“I would much rather have been merry than wise.”
Jane Austen, Emma
“Quite honestly, Edgemont, it would be difficult to approve an invitation for any young woman of no fortune,” Lady Elston said as they stood in her garden amidst tall stalks of purple irises. She paused from snipping to brush wayward strands of glossy brown hair from her cheek, and issued a bleak sigh. “However, with the recent lack of credibility Miss Bourne’s uncle possesses in society, it might very well be impossible.”
Nicholas was tired of hearing these words. He’d nearly exhausted all of his resources, and even tried calling in a few outstanding wagers to procure a voucher for Briar. But the patronesses of Almack’s were sticklers for who made it on their list.
“Almack’s is a bloody dancing establishment.”
He couldn’t believe the trouble he was having, or the fact that he’d reached the point of asking a former lover for a favor. And they had not ended on the best of terms. Lady Elston—Elise as he used to know her—was his last hope because she had the ear of the Countess Lieven, whose approval would open countless doors for Briar.
“Just tell me what I have to do, or whom I have to bribe,” he continued, his tone razor-edged and willful. “From what I’ve heard, the place could use a bit of extra coin for the uneven floors and horrid refreshments.”
Elise stiffened, her gray gaze as cool and stormy as the clouds crowding overhead. “The venue has declined, that is true, but it is still very much revered among high society. They only admit the crème de la crème of gentlemen, and young ladies of good breeding. There is no other place where one can guarantee that one is dancing with an upstanding marriage prospect.”
He could think of one—the Bourne Matrimonial Agency. In fact, it seemed a far more agreeable option than enduring an evening of dreamy-eyed, desperate-to-marry debutantes. His opinion, however, would not grant him the invitation he required. And he’d already been to two of the other patronesses only to come away with a polite rejection.
“Does your refusal to speak with your friend, the countess, have something to do with our history?”
“Frankly, it is only because of my fond recollections that I permitted you this audience. That, and my utter curiosity,” she said, eying him shrewdly as she laid another cutting in her basket. “I have never known you to put yourself at the mercy of a woman’s decision. And yet here you are, at mine. So I have to wonder why you are going to such great lengths for Miss Bourne. Is it possible that this young woman has managed to capture your fancy?”
“I am not here on my own behalf. My aunt and cousin wished for me to make the arrangements,” he said briskly, wanting to put an end to any far-fetched notions Elise might have.
“I always did admire your love for family. We have that in common. I even thought for a time that trait would bring you to heel and cause you to propose to me. Though, I believe you knew that, and it was the reason our affair came to an end.”
He didn’t insult her by denying it. “I was fond of our time together.”
“And I was in love with you,” she said ruefully. “Yes, I know you made it clear from the beginning that you weren’t interested in marriage. Part of me always wondered if you harbored an undying love for your first wife . . .” She paused, waiting for him to give her something of an answer. But when he kept his expression well guarded, she clucked her tongue. “Oh, Nicholas, what am I to do with you? You still hold a tender place in my heart. And strangely enough, I want you to be happy.”
At last, he felt he was getting somewhere, and he gave her a grin, his tone warm and intimate. “You could remedy that straightaway with a voucher for my cousin’s friend.”
She laughed quietly and shook her head. “I was speaking of marriage. I want you to fall in love and have a family. Have you never considered it?”
His stomach rolled, memories leaving a bitter taste on the back of his tongue.
“Certainly. For my cousins,” he clarified, enunciating every syllable.
“You’re impossible.” She tsked again and resumed snipping stems. “I heard a rumor about you recently. I was with the countess having tea when someone said that the Bourne Matrimonial Agency had been challenged to find you a bride.”
“And just who mentioned this gossip—someone from that family?”
“Would I bother to tell you if I thought it was merely their ploy to gain more clients? You’re still so untrusting . . .”
It wasn’t until a cold, tense breath escaped his lungs in a rush that he realized how much the answer mattered. When he’d struck this bargain with Briar, he’d relied on her to keep it between them. That had been a leap of faith he normally did not take—trusting someone else not to use him for their own personal gain—but he’d taken the risk, with Daniel in the forefront of his mind.
Nicholas was relieved to know that he hadn’t been wrong. Still, he wondered who challenged Briar in the first place. It had to have been someone who knew him. Someone who wanted to turn his life into a circus. Unfortunately, he knew far too many people who might do that very thing. The men he gambled with were always plotting new wagers to win. It wouldn’t be the first time Nicholas was the object.
Elise waved the clippers in the air. “Oh, I cannot recall who it was at the moment. And of course, considering our history, I instantly dismissed the rumor as being false. Although, if it were true”—she paused, cunning gray eyes glinting as she scrutinized him—“then perhaps the countess would be interested in watching how the challenge unfolds. And Miss Bourne could very well become a sought-after guest at all the best parties.”
He gritted his teeth. If he confirmed the rumor or gave it any credence whatsoever, then his life would be thrown into chaos. It took only the smallest kernel of an idea to incite a riot from the ton’s most ruthless species—those rapacious husband-hunting mamas and their progeny. He wouldn’t be surprised if his own friends would open a book at White’s betting on the conclusion. Then again, perhaps they already had.
And yet, if he didn’t confirm it right here and now, he would disappoint Teense, his aunt, and possibly Daniel. But worst of all, Briar Bourne would never be received at Almack’s.
Damn it all, he thought, raking a hand through his hair. This bargain might very well kill him.
* * *
“Have any letters arrived for me, Uncle?” Briar breezed into his office and stood between the two large bronze urns, filled with peacock plumes, that flanked his desk.
Uncle Ernest grinned, his lapis-blue eyes glinting in the hazy morning light that sifted in through the slender window. The scribblings of his latest sonnet were on the page in front of him. “Are you expecting a love letter?”
“Contrary to what you might believe, there are other types of correspondences.” She laughed, but inside she felt a trifle crestfallen.
Nicholas had said he would acquire a voucher for her to attend Almack’s, and he’d sounded so certain, so resolute, that she hadn’t doubted him. But today was Monday, and she still hadn’t heard from him.
Regardless of her reservations, she truly had wanted to attend.
She’d even given herself leave to imagine dozens of possible scenarios involving how Wednesday would proceed. She’d planned to use her new skills at reading shoulders and feet to find matches for at least three different couples. Rumors would have spread—as they often did—and shortly thereafter she would have been named the premier matchmaker in all of London.
However, that hope seemed lost now.
“But are those more eagerly received than an outpouring of a heart’s desire? I think not.” As if to offer proof, he lifted an unsent letter from the tray on the corner of his desk, the red wax stamped with an overly embellished E, the final whorl adorned with an arrow tip.
Briar expelled a sigh that was both fond and accepting of her uncle’s nature. “And who is your latest love?”
“You should know, for you were with me in the park yesterday when our paths first crossed and Mrs. Townley’s parasol slipped out of her grasp. My poor heart still hasn’t recovered from the sight of those green eyes.”
At least for the next two days.
“Why have you never married, uncle?”
He tapped the folded corner of the letter against the surface of the desk. “I’m still searching for my muse—the one woman whose whisper can breathe life into my soul, again and again. For a short while I think I have found her. Then, sadly, it fades. Ah, perhaps I will never find my one and only, but the hunt is rather enjoyable.”
One and only? While the former appealed to the romantic in her, the latter caused her inner matchmaker a slight pang of anxiety.
She immediately thought of Nicholas. “But say, for instance, you had met her once, and something tragic happened to tear you apart. Do you think it possible to find another, and to be equally as happy, if not more?”
Before he could answer, Ainsley appeared at the door, her expression harried. “Uncle, if I may have your assistance.”
“Do we have a client, dear?”
“It’s the count,” Ainsley said, rolling her eyes to the plaster molding on the ceiling.
Briar followed them out into the corridor. “I’ll get a tray from the kitchens.”
“Mrs. Darden already has the tray.”
Briar bristled. Through the open door, she could see their beloved family cook, rushing to pour the tea, locks of grizzled hair escaping her ruffled cap. “Isn’t that what I’m here for?”
“Not now, Briar.” And then Ainsley turned her back and went into her office, closing the door partway.
The Comte de Bardot’s pinched voice began railing immediately, his words thickly accented. “I have paid for my, as you say, sup-screept-see-on for many months now, and yet I still have no wife!”
“Monsieur le Comte,” Ainsley said. “I have introduced you to every female client we have who matches your criteria, but you have found fault with each of them.”
“Mais oui, because you have only given me wallflowers when I would rather have a centerpiece on my arm.”
The conversation paused, no doubt while her sister was trying to maintain her composure. And it must have been difficult because Uncle Ernest chimed in when he usually avoided confrontation. “Of course, your application is at the top of our list. The very top, indeed. In fact, I saw it just this morning and you can rest assured that we will continue to . . .”
Mrs. Darden bustled out of the room, smoothing the plain-front apron over her rounded form, and then closed the door succinctly. “The count’s in a fine temper this morning.”
Briar fumed, annoyance pinching down her spine like overly tight corset lacings. She could very well have delivered the tea tray, and possibly found a way to calm the count’s temper. He was always at ease with her, if not a bit too familiar at times. “Now Ainsley is taking away my only occupation.”
“It’s only when he’s here,” Mrs. Darden said, drawing Briar down the corridor. “The way that count looks at you . . . why I’d like to take a rolling pin and knock him upside the head. Thankfully your uncle is there, or else I might’ve put one on the tray all the same.”
“What do I care that he has roving eyes?”
“Because a man with roving eyes often has roving hands, that’s why.” Mrs. Darden tutted fondly. “No need to fret over this. There’s too much love between you and your sisters to let squabbles get in the way. Especially not after all you’ve been through together, losing your mother the way you did, each of you so young.”
“And they—well, Ainsley more than Jacinda—treat me like I’m still that ten-year-old girl, as if time stopped for me.”
Mrs. Darden paused near the top of the stairs, glancing down at the runner. “It’s just that you look so much like your mother. I imagine it’s difficult not to think about her. Each of us remember how she slipped away and there was nothing we could do to stop it.”
Briar had surmised this long ago, but hearing it spoken aloud didn’t help matters. “Well, keeping me from experiencing life isn’t going to bring her back either.”
A rush of guilt clogged her throat the moment the words spilled out.
She missed her mother terribly, the pain of her loss even keener because no one liked to talk about her when Briar was in the room. Any reminiscence was cut short and usually accompanied pained glances, abrupt avoidances, and long awkward silences.
They didn’t speak of Father either, and most certainly never mentioned his other family—the one that had destroyed Mother when she’d learned of it. And Briar had often wondered about him and her half siblings, always having wanted to meet them. Yet, she didn’t even know how many other children he had. Every inquiry she made was forever redirected, as if it was an enormous secret and her family thought her too frail of heart to learn the whole truth.
“They only mean to protect you because they love you.”
In Briar’s opinion, there was no room for secrets or silence in love. Every topic should be open for discussion.
Mrs. Darden sniffed and gave Briar’s hand a pat. “If it helps to hear it, that tray was never meant for the count. It just so happens that I was on my way up to give it to you because we’ve another guest in the parlor. But then the count just barged in, all bluster and strife. So if you’re so eager to serve tea, there’s a polished tray waiting in the kitchen.” She gave her hand a final squeeze before bustling off, finishing her conversation over her shoulder. “I believe she said her name is Mrs. Teasdale. Peculiar woman, that one. Said she’d come here to do her knitting. Regardless, I’m needed upstairs to help Ginny with the linens.”
Briar went downstairs, a sense of futility driving her irritation. She was a grown woman, capable of handling herself. The problem was, no one believed her. This only made her all the more determined to prove that she could interview clients and make matches for them, too.
Below stairs in the kitchen, she poured fresh water into a white glazed pot, her ire still simmering as she went about putting together a tray.
While Mrs. Darden usually left them plain, with only the essential items—pot, cup and saucer, scone—Briar liked to add more. Even when she was angry, apparently, for she draped the silver tray with a square of blue gingham without thinking. Then with a huff, she artfully arranged a selection of scones and preserves.
After all, if she were coming to a matchmaking agency and nervous about taking such a monumental leap, would a sadly adorned tray put her at ease? And would it assure her that the agency planned to find her the best possible match?
No and definitely not. At the very least, the tea tray should tell their clients that the agency would go to the ends of the earth and back again because love had no limits.
She surveyed her handiwork and felt marginally better. Tapping her fingertip against her lip, she realized there was still something missing—more color. Spotting an orange-and-clove pomander on the windowsill, she placed it in a sweetmeat glass and tucked a few sprigs of rosemary around it.
She smiled, pleased with her efforts and no longer fuming as she made her way upstairs to their potential client.
In the yellow-wallpapered room, an older woman looked down at her knitting, the top of her head crowned with a twist of butterscotch brown hair, the severe part in the middle displaying a liberal stripe of gray strands.
“What lovely knitting,” Briar said as she set the tray on the low oval table. “I’m Miss Bourne and it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
The woman only glanced up from her knitting, the air punctuated by the harried click-clacking of needles. “You can call me Mrs. Teasdale. I decided to keep my third husband’s name. He was a better man than the fourth, to be sure.”
A startled laugh escaped Briar, believing it a joke. But when she realized the woman was serious, she cleared her throat and busied herself with pouring a cup of tea. “Are you looking to marry . . . um . . . again?”
“I’ve given it some thought, yes. I’ve never had luck with the number four, so I should like to make it five. Do you have any candidates for an old crone like me? Without any of that nonsense I read about in the newspaper, of course.”
Ah yes, Briar’s blunder was never too far away. She wondered if she would ever escape it. “Sugar?”
Mrs. Teasdale paid no attention to the request but continued knitting. “When a person gets to be my age, she wants a man with experience etched clearly on his face. Plenty of lines around the eyes and mouth to let me know he’s lived. A good-humored sort with a lust for life. And a lust for other things, too.” She looked up with a grin, a peach glow in her cheeks as she cast a wink to Briar. “Rakes have always been my downfall. One wicked laugh and my knees are clotted cream on a hot scone.”
“You married a rake?” Briar perked up at this, and suddenly found Mrs. Teasdale the most interesting person in the world. “How, precisely?”
“We fell in love, of course. There’s no other way to catch a rake.”
So there was no special secret? Briar was afraid of that.
“I managed to reform One—my first husband,” she continued with a smug waggle of her brow. “Made him think it was his own idea. Ah, but Three and Four were dreadful failures. Number two was highborn, a titled gentleman and all, but a bit of a temper. But as odds go, one out of four isn’t too bad. Though, I’d prefer two out of five.”
Apparently, marriage was a game of chance for Mrs. Teasdale. And perhaps she was right. Briar found herself instantly fond of the frank-speaking woman, and wanted to sit and listen to her for hours. Likely, she’d get an earful about all the things people didn’t speak about around debutantes. “If you’d like to continue knitting, I could take your application in here.”
“Before we do, let me ask . . .” She lowered her needles and squinted at Briar. “Have you ever had a client who filled out an application for her own son?”
“Mothers come in with their daughters all the time.” The all the time was stretching the truth like taffy since they didn’t have many clients of late. “After all, who would know how to achieve your son’s happiness better than you?”
At this, Mrs. Teasdale stopped her knitting and scrutinized Briar with a tilt of her head. “I like you, Miss Bourne, but you’re a bit young for my son. You’re not the eldest Miss Bourne, are you?”
“No. That would be my sister Ainsley,” Briar said absently. She didn’t want to bring her sister in on this just yet, if at all. “Is your son looking for a wife?”
“At two and thirty, I should think so.” Mrs. Teasdale scoffed and went back to her knitting.
Hmm . . . Briar always thought of Temperance whenever a new gentleman became a client. “And is he a particularly tall fellow, by chance?”
“Tall and handsome as a devil, like his father.” She beamed, then issued an impatient sigh. “I came here today because I have a need for grandchildren and he’s my only chance for them. At my fiftieth birthday last week, I decided that I was through waiting.”
Briar paused, uncertain if Mrs. Teasdale had all her faculties in order, or if she was a few pastries shy of a baker’s dozen. Though, with the current lack of new applicants, she supposed beggars could not be choosers. “Just so I have this correct, you would like a husband for yourself and a bride for your son.”
Two potential subscriptions for the agency! Briar could hear the accolades now . . .
“And grandchildren, don’t forget.”
Briar cleared her throat. “Well, the Bourne Matrimonial Agency cannot guarantee those.”
“Oh, my son will do fine on his own. Just needs a little nudge in the right direction.” For effect, Mrs. Teasdale poked the air with one long needle and snickered. “Do you think his bride would like a stocking cap, too?”
Briar looked down at the slender length of scarlet yarn, the bottom edge pooling on the floor. How that creation would become a stocking cap was a complete mystery.
“Without a doubt,” she said, rising from the chair. “I’m just going to pop out for a minute and I’ll be back to fill out your application.”
“I’m not going anywhere, dear.”
In the corridor, Briar closed her eyes, flung her arms wide, and breathed in a deep victorious breath. She was a matchmaker reborn like the phoenix rising from the ashes of disgrace.
Glancing down at her attire, she took careful note of everything she was wearing. Yellow muslin with a border of blue flowers at the hem, and a new blue ribbon in her hair. Since she’d worn the dress many times before without much luck, she knew it had to be the ribbon.
Her lucky blue ribbon, which would be perfect to wear with her ballgown. If she ever received a voucher from Almack’s.
Around the corner, she saw her uncle dabbing a handkerchief over his brow, his gaze toward the stairs where heavy-footed stomping and a string of angry French words gradually receded. Then the door slammed—the Comte de Bardot’s signature exit.
Uncle Ernest expelled a sigh, then caught a glimpse of her and smiled. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”
“Are yours aching from having to stare at the count’s abominable wig?”
“There is that,” he said, tucking his handkerchief into the pocket of his superfine blue coat as they walked together into his office. “Then there are so many other things that it would be impossible to list them all.”
“Uncle, by any chance, do you have additional paper in your desk, so that I might have a stack for applications?”
“Do we have a client waiting in our parlor?”
“We do,” Briar said, biting her lip. “But could you not mention it to Ainsley or Jacinda? I want to—no, I need to have this chance. Please, Uncle?”
“Very well.” He nodded, seldom able to resist pleas from any of his nieces. Briar may or may not have used this knowledge to her advantage a time or two.
She kissed his cheek. “You’re my absolute favorite uncle.”
Just then, Mrs. Darden came upstairs, holding a salver in one hand and a mending box in the other. The woman was a marvel at performing multiple tasks at once. Out of breath, she barely dipped into a curtsy before handing the salver off to Uncle Ernest, then disappeared around the corner.
“It seems there is a missive for you, m’ dear.”
Quickly turning it over, Briar looked at the seal and saw that it was from Nicholas.
Indeed, this was her lucky ribbon after all.