by Allison Lane
TOO MANY MATCHMAKERS
Allison Lane
CHAPTER ONE
“Nicholas! When did you get back?”
“Last night.” Nicholas Barrington, ninth Marquess of Woodvale, smiled as Lord Justin Landess joined his stroll down New Bond Street.
“Rather late this Season. We expected you weeks ago.”
“Why? You know I’ve been in mourning.”
“Not since Christmas,” Justin pointed out, donning his customary mask of ennui now that his surprise had faded.
“Perhaps not, but I could hardly return when my status was so uncertain.”
“How is the child?”
“Healthy. I cannot say as much for my aunt, though.” He shrugged.
Justin fell into a companionable silence, accepting that the subject was now closed.
Nicholas let his eyes roam the street, reacquainting himself with London after his two-year absence. Fashion was the most obvious change. Though fops still dressed in a dazzling array of colors, most gentlemen’s jackets were darker. Ladies, on the other hand, were wearing fussier gowns, bedecked with ruffles, ribbons, and furbelows.
He grimaced as a small boy tumbled out of the confectioner’s shop, nearly knocking him down. A scolding nurse followed, her shrill tones blending with the city’s cacophony. After two years of country silence, he could no longer ignore the noise. Wheels and hooves clattered across the cobblestones. Drivers cursed. Whips cracked. Horses snorted and screamed. People thronged the sidewalks, talking, laughing, and arguing over the sound of venders shouting their wares.
Shelford had a new pair of matched bays, Nicholas noted as the Corinthian threaded his curricle through the usual jam of carriages and drays. And Hartford was riding an unfamiliar stallion – had something happened to Greatheart?
His nose twitched, reminding him of another London reality – the overpowering smell. Smoke from thousands of fires blended with sweaty horses, unwashed bodies, animal droppings, perfumes from scent shops and flower vendors, aromas from the confectioner’s, pungent herbs from the apothecary…
And here was another change, he realized as he turned into Piccadilly past the familiar flower cart on the corner. The old crone was gone, replaced by a young girl.
His own life had changed far more than London, though. Four deaths in sixteen months had handed him his grandmother’s wealth and estate, his father’s mountain of debts, and finally his uncle’s title, which included a fortune, vast properties, and uncounted dependents. The transition had been anything but smooth.
He bit back a sigh. His grandmother’s unexpected legacy had turned a longstanding dispute with his father into a serious breach that hadn’t begun to heal before the man’s own death saddled Nicholas with his demanding mother. He’d hardly begun dealing with that mess when his uncle, the eighth Marquess of Woodvale, had died. Two weeks later, the widowed marchioness announced that she was again with child – which suspended the transition and left him hanging in uncertainty. And not just him. Stewards, solicitors, secretaries, servants, his aunt, and a host of other relatives were left without leadership.
For seven and a half months everyone had tiptoed about, staring at the walls while waiting to learn the outcome. But while the birth of a fifth daughter had settled the succession, it had handed Nicholas even more problems.
As the ninth marquess, he was now guardian to all five of the girls, and his aunt’s failing health might yet force him to raise them. He shuddered. And they weren’t his only responsibilities. Relatives he had never heard of were crawling out of the woodwork; his mother’s demands grew harsher every day; untangling his new affairs promised to tie him up for months—
“Thornhill got himself into a bit of a scrape,” announced Justin, thankfully diverting his attention.
“Waite’s heir?”
He nodded. “It seems he forgot how to use a key. Dobson slipped away from Cavendish’s masquerade to entertain his ladybird in what he thought was an empty room, only to find Thornhill and a pair of opera dancers rolling about on the floor.”
“Cawker.” Nicholas suppressed a laugh. Cavendish might host the loosest gatherings outside of the courtesan balls, but Thornhill should have known better. “Discretion still counts.”
“As you learned from experience?”
“That was eight years ago. I’ve mellowed since then.” In fact, he had more than mellowed. The incident had put an end to his most flamboyant affairs. Six years later, he had given up raking entirely. His only surprise was discovering that he didn’t miss it. Occasional visits to a discreet widow were all he really needed.
“You could have made a tidy profit had you been here,” said Justin. “Bets were running three to one that he would leave town to avoid the scandal.”
Nicholas snorted. “Waite’s heir run from a minor embarrassment? Fustian! Waite stirred up bigger scandals each and every Season before he wed. As did his sister. It’s in their blood. Can you name one member of that family who hasn’t caused talk?”
“Like I said, you could have made a tidy profit. You always know how people will react.”
“Unless I lose the skill now that I no longer need it.” He had supported himself for years by wagering on human behavior, but his various legacies now made it unnecessary.
Justin opened the door to Hatchard’s book store, waited while Lady Cunningham exited, then followed Nicholas inside. “Will you be taking your seat in Lords?”
He nodded, smiling in anticipation. “Can you imagine Porter’s face when I deliver my first speech?” The sanctimonious baron detested Nicholas – he’d lost an embarrassing number of wagers to him over the years, which pricked his considerable vanity.
“Sending him into an apoplexy won’t help your reputation – unless you turn over a new leaf, of course. You need an heir now.”
“You sound like my mother.” Nicholas sighed. “She can’t go two minutes without urging me to set up my nursery.” The last thing he wanted was yet another dependent who would occupy his time and dip into his purse.
“What mother can?” asked Justin. “Mine is becoming positively loquacious on the subject. But if you don’t want a leg-shackle, you’d best watch your step. The tabbies are already buzzing over your accession. Now that you’ve returned, every matchmaking mama in town will pounce. A wealthy marquess is much different from a charming rake with an empty purse and no prospects.”
“I know.”
“But do you understand? You’ve never been seriously pursued – not by the mothers.” He caught Nicholas’s eye and grinned. “I know the daughters have always loved you. Between that handsome face and your naughty reputation, they can’t help themselves.”
“It doesn’t mean anything,” he protested.
“It didn’t,” Justin corrected. “No father would have approved of you. But it’s different now. A title and fortune outweigh far greater sins than yours. Those women are greedy. And they’ll pursue you harder than they do me – I might have money and connections, but I’ll never sport a title, thank God. Have you any idea how unscrupulous they can be? They will stage accidents in front of your house, fall into your arms in swoons, trap you in empty rooms…”
“I get the picture.” He had learned that lesson ten years ago – which was why he’d avoided well-born innocents ever since. But no one knew that tale, not even Justin.
“Good.” His warning delivered, Justin lightened his voice. “Harrison’s heir finally produced a son.”
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
“Which explains why I hadn’t heard. Is the child well?” The younger Harrison had been married for five years with nothing to show for it but half a dozen miscarriages.
“Strong as an ox. They ar
e planning a house party for the christening next month.”
“Give him my regards.” He’d had enough of the country for now, he admitted, pausing at a table to pick up Thornton’s latest collection of poems.
Justin nodded. “Good choice. It’s even better than his last one.”
“I thought you disliked poetry.” He thumbed through the volume.
“I do as a rule, but Merriweather’s illustrations bring his verse to life.”
“Is Merriweather one of your artist friends?”
“No, devil take it. Both he and Thornton are obsessively reclusive.”
“Still? I’ve always wondered why they bother. Such talent should be out in the open.”
Nicholas had long admired Justin’s collection of Merriweather prints. One of his first actions after his grandmother had died was to buy a set for himself. He was also enchanted by Merriweather’s oils, finding a pair of stupendous landscapes just that morning. But he didn’t mention his interest. He was too accustomed to hiding his financial affairs. And a year of sharing a house with his mother had intensified his secrecy. What she knew, everyone knew, usually in so exaggerated and sensationalized a form that he hardly recognized the tales.
He added a volume of war memoirs to his stack.
Justin eyed the eclectic collection and grinned. “If you wish to rehash the late war, you should attend Lady Bounty’s soiree. Several officers will be there tonight, including that captain.”
Nicholas raised a brow. “I understood that she ran a literary soiree.”
“You know her?”
“No, she arrived in town after my grandmother died. But Fortrier sometimes mentions her.”
“He only attends the literary sessions, but she holds gatherings on many topics – art, literature, politics, science. She always includes experts from the appropriate fields.” He shrugged. “I attend all her art discussions and occasionally take in others. Anyone is welcome. Why don’t I take you up tonight and introduce you?”
“Why not?” Stimulating discussion might divert the blue-devils that had plagued him for so long. And he was curious about Lady Bounty. Despite knowing the earl most of his life, he’d never met the man’s second wife.
Bounty had been a cherished mentor in years past. Intelligent and highly educated, his love for debate had inspired Nicholas’s own studies. Nicholas had often researched esoteric topics, hoping to best him. But not until his second year at Oxford had he actually done it. Bounty had rewarded him with a Shakespeare first edition that remained one of his most prized possessions.
So the fact that his widow now hosted an intellectual soiree was hardly surprising. Nicholas couldn’t imagine the man wedding a brainless widgeon.
But he also could not ignore the charges hurled by Humphrey Reynolds, the current Lord Bounty. They painted a very different picture of the earl’s second wife – not that he could fully trust Humphrey’s word.
As Bounty’s nephew, Humphrey had long hated his uncle for refusing to fish him out of the River Tick, so he’d openly gloated when Bounty’s only son had died of consumption, making Humphrey the heir. Riding on new expectations, he had embarked on a year of gaming and debauchery that tripled his debts. Thus he had been appalled when Bounty took a young wife at the advanced age of sixty-eight.
Rumors soon circulated accusing the new Lady Bounty of being a rapacious fortune hunter, a heartless vixen, and a light-skirt who would never produce a son of unquestionable parentage. Few doubted the source of the stories, but repetition left many believing the substance. Humphrey dropped his campaign once it became clear that the lady was barren, but revived it after Bounty’s death. Humphrey inherited naught but the entailment, which included only the title and an estate that had not turned a profit in nearly a century. The rest of Bounty’s fortune, including his town house and other estates, went to his wife.
Furious, Humphrey had barred her from his doors and tried to recover his inheritance. But despite his legal maneuverings, the will had been proved valid.
Nicholas shook his head. He had trouble believing that his old friend could be taken in by a fortune hunter. The man’s mind had still been sharp four years after his marriage. And it was Bounty who had taught him to read character, who had expounded on human nature, who had helped him hone the skill that had earned his keep for so long.
He sighed. He would meet the lady tonight and judge for himself. At least he was unlikely to run into matchmakers at an intellectual soiree. And conversation would chase away his persistent blue-devils. He hadn’t conducted a good debate in years.
His mother’s pressure was responsible for much of his melancholy. But marriage didn’t appeal to him. Nor did his mother, he had to admit. Constant quarrels with his father had kept him away from home. Only lately had he realized that her demands had precipitated many of those quarrels. But her nagging was only part of the problem. She was sneaky and manipulative, employing even disreputable tactics to get her own way – which raised the question of whether he was safe from her pressure even now. Before he returned to Woodvale Abbey, he must decide what to do with her. Sharing a roof would never work.
In the meantime, he must figure out what to do with himself. His days of haunting the clubs in search of the perfect wager were long gone. As were the nights of entertaining his latest conquest. He had come to London to straighten out the Woodvale affairs, but that would hardly fill all the hours. Yet attending society gatherings was too dangerous.
* * * *
“I wish I could come to your soiree tonight,” exclaimed Chloe Parker as she watched her friend perform magic on a bowl of flowers. “How do you do that?”
“Practice.” Diana Reynolds, Dowager Countess of Bounty, laughed at the expression on Chloe’s face. The girl looked fragile and delicate, though Diana knew from four years of close acquaintance that she was not. “Don’t turn that stony look on me. Your parents will not allow you near the soldiers and politicians who will be here tonight, just as they forbade you to meet the artists I entertained last week. You are only seventeen. They must protect you.”
Chloe sighed. “This has nothing to do with protection. They despise anything intellectual and don’t even want me reading poetry. If Lord Bounty had not been a neighbor, I doubt they would allow me to visit you.”
It was true. And if Lord and Lady Parker had known Bounty well, they would have cut the connection anyway. They distrusted book learning. Bounty had known that, restricting his conversation to topics of mutual interest. Since he divided his year among several properties, he had not seen them often.
But Diana had lived at the Haven since his death. Because she was a known intellectual, she had seen even less of the Parkers. Only the fact that few of their friends were visiting London at the moment made them welcome her here. But if they knew how much time Chloe spent at her house, they would have cut all connections. She rarely asked Chloe if she had permission to call, not wanting to know the answer. Anyone with Chloe’s curiosity would suffocate without frequent access to new ideas.
Diana had been in a similar situation before her marriage – awash with curiosity but with no way of satisfying it. Bounty had taken her in hand, opening her mind, praising her mastery of any new subject, and rewarding her when she finally bested him in debate. It was a legacy she was passing on to Chloe.
“What is troubling you?” she asked now. “I doubt missing a discussion of the war put that line between your eyes.”
“London is so dull!”
Diana’s hands froze in the act of clipping a stem. “Dull?”
“I sound like a spoiled child, don’t I?”
“Perhaps, though I know you are not. But few young ladies would describe a London Season as dull.”
“True, yet I find it so. At home, it never bothered me that every day was the same, because I expected nothing else. But I thought London would be different. How could it not be? There are so many things to do and places to see – art exhibits, cathedrals, theaters, galleries.
Museums, balloon ascensions, parties, shopping… Yet Mama insists on following the same daily routine. We start with morning calls, where I must sit demurely while she and the other ladies exchange the same boring gossip day after day. Who is newly arrived? Today it was the Marquess of Woodvale. Who misbehaved last night? Lord Thornhill did something unmentionable – again. I wish just once they would describe his misdeeds. At least it would enliven the morning. Who is courting whom? Lord Rufton is the leading contender for Lady Melissa Stapleton’s hand. He waltzed with her twice at two different balls last night.” She sighed. “Then we drive in the park and eat dinner before attending one rout and one ball. Mama preaches endlessly about decorum. She nearly went into hysterics when I asked to visit the Egyptian Hall yesterday. If one can believe her, the exhibits would shock a proper lady into the vapors.”
Diana nearly choked. “I wonder what she objects to. Napoleon’s travel coach, perhaps?”
“Who knows? She would never sully my innocent ears with a description. She also refused to take me to the British Museum on grounds that the Elgin Marbles are lewd.”
“Lewd? How odd. Everyone is clothed, and none are writhing with passion. Of course, many of the paintings cannot make that claim.” She laughed at the expression on Chloe’s face. “My apologies. I shouldn’t tease you.”
“She would be appalled that I understand the allusion. Or anything else. Papa was furious when I bought that book. Ladies should not read, it seems.”
“Thus your comment on poetry. I had forgotten that you purchased Thornton’s latest.”
“He claims the poems are lewd. They describe wind and water, trees and mountains, power, grandeur, and the majesty of nature. What is lewd about that?”
“Nothing,” Diana assured her. Some of Thornton’s work did evoke an underlying sensuality, but an innocent like Chloe would not recognize it. “You know your parents have very rigid ideas.”
“But I did not realize how rigid,” she wailed, pacing the floor in agitation. “Why can I not choose my own friends? Why can I not see London? Why must I be shuffled into marriage before I have any chance to live? Could they not at least allow me a say in my own future?”
