A Yuletide Regency (A Timeless Romance Anthology Book 21)

by Regina Scott

  “She will at least begin her efforts during the house party. If she is as miraculous as I have heard, she might even manage the thing by Christmas.”

  A laugh, threaded through with curiosity, touched his friend’s expression. “How do the unattached ladies at this party feel about her arriving to ‘manage the thing’?”

  This was the bit he needed Vance’s help with. “I’d rather the ladies not know. The ladies or the gentlemen.”

  Vance shook his head. “A fool’s hope, my friend. She is too well known. The ladies eager for any match will toss themselves into the fray. Those with other options will retreat.”

  He had thought of that complication. “I need you and Chloe to put it about that Mrs. Northrop is a family friend and is here in order to spend the holiday season with the two of you. She can be seeing to the business at hand with no one the wiser.”

  “You’re daft, Porter. Utterly daft.”

  “What I am is desperate.” He set his hand on the doorknob. “Will you help me?”

  Vance shrugged and nodded. “I always do.”

  That was true. They’d been each other’s greatest allies ever since their days at Harrow. Porter had seen Vance through the unexpected death of both his parents. Vance had been with Porter during the grueling days and weeks after Rebecca’s death. They’d shared happy times as well, celebrated life’s triumphs. If anyone could be counted on to help him pull the wool over the eyes of an entire house party, Vance could be.

  He pushed open the door. No matter that his mental image of Mrs. Northrop was a bit hazy, having only descriptions of her work to build upon, he was surprised by what he saw. She was relatively young, likely less than ten years his senior. She dressed in the trappings of Society. He had, for reasons he couldn’t fully explain, expected her to be more severe, more like a governess or bluestocking. As it was, she would have blended in at any Society gathering. It was a bit of a surprise, yes, but also a tremendous relief. If she looked the part of a guest at a house party, few would doubt she was precisely that.

  Mrs. Northrop rose and eyed him assessingly, then turned that same analyzing gaze on Vance. “Which of you is Mr. Bartrum?”

  “I a—” He cleared his throat against the thickness there. “I am.”

  She gave a single nod and faced him directly. “I am Mrs. Northrop. Please, be seated.” She gestured to the empty chairs at the table where she had been sitting before turning to Vance. “And you are?”

  “Vance Munson, Bartrum’s friend.”

  She nodded that same crisp motion and indicated Vance join them at the table as well. There was nothing of the shrinking violet about her, that was for sure and certain. Porter was a gentleman grown with a son and an estate and a great many responsibilities he saw to with competence. Yet, standing in front of her, he felt like a school boy again.

  “It is good of you—thank you for—” Laws, he couldn’t get a single sentence out whole. “A pleasure to—to meet you.”

  “And you.” She lowered herself onto her chair. He did the same. “Tell me what it is you wish for me to do.”

  Odd. “I sent—I wrote to you.”

  She held up a letter—his, if he didn’t miss his mark. “I have read it thoroughly, I assure you. But I want to hear directly from you what it is you are in need of.”

  “A backbone,” Vance muttered.

  Porter shot him a look of warning but earned only a bitten-back smile for his efforts. Vance was reliable, but he could, at times, be a thorn. An amusing thorn, but a thorn nonetheless.

  After a quick breath to regain his equilibrium, Porter answered Mrs. Northrop. “I am in need of a wife.”

  She raised a single eyebrow. “Was that a question, Mr. Bartrum? It certainly sounded like one.”

  This was not going at all as he had imagined. The famous matchmaker would declare him a lost cause and simply leave. He was nearly certain of it.

  “I do need a wife.” He spoke a little more firmly despite her continued evaluating gaze. “I was simply caught off guard that you didn’t seem to know that. Er, I mean that you needed me to repeat it. Wanted me to repeat it.”

  “Hmm.” He hadn’t the first idea what that sound meant. “I understood from your letter, Mr. Bartrum, that you have a son.”

  “I do.” Lud, that had sounded like a question as well. “His name is Lewis. He will be four years old next month.” There. That sounded more authoritative.

  “And will he be present for this house party?”

  Porter nodded. Mrs. Northrop watched him, clearly expecting something more. But what? He had answered her question.

  “I believe the lady wishes to know where the little ragamuffin is,” Vance said out the side of his mouth.

  “Ragamuffin?” Mrs. Northrop repeated the word as if she found great significance in it.

  Porter’s protective fatherly instinct rose to the surface on the instant. “Lewis is a fine boy. Mr. Munson thinks so as well. He simply likes nettling me.”

  “That and Lewis is an utter delinquent.”

  Far from shocked, Mrs. Northrop simply continued watching him with the same look of intent interest.

  “He isn’t,” Porter insisted.

  “He also isn’t present,” she pointed out.

  “Vance’s sister took him out to the privy. They’ll be here shortly.”

  “Hmmm.” Again, that unrevealing sound of pondering. What did she think of him?

  A moment later, quick, light footsteps approached, accompanied by the swish of skirts. Porter rose, knowing it would be Chloe and Lewis. His little boy flew into the room like a terrier in hunting season. Before he could go far, Porter scooped him up, holding him tucked under his arm. It was the only position the child tolerated when he was determined to run. Held parallel to the ground, facing the floor, Lewis laughed and pumped his legs.

  Porter loved his son, but the boy was exhausting.

  “Mrs. Northrop, this is Miss Chloe Munson.” Porter motioned with his head toward Chloe, his arms full. “Miss Munson, this is Mrs. Northrop.”

  Chloe dipped a quick curtsey even as a smile spread over her face. “Are you the famous Mrs. Northrop, maker of matches and worker of miracles?”

  The matchmaker took the question in stride. She took everything in stride. “I see my reputation has preceded me.” With a dip of her head, she acknowledged the introduction before returning her attention to him. “Which brings me to the next bit of business, Mr. Bartrum. Your letter indicated you wish my purpose here to be kept secret. I am quite curious how you mean to accomplish that.”

  He would have sat once more, but Lewis would never have endured it. The boy continued his aerial sprinting tucked close against Porter’s side. “Mr. Vance and his sister have agreed to put forth that you are a friend of their family and have come as their guest. We cannot prevent people from recognizing you and recalling your usual undertaking, but I would far prefer they not know—that people not realize—” How was he to get through an entire house party filled with clandestine matchmaking if he couldn’t even talk about it? “I would rather not be an object of pity, curiosity, or amusement.”

  At the moment, Chloe was watching him with obvious amusement. It didn’t bother him. She was the cheeriest person he knew, and her laughter was never at his expense.

  “I don’t know about my brother,” she said, “but I am perfectly willing to perpetrate a falsehood if it means watching how this potential disaster plays out.”

  Mrs. Northrop folded her hands on the tabletop. “Why do you anticipate disaster?”

  “Because everyone knows who you are and will wonder at your purpose no matter what we say that purpose is. Because Mr. Bartrum is the worst liar I have ever encountered in all my life. And because our host, Mr. Ellsworth, has all the curiosity of a bloodhound with none of the qualms.” Chloe’s lips twitched. “This may very well be the most entertaining Christmas any of us has ever known.”

  “Hmmm.”

  Porter suspected he would
soon be heartily sick of hearing that sound.

  “I find myself thoroughly intrigued,” Mrs. Northrop said. “I accept the assignment and look forward to helping you find your happiness, Mr. Bartrum.”

  He hadn’t realized her acceptance was not a foregone conclusion. Vance rolled his eyes. Chloe grinned unabashedly. Lewis squirmed and laughed in his arms. Mrs. Northrop simply rose and offered a brief dip.

  “I will gather my things and have them placed in your traveling carriage.” With that, she left the room.

  Chloe, he feared, might have been more correct than he’d suspected. His plans might prove to be an absolute disaster.

  Chapter Two

  Chloe had reveled in her brother’s many recountings of his and Porter’s misguided bits of mischief over the years. Watching Mrs. Northrop study Porter as they waited to be greeted by Mr. and Mrs. Ellsworth, Chloe suspected this Christmas season would provide years of entertaining stories.

  A matchmaker. Porter had secured the services of a matchmaker. The very thought rose as a bubble of laughter in her throat. Porter far preferred quiet settings with his most intimate acquaintances. A matchmaker would have him running all over creation, tossing himself into every social whirl she could find. What had possessed him to pursue such misery?

  The guests who had arrived just ahead of them slipped away, following a chambermaid up the grand front stairs, no doubt on their way to the rooms they would occupy for the length of the house party.

  Their small group took their place in front of their hosts. Porter executed an awkward bow. Lewis slept against his chest, making even that small effort more difficult. Chloe adored the mischievous little boy, but he was unendingly rambunctious. Greetings would be less complicated with him slumbering. Porter clearly agreed, as he was excessively careful not to wake his son.

  The Ellsworths seemed to accept the clumsy bow. They turned their attention to Vance and Chloe. Mrs. Ellsworth offered a curtsey, her high-piled white hair bouncing atop her head. Mr. Ellsworth’s wide eyes studied them both.

  “Well met. Well met.” He watched them with all the eager interest of an excitable puppy. Chloe had taken his measure the first time she’d met him: curious, often tactless, surprisingly sweet. Mr. Ellsworth looked her over, his bushy brows pulling low. “You’ve grown older.”

  She copied his expression, evaluating him. “Aging seems to be a common ailment.”

  His grin blossomed on the instant. “Well delivered, Miss Munson.”

  “And well deserved, Mr. Ellsworth.”

  His wife swatted at him. “You really must begin thinking before simply saying whatever enters your mind.”

  “If he does that,” Chloe said, “no one will recognize him.”

  Both the Ellsworths laughed. No matter Mr. Ellsworth’s unhealthy fascination with anything that was none of his concern and Mrs. Ellsworth’s inability to rein in that particular tendency of his, they were rather delightful people, provided one could hold one’s own.

  “And who is this?” Mr. Ellsworth turned his sights on Mrs. Northrop.

  “Mrs. Adelaide Northrop,” the matchmaker answered.

  “Northrop?” He filled the two syllables with all the awe one would generally reserve for shocking news of great international import. “Are you Mrs. Northrop who engineered a match for Lord Carraway’s girl, Turnbill’s son, and”—his eyes grew wider still—“the one Society called the Princess Pompous?”

  Chloe let her eyes dart to Porter, desperately holding back her deep desire to gloat. Not two seconds into this introduction and Mrs. Northrop had been discovered, just as Chloe had predicted.

  “One and the same,” Vance answered, “but, for the duration of this house party, she is simply Mrs. Northrop, friend of the Munson family. I believe you were informed we would have an additional guest.”

  Mr. Ellsworth turned to Chloe, a hound on a scent. “Has she come to find a match for you, Miss Munson?”

  Had Chloe been even the least bit sensitive about the state of her matrimonial prospects or the fact that she had been declared decidedly on the shelf two Seasons ago, she might have been embarrassed. Instead, she laughed unabashedly.

  “Good heavens, no. Though our dear Mrs. Northrop could likely manage it, I have no desire to employ her services.”

  That brought Vance’s attention to her, mouth downturned. “Have you abandoned all hope, then?”

  “Utterly.” She dipped a curtsey to their host and hostess. “I would be very much obliged if we could be shown to our rooms. As Mr. Ellsworth ascertained so quickly, I am not so young as I once was.”

  Mrs. Ellsworth quickly assumed command of the situation. A maid was assigned the task of accompanying Chloe, Vance, and Mrs. Northrop up to the wing of guest chambers where they would be staying. Another maid was tasked with showing Porter and his sleeping bundle to the nursery.

  The first leg of their respective journeys proved identical. Chloe climbed the stairs beside Porter.

  “Thank you for playing along with this little ruse,” he whispered. “If Ellsworth knew Mrs. Northrop was here on my request—” He shook his head.

  “He suspects she is here on mine,” Chloe said.

  Porter winced. “I am sorry about that.”

  She waved it off. “I will endure, I assure you. But know that you are deeply indebted to me for this.”

  He rubbed his son’s back. “You declared me deeply indebted several times today already. I hope you prove a merciful moneylender.”

  “Always.”

  At the upper landing, Porter was led in the opposite direction the rest of them were. The corridor wound a bit, the uneven floors speaking of piecemeal renovations over the years. Chloe rather enjoyed old houses like this one. They were not the grand, picturesque estates one was likely to read about in a travelogue, but they had charm and character.

  Mrs. Northrop was placed in a bedchamber adjoining Chloe’s. The connecting doors were open, affording her a full view of that woman’s lodgings. Their maids slipped out after seeing to the unpacking of their clothing, leaving the two of them, strangers at best, in each other’s exclusive company.

  “It seems our claim to be very dear friends has been believed,” Chloe said, standing in the doorway. “We will not be rid of each other all week, I daresay.”

  Mrs. Northrop motioned her inside. “Tell me a little about Bartrum.”

  Chloe made a sound of pondering. “He does not care for plum pudding. He cracked his ribs falling out of a tree when he was twelve years old. His son is running him ragged.”

  A bit of amusement entered Mrs. Northrop’s eyes. That was a fine sign. Chloe tended to annoy people who did not possess at least some sense of the ridiculous. “You have known him a long time, it seems.”

  “Since he and my brother met at Harrow.”

  Mrs. Northrop indicated she should sit on the bed. “Is he as bashful as he appears?”

  “He does not appear bashful to me,” Chloe answered.

  Far from surprised, Mrs. Northrop nodded her agreement. “Why is he so unsure of his ability to find himself a wife? He was married before.”

  “Yes, but he didn’t ‘find himself’ Rebecca. His parents found her.”

  “And were they happy?”

  That was a bit more personal than Chloe was entirely comfortable discussing. She didn’t answer.

  Mrs. Northrop sat beside her. “I am not asking out of a love of gossip or selfish curiosity. I wish only to ascertain what he needs in a potential wife.”

  “Did he give you no indication of his preferences?” Poor Porter was so frazzled so much of the time. It was a wonder he’d remembered to sign his name to the letter he’d sent the matchmaker.

  “He wishes his son to have a mother.”

  That made sense.

  “But that is the only specific item he had on his list. I cannot say I am satisfied with that answer.”

  Odd. “Why is that?”

  “Because I suspect he needs far more. He simply d
oesn’t realize it yet.”

  Chloe rose again, shrugging as if about to make a very casual observation. “Perhaps we could simply tell him what he needs and then you can provide it. That worked with the little charade you and I and my brother are enacting.”

  Mrs. Northrop didn’t appear displeased with the show of humor, but neither did she seem the least put off the scent. “Is Mr. Bartrum a good man? Beneath the trappings of a gentleman, beneath the awkward bumbling through discussions of matches, beyond being attentive in his care of his son . . . is he a good person?”

  Chloe stopped in the doorway, looking back at Mrs. Northrop. “I can say with full confidence that he is, quite possibly, one the best people I have ever been privileged to know.”

  “Excepting your brother, I assume.”

  “No, actually.” She leaned her shoulder against the doorframe. “Now, I don’t mean to imply that my brother is anything other than a truly lovely and good-hearted person. But Porter is something different. He is thoroughly good, to his very soul. Even as a much younger man, at an age when many children are blissfully unaware of the needs around them, he was deeply compassionate and eager to lift burdens and contribute to the happiness in the world.” She was not doing justice to the heart so few people truly got to see. But how did one explain such a thing? “You asked if his marriage was a happy one. It is something of an odd question because he makes a point of finding happiness in every situation, and he works hard to help others be happy as well. He and his late wife were not, perhaps, the most naturally suited to one another, but they were happy, in large part because he would not have stopped trying to make it so.”

  Mrs. Northrop tipped her head a bit to one side, brow pulled in thought. “In what way were they ill-suited?”

  Chloe might have objected, except she, herself, had made the admission. Further, if Mrs. Northrop were to make a match for Porter that was not either a misery or yet another marriage in which he would spend his days exhausted by the effort to find some success in a poorly chosen arrangement, she needed this information.