A Matchmaking Miss

by Joan Overfield

  "I was only twigging you," Eloise interrupted, draping a comforting arm about Matty's shoulder. "My position was jeopardized the day Lady Burlingham's hatchet-faced daughter came to live with us. I don't mind helping the countess with her toilet, but I positively draw the line at ironing the harridan's gowns. I had already planned to give notice when you contacted me."

  Matty was not comforted by her friend's assurances. "I could ask Lady Kirkswood if she might be of assistance," she offered, her expression thoughtful. "She is the sweetest lady, for all she is a widgeon, and I am sure she would be more than willing to assist you should the need arise."

  Eloise gave her a quick hug. "Don't be so horribly managing, Matty," she reproved, softening the words with a sweet smile. "I'm not one of your hen-witted employers who must be guided and protected by you, you know. I can take care of myself. In fact, I've already arranged for a position with Lady Kesselrode. Now, do you want to meet his lordship, or not?"

  Matty's fingers closed around the vial of laudanum she had secreted in her pocket while she and Eloise had been dressing. "I do."

  "Then come with me," Eloise lay her hand on Matty's arm. "Just mind you don't dose some other poor man by mistake, else we'll doubtlessly end our days dancing on a gibbet." And with that cheering thought, she led Matty off to meet an unsuspecting Lord Kirkswood.

  Joss stood in a corner of the ballroom, a scowl stamped on his handsome features as he watched Society's crème de la crème moving about him in a whirl of color and laughter. Why the devil had he bothered coming, he wondered sourly, lifting a glass of champagne to his lips. Prior to being sent off to India, he'd had as little use for the ton as it had for him, and eleven years in India had done little to alter that . . . at least from his perspective. But from the fawning greetings of his hostess and several other ladies, however, he gathered Society had had a change of heart. Amazing what a little thing like a title could do, he thought with a derisive sneer.

  "Courage, my friend," Raj said, noting Joss's expression with amusement. "The night can't last forever, you know."

  "No, it can only seem like forever," Joss grumbled, shifting restlessly from one foot to another. Since entering the ballroom he had had the oddest sense of danger, and the feeling had grown too powerful to ignore. Keeping his face expressionless he turned around and let his eyes sweep the room. Nothing.

  "Is everything all right?" Raj was regarding Joss with sharp-eyed interest.

  "It seems to be," Joss admitted, with an uneasy shrug, his senses still prickling. "I just have the oddest feeling someone is watching me." He sent Raj a sheepish look. "It is probably just my imagination," he said with an uneasy laugh.

  Raj lost his easy smile, his face taking on a guarded look. "Perhaps," he agreed, his own eyes moving slowly about the room. "But I've learned to have the greatest respect for those 'feelings' of yours. They've saved both our skins on more than one occasion."

  Joss said nothing, remembering a fire-lit campsite in the mountains. His flash of intuition had been all that had saved him and Raj from being slaughtered in their sleep by the group of thieves who had infiltrated their camp. He banished the brutal memories from his mind and gave Raj a half-smile. "That is so," he agreed, feeling foolish. "But as it is unlikely a group of thugees followed us here from Calcutta, I'm sure it's nothing more dangerous than some matchmaking mama sizing me up for her insipid daughter."

  "A prospect more terrifying than a dozen deceivers," Raj agreed, although he wasn't smiling. "Do you wish to leave?"

  For a moment Joss was tempted to say yes, an impulse that had him mentally shaking his head in disgust. There was no danger, he told himself firmly, and he was damned if he'd break rank and flee like a green recruit. He was about to make a jest when he saw two rather plainly dressed ladies bearing down on them. He recognized the shorter of the two, as his hostess's companion, but not the tall, dark-haired lady walking confidently at her side. He was wondering who she might be when the two ladies paused in front of him.

  "My lord, I trust you are enjoying yourself?" The shorter lady, a Miss Dickson, if memory served, gave him an anxious smile. "Is there anything you require?"

  "I am fine, Miss Dickson, I thank you," he answered, inclining his head in a polite bow. He felt rather sorry for her, being forced to endure Lady Burlingham's senseless chatter, and he was determined to treat her with the same respect he accorded every female he met. "May I say how becoming your gown is?"

  The tide of color that washed over the companion's face came as no surprise to Joss, who expected that she received few such compliments. "Thank you, your lordship, that is very kind of you," she said, tugging on the other woman's arm and dragging her forward. "Sir, if I may I should like to introduce you to my very good friend, Miss . . . er . . . Miss Winkendale. Miss Winkendale, the marquess of Kirkswood."

  "Your lordship." Miss Winkendale dropped a respectful curtsey. "It is an honor to meet you; I have heard much of you in the few days I have been in the city."

  "Miss Winkendale." Joss bowed, wondering why he felt as if the woman had just subtly insulted him. It was something in her eyes, he decided, noting that their ebony-flecked depths met his without a flicker of the shyness that afflicted her friend. Dismissing the notion, he turned to Raj and performed the necessary introductions.

  "Ladies, allow me to present my friend, Mr. Rajana Fitzsimmons. Raj, make your bows to Miss Dickson and Miss Winkendale."

  Raj gave both ladies the benefit of his dazzling smile. "Ladies," and he bowed to both. "How delightful to be presented to two flowers of English womanhood. It is an honor."

  Miss Winkendale raised a dark eyebrow. "Fitzsimmons is an Irish name is it not?" she asked, her low voice filled with amusement.

  "It is, ma'am."

  "That would account for it, then." She gave Raj a warm smile. "I have heard the Irish are a dangerously charming lot."

  "Miss Winkendale's brother was recently posted to Calcutta," Miss Dickson said, sounding breathless as she glanced uncertainly from her friend to Joss. "She has been rather concerned about his welfare, and I was hoping you might be able to reassure her. One hears such terrible things."

  "Your brother is in the army, Miss Winkendale?" Joss asked, recalling he'd heard a new regiment of soldiers was expected.

  "He's with the Company, actually," came the answer, as Miss Winkendale transferred her dark gaze to him. "A junior clerk assigned to Lord Castner."

  Joss repressed a grimace at the thought of the officious man, who was rumored to be a vicious tyrant to anyone unfortunate enough to serve under him. "Ah, the Company has been the making of many a man," he said, deciding it was the most diplomatic thing he could say. "I am sure your brother will do quite well."

  "I am sure he will." A slight smile touched her lips, giving her an almost fey beauty. "You went out to India with the Company, did you not, my lord?"

  "In '97," he agreed, his voice growing cool as he remembered the humiliation of being forced to slave as a customs man on the sweltering docks of Calcutta. He'd later learned that his father could have secured him a safer post, but had refused to pay the hefty bribe that was required.

  The talk then turned to the wonders of India, and obligingly he described the beauty to be found on the mysterious subcontinent. Somewhere during the conversation, Raj and Miss Dickson had wandered off, leaving Joss and Miss Winkendale alone. He'd acquired a glass of champagne along the way, and sipped at it halfheartedly. Trust Lady Burlingham to fob an inferior vintage off on her guests, he thought, wincing at the oddly sweet taste. He'd no sooner set his empty glass to one side than Miss Winkendale pressed another glass on him. Not wishing to hurt her feelings, he took a reluctant sip.

  "Of course, the best time to see India is early in the morning," he said, unaware that he was beginning to slur his words. "The streets are washed with the colors of the rising sun, and the air is so still, so perfect, it is like drinking the sweetest of wines."

  "You sound as if you love India," Miss W
inkendale said. Her voice echoed oddly in his head. "Tell me more."

  "At midday, even in the hottest time of the year, the flowers bloom," Joss answered, swaying slightly. "Near my warehouse there is a garden, and when the window is open the smell of the jasmine floats in the air. Sometimes . . ." His voice trailed off, and he passed a shaking hand over his eyes. "Blast."

  "Is there something wrong, my lord?"

  Joss bit back another, more colorful oath, as he realized he was about to disgrace himself. Since he'd had but two — or was it three? — glasses of champagne, he knew he couldn't be bosky. Which left only one explanation for his current condition. "I beg your pardon, Miss Winkendale," he said, alarmed by the sudden onslaught of weakness, "but if you would kindly fetch my friend, Mr. Fitzsimmons, for me, I should be eternally in your debt. I fear I am not well."

  "Gracious, sir, what is it?"

  "A slight case of malaise," he answered, fighting to stay on his feet. Hell, of all the times for the damned fever to strike, he thought, cursing his weakness. But the oddest thing was, he didn't feel the least bit feverish. Usually the disease had him roasting and freezing by turns.

  "I shall fetch him at once." He felt a firm hand take hold of his arm. "But first allow me to escort you outside. I am sure a breath of fresh air will soon have you feeling more the thing."

  Fresh air sounded at that moment like the sweetest thing he could imagine, and Joss muttered his thanks, scarcely aware of where he was being taken. He felt a cool blast of air on his cheeks, and then he found himself being more or less stuffed into the back of a carriage.

  "No, wait," he protested, attempting to shake off the thick mists that were insidiously filtering into his brain. "I can't leave without Raj — he is the only one who knows how to deal with this thing."

  "Mr. Fitzsimmons will follow, my lord," came a reassuring voice. "Please lean back and relax; you'll soon be feeling better, I promise you."

  Had he had the strength, Joss would have laughed. He knew from past experience that he was going to feel a great deal worse before he would begin to recover. He tried telling her, but for some odd reason he couldn't make his tongue work. This new symptom alarmed him, and then suddenly he knew precisely what had happened to him. He struggled to an upright position, forcing his eyes open as he glared at the woman sitting across from him in the closed carriage.

  "You bitch," he said, his slurred words full of contempt. "You damned bitch. You drugged me!" And he fell back against the plush cushions, unable to fight off the black mists that rose up to swallow him.

  Chapter Two

  So this was the new marquess of Kirkswood, Matty mused, her expression thoughtful as she studied the unconscious man sprawled across the opposite seat. She couldn't say she was overly impressed. Somehow, she'd been expecting someone older, more dissipated, and the tanned, muscular man facing her was a bit of a disappointment. And a source of potential danger, she acknowledged, studying his broad shoulders with trepidation. Ah, well. She shrugged philosophically and dug out the length of rope she'd hidden beneath the cushion. She was nothing if not prepared.

  Once her prisoner had been secured, she settled back to enjoy the long journey. All in all, everything had gone just as she'd planned, she thought, as the lights of the city eventually gave way to the blackness of the country. Indeed, the whole thing couldn't have gone any smoother. The only troubling aspect was Eloise's accusation that she was managing.

  The charge was one she'd heard several times in her three-and-twenty years of life, and it had never failed to puzzle her. It wasn't that she meant to be managing, she assured herself anxiously; it was merely that having been blessed with a sharp mind and abundant good sense, she could see no reason why she should sit idly by while those lacking such qualities bumbled their way through life. Her papa had been a country vicar, and she'd been raised knowing her duty. But that did not make her managing.

  Another thing that troubled her was the marquess's reaction to the laudanum. Granted, he was the first man she'd ever had cause to drug, but his responses had not struck her as being normal. She expected him to think he was bosky — not an unusual state for a man of his rank and position — and she'd counted upon it to make him manageable. Instead he'd said he was ill, and asked for his friend, insisting that he would know what to do. Do about what? she wondered, giving him an uneasy look. She'd heard of the fevers a man could pick up in India, and wondered if she'd inadvertently fetched a leper home. The thought was decidedly disconcerting.

  The long hours of the night passed slowly as they made their way home. On her way to London she'd arranged for fresh teams of horses to be waiting at strategic spots along the route, and she was praying they would lend sufficient speed to reach Norfolk before his lordship began stirring. Hopefully, regaining his senses tucked into his ancestral bed would put him in a more reasonable frame of mind, she thought, her lips curling up in an amused smile.

  Despite the frequent stops and the need to keep a watchful eye on her prisoner, Matty managed to steal some sleep. Her snippets of dreams left her fretful, and after a particularly vivid nightmare involving a hangman's noose she jerked awake to find the marquess stirring restlessly. Wiping the sleep from her eyes, she leaned back against the cushions and waited for him to awaken.

  Something was wrong. The thought registered in some distant part of Joss's brain, but he was too preoccupied with his misery to notice. Whatever jug he'd tangled with last night had left him decidedly the worse for wear, and he greatly feared he was about to cast up his accounts. He hadn't felt this bad since drinking a full bottle of brandy while still at Eton, and he sincerely hoped it would be another dozen years until he felt this way again. God, his head . . . he tried raising his hand to touch it, and was alarmed when he couldn't make his body respond. What the hell? He began to struggle in a frantic effort to free himself.

  "I wouldn't do that if I were you," a gentle voice advised softly. "I didn't tie the knots very tightly, but if you insist upon thrashing about like a landed fish you're likely to do yourself an injury."

  Joss's eyes flew open, and then shut again as pain exploded in his head. Taking a deep breath he tried again, focusing his blurry eyes on the dark-haired woman who was sitting facing him, her hands folded primly in her lap as she gazed at him with a look of polite inquiry on her face. When she saw he was fully conscious her smile widened.

  "Good evening, my lord," she said, her tone as civil as if they were sharing a cup of tea. "I trust you are enjoying our little journey?"

  In a flash, the events of the evening crystallized in Joss's mind, and he cast the woman a furious glare. "You!" he accused between clenched teeth, using his shoulder to push himself into an upright position. "What the devil is going on? I demand that you untie me at once!"

  Rather than being cowed by his thunderous tones, the woman merely looked amused, an elegantly shaped eyebrow arching over her brown eyes. "I hope I don't look as foolish as that," she responded, with a low laugh. "I'll only release you when I am certain you won't hit me."

  The accusation shocked Joss. "I have never struck a woman in my life!" he exclaimed, furious that she could accuse him of such a thing.

  "And I've never kidnapped a marquess," came the calm reply, "so I would suppose that makes us even."

  Joss blinked in confusion before trying a new tack. "You can't possibly hope to get away with this, Miss Winkendale . . . or whatever the devil your name is," he said, fixing her in an icy glare. "The authorities will catch and hang you, and I'll be there to watch."

  "Perhaps." The woman nodded her dark head in agreement. "But that was always the risk I ran. In the meanwhile I'll have achieved my goal, and I'll have to content myself with that."

  Such pragmatism left Joss stunned, his dark auburn brows gathering in a frown as he puzzled over her response. "And what is your objective?" he asked, intrigued despite himself.

  "Why, getting you back to Kirkswood, of course."

  He blinked. "I beg your pardon?
"

  She sighed, her full mouth thinning in annoyance. "I wrote to you," she grumbled, shooting him an accusing look. "Several times, in fact. I begged you to come home, but you were too busy chasing lightskirts to bother. What else was I to do? Some of the servants haven't been paid in a year, and if we don't plant the north field the harvest — "

  "You wrote?" Joss interrupted, a trickle of fear stealing down his spine as he wondered if he'd been kidnapped by a madwoman. "The letters I received were from a Mr. M. Stone — my sister-in-law's bailiff."

  Her chin came up a little. "Correction, my lord; those letters were from your sister-in-law's companion, Miss Martha Stone." At his incredulous look she gave another smile. "I am named after a cousin on my mother's side."

  "You . . ." Relief and shock left Joss temporarily bereft of speech. "You're the one who has been pestering me with all those damned letters?"

  His captor took instant umbrage at his words. "I'd hardly call a few missives reminding you of your duty 'pestering,' and furthermore I — "

  "You drugged and kidnapped me for no other reason than that you wanted me to come home? You have no intention of holding me to ransom?"

  "Sir!" She sat upright, her cheeks pinking with the force of her displeasure. "I am a lady, not a criminal!"

  "You couldn't prove it by me, madam!" He gave his bound hands an annoyed shake. "Now kindly untie me. This farce has gone on long enough."

  "No."

  "We should be near a town. With any luck I can rent a hack and be back in London before . . . What did you say?"

  That pointed chin came up even further, and a stubborn look settled in her eyes. "I said no, my lord."

  Joss gave her a furious look, his anger coiling. "I warn you, Miss Stone, there is a limit to my patience . . . "

  "As there is a limit to mine. If you will not honor your responsibility, then I have no choice but to force you. Perhaps you don't love Kirkswood, but I do."

  For a wild moment Joss was grateful he was restrained, else he feared breaking his own word and doing her some injury. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been so furious.