But when she opened them again, she found Ainsley squinting at her. “Why do you say that?”
“Because he purposely omitted the whole truth about his income.”
“No.” Ainsley shook her head. “I meant how you referred to him as ‘most definitely a man.’”
“A passing observation. Nothing more.” Feeling her cheeks grow hot, Jacinda returned her attention to the music box on the mantel, withdrawing the square near the corner and pushing up the hidden peg at the bottom. The brass cylinder turned inside, the metal tines pinging with the soft melody that Mother used to hum from the window seat of their snug cottage in Hampshire.
She would gaze out that window for hours waiting for Father to return. It wasn’t until she’d learned about the other family he’d been keeping on the side that she’d finally given up waiting for him. Her broken, frail heart had forced her to give up on other things, too, like singing and laughing as well as eating and getting out of bed. Ultimately, Heloise Bourne-Cartwright had died of a broken heart. And all because she’d married a man who kept secrets. A man who had no sense of duty to his first family nor a single shred of honor.
“No matter what we call His Grace,” Briar said, cutting into her thoughts, “we are still at risk of losing our business.”
“Not if we find a match for him.” Jacinda turned away from the music box, filled with a renewed sense of determination. She would save every person she could from making the mistake of marrying the wrong sort. But in order to do that, the Bourne Matrimonial Agency needed to stay in business.
And as much as her presence had angered him, there was still an underlying desperation for him to find a bride. Likely, he would marry anyone in order to gain the monetary gift his aunt promised him.
Then, once they found the duke a match, the Bourne Matrimonial Agency would become the premier establishment for all society matches. Currently, and aside from a scant few viscounts, three heiresses, and one French count, their client list consisted of members from the lower rungs. Barons, baronettes, landed gentry, and those who could not afford a Season in London, were quite eager to fill out their applications. And while the agency could secure matches for those outside of their client base—for a fee, of course—that would hardly promote the longevity of their business. So, they primarily relied upon subscriptions.
Sadly, even with the Duchess of Holliford’s patronage, many of the upper echelon were hesitant to engage their services.
Yet, that could all change if they made a match for the Duke of Rydstrom. Not only would it secure their reputations among the ton, but it would also guarantee paying clients for years to come, and shoo the moths away from the barren family coffers.
She’d already seen evidence this week. When rumors of the duke’s name on the agency’s client list reached a few well-connected ears—thanks to the Duchess of Holliford—a half dozen title-hungry society mamas spent their pin money on subscriptions for their daughters, two of them with embarrassingly large dowries. It was only a matter of time before more would follow.
Ainsley released an exasperated sigh. “But you said he’s the ‘wrong sort.’ That was the reason behind your reckless behavior this morning.”
Jacinda’s conscience—which had been drowsing for much of this morning—was now rearing at her. Was she actually considering making a match for him just to save their business?
Behind her, the music box wound down, issuing three final, and painfully slow, pings before falling silent.
Jacinda swallowed. No. She couldn’t find him a bride without knowing more about him first. And just who was this Sybil person? A mistress, perhaps? A mad relation?
All questions that must have answers, she thought. “I said that I believe he’s the wrong sort, I just haven’t proven it. But I have a plan.”
Briar slumped forward and buried her face in her hands. “Not another one. I don’t think I want to hear any more.”
“You always confuse foolish impulses with forethought.”
Jacinda ignored the histrionics from one sister and the incorrect—and frankly offensive—assumption of the other. “I’ll take the mail coach into Sussex and apply to his housekeeper for a tour of the grounds, pretending to be on holiday. Once I’m inside, I’ll learn everything there is to know about the duke, including whether or not he deserves a perfect match.”
“Absolutely not,” Ainsley said firmly. “Think of the rumors you would incite, traveling all the way to Sussex without a chaperone. Even though we are poor, as daughters of a baron we are still among the elite in society.”
“I hardly think Father, or his title, has any bearing on my decision, considering he abandoned us more than ten years ago.” As far as Jacinda was concerned, she owed Michael Cartwright, Lord Frawley, nothing. In fact, so great was her and her sisters’ desire to right the immeasurable wrong he’d done to Mother, that they’d even taken their mother’s maiden name as their own when they’d gone to live with Uncle Ernest.
“We are also nieces of a kind and considerate viscount who took us in after Mother died. We owe Uncle Ernest our best behavior in London society, not more of your supposedly accidental explorations.” Ainsley glanced purposely at an oval frame, which held a single bluebell blossom pressed between glass, hanging by a silver ribbon on the wall near the door.
Would Ainsley ever forget about that dratted bluebell sliver? It wasn’t as if Jacinda had made a habit of reading her sister’s diary. At least, as far as Ainsley knew, there had only been that one instance.
“Yes, but if it wasn’t for Jacinda’s unconventional deeds, then we never would have found the perfect match for the Duchess of Holliford’s nephew, and there never would have been a Bourne Matrimonial Agency at all,” Briar said somewhat distractedly as she rose from the hassock and smoothed her skirts.
“Thank you, Briar,” Jacinda said with a smug grin. “You are now my favorite sister.”
Briar inclined her head regally as if fully aware of her tendency to say the perfect thing at the most opportune time.
Their first client—before there even was a family business—had been the Duchess of Holliford. It all came about when Her Grace revealed that she’d given up hope that her awkward, solitary nephew would ever marry. At the age of six and twenty, it seemed that he was more interested in his insect collection than in women.
However, during a visit to Her Grace’s country estate for afternoon tea, Jacinda—left to her own devices for a few minutes—had happened upon a collection of letters, yellowed and long forgotten. They’d been tucked inside a camouflaged pigeonhole at the top of an escritoire, practically falling into her lap, really. Well, after she’d encouraged the compartment to open by way of a letter knife and while balancing on the arm of a chair.
Nevertheless, the letters revealed that the duchess’s nephew, Clyde Ableforth, had once been deeply in love with a budding lepidopterist named Nelly. And when Jacinda revealed her discovery to a stunned Duchess of Holliford and her owl-eyed nephew, the truth had come out. Mr. Ableforth had loved Nelly, and no one else since her. Yet, when that long-ago summer romance had ended and Nelly had returned to the strict bosom of her family, they’d lost touch.
Overwhelmed by curiosity, Jacinda hadn’t been able to let the matter rest. So, after bribing a few tight-lipped servants with ginger comfits—courtesy of Briar’s supposedly secret hiding place—and a bit of digging, Jacinda had discovered all she’d needed to know.
Mr. Ableforth and Nelly—or rather, Miss Cordelia Smith of Northumberland, bluestocking and spinster—were married last June.
In the end, the appreciative Duchess of Holliford had become their patroness, allowing them the use of a fine town house in St. James’s. Her Grace would have lived here herself if not for the occasionally rowdy clientele at Sterling’s, the gaming hell across the street. Though, since the location gave the agency good exposure, the Bourne family didn’t mind. Well, except for Ainsley, who loathed the club and its owner, Reed Sterling, citing that it w
as a den of iniquity and he the devil incarnate.
“Those intrusions might have been overlooked in the country because of our results, but they won’t be here.” Ainsley tsked, wearing her stick-in-the-mud expression. Or rather, in her case, it was more like an Excalibur-in-the-stone expression. She would not be moved from her argument. “Sometimes I wonder if you are incapable of behaving yourself and following the rules that the rest of us live by.”
“As far as I know, the Bourne Matrimonial Agency’s only rule is never to fall in love with the client,” Jacinda added. This had been set in place, primarily, because Uncle Ernest fell in love so easily and had spent too much time charming their first patrons. “I guarantee, that is one rule I will not break, especially in this circumstance.”
Who would ever fall in love with a man as intractable and secretive as the Duke of Rydstrom? Not any woman with sense, she was sure. Clearly, she would have to find an immensely wealthy idiot for him to marry.
“For you to make such a declarative statement all but guarantees our ruin,” Ainsley muttered through clenched teeth. “I wish you would stop for a moment and think about how your actions could affect your sisters’ reputations as well as Uncle Ernest’s.”
“Did I hear my name?” The door to the hallway opened and their uncle entered, an ever-present smile on his lips that made him look years younger than six and fifty. He was of average height and slender build, with a pale, aristocratic complexion. Yet matrons and widows remarked endlessly on the handsomeness of his thick, silvery hair and blushed whenever their gazes met the glint in his lapis blue eyes.
Jacinda made her way to him, slipping her arm through his. “You did, indeed. We were just speaking of how fond we are of you.”
Even though Uncle Ernest had a kind, gentle nature and tended toward the romantic, he was no fool. He arched a silver-threaded brow. “It sounded rather like a heated discussion.”
“Not at all,” she said with a pat to his sleeve. “You know how we tend to increase our volume whenever we discuss our purpose, and how we are ever so grateful that you opened this agency.”
“There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for the three of you. I only wish I’d done more for your mother.” Uncle Ernest sighed, his gaze alighting on a demilune table near the door, where Ainsley kept volume three of Emma, resting in the curved arms of a small, bronze easel. “But at least we are helping others avoid her fate, in our way.”
Abruptly, Jacinda’s mood turned wistful. There were moments when she missed Mother so desperately that she felt the ache of it in the between-beats of her heart where there would always be emptiness.
“You’ve said, many times, that our collective determination will make us successful.” Briar’s uncannily providential words drew Jacinda out of her doldrums and back to her current purpose.
Uncle Ernest nodded. “I firmly believe it, too. The Bourne Matrimonial Agency should stop at nothing in order to guarantee our clients’ happiness.”
“Within limits,” Ainsley added.
Jacinda wrinkled her nose at her sister before turning back to their uncle. It was a commonly held belief that half of Uncle Ernest’s heart was comprised of romantic poetry, love letters, and the need to fall irrevocably in love at least twice a week. And Jacinda may or may not have used this knowledge to further her own pursuits, a time or two.
Releasing his arm, she placed a hand over her heart and offered the sigh of hopeful yearning she reserved for moments of desperation. “But are there limitations to love? I think not.”
Uncle Ernest nodded thoughtfully, drawing in a deep breath. “So true, Jacinda. We should go to the ends of the earth for the sake of that most precious of all feelings.”
Ainsley coughed. “But what about all the way to Sussex and without a chaperone?”
“Is someone going to Sussex?” Uncle Ernest asked, looking from Jacinda to Briar, and finally back to Ainsley.
She pressed her fingertips to her temple, likely trying to claim a headache and earn his sympathy. “Jacinda has this notion to travel to the Duke of Rydstrom’s estate in order to—”
“To ensure the happiness of our most prestigious client,” Jacinda cut in, speaking over her sister.
“Yes, indeed. This is important. His Grace must be matched with someone quite special,” he said thoughtfully, tapping a finger to his chin. “You would require a chaperone. However, if I were to accompany you, during any of the three days we are open for clients, then the agency would have to close until my return. I don’t think that it would be fair to those who are depending on us to introduce them to their true loves.”
Having foreseen this argument, Jacinda readily supplied a solution. “Then I will take Ginny with me.”
“And what are we to do while our maid is with you? Curl each other’s hair?” Ainsley asked with a pointed look to Briar, reminding them all of the last time any of them attempted to wield the curling tongs.
Briar inhaled sharply, covering one hand over the tip of her ear, where there was likely still a dark spot from the last burn. “No, no, no. We cannot do without Ginny. As capable as we are, there are certain things that require more skill than any of us possess.”
Sadly, it was true. After Father had left, they’d only been able to afford one servant, and Mrs. Darden acted as both housekeeper and cook. Therefore, Jacinda and her sisters helped with the washing and cleaning, and did the mending and gardening on their own.
Even when they’d gone to live with Uncle Ernest, their financial circumstances were not much altered. So, as they grew into womanhood, Ainsley, Jacinda, and Briar had attempted to help each other become presentable in society. But their curling tong skills were sorely lacking. In fact, before the Duchess of Holliford sent Ginny to them, they’d typically earned sideways glances for their interesting coiffures.
“Very well,” Jacinda said, undeterred. “I have a few coins tucked away. I shall hire a maid to accompany me.” Of course, this meant she would have to borrow from her own dowry. The funds had been entrusted to each of them by their uncle during a brief but solvent episode.
Nonetheless, it wasn’t as if she would have need of the money anytime soon. After all, what gentleman would marry her for a mere two hundred pounds? He would have to be wealthy to the degree of not requiring a wife with any dowry at all. Unlike the duke.
The instant she thought of him—drat it all—yet another current buzzed through her, settling into the pit of her stomach. She pressed a hand there to quell the unwanted sensation.
Across the room, Ainsley gave a huff of indignation as if she knew precisely how Jacinda would pay for this venture.
This seemed to give Uncle Ernest pause. “But how long should you be away? I do hate to worry.”
“I shouldn’t think I’d be gone more than four or five days. I’ll return before you miss me.” She pressed a kiss to his cheek and glanced at Ainsley with a tiny speck of gloating. “There is absolutely no need to worry. I have the perfect plan and nothing can possibly go wrong.”
* * *
Fortunately for Crispin, the Bourne Matrimonial Agency was a quick jaunt through King Street, away from his aunt’s town house in the square.
After repeated raps of the bronze wreath doorknocker, Mrs. Darden, a somewhat frazzled, corpulent woman, answered the door. She was balancing a teapot in one hand and a salver brimming with correspondences in the other. How she’d managed to open the door at all was something of a mystery, but one that he had no time to solve.
Promptly, she led him up the marble stairs, past several arched niches filled with the needless clutter of Cupid statues in various poses, a wide corridor dotted with an uneven number of straight-backed chairs, mismatched demilune tables positioned beside every doorway, and into Lord Eggleston’s parlor.
“Your Grace, what a pleasant surprise,” the viscount said, rushing past the plume-filled urns on either side of his desk to greet him. Dressed neatly in a Corinthian blue coat and striped cravat, his polished appearance pro
vided a sense of professionalism to the agency.
Crispin could not imagine this gentleman ever disguising himself as a servant and trespassing into a client’s home.
“Would you care for a cup of tea, a scone, biscuit . . .” Eggleston asked before Mrs. Darden was too far beyond the door.
Crispin shook his head, appreciating the viscount’s artless air and amiable demeanor that, under different circumstances, might have helped ease his anxiety if the situation wasn’t so dire. “Thank you, no.”
“Well, then, I hope your journey here was pleasant. I must say, the weather is rather fine. Not a cloud in sight. Would you care to have a seat?”
“Thank you, no,” Crispin said, feeling as if he might crack his teeth on another polite refusal. The urgent desire to settle this matter burned through him like lemon juice on an open wound. “I came here on a brief errand to amend my application. Your niece, Miss Jacinda, recently inquired after my pursuits. At the time, I could think of none”—certainly nothing he considered anyone’s concern aside from his own—“but something just came to me this morning.”
If Miss Bourne wanted answers, then he was fully prepared to lie through his teeth. It had to be done. For Sybil.
Lord Eggleston’s smile broadened, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Ah, yes. Having a spouse who shares our pursuits makes for a happy union. I’m glad Your Grace has come. Now, let me see . . .” He began opening the drawers of his desk, one after another as if he had no idea what each might contain, and eventually came up with a sheet of foolscap.
Realizing the purpose, Crispin quickly interrupted the viscount’s search for a sharpened pen. “I thought I might tell Miss Bourne directly. She seemed rather . . . adamant that I complete the application.”
Lord Eggleston laughed fondly, lifting a blunt-tipped quill from the inkstand and waving it like a wizard’s wand as he spoke. “She’s always had a streak of determination, that one. Her mother—bless her soul—wanted each of those girls to have a firm sense of their own individual demeanors. I cannot imagine any greater blessing than to have three such singular girls under my roof.”
How to Forget a Duke Page 4
