A Very Matchmaker Christmas

by Christi Caldwell

  “Lady Prudence just asked me if I’m a pirate.”

  Stephen’s lips cracked open into a wide smile. “Did she? I must say that’s the most shocking thing I’ve probably ever heard out of her.”

  If Stephen only knew.

  “She was quite sincere,” Chance replied.

  “What did you tell her?”

  “That I’m not, of course.”

  Stephen put a hand on his hip. “Why did you do a thing like that? I say you encourage the rumors as much as possible. You’re immensely popular due to your current infamy.”

  “I’m not a pirate, Stephen.”

  “Of course you’re not. I never said you were. I’m simply telling you to enjoy everyone thinking you’re a pirate or at least that you might be.”

  Chance groaned again. “Did you ever stop to consider how you would feel if the entire ton thought you might be a pirate? Arundell expects me at his town house in London first thing the day after Twelfth Night.”

  “To explain yourself?”

  “Yes, to explain myself.” Chance leaned against a tree. “To explain how it’s not possible that I’m Deveraux.”

  “You did tell him that you’ve a meeting with the Lord Chancellor that day to discuss your innocence as well?”

  “Yes, and I’m hoping he’ll believe me and assist me, but there’s no guarantee. The only thing keeping me from gaol at the moment is the fact that I’m a suspected pirate, which is quite different than an accused pirate. Thank God.” For the thousandth time, Christopher cursed the circumstances that led to his leaving town and set him on a path toward rumored piracy. And all to escape Mary Anne. A woman who never gave a toss about him in the first place, apparently. He’d been a complete fool.

  Stephen flipped the orange into the air and caught it again, still smiling. “I’ll be there too, to vouch for you. There’s nothing you can do to set the record straight until after Twelfth Night. In the meantime, I suggest you enjoy being an infamous pirate.”

  Chapter Six

  Lord Timothy Beasley was a difficult man to hunt down. Prudence should know. She’d spent the last three hours looking for him. After her unfortunate incident with Mr. Chance in the conservatory, she’d hurried away and methodically searched the entire ground floor of Westons’ vast manor house.

  Rivercrest Hall was enormous. She’d scoured every inch of the main floor but she’d had no luck finding Lord Beasley and now her feet were aching terribly.

  “Prudence, darling, there you are.” Her mother’s voice startled her. Mother was standing with Faith and Charity near the entrance of one of the drawing rooms. Some sort of game was obviously going on inside and her sisters were sipping a red punch that had given both of them adorable red moustaches.

  Pru wandered over to them and hugged her mother while Faith and Charity giggled and sipped their drinks. “Mama, may we get more punch?” Faith asked.

  “Yes, dear, but remember, gluttony is a sin.” Mama nodded toward the far end of the room where the punch bowl sat. The twins scampered off and Mama turned her full attention back toward Pru.

  “Good afternoon, Mama,” Pru said, pressing a hand to her aching back. This husband hunting business was quite difficult, it seemed.

  “How are things coming along, dear?” Mama waggled her eyebrows at Pru.

  Pru frowned. “Coming along?”

  “See any eligible gentlemen you’ve taken a fancy to?

  “A fancy?”

  “I’m quite certain you’ll make a sensible, splendid match, dear. I’ve never had any doubts or fears when it came to you. Some mothers—I’m not mentioning any names of course.” She tilted her head to the side where Winnie’s mama, Lady Portland, was standing. “Some mothers aren’t blessed with the kind of clever obedient girl I have in you. Some mothers—I still refuse to mention names, so please don’t ask me—are cursed with willful, disobedient girls who take ridiculous notions into their heads about whom they should marry. You’ve never been such a burden to me, Prudence. Tell me, now that you’ve been here a bit, do you have your eye on anyone in particular?”

  Pru swallowed. A vision of Christopher Chance’s broad shoulders flashed into her traitorous sinful mind. She repeated a Bible verse to squash it. Matthew had the right of it. And lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil. She squared her shoulders and took a deep breath. “Lord Beasley seems a fine sort.”

  Her mother’s blue eyes flashed the barest hint of surprise. “Lord Beasley?”

  “Yes, oh, that is unless you find him objectionable in some way, Mama,” Pru hurriedly added.

  Her mother folded her hands together and rested them on her plump middle. “Oh, no. No, of course not. Beasley is quite eligible and . . . well, he’s . . . eligible.”

  “Father doesn’t have any objections to him, does he?” Pru hastened to ask.

  “Not anything of which I am aware.” Mama pressed her lips together.

  “He’s always seemed quite agreeable to me,” Pru said with a resolute nod of her head. She wasn’t about to tell her mother, “And he doesn’t make my pulse quicken.”

  “Yes, agreeable, indeed,” Mama echoed.

  “I’m exhausted, Mama. If it’s all right with you, I’ll just go upstairs and rest. I don’t want to be overly tired for tonight.”

  “Yes, dear, that’s a splendid idea. Agatha tells me all the guests should be at dinner. We’ll want to greet everyone.” Mother watched her go for a moment before calling after her. “Oh, Pru, I almost forgot.”

  Pru turned back to face her mother. “Yes?”

  Mama beckoned her back over, indicating to Pru to come closer so that she might whisper. As soon as Pru arrived at her mother’s side, she leaned down to hear her mama speak.

  “Watch out. I heard a rumor that that Mr. Chance may be in attendance, after all. As I said, steer clear of that one.”

  Pru grimaced. Too late.

  Chapter Seven

  Lady Jane Weston didn’t enjoy taking naps either. At least not at the expense of spending time talking with one’s best friends. Jane had just finished telling Pru the story of her wayward afternoon while Pru rested in her bedchamber, her aching feet propped upon a pillow. The curtains had been drawn and the room smelled like burning wood from the fireplace—which unhelpfully reminded her of Christopher Chance.

  Their other good friends, Winnie Grisham and Lettie Ponsonby, had also joined them. “At least you didn’t tell your brother’s best friend that you love him and then have your brother walk in on your, ahem—”

  Pru covered her ears. Winnie’s brother was James, Viscount Munthorpe (with one r). “Say no more, Winn, I love you dearly, but I don’t want to know if you have sinned.” Guilt tugged at Pru. She had no right to judge her friends for their sins after what she’d done with Christopher Chance in the gardens at the Culpeppers’. But she still didn’t think she should hear Winnie’s exploits.

  “Then I will say no more,” Winnie replied with a wink.

  Jane covered her mouth with her hand and laughed. “Yes, well. Did either of you end up in the bedchamber of a gentleman this afternoon?”

  Lettie gasped. “Jane! You didn’t?”

  Jane had a catlike smile on her pretty face. “I’ll just say this. It’s perfectly possible to get lost in one’s own home. At least if you’re me, it is.”

  Winnie leaned closer, practically leering. “Any sinning, Jane?”

  Pru leaned back against her pillows. Perhaps hearing about her friends’ sins would make her own seem less awful. Oh, that was uncharitable of her, wasn’t it? But Winnie and Jane and Lettie didn’t have as strict of rules for themselves as Pru did. Their mothers didn’t read them scripture day and night.

  Jane’s only response was the slight raise of an eyebrow. “Let’s not scandalize our poor, dear Pru any more than we already have, Winn. Now, Pru, tell us. What happened to you?”

  “After I fell atop Mr. Chance in the conservatory, I spent the entire afternoon looking for Lord Beasley
to no avail and—”

  Jane’s fist flew out from under her chin where it had been propping up her head, and she nearly tumbled off the mattress. “What? You fell atop Mr. Chance in the conservatory?”

  “The pirate?” Lettie asked, her brow wrinkled into a frown.

  “He says he’s not a pirate,” Pru replied.

  Winnie did not look up from her fingernails. “Of course he does. One doesn’t admit to being a pirate when one is in polite Society.”

  “You are entirely skipping over the most important part. Please go back to the part about falling atop him,” Jane insisted, nodding to Pru.

  Pru clasped her hands together and gave her friend a sheepish look. “You know I tend to be a bit, er, clumsy.”

  Jane patted her hand. “As do I. It’s what I love about you so much. We’re perfectly suited to be friends.”

  “Or you’re the only two who are completely unafraid of being inadvertently tripped and killed by the other,” Winnie provided with a small laugh.

  “That is unhelpful, Winn,” Jane said but she was smiling too. “Go on, Pru.”

  Pru cleared her throat. “I was in the conservatory hoping to find Lord Beasley when I—quite literally—ran into Mr. Chance.”

  “That man is so handsome,” Winnie replied, sighing and leaning back against the pillow next to Pru. “I mean, he’s no Trent Ballantine, of course, but still, too good-looking by half.”

  “I agree,” Jane said. “Though I’ve recently decided Lord Athmore is more handsome than I’d noticed before.”

  “Lord Athmore?” Winnie frowned again. “He’s never around long enough to get a good look at.”

  “Yes,” Jane agreed, “but I got quite a good look at him in his bedchamber this afternoon and—Oh, Pru, don’t blush like that, it wasn’t exactly indecent. I’m sorry, go on, you were saying . . .”

  Pru resettled her aching, stockinged feet on the cushion. “Mama says it’s time I find a husband.”

  “Mamas are always saying that,” Lettie pointed out.

  “Yes,” Pru said, “but I hadn’t considered before that I may be a burden on Mama and Papa and now I’m quite resolved and—”

  “And you’ve settled on . . . Mr. Chance?” Winnie’s hazel eyes grew wide. “You’re to be the wife of a pirate?”

  “No!” Pru nearly shouted, sitting up straight. “I’ve settled on Lord Beasley. And I told you, Mr. Chance says he’s not a pirate.”

  “The Times says he’s a pirate,” Winnie replied with a skeptical sniff. “Or at least that he may be one. Deveraux is his name. His pirate name. He’s responsible for scourging the high seas.”

  “Lord Beasley?” Jane’s nose was scrunched up in confusion.

  “No, Mr. Chance,” Pru replied.

  “I meant you’ve settled on Lord Beasley?” Jane said.

  Pru’s gaze snapped to her friend’s face. “Yes, Lord Beasley. He’s a fine choice, don’t you think?”

  “He’s a . . . choice,” Jane allowed, tracing the pattern of the bedspread with a fingertip and not meeting Pru’s eyes.

  “What do you think of him, Winn?” Pru asked.

  Winnie pressed her hand against her lovely red coiffure. “Well, he’s certainly . . . clever. I’ll give him that.”

  “Lettie?” Pru asked next.

  Lettie tugged at her collar. “He’s . . . er . . . clever. Certainly.”

  “Yes, he’s very clever,” Pru replied loyally. “That’s one of the things I like about him.”

  “There are other things?” Jane asked, biting her lip.

  Pru pressed her fists to her hips. “He doesn’t make me—” She’d been about to say, “He doesn’t make me want to sin.” But she couldn’t admit that, not even to her closest friends. That was a confession for the vicar. She pressed her lips together tightly and took a moment to choose her words carefully. “He seems a fine, prudent choice.”

  “A prudent choice is overrated, Prudence,” Winnie insisted, putting her own fists to her hips. “I mean, whenever I see Trent, I want to . . .”

  Pru clasped her hands over her ears again while Jane laughed. “Oh, Winn, it’s no use. Our dear, sweet Pru obviously has never met a man with whom she’s wanted to sin.”

  Pru swallowed and glanced away. Jane would topple entirely off the bed and perhaps sustain an injury to the head if she only knew.

  Chapter Eight

  “How exactly does one become falsely accused of piracy, Mr. Chance?”

  Chance nearly spit out the bit of mince pie he’d just taken a healthy bite of. Somehow he’d been seated near Prudence Carmichael at dinner and that self-same young woman had just asked him that most awkward of questions.

  “It’s nothing more than a misunderstanding,” Stephen Pemberly added from the other side of Prudence.

  “Is it?” Prudence replied.

  Chance looked toward Prudence’s mother who was watching her daughter’s interaction with him through eyes that seemed to have narrowed to slits. Meanwhile, Prudence herself kept glancing toward the far end of the table where Lord Beasley sat.

  Chance took a sip of his wine and then pressed his napkin to his mouth before answering her.

  “Yes. I have an audience with the Lord Chancellor to discuss the matter after the beginning of the year.”

  “Discuss the matter? Or be placed in gaol?” Prudence replied, sipping her tea. Apparently, she was staying away from champagne this evening.

  “Discuss the matter,” Chance replied evenly. She was certainly stubborn when she wanted to be.

  “Because sentence against an evil work is not executed speedily, therefore the heart of the sons of men is fully set in them to do evil,” Prudence said.

  Chance’s eyebrows snapped together. “What was that?”

  “Ecclesiastes,” she replied with a tight smile.

  Chance set his jaw. “I’m familiar with the verse, Lady Prudence. I’m just not certain how it applies to—”

  “Tell me, Mr. Chance, have you been in contact with the Marchioness of Wakefield?” Lady Winifred Grisham asked from across the table where she was pushing her lemoned fish around on the plate, untouched.

  The table jumped as if something had gone on beneath it. He suspected Prudence had just kicked her friend.

  The Marchioness of Wakefield. Mary Anne. “No, I . . . I haven’t seen the marchioness since before her wedding. I hope she is in good health and good spirits.”

  “Do you?” Lady Winifred drawled. “Really?”

  He met her gaze until she returned her attention to her meal. He and Mary Anne had been betrothed once upon a time. Eighteen months ago. Until the evening of his meeting with Lady Prudence Carmichael, actually. How much did Lady Prudence know about it?

  “You’ve been gone, though, haven’t you?” This from Lady Prudence herself.

  “Yes,” he replied. “To the Far East and—Am I boring you, my lady?”

  Her face turned bright red. He immediately regretted asking the question but Lady Prudence had been decidedly squirming in her seat and doing a poor job of trying to look over his shoulder at someone who was apparently sitting beyond him. Chance turned to see who it was.

  But there was only Lady Winifred and on the other side of her Lord Beasley who seemed to be studiously counting his peas before eating them. Who was Lady Prudence looking at?

  “Not at all,” she replied, her face slowly returning to its normal pallor. “I’ve never sat next to a pirate at dinner before.”

  Chance reached for his wineglass. “I’m not a—”

  “Excellent speech becometh not a fool: much less do lying lips a prince.”

  “And that was Proverbs, Lady Prudence. However, I can’t help but notice you’re calling me a prince.”

  Lady Prudence’s face contorted with chagrin.

  “Tell me, Mr. Chance, do you have a parrot?” Lady Winifred intoned.

  Another bump under the table and a stern glare from Lady Prudence followed.

  Lady Winifred s
hrugged.

  “I do not,” Chance replied, taking a healthy sip of wine. He glanced around for the nearest footman. He needed more wine. It had been months since he’d been cooped up in a fastidious dining room with a cravat choking him and a sea of judgmental faces watching him. He’d much rather be on the deck of ship, the wind in his hair, the swaying of the wood beneath his feet. Instead he was eating lemon fish and fielding questions about his alleged piracy. Yes, more wine was certainly in order.

  “A pity,” Lady Winifred said with a shrug.

  He looked back at Lady Prudence just before her gaze slid away from whomever she was staring at again. He turned to assess the situation once more. It couldn’t be . . . By God, she was staring at Beasley, wasn’t she?

  The lady to Beasley’s right was attempting to speak with him but his head remained bent over his plate, entirely obsessed with his portions of peas.

  “How many peas are there, Lord Beasley?” the lady inquired.

  After a brief incident in which Lady Winifred spilled her water and seemed to desperately want to leave the room, poor girl, Chance returned his attention to Lady Prudence.

  “I’m sorry you were not seated next to Lord Beasley,” Chance said under his breath to her. The bright pink that stained her cheeks again informed him that he had guessed correctly.

  “Oh, I’m . . . I’m . . .” she began.

  Chance had been right. Lady Prudence had been preoccupied with Beasley. Why, Chance would never understand. And why did she insist upon quoting Bible verses to him with great aplomb? Was Stephen right about her? Was this in truth the same young lady he’d met in in the Culpeppers’ gardens? It was on the tip of his tongue to ask her exactly what appeal Lord Beasley held when Lord Trent Ballatine ran into the room and shouted, “Winnie!”

  Chapter Nine

  Charming as the scene was, Lord Trent’s appearing and declaring himself to Winnie forced the end of dinner. Winnie looked so happy, having finally received an offer from the man she’d loved for years. Pru’s eyes had filled with tears at her friend’s joy.