The Matchmaker's Lonely Heart

by Nancy Campbell Allen

  Stairs continued up to the third floor, where two older gentlemen, Mr. Frost and Mr. Roy, each occupied a small suite. There was an additional room shared by the Wells sisters, Sarah and Katie, who were the Hampton House maids. Mrs. Burnette occupied a small suite at the back of the house near the kitchen where she was better able to manage deliveries and other household affairs.

  Amelie fitted her key into the lock and entered her room where she was greeted by the warm glow of a banked fire in the fireplace. Wall sconces had been turned down low, and Amelie breathed a tired sigh as she dropped her reticule and key on the small table near the door.

  She crossed to the small dressing room and stripped away her wet clothing, draping them over a drying rack. After toweling off and dressing for bed, she wrapped herself in a warm housecoat. Tired, she made her way back to her bedroom and sat in the small chair near the fireplace.

  It might be only one room, but it was a large room in a large house in a respectable neighborhood, and more to the point, it was all hers. Sally Hampton selected her tenants carefully and was extremely fair in the rent she requested from her nieces. Amelie suspected that she’d have been unable to afford her room if anyone else owned Hampton House. Sally had always encouraged Amelie’s initiative and desire for independence—even when she’d resided with her in her manor across town after Amelie’s parents died—but being officially on her own was exhilarating. That she’d only moved out from under Sally’s roof into another home her aunt owned was beside the point. It was a step toward a truly independent life.

  She pulled her fingers through her tangled mass of hair and braided it over her shoulder, her brain finally slowing long enough to consider everything that had happened from the moment she’d left The Marriage Gazette that evening.

  Charlotte and Eva had parcels to retrieve from “Madame Dubois’ Hats and Gloves,” so Amelie had parted from them with a promise to tell all when they returned home. She’d known the location for the meeting between “Mr. Dashing” and Miss Franklin and had only wanted to be sure they both arrived and seemed to get on well.

  To see Mr. Radcliffe there had caused her heart to pound with a multitude of emotions. She’d been stunned to recognize him from the book club meetings, of course, but she also worried that her aunt would somehow conclude that Amelie had learned the identity of a Gazette personals contributor and was now following him about Town.

  She also felt a strange pang of jealousy of Miss Franklin. Not malicious jealousy, because Miss Franklin was a sweet young woman whose only goal was to avoid marriage to the ancient and odious Mr. Brocklehurst. No, it was the sort of jealousy Amelie’s romantic heart recognized, having felt it many times when she had found herself enamored of a gentleman whose attentions were focused elsewhere.

  Amelie had been in Hampton House for six months and had attended the Cheery Society Book Group with her cousins for four of those months. Each time the group met, she had admired Mr. Harold Radcliffe from afar. Though Amelie was a voracious reader of romantic novels, she was painfully shy around men in whom she found an interest. She grew tongue-tied and awkward, and slightly ill, and had long ago decided she would rather admire from afar than disgrace herself up close.

  He was so dashing! He was incredibly handsome, well-read, intelligent, and carried himself like a nobleman. His clothing was of the finest cut, his taste in tiepins, cuff links, and hats was first-rate, and he commanded female attention with every poetry-laced word. In truth, she’d never truly considered him a candidate for marriage because he was freshly widowed and spoke in such wistful and glowing terms about his late wife. She’d assumed—erroneously, apparently—that he would not put himself on the marriage mart for some time.

  She frowned as she stared at the glowing log in the fire and played with the damp ends of her hair. The detective had seemed most determined about his investigation into Mr. Radcliffe, and Amelie could hardly understand it. That such a gentleman would be facing scrutiny from anyone, let alone the police, was simply too fantastic to believe. Detective Baker must be mistaken.

  Amelie realized with an uncomfortable start that she would have to find a reason to introduce the detective to Mr. Radcliffe. The thought of approaching him the next night made her slightly sick. She would need to find someone to perform introductions all around. Her mind immediately went to her cousin Charlotte.

  Charlotte Duvall was more assertive and self-assured than Amelie. Charlotte was very much like her mother, who had died when Charlotte was young; the two cousins had that in common. Evangeline Caldwell—Eva, to family—was also Sally’s niece via her mother, and, of the three girls who lived at Hampton House, was easily the most diplomatic and gracious. Amelie supposed she was the “dreamer” of the bunch, with little to recommend her save a love of romantic and mystery novels.

  When the knock on Amelie’s door signaling a tray of food had finally arrived, she wasn’t surprised to see Charlotte on the other side, holding the tray. Amelie leaned past the young woman and called out to Sarah Wells, “Thank you for dinner.”

  “Yes, miss.” The maid paused on her way to the stairs and nodded with a tired smile. She bobbed a quick curtsey and continued on her way.

  “Amelie, you must tell all.” Charlotte bustled her way into the room and set the tray down on the small table that also doubled as Amelie’s writing desk. “Did you catch a glimpse of the couple tonight at the restaurant? Do you believe they will suit?” Charlotte dragged a chair from near the fireplace and plunked it next to the desk. “Eat, you must be starving. Why are you home so late? Eva and I arrived over an hour ago.”

  Charlotte’s thick, riotous auburn curls were free from braids and pins and hung down her back in full abandon. She wore a housecoat similar to Amelie’s, and her green eyes were bright with energy. They were always bright with energy. Amelie did not believe she’d ever seen Charlotte fatigued.

  Amelie had yet to utter a word, though she smiled. She spread the napkin on her lap and took an appreciative sniff of the beef stew in the bowl before her. She was still chilled to the bone, and she put her hands around the steaming bowl and scooted it closer.

  “I am late because I stopped to watch the couple.” She sipped the broth, choosing her words carefully. She could not admit, even to her dearest cousins, that she was now part of an undercover investigation with Scotland Yard. “Charlotte, you will not believe who they are. Or rather, who he is.”

  “What?” Charlotte leaned forward in her seat. “Who is he?”

  “Mr. Radcliffe.”

  Charlotte straightened and blinked. “Mr. Radcliffe?”

  Amelie nodded.

  “From the Cheery Society Book Group?”

  Amelie nodded. “I cannot imagine why he would find it necessary to advertise in The Marriage Gazette for company.” She wrinkled her brow. “I am concerned because if it were to become common knowledge that I spied on the meeting, Sally might fire me, family or no.” She paused. “What if he has put in multiple ads? Suppose this is not his first time to advertise for courtship? I did not consider that he could be the sort . . .”

  Charlotte sat back in the chair and tapped her fingertip against her lip. “Actually, as the youngest of seven children—six of them boys—I can personally attest to the fickle nature of men.”

  “Perhaps.” Amelie continued eating, then gestured to her dessert. “Would you care for the rice pudding?”

  Charlotte’s eyes widened. “Bless you.” She snatched the small bowl and dessert spoon from the tray with a smile. “A man like Mr. Radcliffe—perhaps he is more of a Casanova than we’ve realized.”

  “I assume no such thing.” Amelie wiped her mouth with exaggerated delicacy. “I believe he is all that is genteel and proper.”

  Charlotte ate thoughtfully for a moment, her eyes narrowed. “Heaven knows I am not a jaded sort, but I am a realist. He may not be the paragon you’ve created in your head.”
>
  A quick knock sounded on the door, and Amelie called, “Enter!”

  Eva stuck her head in the room. “Oh good, you’re home.” Her hair was wet as though she’d just stepped from the bath; she also wore comfortable nightclothes and a housecoat. She pulled a small footstool from next to the bed closer to the fireplace and sat down with a sigh. Her long black hair was pulled into a loose braid similar to Amelie’s. Her eyes were a deep brown, and she possessed the sort of beauty that stopped people in their tracks.

  She was an aficionado of gadgetry, photography in particular. She took photographs for The Marriage Gazette, and she had recently branched into a side business of providing pictures for private families and groups. Sally had approved the use of an extra storage room in the cellar as a converted darkroom, and Eva’s talent grew daily.

  The fact that her cousins knew Amelie so well created a challenge for her. She wasn’t certain she could manage the ruse Detective Baker would require of her the next evening. The only factor that might work in her favor was that the three cousins had grown up in separate towns; they spent vacations together, but not daily life. They wouldn’t know if the detective had ever actually been a family acquaintance.

  She decided to dip her toe into the murky waters of intrigue and see if she could make herself believable. “Oh,” she said brightly, “I encountered a family friend today! He was a constable years ago and knew Stephen; my brother constantly found himself in one scrape or another.” She laughed and waved a hand. “The constable is now a detective with the Yard, if you can believe it. He doesn’t know many people yet, and can be rather bashful. I thought he might enjoy the book club meeting tomorrow night.”

  The other two nodded, faces open and trusting, and she felt horrible for a moment. Of course they believed her, why wouldn’t they? As far as she knew, they didn’t ever lie to each other. This lie was necessary for the greater good, she reminded herself. And she would tell them the truth as soon as she could.

  “What is his name?” Charlotte asked.

  “Baker.”

  Eva nodded. “Mr. Baker, the detective. We shall make him feel entirely welcome. In fact, after the book club meeting, there is a play on Drury Lane that has just opened, and I thought perhaps some of the others might like to join us in attending. He would be welcome, of course, and while it would make for a late night, I think it sounds like such fun.”

  “Eva, you daring thing!” Charlotte smiled. “A late night out sounds rather spontaneous for one of your responsible nature.”

  Eva laughed. “Not so much, I fear. You’ll note I’ve chosen a night preceding a day off of work.”

  “Even so.” Charlotte grinned. “We are young but once, eh, ladies? I suspect our time for only ourselves will not last forever.”

  Her comment brought to Amelie’s mind thoughts of marriage and children and hearth and home. Mr. Radcliffe certainly fit nicely into that picture, but the thought itself was wistful. Someone as accomplished and polished as he was would never find someone like her interesting enough to warrant a second glance. Besides, if all went well for Miss Franklin tonight, such thoughts were irrelevant, and she did not begrudge the other woman.

  Conversation flowed happily with her friends, and in the moment, she was content. Life was lovely, she was working hard, earning her own money, and if she could keep her tiny acts of subterfuge from her aunt, all would be well. She smiled. Everything was as close to perfect as she could imagine.

  Dear Diary,

  I can hardly wait for the book society meeting! Of course, as the time draws closer, I shall likely be ill. My nerves twist and my stomach tumbles every time I am in the company of a gentleman I fancy, so my optimism will undoubtedly be short-lived. I wish I could ask Mr. Radcliffe outright if he enjoyed his dinner with Miss Franklin. As it stands, my only opportunity to speak with him will be when I introduce him to the detective.

  I cannot imagine what sort of woman would find herself interested in a detective—he possesses all the charm of a badger. Handsome will take a man only so far.

  The work hours passed quickly for Michael the following day, and before leaving for the evening, Winston bid him good luck with his ruse at the book club. Michael had informed Director Ellis of his plans, hopeful his superior would be supportive. He’d had the ironic thought that his situation wasn’t so different from Miss Hampton’s: they both were pursuing a course unbeknownst to their employers.

  Ellis hadn’t forbidden Michael’s activities, but neither had he sanctioned them. He pointedly mentioned that he was unconcerned with what Michael pursued in his free time, but could not lend official support to an investigation that had been firmly shut down by those in higher authority. He also warned that if Judge Adams were to discover CID detectives were again looking at Harold Radcliffe, Michael would be on his own.

  Michael retrieved the jacket and greatcoat he’d brought from home that morning. He replaced the sturdy, serviceable coat he wore for work with the finer ones he kept for special occasions. His aim to appear as a genteel patron of the arts and lover of fine literature must be convincing, employment as a CID operative notwithstanding.

  A few constables whistled at him as he passed, and he waved them off as he made his way out the door.

  Miss Hampton had sent the address to him earlier, and as he gave it to the cab driver, he wondered if there would be enough time to speak with Miss Hampton alone before they began their charade. He checked his timepiece, noting that would be unlikely.

  As the cab drew to a halt, Michael saw Miss Hampton standing in a small group assembled outside the modestly stylish gates of Dr. and Mrs. Forrester’s home. The young woman was flanked by two other young women, who eyed him with open interest as he approached.

  Miss Hampton looked decidedly flushed. Her eyes widened, and she said, “Oh, this is Stephen’s friend! Miss Evangeline Caldwell, Miss Charlotte Duvall, may I introduce Detective Baker. Detective, these are my cousins.”

  Michael was impressed. She’d managed the introduction naturally. He tipped his hat to the trio and smiled. “Indeed. And how fares Stephen, Miss Hampton?”

  “Oh, he is working hard with my brother-in-law in the shop back home. He is to remain with Deborah until he reaches his eighteenth birthday. I am certain when I am home for the holidays, they will all be so glad to know I chanced meeting you here in Town! Deborah will insist you join us again for tea and parlor games the next time you happen through Frockshire.”

  “Please inform your sister I would be delighted.” Michael mentally willed Miss Hampton to stop talking. The fewer falsehoods they told, the better. A complicated backstory was bound to cause trouble in the future.

  “Kind of your family to invite the constable to dinner, what with Stephen’s indiscretions with the law,” Miss Duvall offered as an aside to Miss Hampton. She raised one dubious brow in Michael’s direction.

  “I do not pretend to understand Deborah’s methods,” Miss Hampton laughed, perhaps too enthusiastically. “I believe she sought leniency for Stephen by providing entertainment for the constabulary.”

  Michael sighed inwardly. He had only himself to blame for drawing Miss Hampton into the ruse.

  “Shall we enter?” Miss Caldwell gestured toward the front door. “Mrs. Forrester procures sweets from the best bakeries in town. I fear if we linger, we are likely to miss out.”

  “Yes, come, come,” Miss Hampton said and moved forward, taking Michael’s arm. “We must introduce you to Dr. and Mrs. Forrester. They are familiar with ever so many people and will be the loveliest of contacts to make.” Miss Hampton urged him toward the house, the clutch of her fingers on his sleeve betraying her agitation.

  He wanted to reassure her that her part in the scheme was nearly finished and she could relax, but her cousins were directly behind them and within earshot. He settled for patting her fingers and giving them a little squeeze; he noted her quie
t exhalation.

  They trailed behind the other guests into the home’s spacious parlor, which was filled with furniture that looked to have been rearranged to accommodate a large group of people. Across the room was a long table bearing refreshments, and in the far corner, a lone violinist softly played Vivaldi’s Four Seasons.

  Miss Duvall caught their attention and said, “Eva and I shall procure refreshments and seating while you introduce Detective Baker to our hostess.”

  Miss Hampton nodded. “Good, yes.” As the two women left them, she continued in an undertone, “Yes, very good.”

  Michael squeezed her fingers again, and when she looked up at him, he murmured, “You’re doing fine. Try to relax, this will soon be done.”

  “I am relaxed, it is only . . .” She winced. “I feel horrible lying about all of this, and I am not entirely certain Mr. Rad—”

  Michael cut off her comment by subtly steering her toward the room’s other entrance and out into the hallway. There were a few people chatting, but no one paid them any heed. He pasted a pleasant smile on his face while leading her a few steps farther down the hall, past another doorway and just to the other side of a large, potted plant. Shielding her from potentially curious eyes, he kept his back to the front door and nudged her close against the wall.

  “Do not say his name, if you please,” he whispered. “Nobody can know he is the reason I am here, especially not the man himself. This entire charade will be for naught if it is over before it has even begun. This is police business; do you understand the gravity?”

  Her large hazel eyes locked with his. She took a deep breath and straightened her spine. If he had unnerved her by carting her into the shadows, it didn’t show. “What I was attempting to say, and quietly, might I add, was that I cannot believe that man is capable of anything that would interest the police. If I have led trouble to his door, I will never forgive myself.”