The Misguided Matchmaker

by Nadine Miller

  The opening set, complete with the Venetian army, was everything one could expect of London’s premiere theater. Enthralled, Maddy settled back in her chair and prepared to suffer through the trials and tribulations of the Moor who commanded the colorfully costumed army.

  Still, she couldn’t help wishing she might have been treated to one of Mr. Shakespeare’s charming comedies for the first theater experience of her life. She was not in the mood for a grim tragedy, particularly not Othello’s. She had always thought him something of a fool to be so easily misled by a scoundrel like Iago. And as for Desdemona…what a silly fribble Shakespeare had made her out to be. No, Othello was definitely not one of her favorite plays.

  But no sooner had Edmund Kean delivered his first line than she found herself hypnotized by the swarthy actor’s performance. Small of stature and looking remarkably like one of the gypsies who had often camped outside Lyon, there was nothing about his physical person that was prepossessing. Yet he projected an emotional intensity that held his audience spellbound. By sheer force of personality, he took command of the stage, relegating the other actors to mere shadows on the perimeter of his genius. Before Maddy’s very eyes, he literally transformed himself into Iago, the jealousy-ridden Moor’s evil tormentor.

  She felt the earl press the opera glasses into her hand, and raising them found herself as fascinated by the myriad emotions twisting Kean’s lean, vulpine face as she was by his magnificent voice. How, she wondered, could any man plumb the depths of his soul like this night after night and still managed to retain his sanity?

  All too soon, the first act was over and the curtain descended for the intermission the playbill had announced. Maddy turned to the earl, her heart still pounding, her mind drained, to find his eyes closed and his head resting on his chest. She shook her head in disbelief. The man must have the sensitivity of a hedgehog to sleep through such a stirring performance.

  Surely she wasn’t the only one so deeply affected by Kean. Carefully, so as not to disturb the earl, she leaned forward to gauge the reaction of the audience on the floor below the box.

  Most of them were out of their seats and stirring about. If they’d been moved by the great man, they’d recovered quickly. Or maybe, like her, they had found the performance so draining, they needed a respite before the next emotional act.

  Many of them had opera glasses of their own trained on the private boxes—a surprising number on the very box in which the earl and she sat. Never say this dull little man sleeping in the chair beside her was of that much interest to the other members of London society. If so, they must indeed be desperate for diversion.

  She raised the glasses the earl had given her and trained them on the box containing the man she had thought resembled Tristan…and gasped. It was Tristan, and he looked even more elegant in the stark black and white of his evening clothes than he had when he’d called at her father’s townhouse.

  He and the fair-haired man, who on closer observation looked to be much older than Tristan, were engaged in conversation with the woman she’d seen enter the box earlier. A statuesque blond with a bosom that put Tristan’s friend, Minette, to shame, she had rather coarse features and rosy cheeks Maddy felt certain where enhanced by Bloom of Ninon.

  She was most definitely a mistress. Furthermore, the exquisite ruby silk gown that didn’t quite cover her magnificent bosom and the matching rubies circling her throat and dangling from her ears proclaimed her the mistress of a very wealthy man. Maddy felt a stab of fear. Had Tristan’s early years with his mother made him addicted to soiled doves? Would that addiction persist even after he married?

  She adjusted the glasses to enhance the picture. The woman was laughing heartily at something either Tristan or the older man had said—her bosom heaving so mightily, Maddy feared it might lift right out of her scandalous neckline.

  Now she was holding a jeweled fan in front of her face, as if she were whispering something first to one man, then the other. She was obviously playing them against each other and very successfully too, from the looks of it. For now both men were laughing as if the vulgar creature had just said the most fascinating thing either of them had ever heard.

  Maddy made a mental note to practice the art of the fan in her spare time; it appeared to be a very effective adjunct to conversation. Still, she lowered the glasses. She had seen enough. What fools men were, even the best of them. Couldn’t Tristan and his distinguished looking friend see they were making public spectacles of themselves?

  The earl stirred and straightened in his chair. His eyes popped open and he stared around him in obvious surprise. “Is the first act over?”

  Maddy nodded. “Yes my lord. Mr. Kean was superb.”

  “Excellent. I hope you enjoyed it, Miss Harcourt.” He grinned sheepishly. “I can never stay awake. The theater has the same effect on my as my village vicar’s sermons.”

  He eyed the opera glasses. “And have you been enjoying watching the ton at play as well?”

  Maddy sniffed. “I have been watching your brother, Tristan at play, my lord. He and his friend are in one of the boxes across the way.”

  The earl yawned. “Ah yes, he said he’d be here. With Foreign Secretary Castlereagh and the Grand Duchess Sophia.”

  “The woman is a grand duchess? Are you certain?” Maddy handed him the glasses. “She more closely resembles an expensive courtesan.”

  “Miss Harcourt!” The earl flushed with embarrassment. “I would not expect an innocent young woman to know either the name or the look of such a creature.”

  He adjusted the glasses and peered toward the box that Maddy indicated. “Hmmm. I see what you mean. She does rather give that appearance. But she is most definitely the grand duchess of some remote duchy in Austria, according to Tris. The two of them became fast friends when he was at the Congress of Vienna—though heaven only knows what he was doing there. To hear him tell it, he did nothing but waltz and drink and…

  The earl’s flush deepened. “It is all beyond me, but Tris is very clever about such things. Apparently his friendship with the duchess has been of great help to Lord Castlereagh since she has the ear of Prince von Metternich.”

  “Who in turn has the ear of the Emperor of Austria,” Maddy said, as relief flooded through her. Tristan wasn’t dallying after all; he was merely protecting the interests of his country.

  “And,” she continued, “with Napoleon on the march again, it behooves Lord Castlereagh to keep Metternich as a friend since the Austrian emperor is biding his time, waiting to see who will rule France.

  The earl’s eyes widened. “How do you know that?”

  “It is only logical, my lord. The emperor fears he may one day have to defend Vienna against the Russian Cossacks, in which case he will need the support of the armies of France.”

  “The devil you say!” The earl’s pale brows drew together in a disapproving frown. “Somehow that does not seem the sort of thing a proper lady should know. I hope, Miss Harcourt, you are not going to tell me you are some sort of bluestocking who fancies dabbling in politics.”

  Maddy couldn’t help but laugh at the disgruntled earl. “But of course I am, my lord, if the term ‘bluestocking’ means what I think it does. I was raised on politics. It was the only subject that was ever discussed in my grandfather’s salon.”

  The earl turned positively green—something Maddy scarcely noticed. She was too drunk with happiness to take note of anything as trivial as the Earl of Rand’s complexion.

  So, Tristan’s natural milieu was international politics—not a sheep farm, as she’d surmised. Why had it never occurred to her before how logical the progression was from spy to diplomat?

  But what lay ahead for the clever Englishman? Evidently the powerful Foreign Secretary didn’t hold his illegitimate birth against him. Maybe, with Lord Castlereagh as his sponsor, he could become British Ambassador to Vienna. Maybe even take a seat in the House of Commons if he played his cards right. What a coup that would be fo
r a man who had started life as a bastard!

  And who would make the ideal wife for a man with such ambitions? Why a woman who had been the chatelaine of the most brilliant political salon in Lyon, of course.

  Chapter Eleven

  Lady Ursula Ramsden, Dowager Countess of Rand, selected a small frosted cake from the tea tray offered by her butler and added a spoonful of sugar to her tea. She waited until both her daughter, Lady Carolyn, and her guest had made their selections, then instructed the starchy retainer to leave them to enjoy their tea without further interruption.

  “So, my dear Miss Harcourt,” she said in her beautifully modulated voice, “it appears we have our work cut out for us if you are to be ready to make your debut this Season. Mr. Harcourt tells me that in addition to planning an appropriate wardrobe, we must rectify certain omissions in your social training as well.”

  She took a sip of tea before continuing. “But before we do anything else, we must secure you a suitable dresser. An older woman, I think, who can double as a chaperone.”

  “A dresser? Whatever for?” Maddy scoffed. “I’ve been tending to my own needs since I was five years old.”

  “But your needs will not be so simple now, my dear. And your maid can accompany you shopping or visiting friends. A proper young lady never leaves her domicile without the company of a relative or servant. I hope you will remember that in the future.

  Maddy stifled her urge to giggle. She had crossed France disguised as a boy, slept in a hayloft with her head on the shoulder of a rakish ex-spy, even shared a kiss with that same ex-spy on a moonlight evening—but now she dare not walk to the lending library without a proper chaperone.

  “We can be thankful of one thing—Madame Héloïse has turned you out quite well,” Lady Ursula said, pursing her pretty mouth and studying Maddy with the same judicial intensity her son, the earl, had the first time he met her. “I would not have thought of sarcenet for a carriage dress and in such an unusual shade of green, too, but it is really most becoming.”

  “Thank you, my lady.” Ordinarily, Maddy would have taken umbrage at such scrutiny, but she found it impossible to do so with either the countess or her son. Both had a kindness of nature that could not be mistaken. Especially the countess. For hadn’t she taken Tristan in to raise as her own when he was abandoned on her doorstep as a child?

  Furthermore, it was so easy to see how the earl had come by his diminutive size and his gentlemanly manners; Lady Ursula was petite and blonde and so perfectly ladylike, Maddy felt like a gauche country bumpkin in comparison. And Lady Carolyn was an exquisite copy of her mother. No wonder the countess looked a bit bewildered at the prospect of trying to turn Caleb Harcourt’s oversized French daughter into one of the delicate English china dolls admired by the ton.

  “You must not take this ‘plan’ of my father’s too seriously, my lady,” Maddy said, hoping to put her gentle hostess as ease. “It is plain to see it is just a silly whim he’s taken. But he is an intelligent man. I feel certain he will soon see the idea is hopeless and give it up.”

  “Oh, Miss Harcourt, never say such a thing!” Every drop of color blanched from Lady Ursula’s face, and Lady Carolyn’s teacup crashed into her saucer. Two sets of pale blue eyes stared at Maddy with what she could only describe as absolute horror. But why? She would have thought they would welcome any excuse to abandon “the plan.”

  “Of course it’s not hopeless, my dear. It simply cannot be,” Lady Ursula declared, pressing her hand to her heaving bosom.

  “Garth has committed himself. The ‘plan’ is already underway,” Lady Carolyn added, her eyes as round and wide as the teacup clattering in her saucer. She glanced fearfully around the elegant salon of the Ramsden townhouse in which they sat, as if the beautiful paintings, objets d’art, and exquisite furnishings somehow entered into the equation.

  Honor again. This family seemed obsessed by it. The earl apparently felt honor-bound to sponsor her entrance into London society to pay back the favor her father had done him, and his mother and sister, God bless their loyal hearts, intended to back him all the way, no matter what it cost them.

  Maddy sighed. It seemed she must agree to the preposterous scheme long enough to keep from offending them. “I am most appreciative of your efforts, my lady, and I do not mean to be difficult.” She paused, pondering how to tactfully word what she had to say. “But I cannot help but believe we shall avoid a great deal of trouble later on if I begin by being perfectly honest about how I feel about the plan. It is my life that will be most drastically affected, after all, not my father’s.”

  Now Lady Ursula’s teacup was clattering in its saucer. “Of course, my dear,” she said somewhat breathlessly. “Above all, we want you to be happy with the arrangements.”

  “We are hardly in a position to feel otherwise,” Lady Carolyn said acidly, and earned herself a quelling look from her mother.

  Maddy felt it best to ignore Lady Carolyn’s brief but telling show of temper. Apparently she was not quite as honor-bound as the other members of the family.

  “Tell us, my dear, exactly how do you feel about…everything?” Lady Ursula asked gently.

  Maddy looked down at the paper-thin teacup in her hand. “Well, for one thing, my lady, I really cannot abide tea. So your idea of introducing me to the ladies of the ton by giving a series of afternoon teas is not particularly appealing. It is not a popular drink in France, you see. I am accustomed to coffee. Strong, black coffee.” She refrained from mentioning that the French had dubbed the Englishmen’s favorite beverage la pisse de chat. She doubted a high stickler like the countess would see the humor in likening her precious tea to cat urine.

  “Then there’s the matter of all those lessons Papa and you discussed,” Maddy continued. “I have nothing against learning to dance.” She had, in fact, developed a passionate desire to do so the moment the earl mentioned that Tristan had waltzed his way through the Congress of Vienna.

  She smiled at Lady Ursula. “I would be particularly interested in learning the waltz. I saw it executed once in Lyon and found it quite intriguing.” In truth, the idea of waltzing in Tristan’s arms sent shivers of excitement coursing through her.

  “I have already arranged for dancing lessons with an unexceptional tutor who numbers the waltz among his accomplishments,” Lady Ursula said. “But, of course, you must obtain the permission of the patronesses of Almack’s before performing that particular dance in public.”

  “Surely you jest, my lady. Why should these patronesses, whoever they may be, have anything to say about what I do?”

  “My thought exactly,” Lady Carolyn said. “The old dragons have yet to give me the nod, and I resent it bitterly.”

  Lady Ursula silenced her daughter with a scowl. “Lady Jersey and the other patronesses set the standard of decorum for the ton. Standards with which I heartily concur. You are barely eighteen, Carolyn. Much too young and innocent, in my opinion, to be dancing in the intimate manner required by that most scandalous of dances. I myself have never waltzed. Nor do I think I ever will.”

  “But you’re hopelessly old-fashioned, Mama. It is precisely because I am young that I want to do all the exiting things I can think of while I am still able to enjoy them.” Lady Carolyn gave an angry toss of her golden curls that led Maddy to believe this youngest of the Ramsdens was most definitely not blessed with as docile a nature as her mother and brother.

  Lady Ursula fixed her daughter with a stare that plainly put an end to any further discussion of the waltz, and Maddy made a new assessment of the countess. Gentle and ladylike she might be, but Lady Ursula was obviously not a woman to be trifled with once she made up her mind.

  “So, Miss Harcourt, we have the business of dancing lessons settled then,” Lady Ursula said, ignoring her daughter’s angry pout. She took another sip of her tea, then placed the cup and saucer on the small table on which the tea tray sat. “As to the other accomplishments you will need to acquire—”

  “No
w there’s the rub, my lady.” Maddy finished the last of her teacake and set her plate aside. “I have no interest in painting with watercolors and I have the voice of a crow, so singing lessons would be a waste of time and money. And unless I’m willing to practice ten hours a day—which I’m not—the Season will be over before I progress beyond scales on the pianoforte.”

  Her gaze lighted on the tambour frame beside Lady Ursula’s chair. “I’m afraid embroidery is out also. I’m much too impatient for that sort of thing. I tried it once and ended up throwing my efforts in the fireplace.”

  Lady Ursula’s finely arched brows raised a fraction. “But my dear, what will you do with your days? You have eliminated virtually every occupation suitable to a well-bred young lady.”

  “Oh la, never worry about me, my lady. I shall be busy as a cat in a barn full of mice. I am the most avid of readers and Papa has a magnificent library which I am dying to sample.” And Cookie has an inexhaustible supply of recipes he is willing to teach me—but best I keep that to myself.

  “Ah yes, your reading.” Lady Ursula’s voice was noticeably lacking in enthusiasm. “My son mentioned that you were exceedingly clever. I understand you have not only read Mr. Shakespeare’s plays, but translated them into French as well.”

  “Actually, I translated them into French, German and Italian.” Maddy smiled reminiscently. “Just for fun, you know. I can’t remember when I’ve enjoyed myself more.”

  Lady Ursula paled noticeably. “Oh dear, I do think it would be best to keep that our little family secret. It wouldn’t do to have it bandied about that you were a bluestocking.”

  That word again. Maddy scowled thoughtfully. “You are saying, I take it, that the members of the ton do not approve of intelligent women.”

  “Let us rather say they do not approve of bookish women.”

  “Very well, my lady I stand corrected. And since I am already aware they also do not approve of men who earn their income through trade, nor even any of their own kind who bolster their incomes using the wits le bon Dieu gave them, I have but one question left concerning that exclusive society.”