A Matchmaker's Match

by Nina Coombs Pykare

  “Toby! Toby, now you come on.” The pig’s master appeared, a little unsteady on his feet. “Toby, you come on now. We’ll get us a nice bucket.” He lowered his voice, apparently unaware that they could still hear him. “A nice bucket of gin.”

  With a little squeal the pig lumbered to his feet and started off toward the back of the museum. The earl turned back to Psyche. “Well, it appears the pig imbibes.” He smiled. “Now, where can our friends have gotten to?”

  Psyche flushed. She had quite forgotten Amanda and the others. “Perhaps in all the confusion they went outside.”

  “Perhaps.” He stared down at her for the longest moment. Her heart pounded faster, faster, harder, harder. Slowly he bent his head, his face came closer, closer, and—

  “There you are!”

  The earl straightened, biting back a curse. Trust Overton to arrive at just the wrong moment. Why couldn’t— He pulled himself up short. It was probably just as well. If he kissed Psyche, as he had been so tempted to do, kissed her in a public place yet, she would have been horrified. Perhaps she would even have shunned his company ever after.

  “We were just coming to look for you,” he said. Psyche’s hand still lay on his arm. He felt it tremble, but he dared not look at her. Had she read his intent in his eyes? Did she know what he had almost done? “Where are the others?” he asked.

  Overton frowned. “I left Amanda outside, with Gresham and Georgie.” He pulled at his cravat. “The poor child was absolutely terrified.”

  The earl swallowed a sigh and asked, “Shall we go get them?”

  Overton scowled and seemed in danger of completely ruining his cravat. “I don’t want to bring Amanda back in here now. She has such a fragile constitution.”

  The earl almost snorted. Fragile, indeed! The chit was strong as a horse and a deuced poor actress besides. That kind of fragility had passed with the previous century.

  The women he knew used other wiles—the fluttering eyelash, the flattering word, the unexpected press of a bosom against a man’s arm. They gazed adoringly into his eyes and fell weakly into his arms. And it was all the sheerest fakery. Not one of them had experienced a genuine emotion. Not one of them had really loved him. And not one of them was worth Psyche’s little finger.

  “Amanda will be disappointed,” Psyche pointed out. “If you don’t want to bring her back in here, let us at least go somewhere else.”

  “Capital idea,” said the earl. “How about a ride to Rotten Row?”

  Overton hesitated and Psyche persisted. “The change of scenery will be good for Amanda.”

  “Well—” Overton sighed. “I suppose we could do that.”

  When they reached Hyde Park and descended from the earl’s landau, Gresham offered Georgie his arm, Overton gave his to Amanda, and Psyche found herself bringing up the rear with the earl, a situation certainly to her liking.

  “Southdon,” she said when the others were out of earshot. “We must do something. We must make Overton see the truth.”

  The earl frowned. “But how? Our best tactic seems to be patience.”

  “Pa—” Psyche paused and lowered her voice. “Patience, indeed! We could wait till hel—”

  He frowned, his lips thinning into a disapproving line.

  “Till next year or the year after,” she continued, changing her remark somewhat out of deference to his look. “Waiting simply will not work. We must do something. And we must do it now.”

  The earl frowned. If only she knew how impatient he was to have this thing settled. “What do you suggest?”

  “I don’t know, but we must do something.” She frowned, her lovely forehead wrinkling in concentration.

  “Things certainly used to be much simpler,” he observed. “A man just swooped down, like a bird of prey, and took his woman away.” He hoped to raise her ire, to divert her from Amanda and her problem to a diatribe on men and their ridiculous customs.

  But Psyche was not so easily distracted. She wrinkled her nose in distaste and said, “There’s got to be a way, some way to— That’s it!”

  She stopped so suddenly, clutching his arm in a death grip, that he almost lost his balance and pulled them both down.

  “I say,” he protested. “You’ll have us both on the ground in a minute. And Overton won’t like that the least bit.”

  “But I’ve got it!” Psyche cried.

  She was lovely in her excitement—eyes sparkling, cheeks rosy, bosom heaving. But he did wish she’d make more sense. “What have you got?” he inquired politely, shifting his gaze to her face.

  She grinned. “I’ve got a way to make Overton recognize his love for Amanda.”

  “You have?”

  “Yes. We’ll have Amanda abducted.”

  “Abducted?” Had the woman lost her mind? “Psyche, be sensible. Amanda may not be as fragile as Overton believes, but I really don’t think she could handle abduc—”

  “No, no,” Psyche interrupted in obvious irritation. “Not a real abduction, a fake one.”

  “A fake one,” he repeated, wondering if the woman he loved had lost her mind.

  “Yes, it will work superbly. We’ll have her abducted. When Overton finds out, he’ll be absolutely frantic.” She smiled happily. “And at last he’ll recognize that he loves her.”

  “Psyche.” This really was a bubble-brained scheme. Even a man in love could see that. “Really, the girl’s reputation—”

  “It will be safe enough,” she insisted stubbornly. “That’s the beauty of the whole thing. I shall be with her all the time. Surely no one can doubt Lady Bluestocking.”

  He hesitated. She had something there. “But if the girl’s to be abducted someone must do it.

  She nodded vigorously. “Of course. You.”

  “Me! Of all the harebrained-”

  She stiffened and pulled her arm from his. “Might I remind you, milord, that your way has not been at all successful? And you have had the entire summer, too.”

  She was right about that. He couldn’t deny it. Still— “I cannot be the abductor,” he began.

  “Well, if you won’t help--”

  He swallowed a curse. How could he love such an obstinate woman? “I didn’t say I wouldn’t help, but I can’t be the abductor.”

  She stopped and put her hands on her hips, lovely hips he noticed. “And why not?”

  “Because Overton will not believe it of me. Think, Psyche. I am Overton’s friend. If I want Amanda, I have only to ask. So why on earth should I run off with her?”

  He was right. Psyche sighed. Was there no end to this torture? She had to get Amanda and Overton married, get herself away from this pain. “Well then, we’ll have to think of someone else. Now who?”

  “Psyche, really-”

  Why must he frown like that, as though she’d suddenly taken leave of her senses? She was an intelligent woman. And this was an ideal plan. She put a hand on his sleeve. “Surely you must see—this plan will work.”

  “It will throw Overton into a perfect frenzy,” the earl said. “Surely you don’t wish that.”

  Psyche frowned. Why must the man be so dense? “Of course I do. When he discovers that she is gone, he will realize that he loves her. And he will act accordingly.”

  “Will he?” the earl inquired. “How can you be so sure?”

  Psyche swallowed a sigh. “I can’t, of course. But we must try. Amanda is getting frantic, talking of wasting away, declining into the grave and the like.”

  “Good Lord! Where did she get an idea like that?”

  Psyche frowned. “I’m not sure, from something she’s been reading, I suppose.”

  “What sort of drivel has the chit been into now?”

  “Well, she mentioned a Mister Richardson, and a heroine of his named—let me think— Clarissa.”

  “Oh no!” cried the earl.

  Psyche turned to him. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Did she tell you anything about this Clarissa?”


  Psyche shrugged. “Only that she admired her greatly.”

  His face darkened. “Damnation!”

  “Southdon! You’re frightening me.”

  The earl put a reassuring hand over hers. “I don’t mean to do that, but. Psyche, this Clarissa dies.”

  “Dies!” Psyche stopped right in the path, oblivious to the people passing on either side. “Not from--”

  “Yes,” the earl went on. “She wastes away while writing her memoirs. And while using her coffin for a writing desk. Georgie told me all about it.”

  He pulled Psyche’s arm back through his. Her fingers trembled on his sleeve and she looked up at him with wide eyes.

  “Oh, Lord, Amanda is just susceptible enough to--”

  “I know.” He sighed. “See if you can get the book away from her and do what you can to combat its influence.”

  Psyche nodded. “I will immediately. And my plan?”

  His face darkened, his brows drawing together in a great frown. “I don’t like it, but it looks like we’ll have to try something drastic. And your plan is as good as any.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Psyche did her best. First she requested the loan of Mr. Richardson’s “wonderful Clarissa” from Amanda, pleading that she’d heard so much about it that she simply must read it.

  Amanda pressed the first volumes on her eagerly and Psyche commenced to read. The story was even worse than the earl had intimated. Mr. Richardson’s Clarissa was an out and out fool! Defiled by a man while she was drugged, she chose death over dishonor. And such an asinine death—wasting away, indeed!

  Finishing the lengthy book late one night, Psyche cursed and flung the last volume on the floor. This was the most horrible thing she’d read in a long time. “She should have killed him,” she muttered, pacing back and forth on the Persian carpet. “Killed him any way she could, the scoundrel. And I should like to tell this Mister Richardson a thing or two! Why couldn’t he write about a woman with some sense instead of filling female heads with such stupidity!”

  She paced for some minutes longer, until she was able to control herself. She had to be calm to decide how to approach Amanda. Unfortunately, Amanda was too much like Overton when it came to taking advice. Give advice directly and it was sure to be ignored. Inject it subtly and it might be heeded. And that, thought Psyche, was how she would prepare her strategy.

  Next morning Psyche sallied forth to breakfast ready to do battle—though indirectly—with the perfidious Mr. Richardson.

  Amanda was already at the table, attacking— what was for the fragile creature she purported to be—an immense plate of food. She looked up eagerly. “Have you finished it? Wasn’t it marvelous?”

  Psyche sighed deeply. “Oh yes. I do admire Clarissa.”

  Amanda nodded. “I knew you would.”

  Psyche poured herself a cup of tea, chose a single tiny biscuit, and sank wearily into a chair. “Yes,” she said heavily. “Clarissa is quite right. Life is hardly worth the effort.”

  Amanda looked up, her bright eyes widening in amazement, a sausage suspended halfway to her mouth.

  “Yes,” Psyche continued. “I really believe Clarissa is correct. It’s far better to pass over to the other side.” She sighed again and tried to look melancholy, not too difficult a task considering her unrequited feelings for the earl.

  Amanda eyed the plate Psyche had in front of her, frowning at its emptiness. “Psyche, you must eat more than that!”

  Psyche stared down at the minuscule biscuit. “I’ve no appetite,” she said feebly. “I believe I shall just go back to bed.”

  “But Psyche--”

  “The Lindens are right,” Psyche continued in dejected tones. “I have no husband and my life is ruined. I might as well give up.”

  Amanda put down her fork and shoved her plate aside. “Psyche, this is ridiculous.” She looked so serious Psyche almost broke into laughter. “You can’t mean to tell me that you intend to waste away. Why— Why, I can’t believe it.”

  Psyche sipped her tea, keeping her gaze carefully lowered. “You mean wasting away is not an appropriate action for a woman?”

  “Of course it isn’t. That’s all silliness and— Oh!” Amanda laughed a little shakily and clapped a hand to her mouth. “I see! Psyche, you devil you, you’ve been hamming me!”

  Psyche looked up, allowing herself a small smile. “Not really. I just wanted you to see. You’re a sensible girl, Amanda, you know that. And I’m sure we’ll succeed in this. Overton will come around.”

  Amanda nodded, but she looked about to burst into tears. “I really feel he loves me, but he won’t speak, he won’t offer for me. Whatever is wrong with the man?”

  Psyche sighed. “Who’s to know? But listen, I have this plan.”

  * * * *

  By the first week in September everything was in place. Planning and plotting, the earl and Psyche had tried to consider every contingency. Psyche felt that they were close to success. She hoped they were close to success. They had to succeed, she told herself firmly. Amanda, at least, had to be happy.

  The afternoon before the abduction was scheduled, Psyche and the earl walked alone in the garden, reviewing the final details. “Gresham will provide the carriage,” the earl said.

  Psyche nodded. “And Georgie will inform Overton.”

  The earl frowned. “I cannot do it because he would expect me to have set out immediately on hearing such news.” He stroked his chin. “But it must be perfectly timed. I must be there so I can offer to go with him.” His frown deepened. “Overton can be overblown, you know. Once his ire is up, he may attack someone.”

  His mind was on her plan, but a little corner of it was experiencing concern. There was something different about Psyche today—a resigned quality he had never sensed in her before. He wasn’t sure what such a quality might portend, but resignation did not fit well with Psyche, his brave, resilient Psyche. This feeling made him definitely uneasy.

  She turned to him, her lovely face wrinkling into a frown. “He would not actually hurt Gresham, would he?”

  “I don’t think so,” the earl replied. “And if all goes well, he will not even suspect what we’ve done. But I must be there to be certain.”

  Psyche nodded. “And I must be with Amanda and Gresham. To protect her good name.”

  “Correct. So that leaves Georgie to deliver the message. No doubt she’ll manage to come along with us.” He searched Psyche’s face, watching for something, some little nuance of feeling that might give her away, but he saw nothing.

  “No doubt,” Psyche repeated, her face expressionless.

  Then and there he made up his mind. When this pseudo-abduction was concluded, whatever its outcome, he meant to propose to Psyche. And he did not intend to take no for an answer. Some way he would convince her that marriage to him was right and proper, that Lady Bluestocking should be laid to rest—at long last.

  “Georgie can do it,” he said. “She’s very good at such things.”

  “You mean she’s good at deception,” Psyche said evenly.

  He gave her a sharp look. A slight flush had darkened her cheeks and her lower lip trembled ever so slightly.

  “Yes,” he agreed. “Georgie is much better at that kind of thing than you.” To his surprise Psyche blushed even more. “I meant that as a compliment,” he explained, feeling as inept as a witless schoolboy.

  Psyche nodded, but did not meet his gaze. “I accept it as one. Thank you.”

  “So,” the earl went on. “Here’s what you must tell Amanda to do.”

  * * * *

  The next day Psyche thought the time for the abduction would never arrive. Through the long afternoon that preceded it, she alternated between being quite sure they would succeed and being quite sure they would fail. But whatever her convictions, her whole consciousness was laced with sadness.

  Whatever the outcome of their plan, Overton would soon know the truth. And relieved of her responsibility for Amanda’s ma
rriage, Psyche could return to Sussex.

  It was not a happy prospect. Once she had loved her estate. But then once she had vowed never to return to London again. That had been her mistake, coming to London. That was one thing she was sure of. And now when she went back to the land she loved she would only be part of a person. Her heart, her stubborn, stubborn heart, would remain in London, would remain with the man who thought of her only as a friend.

  Finally Amanda came downstairs wearing a fetching walking dress of Bishop’s blue and a matching bonnet. She turned. “Do I look all right?”

  “Yes, indeed,” Psyche said. “You look most fetching. But do remember to look frightened when Overton arrives at the inn.”

  Amanda nodded. “Oh, I shall. I want him to be terrified for me.” She frowned, clutching her reticule with trembling fingers. “Oh, Psyche, if this doesn’t work, whatever shall we do?”

  Psyche frowned. “I’m not sure. But our plan will work. It has to work. Come, the carriage is waiting.”

  * * * *

  As usual, White’s was crowded with gentlemen. The earl glanced at his watch then back across the table at Overton. He wasn’t sure White’s was the best place for Georgie to find them but it had seemed the most natural.

  The club was too public for his taste. If Georgie got carried away with her performance and forgot the necessity for secrecy— Or if when he heard the news, Overton ran amok— Word would travel all over London faster than the speed of the Lindens’ chattering tongues, and Amanda’s reputation would be ruined, really ruined.

  It was for that reason that he had at first opposed Psyche’s plan. It still looked chancy, but it was too late to draw back now. He watched the dealer pass out the cards, picked up his hand, and considered his—

  “Overton!” Georgie’s entrance was nothing if not dramatic. Her face was so white he wondered if she’d powdered it and her hands fluttered wildly. The club’s majordomo, his face wrinkled in agitation, hovered behind her.

  “What is it?” Overton asked impatiently. “Don’t you know women can’t come in here?”

  “I must speak to you.” She glanced around fearfully. “It will have to be in private.”