The Matchmaker's Lonely Heart

by Nancy Campbell Allen

  “You ought to leave that to me.”

  “I cannot simply absolve myself of responsibility!” Her eyes sparked outrage, but to her credit, the whisper was not overly loud.

  He felt his eye twitch, and his nostrils flared. “Miss Hampton. Our absence will soon be noted. If Mr. Ra—if the gentleman is innocent, I shall drop the matter and he will never be the wiser. If you persist on spying as he dines with other women, however, I cannot guarantee his ignorance of your behavior, nor your continued employment.”

  “Oh!” Her brows drew together in a fierce frown as she leaned closer, her shoulder brushing against his coat. “You would tattle on me to my aunt?”

  “No, my young friend,” he said, his temper spiking. He also leaned closer. “You are as stealthy and secretive as a stampeding bull, and you will give yourself away sooner rather than later.”

  She closed her mouth but fumed. He suddenly realized how closely they stood together when he caught the scent of her perfume, which was quite lovely. Her shoulder pressed warmly against his arm, and he was momentarily distracted. They’d moved from polite distance to extremely close proximity in a matter of minutes. Her brow wrinkled, and her full lips tightened as she gave him what must surely seem to her a very fierce expression.

  “Tell me what he’s done,” she murmured.

  “I have told you that I am not at liberty to say,” he whispered back. “Now, we must return before your cousins come looking.” He straightened slowly and released a deep breath. He grabbed her hand, clamped it to his arm, and moved her out of the shadows.

  “ . . . wouldn’t come looking if someone hadn’t decided to shove me from the room . . .” she muttered.

  He pursed his lips but refrained from comment. Fortune smiled upon them because the hallway was empty. Conversation still flowed from the parlor. He paused at the door and glanced down at her. “You must trust me.”

  She sighed and lifted her eyes to his. “Have you a wife, Mr. Baker?”

  “Certainly not.” He scanned the room for a glimpse of Mr. Radcliffe. He had not yet arrived, and Michael felt a stab of frustration. Perhaps the man wouldn’t show, and the entire evening would be for nothing.

  Miss Hampton muttered something else, and he frowned. “Pardon?”

  “I said”—she spoke quietly through a forced smile—“perhaps you ought to consider a matchmaking service. I could help you place an ad in The Marriage Gazette. I am not surprised you’ve been unable to secure suitable companionship through your own devices.”

  He gave her his full attention, torn between offense and amusement. “Perhaps I am widowed.”

  Her mouth dropped open, and her eyes softened. “Oh, mercy. I am so sorr—”

  “I said ‘perhaps.’”

  She locked eyes with him for a long moment before narrowing hers slightly and lifting her chin. “I do not know that even a professional service could help you.”

  His lips twitched at her quick response. “I do not know that I would trust a professional service with such a personal task. Especially now that I am aware some Gazette employees spy on people who write to the paper.” Why was he baiting her? He couldn’t remember the last time he’d allowed anyone to distract him while he was working a case.

  She straightened her shoulders and looked into the room. “A pity you do not actually know my brother. I’ve a feeling you’d get on splendidly.”

  “Should your sister find herself in need of an amiable lawman to set an example for him, you’ve one to recommend.”

  Miss Hampton made a dismissive sound and tugged on his arm. As they reentered the parlor, a woman he assumed must be Mrs. Forrester bore down upon them.

  “Miss Hampton! Your friends told me you’ve brought a companion this evening.” She smiled widely, and Michael wondered if she’d have waggled her eyebrows if he hadn’t been paying attention.

  Miss Hampton, for her part, brightened as though she’d never been cross with him, and made perfect introductions. She had relaxed markedly; her irritation with him seemed to have eclipsed her earlier worry. The nervous chatter that had overtaken her introduction to her cousins was gone.

  “A delight to make your acquaintance, Detective Baker, and I do hope you’ll be a permanent part of our cheery little society.” Mrs. Forrester clasped his hand.

  “Mr. Baker is much too modest to ever admit it, but he writes beautiful poetry.” Miss Hampton smiled at him. “He also plays the harp like an angel. Has been known to bring grown men to tears.”

  He returned her smile, recognizing the challenge.

  Mrs. Forrester gasped in delight. “Perhaps you might—”

  He held up a hand and tipped his head, giving Mrs. Forrester what his mother had always maintained was a charming smile. Of course, she’d been his mother and was thus obliged to make such observations.

  “Ah, but our Miss Hampton exaggerates. My skills were diminished significantly in a mill accident. I have just recently regained partial use of my left hand.” He flexed his fingers and allowed a small wince to flicker across his face. “I fear the only man now who cries when I play my beloved harp is I.”

  Mrs. Forrester looked near tears herself, and Miss Hampton eyed him sidelong with something that might have been reluctant respect.

  “Thoughtless of me,” she said. “How could I have forgotten the mill accident?” She took his arm again. “We were concerned for your mental faculties as well, what with the head injury,” she continued as she moved him away. “I confess, I found it difficult to discern between your behavior before and after the accident. Perhaps the lingering oddities are not new.”

  He chuckled quietly, charmed. Her hand threaded through his arm and rested comfortably there. He covered her fingers with his, noting the smooth skin beneath his fingertips. With concerted effort, he resisted rubbing his thumb across her knuckles.

  She led him around to a few people and gestured to Miss Duvall and Miss Caldwell, who sat in conversation with two older women who were identical in appearance and dressed in extravagant gowns that might indicate a desire to attend more auspicious events.

  “A mill accident?” Miss Hampton murmured to him.

  “A harp?”

  “What would you have been doing at a mill? A carriage accident would have made more sense.” She frowned as she looked around the room. “I believe some of our book club members might be absent this evening.”

  “Perhaps my family owns a mill.” He followed her to the sofa where Miss Duvall and Miss Caldwell sat, each holding two small plates of refreshments.

  “Does your family own a mill?” She looked over her shoulder at him, a brow raised.

  He bit back a smile. “No.”

  Her eyes were expressive, and there was a lightness in them he hadn’t seen in anyone in a long time. Of course, he could barely remember the last time a woman had flirted with him, and he doubted this one intended it as such. She was unguarded and possessed a subtle but quick sense of humor he appreciated. The tight band of stress that usually encircled his head eased.

  Miss Hampton took the empty spot on the sofa next to Miss Duvall and gestured to the nearby chair. “Detective Baker, will you join us?”

  “Thank you, Miss Hampton, I would be delighted.”

  She took one of the extra plates of treats from Miss Duvall and handed it to him, then accepted Miss Caldwell’s extra plate for herself. He noted with some amusement that Miss Duvall had added an extra cookie and small sandwich to his plate. The offerings were so small he figured he could eat the whole refreshment table, and as he glanced at the other gentlemen in the room, noting their full plates, he knew he wasn’t alone. He had never developed a taste for delicate food. He was happiest with a hearty bowl of stew and a large chunk of bread.

  Miss Hampton made introductions to the two older women seated nearby, and the Misses Van Horne regarded him with open int
erest. They were dressed as though expecting a visit with the queen, complete with fur stoles and large jewelry that, if not paste, indicated an immense amount of wealth. The sister on the left eyed him and commented that the Cheery Society Book Group was improving by the week; the other nudged her and quietly said something about occasionally leaving treats for others.

  He choked on a crumb, and the three young cousins on the sofa passed along—hand to hand—one of several teacups placed on a side table. He gratefully took a sip and nodded his thanks.

  Miss Hampton suddenly straightened in her seat, her cheeks flushing as she looked over his shoulder, and he knew without turning around that Harold Radcliffe had finally arrived.

  A gentleman may assure himself of accelerated success in wooing an impressionable woman if he includes poetry in his retinue of persuasive tactics.

  —The Gentleman’s Guide to Efficient and

  Profitable Courtship by Sir Percival Prancey

  Amelie didn’t know which flustered her more, the unsettling detective sitting beside her or the arrival of Mr. Radcliffe. She tried to control the blush she felt stealing across her face and looked down at her plate. Her appetite had fled, and she wondered if she might become ill. That would definitely leave a lasting impression on Mr. Radcliffe.

  She glanced at the detective and noted he had also seen Radcliffe’s arrival. Detective Baker had tensed, and the attention he’d focused on her pivoted to the newcomer. Oddly, she couldn’t decide if she felt disappointment or relief.

  Mrs. Forrester greeted Mr. Radcliffe with smiles and Continental-style kisses on either side of the cheeks, and Amelie suppressed a sigh. The words of the poem Mr. Radcliffe had written and recited at the last book club meeting flitted through her mind.

  A single tear drips from my eye,

  when thy perfect cheek I spy;

  Words, like gems, from thy blissful lips,

  Fall soft as kisses on fingertips.

  With an engaging smile, Mr. Radcliffe accepted a plate of tea cakes from Miss Trunsteel, a tall, beautiful, single young woman whom Amelie had liked well enough at the last book club gathering but in whom she now found several flaws. Mr. Radcliffe followed Miss Trunsteel to a settee just opposite Amelie.

  Dr. Forrester dinged a small knife against his glass and smiled as attention turned to him. “I know we are all delighted to chat together, but we must be about the business of discussing the book lest we be accused of functioning as little more than a social club!”

  Everyone laughed, and Dr. Forrester gestured to his wife, who began a summary of Romeo and Juliet. Amelie tried to relax, but her hands clutching the small plate on her knees trembled.

  Charlotte leaned close and whispered, “Is something amiss?”

  Amelie glanced at her with a half-smile. “Tired, I suppose.”

  Charlotte took the plate from her and passed it to Evangeline. She shifted her eyes to indicate Mr. Radcliffe and whispered, “He is probably simply searching for the best possible match. Do not worry about him.”

  Amelie wished the only reason she was thinking about Mr. Radcliffe was because she wondered if the man made a habit of soliciting dates. No, she was thinking she had led an overly suspicious and imposing detective to the doorstep of a perfectly lovely, tenderhearted gentleman.

  As the evening continued, Amelie’s attention was split between Mr. Radcliffe, who was very attentive to the group’s conversation, and Detective Baker, who watched Mr. Radcliffe closely without seeming to. She knew what he was about because it was a technique she’d perfected herself. Look at him, look away, look back at him, look away.

  She realized Mr. Radcliffe was commenting on a question Mrs. Forrester had asked, and Amelie blinked, focusing.

  “ . . . quite possibly the most romantic love story in the history of written literature, I should say,” Mr. Radcliffe was saying. “Tragic, heart-wrenching, exquisite.”

  “I quite agree,” Miss Trunsteel said with a nod. “No other love story could ever equal it.”

  Amelie scowled but immediately smoothed her brow. Though she admired Mr. Radcliffe, she disagreed with his opinion. Her personal romantic favorite was Jane Eyre, though she could never admit it in mixed company; it was far too radical. Miss Austen’s Sense and Sensibility was another fine choice, but she wasn’t about to contradict Mr. Radcliffe by mentioning Miss Austen, either, although she dearly wanted to contradict Miss Trunsteel.

  Mrs. Forrester guided the discussion forward and smiled at the detective. “Mr. Baker, our newcomer! Perhaps you’ll share an opinion on the merits of Romeo and Juliet?”

  Amelie looked at the detective cautiously. Had he ever even read the play?

  Detective Baker straightened in his seat and took a breath, looking contemplative. Amelie was about to come to his rescue when he finally spoke. “I believe Romeo and Juliet were ridiculous.”

  His statement drew a round of laughter and a smattering of applause from most of the men present as well as the elder Miss Van Horne. Charlotte eyed the detective with something akin to approval, and Evangeline’s eyes sparkled as she smiled.

  Amelie was stunned the detective’s opinions matched her own. She glanced at Mr. Radcliffe, who was studying Baker with a light frown. Amelie wondered if Mr. Radcliffe recognized the detective from their prior association.

  “Truthfully,” the detective continued, “in terms of romantic satisfaction, I prefer The Count of Monte Cristo.”

  Radcliffe laughed. “Mercedes is faithless. It is not romantic at all.”

  Detective Baker lifted the corner of his mouth in a smile. “Mercedes was tricked, not faithless. But I speak of the ending. Edmond Dantès does well enough for himself.”

  Radcliffe nodded. “One could certainly do worse than travel the world with unlimited money and in the company of a beautiful young woman.”

  She looked at the detective, her sense of disquiet buzzing in her ear like an annoying insect invisible to the eye. Her attention continually turned toward him. She’d earlier felt—and squashed—a thrill when he’d covered her hand with his, completely enveloping her fingers in delicious warmth. Her heart tripped again at the memory, and she curled her fingers into her palm.

  He wasn’t at all the sort of gentleman she fancied for herself. He wasn’t . . . smooth. He looked fine enough, was even handsome in a grumpy sort of way, but he was a restless panther to Mr. Radcliffe’s sleek, sophisticated house cat. That Amelie had freed the panther from the zoo and brought him to the house cat had tied her stomach in knots.

  The discussion of Romeo and Juliet continued, but Amelie had difficulty following it. She’d developed a sudden desire to reread The Count of Monte Cristo. Before long, the time drew to a close, and Dr. Forrester reminded them that their selection for next month was Thomas Hardy’s Return of the Native. As people stood and began working their way to the door, Mr. Radcliffe approached the detective and offered his hand.

  “I thought you looked familiar!” he said.

  “Mr. Radcliffe, of course!” Detective Baker said. “What a small world we find ourselves in. When my young friend, Miss Hampton, invited me to attend this evening, I’d no idea I would so much as recognize another book club member.”

  Amelie made a note to tell the detective later that he could always pursue a career as an actor if he decided he no longer cared for law enforcement. She made an additional mental note to insist he tell her some stories from his incognito personae. He’d clearly done it before.

  He paused, his brow wrinkling, and lowered his voice. “I do hope my presence here will not keep you from attending in the future. My face is undoubtedly the last one you’d ever wish to see.” The detective looked genuinely concerned, and Amelie was impressed. “In fact, I shall find another society to join. I would never dream of driving you away.”

  Mr. Radcliffe chuckled. “Nor would I dream of driving you away! Please,
do attend again, detective. I certainly bear you no ill will. In fact, I am endeavoring to move forward with my life, as I know my late wife would have wished it. Marie cared for nothing but my happiness, and perhaps the sight of you every so often will serve as a lovely, if bittersweet, reminder of her love for me.” He didn’t bother lowering his voice; he made no apologies for his association with the detective, nor his intentions to court again despite his great love for his late wife.

  Amelie told herself that her role in the whole deception was now at an end, but she was curious about how the detective would proceed with his investigation. Would he require further assistance from her? Supposing Mr. Radcliffe asked the detective a personal question that he wouldn’t be able to answer?

  She had forgotten Eva’s suggestion from the day before that they attend a play. Hearing her cousin mention it pulled her out of her fog, and she noted—with a decided thump of the heart—that Mr. Radcliffe was amenable to the idea.

  Regrettably, Miss Trunsteel also was amenable. She smiled at Mr. Radcliffe, and Amelie wondered at her own pettiness. She had no claim on Mr. Radcliffe’s attentions, let alone his affections—she had never even been formally introduced to the man. Miss Trunsteel turned her attention and equally warm smile to the detective, and Amelie found herself doubly irritated. The detective had work to do, and did not need distractions.

  Eva turned to the group, eyes alight, and said, “The Misses Van Horne would like to accompany us!”

  Everyone stared, and before the moment could become awkward, Mr. Radcliffe said, “Of course! Ladies, how lovely to enjoy your company even longer this evening. I am certain that the mothers of our dear young women here would be relieved to know their daughters are being responsibly chaperoned.”

  Amelie felt a moment’s sting, firstly because she was a Woman of Independent Means, and secondly, because there was a condescension in Mr. Radcliffe’s tone that made her feel young and foolish. She was twenty-one years of age, after all, and eminently suited for both courtship and marriage. Two of her friends in Frockshire were married and had borne babies already.