whatsoever was the lady up to? There was only one way to find out.

“Lady Montgomery.” He adjusted his cuffs in feigned preoccupation, although he hadn’t missed the startle of her shoulders when he’d eased behind her. A few feathery wisps of hair had escaped her coif and the desire to nuzzle her neck, to feel the silky softness of her skin entered his mind with unexpected clarity. Reclaiming his focus with a strong blink, he thrust the thought aside and pursued his answer. “Whatsoever are you doing redesigning Lady Collingsworth’s table? Was the guest to your right an unbearable bore or did you merely wish to sit beside me?”

She drew a quick breath at his question and then stared at the table as if she didn’t realize what she’d perpetrated.

“The choice between boredom and your company would be an exercise in redundancy, Lord Dashwood.”

Her flippant tone contradicted the tremble of her chin. She’d been caught and entirely unsettled by the matter, yet she’d managed a sharp set down despite the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. Bravo.

Valerian glanced at the place cards directly in front of him and a flame of annoyance licked at his brain. Lady Montgomery had rearranged Lord Rigby’s seat so the gentleman belonged beside Lady Fiona. If she’d left well enough alone, fate would have done his job. Lady Montgomery’s meddling would become a nuisance if she persisted.

“I doubt Lady Collingsworth would countenance your interference of her place settings. Women go to great lengths to manage their tables. There must be a very important reason for you to shuffle the deck.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Perhaps that rap on the head addled your wits more than mine.”

She eyed him with cautious attention and sarcasm crept into her tone, yet although her words were biting, her face looked as anxious and bewildered by her comments as he should be. And while her rebuke was meant to wound, her eyes said something else entirely. Here stood a woman who likely had not one contrary bone in her body, her sable brown gaze as clear as her conscience. So why would she be anxiously manipulating the place settings?

He dropped his eyes to the damask tablecloth, the noisy shuttle of silverware indicating guests claimed their places. Time had run out. His name card sat to the left of hers. That had been the card she’d replaced, hadn’t it? He flicked his eyes to her guileless face. Was it an accident or an intentional maneuver on her part? She couldn’t have vied to place him by her side, could she? A tic of curiosity overpowered better sense and sent his pulse into a wild thrum. Foolish, very foolish.

Lady Montgomery’s face remained expressionless, her lips as silent as an empty vault. To make matters worse, opportunity was no longer his ally as people took their seats, Leonard chatting profusely as he escorted Lady Fiona to her place.

They were well into the soup course and Valerian remained confused with Wilhelmina’s intent. She spoke little, exemplified the finest manners, and cared not a whit he sat by her side which confirmed his earlier suspicion she held another aim to her purpose. Between bites she conversed politely with the lady to her right, but that conversation too, the fashion trend of feathered bonnets, would not instigate a need to reorganize the seating. What could she be up to? If she held no purpose in sitting beside the guest to her right, and paid him no attention at her left, little sense was to be made of the situation.

Meanwhile, Leonard and Fiona exchanged engaging glances at every opportunity, their lively banter littered with double entendre and flirtation. The evening was on a quick downslide to disaster.

Valerian cleared his throat and feigned interest in the tedious conversation holding him captive. Lord Fielding seemed determined to learn every nuance of Valerian’s life since he’d last visited London.

“Quite a substantial estate you have in Devonshire. Acres of rolling countryside, herds of sheep, and a majestic parkland home. It’s no surprise you’d prefer rural living to the congestion and pollution we endure here in London. I had the pleasure of your father’s invitation years ago.”

“You’ve quite a memory.” Valerian bit back a grimace at the pastoral scene Fielding’s words painted. At one time the description fitted Kirby Park aptly, but time and circumstance had altered the conditions of his inheritance with great impact. A wish to restore the estate’s grandeur remained his highest priority and life’s purpose. It took two seasons to shed the morose temperament brought on by Caroline’s jilt. Now he was ready to proceed. If only Jasper had not depleted their coffers so dramatically. “I don’t recall your visit. Was I in house?”

“I believe you were away at university. It might have been your third year. Back then your father cajoled a group of us to join him for a series of weekly card game. If my memory serves correctly, I took a fleecing the first time I participated.” Fielding released a good-natured laugh before emptying his wine glass. “But the following week I did better. They were good times with spirited friends.”

“Aah, well then that would explain it.” Had he the monies of which Fielding spoke, Valerian could repair the lost shingles on the roof or replace the cracked window in the front hall. He’d only managed to keep his head above water by closing off most of the house, selling the furniture for less than its worth, and maintaining a menu of the scarcest variety. Perhaps that was the reason the steaming bowl of lobster bisque before him tasted heavenly. It couldn’t be the company. Lady Montgomery had hardly spoken a word, too busy devouring Leonard and Fiona’s flirtatious banter as if it provided sustenance. Could she be yearning for attention? Desperate for a courtship as romantic as the one unfolding to his left? Pity, she would soon be disappointed as he vanquished their happily ever after and collected his five thousand pounds.

Failure. The word repeated like a litany in Wilhelmina’s brain, yet she couldn’t shake the insult as opportunity offered her every advantage and still she prevaricated. Fiona and Leonard were seated beside each other. Aunt Kate had taken her place at the opposite end of the table allowing Wilhelmina the ability to speak unhindered, and she’d mastered her rearrangement of the place cards with recognizable success. What little interference Lord Dashwood perpetrated did not bear on the result, yet she sat frozen in her seat, unable to articulate any useful conversation, her stomach a jumble of mixed emotion and self-recrimination. She reached for her wine goblet in search of liquid fortification and the action drew his perspicacious attention. A quick flick of her eyes and she was under his midnight-blue scrutiny, entirely unsettled by an unnerving attraction beyond her control.

“Cat have your tongue, Lady Montgomery? You had no trouble reprimanding me earlier.” His voice full of censure, he offered a slow deliberate smile. “Or are you feeling unwell this evening? You’ve been quieter than a church mouse.”

He angled into her and she inclined to meet him, assuaging the jump in her pulse that it was the only way she’d be able to hear his smoky murmur. Still his sudden attention and private questions jarred her hold on the wine glass, the stem tilting to the left as her arm jerked to prevent spillage, her charm bracelet jingling with applause against the china dinner plate. It was no small miracle she saved herself from further blunder. Determined not to appear clumsy once again, Wilhelmina flashed him an impatient look and mustered her best no-nonsense tone. “Not at all, Lord Dashwood. I’m simply enjoying my meal and the fine company of friends. It is the reason for accepting Lady Collingsworth’s invitation, is it not?” She hoped her judicial reply would curtail his curiosity and allow her heart to resume a normal rhythm.

“That does not explain your tampering with the place settings. I must admit, you’ve presented me with a puzzle I cannot solve.”

He delivered a vague look of disapproval although a mischievous glint sparked his eyes. She already thought him handsome, but with the candlelight glow casting a sheen to his just-a-little-too-long hairstyle and the elegant angle of his body leaned ever so slightly toward her person, Wilhelmina had trouble breathing. How would she ever concentrate on the matter at hand with this strong, deliciously smelling man beside her?

It was as though her senses were acutely aware of his every nuance and that singular thought, that she was attracted to Lord Dashwood, when she’d never taken a particular interest in any one gentleman, was enough to dry the quick retort on her tongue.

When Lord Fielding had described Dashwood’s country home as palatial, she’d turned an attentive ear. The earl’s wealth exceeded her imaginings, not that she’d had any designs on her prospects, but all information proved useful. Perhaps someday in the near future a concerned mother would contact her for matchmaking of lofty proportions. It served her well to know all eligible bachelors, most especially one entailed to an earldom.

A little sigh escaped at the realization Livie and she did not mix in elite circles of earls and the equivalent. Lord Dashwood would stay firmly planted in her daydreams, the same which revolved around the touch of his hand as he escorted her from the roadway or the contradictory and devilish tone of his irate questions, as if he wasn’t really angry at all.

If only being extremely wealthy, at least to the extent as she’d learned from the discussion of his country home, would eradicate her extreme lack of dowry. Still that was the stuff of daydreams, and Wilhelmina possessed too much intelligence to be deluded that such arrangements lived anywhere except in fairytales.

When the subject of her deliberations cleared his throat beside her, she noticed in horror he waited for her reply. “Your country estate sounds lovely.” The compliment caused a grim shadow to enter his eyes.

“Clever, your little change of subject, but the matter won’t be so easily dismissed. It was poorly done of you not to consider I may have hoped to sit beside a different guest before you manipulated my seat to your own device. At the very least you owe me the privilege of understanding why. Will you not reveal your reasoning?”

He summoned a pitch of mock outrage that had Wilhelmina biting the inside of her cheek. She disliked being the center of the room, but Dashwood’s attention fitted as snugly as a well sewn glove...and just as warmly. His careful insolent smile somehow heated her skin, quickened her pulse. But what had he said? He had desired to sit beside someone else?

“You flatter yourself if you believe I meticulously maneuvered your place card beside mine.” Her tone betrayed her with a tinge of less than truth. She faltered, but pushed on, willing her usual sarcasm to jetty as strongly as her nervous pulse. “I hardly know you despite our unlikely predicament with the wheel ruts.”

For a fleeting breath, a grin curled his lips, but then his head jerked to the left, drawn by the twittering giggle Lady Fiona bestowed on Lord Rigby during a subdued and somewhat less than respectable tête-à-tête. It would appear the guests to either side of the enamored couple realized no conversation was to be had and adjusted their polite conversation elsewhere, providing the besotted lovebirds the exact privacy for which they wished. At least, as much as could be afforded during a social event where the table served sixty guests. Wilhelmina found a genuine smile. Things could not proceed more perfectly…until Dashwood spoke.

“Playing the woman false, are you, Leonard? If I recall correctly, you recently confided that the very last thing you desired was a shackle attached to your ankle.”

“No, you misunderstood, Dash. When I asked if you were interested in a wife—” Leonard’s voice held a panicked tone of immediate objection.

“No need to be embarrassed by the situation. I’m sure Lady Fiona understands. It is expected for any young gentleman to have a string of maidens on whom to dance attendance.”

“Now, see here, I never said anything of the sort and I’d appreciate—”

“Furthermore, I agree with your views. Marriage is labeled an institution for a reason. It is my perception is transforms otherwise gems of the ton into windsuckers, boring and socially castrated.”

“Gentlemen!” Wilhelmina’s voice rose the slightest octave, but it was the rap of her fork against the side of her china plate that allowed the interruption. “It is very easy to see Fiona is enjoying Leonard’s attention. They make a most handsome couple. Wouldn’t you agree, Lord Dashwood?” A few heads turned, but not many, and she could not allow the evening to spiral out of control. How dare he insinuate Leonard’s affections were false?

“Looks can be deceiving, as thoroughly as promises and vows.”

There was a note of finality akin to the sharp edge of Dashwood’s statement that destroyed any further debate of the subject.

Coupled with service of the main course, a deep silence fell over their portion of the table as everyone appeared riveted by the fine plate of wine-steeped venison with curried carrots and parsnip puree.

Except every few minutes, Wilhelmina noticed Fiona eyed Leonard with a sorrowful glance meant to convey disappointment and worse, doubt of the young man’s attentions. Wilhelmina wanted to seize the silver epergne from the center of the table and strike Lord Dashwood across the forehead for all his thoughtless interference. If the man could not perceive how besotted Fiona and Leonard were with each other, it was no wonder he remained a bachelor. And his views of marriage seemed abominable. Despite his landholdings, the earl would prove a poor choice for future matchmaking endeavors.

Wilhelmina regained her focus. If Fiona suddenly entertained the possibility Leonard no longer favored her, chance at success would dissolve along with further recommendations for matchmaking; therefore funding Livie’s treatments would become virtually impossible. Disaster loomed like a lingering storm cloud over an outdoor wedding. Eminent recovery was needed. Anything to repair the damage inflicted by Lord Dashwood’s thoughtless comments.

“I feel terribly warm.” Wilhelmina brought the back of her hand to her forehead and strove for a tone of concern and oncoming weakness. “I believe I’ll visit the retiring room for a moment’s respite. Will you be so kind as to accompany me, Fiona? I would hate to discover I am more overcome than I originally suspected.” With a dramatic sway, Wilhelmina rose from the table, nodding to the gentlemen who offered her the same courtesy, and started toward the door.

“Of course.” Fiona stood as the gentlemen to her right and left followed in kind. She folded her napkin neatly beside her plate and then with nothing more than a fleeting glance in Leonard’s direction, joined Wilhelmina. She placed a comforting hand at Wilhelmina’s shoulder as if to guide her from harm’s path.

Once in the hallway, all pretense of weakness evaporated and Wilhelmina straightened her shoulders and reclaimed her composure, steering Fiona toward the retiring room with renewed determination. “I pray you didn’t give Lord Dashwood’s insensitive remarks a second consideration. The earl harbors an unpredictable and conflicted side to his personality. I would not doubt Lord Rigby’s attentions.”

They’d reached the empty retiring room and Wilhelmina led Fiona inside.

“You are feeling unwell?”

Fiona’s question expressed true concern and Wilhelmina fought against a wave of conscience. Matchmaking was a dirty business. A little subterfuge was necessary in the name of good intentions.

“Never mind me, I’m fine. I wanted to separate from the dining room so we could speak in private. Are you unsettled by the recent dinner conversation? I have no cause to believe you should doubt Lord Rigby’s intention.”

“However can you be sure?” Fiona disentangled herself and walked to the oval looking-glass on the wall above the water basin. “Leonard did nothing to dissuade Dashwood he held any genuine sentiment toward me. He might have objected in a stronger tone. I fear the man of my heart has as little principle as the earl possesses good taste.”

“Oh posh. However could Leonard defend your honor and your deep-felt emotion if the earl interrupted him at every word? We weren’t able to hear what your dear-heart had to say because Dashwood wouldn’t hold his wagging tongue.” Wilhelmina took a fortifying breath and released it through clenched teeth. How dare the earl sabotage her sincere efforts by inserting his misguided opinion of marriage with a few poorly placed comments? The man was proving a nuisance. Upset she pulled him into a mud puddle? Not at all. He deserved worse. “I wouldn’t consider Dashwood’s suggestions a minute longer.”

“I’m not so sure. I desire a man who will battle for my hand and uphold my honor.” Fiona pinched her cheeks to a soft pink before fluffing a few curls near her left ear. “How will I know Leonard is truly marriage material if he will not speak proudly of his affections?” She glanced in Wilhelmina’s direction with questioning eyes before returning to the mirror to continue her attentive ministrations. She spent an indulgent amount of time adjusting her earbobs.

“I daresay this is all a misunderstanding instigated by Dashwood’s careless remarks.” Good heavens, Fiona needed a strong dose of practicality. Wilhelmina reminded herself of the goal. Twice. “You are ethereal and beautiful, and any gentleman would be lucky to receive your favor. I’m sure Leonard is biting his tongue, the dinner meal as bland as ashes in his mouth, because he was unable to express his true feelings. May I suggest a remedy? Have you received an invitation to Lady Bitford’s garden party tomorrow? Do you plan to attend?” She pushed forward, unwilling to allow Fiona to diffuse her plan of attack. “We shall confront the issue away from the distractions of this dinner affair, when I am certain your Leonard will show no lack of verbosity. A garden party is the perfect arena for a besotted gentleman to express his devotion. Will you be in attendance?”

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