The Matchmaker's Lonely Heart

by Nancy Campbell Allen

  Her expressive eyebrows lifted. “Oh, rather like an undercover operation!”

  “Yes, but—”

  She nodded. “I am a voracious reader, and I am especially enamored of Mrs. Freeman’s mysteries. I shall be honored to aid the police with all the knowledge I possess. The amount of insight to be gained from reading novels is tremendous.”

  A fissure of unease ran down Michael’s spine. “I do not require anything aside from your invitation to the group, Miss Hampton. I shall simply be an old friend of the ‘notorious branch’ of the Hampton family.”

  “Why must we have a story to tell if you’re not going to disguise yourself?”

  Any hope he might have harbored that she would leave the rest of it to his discretion was dashed when he met her inquisitive eyes that studied him without blinking. Now that she saw herself as his investigative colleague, she fully expected an answer.

  “I pushed to have an inquest regarding his wife’s death,” he finally admitted. “The fact that I would show my face at a society group to which he belongs strains credulity, at best. He’ll reason that I’m investigating him again.”

  He’d never insinuated to Radcliffe that he suspected him of being involved in Marie’s demise. Radcliffe wasn’t stupid, however, and he seemed to have a network of influential people at his fingertips. Michael would have to tread carefully.

  “If I am invited by an old family friend,” he continued, “the coincidence will be more palatable. I trust he does not share an acquaintance with your aunt and would not attempt to verify a true connection through her?”

  “To my knowledge, they are unacquainted.” She paused, then frowned. “You hardly bear the look of one who enjoys poetry or novels.” She airily waved a hand. “All detectives of my experience have been either disinterested in fiction or lack any degree of romanticism.”

  “How many detectives have crossed your path, Miss Hampton?”

  She bit the inside of her cheek and again tightened her arms around herself. “Two.”

  He nodded. “You will introduce me to the others as a . . . a family friend, recently reacquainted.”

  Her lips moved slightly, but he couldn’t discern her words.

  “I’m sorry?”

  She shook her head and cleared her throat. “As it happens, the Cheery Society Book Group is meeting tomorrow evening. Is this too sudden for your schedule?”

  “The sooner, the better. Come, Miss Hampton. I shall accompany you to your destination. The hour grows late.”

  “Thank you, but I do not require an escort.” She inclined her head, secured her hat once again, and then shook her umbrella.

  “I insist.” He gestured toward the clearing, and she fell into step beside him. “You said you do not often walk alone at night, is this true?”

  Her umbrella bumped against his shoulder, and she angled it to the side, looking up at his face. “When did I say . . . ? Oh, yes, when you ran me to ground.”

  He closed his eyes briefly. “I did not run you to—”

  “I had assumed you were about to chastise me for being alone after dark.”

  “Do the constabulary around here usually chastise you for being out alone after dark?”

  “I cannot say, but I assume most elder people of some authority are particular about such dangers.”

  Elder people of some authority? How old did she think he was? “As it happens, I do advise against it. You must take care for your safety, ‘woman of independent means’ or no. The world is full to bursting with people of ill will.”

  “Such a painfully pessimistic observation, Detective.”

  “Undoubtedly.” Michael frequently saw people either at their very worst or when they had just experienced the very worst. He couldn’t pretend it didn’t shape his judgment.

  She led the way through the other side of the park and onto the street, where they turned and made their way toward several residential squares. “Of course, chasing down miscreants and apprehending murderous villains must be absolutely exhausting. Tell me, do you know them on sight?”

  “Who? Miscreants and murderers?” He was miserably cold, he knew she was also, and could not fathom the reason for her continued conversation. If he didn’t believe somewhere in the recesses of his hardened soul that his mother was looking down from above and would be grossly disappointed in him, he’d have told the pretty Miss Hampton he required silence for the remainder of the walk.

  “Yes.” As they crossed another street, her hat slid from her head, and she smacked the umbrella into his neck in her fumbling attempt to catch it.

  “Allow me,” he snapped and held out his hand.

  Wide-eyed, she handed the hat to him. She fell silent, and rather than relishing the quiet, he felt churlish.

  His polite communication skills were rusty. While police procedure was an unlikely topic for drawing room conversation, the innocent young woman at his side seemed genuinely curious. Using her to gain seamless social access to Radcliffe was a boon he hadn’t expected, so prudence dictated he foster good will with her.

  He took a breath, resigned, and offered, “There are some ‘miscreants’ I recognize after a short interchange. Others are harder to detect.”

  She nodded, but remained quiet. She must have decided to forgive him for being curt, however, because she eventually resumed the conversation. “I would do better to hone my skills of discernment. My brother, Stephen, has always said I live in a world of fairy tales. That is laughable, though, because the books I read contain all sorts of murder and mayhem, usually committed with revolvers or knives, and once even a machete. I do not suppose such fiction would suit a police detective; seeing the truth of it in the course of one’s profession would spoil any entertainment value.”

  As they walked, Michael was mildly surprised to find himself caught up in her streams of conversation that trailed off but eventually circled back to her original point. It was a pity, really, that life would eventually dull her bright edge.

  Miss Hampton fell quiet, and Michael wondered if he’d been so lost in his own thoughts that he’d missed a cue to respond to a comment or question. He looked at her, and realized she’d stopped in front of a large mansion.

  “Your aunt’s boardinghouse?” The tidy street and neighborhoods surrounding it had once been home to society’s uppermost classes. But when the burgeoning new professional middle classes had started to rise and encroach, many people had sold their enormous homes and moved farther afield. Boardinghouses in rougher parts of Town experienced crime that rarely touched these tidy squares and competitively sought-after residences.

  “Hampton House. Aunt Sally acquired it some years ago through means the family chooses not to discuss, and she refuses to waste her time explaining. This leads to nothing but endless speculation on my own part and that of my cousins who also live here. One hopes the story is delightfully scandalous, but in truth, it is likely quite dull.” She shrugged and smiled, and he realized it was the first time he’d seen it.

  His heart jumped the slightest bit, and he absently rubbed his chest. He realized he still held her hat in his other hand, and he gave it to her with a light bow. “Tomorrow evening, then. I shall contact you for details on the book club gathering.”

  “Oh, yes. I think we ought to discuss your cover story.” Her brow wrinkled. “I would hate to say the wrong thing.”

  “We shall keep it as simple as possible. I am a friend of your brother—Stephen, is it? From former times. You have been kind enough to introduce me in some of your social circles.”

  She raised a brow, but said, “Very well. However, be certain to avoid any mention of my parents. They passed away years ago.”

  “Oh.” He blinked. “Please accept my condolences.”

  “Thank you, Detective.”

  “Just . . . do not concern yourself with details. I will handle my cover
story. All I require is a means of observing Radcliffe without raising his suspicion that I am there in an official capacity.”

  She nodded and turned toward the front gate, but hesitated. “Detective, might you have misjudged Mr. Radcliffe? He is truly a gentleman of the first order. He recites Byron and even composes verses of his own.”

  Michael bit back the sarcastic reply that sprang instantly to his lips. In the light of the walkway gas lamp, he noted the subtle color that rose in her cheeks. Was Miss Hampton enamored of Radcliffe? He was torn between happily using her willing cooperation to investigate the man and warning her away from him in no uncertain terms. Surely with Michael present at the book group, he could manage any situation the naive young woman might find herself in.

  “Perhaps I am mistaken,” he lied. “He might merely be a victim of unfortunate circumstance.”

  She chewed on the inside of her cheek, apparently lost in her own musings. Her hair hung past her shoulders in a bedraggled mess, and she looked small, cold, and wet. The rain pattered steadily on the fabric of her umbrella, which provided little more protection than her hatpin-less hat.

  “What is he to have done?” she finally asked, blinking through the raindrops caught on her lashes.

  He could not be honest for more reasons than one, most paramount being that Radcliffe was under investigation—admittedly unsanctioned—for murder, and Miss Hampton’s face was an open book. If she knew the details of the case, Michael doubted she would be able to keep from giving something away, even as enamored as she seemed to be about playing a part in an undercover ruse.

  “I am not at liberty to disclose details,” he told her. “I am hopeful things will progress swiftly, and, if you are correct that he is nothing more than a good man who composes poetry and keeps cheery company, he will be none the wiser of my suspicions, and I shall be on my way.”

  She studied him for a moment with an expression he couldn’t quite read. Perhaps he would need to revise his assessment of her after all. Maybe those expressive eyes—hazel, he noted—were capable of holding something back.

  She nodded. “Very well. Until tomorrow. Thank you for seeing me safely home, Detective.”

  He tipped his hat and a small rivulet of water found its way down his sleeve. “I do hope you will heed the counsel of your elders,” he said, “and not venture out after dark alone anymore.”

  She had turned and entered the house before he realized she’d not agreed to heed his advice.

  A woman’s greatest duty is to marry well, giving her resources to see to the care of not only her husband and children, but aging mothers and grandmothers.

  —correspondence from Mrs. Franklin to

  The Marriage Gazette

  Amelie closed the door behind her, leaning against it to catch her breath. She had been escorted home by an actual detective who had chased her through the park like she was a common criminal! If she hadn’t been so painfully cold and wet, she might have squealed in delight. Amelie Hampton read about adventures but was hardly the sort to seek them out beyond the pages of her novels. That an adventure had found her was remarkable. That the detective was handsome—albeit irascible—was a boon.

  It was a ridiculous adventure, of course, and would come to naught. Mr. Harold Radcliffe was the last person to ever be involved in anything nefarious, but she was happy to bear the responsibility of helping to clear his good name. It was entirely possible he was unaware his name needed clearing since the grumpy detective was investigating undercover, of course, but a good deed done in secret was even more virtuous.

  She lost herself in a delightful daydream where she and Mr. Radcliffe sat at the fireplace of their cozy future home and chuckled together about the reason they had fallen in love. He would touch her cheek tenderly, and tell her for the hundredth—nay, the thousandth—time that he was forever grateful for her good judgment of character and solid defense of him, an innocent gentleman, in the face of a police investigation where a brusque detective with very blue eyes, which undoubtedly matched the temperature of the blood coursing through his disagreeable veins—

  “Miss Hampton!”

  Amelie gasped and jumped, heart thumping, as Mrs. Burnette, the housekeeper, bustled down the wide front staircase with an expression that screamed outrage, even if her words did not. Yet.

  “Are you waiting for an engraved invitation to remove that dripping wet coat?” Mrs. Burnette reached the bottom of the stairs and hurried across the front hall to Amelie. “Your aunt may own the home, but does she bear daily responsibility for the care of it? No! You young women coming and going at all hours, soaking the entryway and leaving dirty puddles. I have only just finished mopping behind Miss Duvall and Miss Caldwell.”

  Amelie opened her mouth to defend herself but was cut short as Mrs. Burnette placed her hands on Amelie’s shoulders and spun her around to remove the wet coat. Amelie managed to say over her shoulder, “I would have been home much earlier, but—oof!”

  Mrs. Burnette tugged with surprising strength at Amelie’s coat sleeve, and she was jostled about much like a child in similar circumstances. As her arm came free and Mrs. Burnette began working on the other, she realized that she couldn’t tell anyone about her encounter with Detective Baker. His ruse would not last long if she gave up the game before it had even started.

  Mrs. Burnette stripped her other sleeve clear, and Amelie curled her fingers tightly and held them to her mouth, blowing to generate some heat. She began tugging off the ruined gloves, but her numb fingers refused to cooperate. She managed to pull one partially off as Mrs. Burnette shook out the coat, muttering a string of what Amelie could only assume were curses under her breath. The housekeeper crossed into the parlor where a fire burned cozily behind the grate and spread Amelie’s coat beside two others.

  Amelie pinched the tips of the glove where she’d tugged free some fabric, and pulled, popping several knuckles but accomplishing little else. “Ugh,” she muttered and shook her hand, stepping away from the front door.

  “Halt!” Mrs. Burnette returned, face flushed and lips pinched. “Not another step until we remove your boots.”

  The housekeeper was sterner than even Amelie’s mother had been. Amelie obediently froze in place, hiding her gloved hands behind her back.

  With an exasperated huff, Mrs. Burnette held out one hand, and Amelie extended hers, wincing while the woman freed her of both gloves, stripping them inside out and dropping them to the floor near Amelie’s umbrella, which had not found its way into the umbrella stand.

  “I shall do my best to salvage them, young lady, but I cannot make promises.”

  “Oh, how kind of you to offer,” Amelie hurried to say, hoping to placate her. “I’d given them up as ruined and lost for good.”

  Mrs. Burnette looked up sharply. “You would consign a perfectly good pair of gloves to the trash heap, then?”

  Amelie’s eyes widened. “No! No, I simply . . . I only—”

  Muttering something that included the words “frugality” and “the irresponsible young,” Mrs. Burnette bent down and examined the hem of Amelie’s skirt, which bore evidence of her awkward crab-walk along the ground in the park. “What on earth? Were you dragged home by a horse?”

  Amelie reminded herself that Mrs. Burnette was not her mother and that she, Miss Amelie Hampton, was a Woman of Independent Means. She sniffed and straightened her shoulders. “No, ma’am. Of course I was not. I had the misfortune to slip on a muddy patch in the park and fall down.”

  Mrs. Burnette narrowed her eyes at Amelie before snatching a buttonhook near the shoe rack and then reaching beneath the skirt hem for her foot. “Was there nobody in the park at the time?”

  “No. I was quite alone.” Amelie waited for a tuttering of sympathy.

  “Good. Such gracelessness will never yield an improved reputation, much less impress the eye of a potential suitor.”

/>   Amelie’s mouth dropped open, but she quickly closed it, resigned. Mrs. Burnette had long ago earned the position of honorary matron of Hampton House and the five residents within its walls. Even Mr. Frost, who was well into his sixties and extremely ill-tempered, fell prey to her scolding on occasion. Amelie had often thought the scolding did little to improve the man’s temper, but Mrs. Burnette’s aim never seemed to be focused on lightening spirits.

  She was more governess in spirit than housekeeper, but her efficiency was unequalled. Clothing was laundered in record time, meals were punctual and delicious, and apartments remained swept and dusted daily by a pair of maids who valued the excellent pay more than the thought of finding work under more personable superiors.

  Mrs. Burnette finished unbuttoning Amelie’s boots and removed them briskly. “Davie will be around in the morning. I’ll see he cleans and blackens these. Fortunate that you have another two pair to choose from for work tomorrow.”

  “Indeed. Now, then, might I trouble you—”

  “For supper, of course. Sarah has set aside a tray. I’ll have her warm it and send it up to your suite. I would invite you into the dining room, but of course, the meal was cleared over an hour ago.”

  Amelie nodded, eager to be alone. She needed to think. As Mrs. Burnette disappeared down the hallway to the kitchen, Amelie climbed the stairs to her room on the second floor.

  There was a common area on the second floor, containing a sofa and two chairs, an end table, a lamp, and a fresh flower arrangement. Straight ahead were two large windows that overlooked the front of the house, and a cozy glow of wall sconces reflected in the glass. Amelie, Charlotte, and Evangeline often lounged in the common area following a long day of work.

  Amelie’s suite consisted of a large bedroom and a small dressing room, accessed by a door to the right of the common area. To the left were several other doors: two led to the rooms occupied by her cousins and two more led to the girls’ shared water closet and bathroom. The room adjoining Amelie’s was used for storing furniture, surplus linens, and various curiosities Aunt Sally brought home from her travels that had yet to be given a permanent home.