Читать книгу To Marry a Matchmaker - Michelle Styles - Страница 9

Her wager with Robert Montemorcy was child’s play, Henri reflected, slightly swinging the empty basket as she walked towards the circulating library several days after the wedding. All she had had to do was to become occupied with other things: visiting the various invalids in the parish with jars of calf’s-foot jelly that was made to her mother’s exacting receipt, making lists of things that needed to be accomplished before the ball, as well as events that would have to be held after the ball, deadheading the daffodils in the garden…She hadn’t even had to resort to the dreaded needlework.

Robert Montemorcy was entirely wrong about her. She did have other passions in her life. It was simply that matchmaking was the most interesting. It brought the chance of happiness to so many people.

‘Lady Thorndike, Lady Thorndike!’ Miss Armstrong gave a wave from outside the haberdasher’s. ‘Have you heard?’

Henri composed her features and carefully avoided stepping on a crack in the pavement. ‘Heard what?’

‘Robert Montemorcy is going to be married! We’d all considered him to be your property, so it must come as a great blow.’ Miss Armstrong adopted a falsely contrite face as the silk flowers inside the rim of her poke bonnet trembled with suppressed excitement. ‘I know I shouldn’t be spreading gossip but…I wanted to offer my condolences.’

Henri’s stomach plummeted and she tightened her grip on her basket. ‘Mr Montemorcy has never shown me any special favour, Miss Armstrong.’ Hortense Armstrong was notorious for getting gossip ever so slightly wrong. Robert Montemorcy wouldn’t do that without. without letting her know. Besides, he was far from being her property. They simply enjoyed pleasant conversations. ‘How did you come by this intelligence?’

‘Miss Nevin had it from her maid of all work who is best friends with the doctor’s cook who steps out with the footman at the New Lodge.’

Henri breathed easier. Servants. There would be some truth to the rumour, but it would have been twisted and contorted even before it reached Miss Armstrong. And Montemorcy’s admonition rang in her head. He wanted her to keep out of his private life. Was this the reason? An unknown visitor? An unknown visitor that did enjoy his special favour?

‘Speculation never did anyone any good,’ she choked out.

‘The entire household is in an uproar. The lady in question, a Miss Sophie Ravel, arrived from London with her stepmother yesterday. You never saw the boxes and trunks. Even a pagoda-shaped birdcage with a canary. Like a…well…a pagoda—you know, one of those Chinese, foreign things. Two carts from the station, or so I heard. Miss Ravel was supposed to be the Diamond of the Season, but she has forsaken all for love.’ Miss Armstrong gave a fluttering sigh and Henri found herself wanting to strangle her with a fierceness that was alarming.

‘Two carts do not a marriage make.’

A frown developed between Miss Armstrong’s brows. ‘I’ve never heard that saying before.’

‘Haven’t you?’ Henri smiled, and gave her basket a little swing. ‘I think it is a good one. It is one of my own.’

‘I imagine there will be a huge wedding. It will make the Croziers’ wedding look quite countrified and provincial.’

‘It is intriguing what servants hear…or don’t hear.’

Miss Armstrong’s face became positively unctuous, oozing with rumour and innuendo. ‘Of course, the new Mrs Montemorcy will be expected to take her part in leading society. You will not have it all your own way any more, Lady Thorndike. The new Mrs Montemorcy might even agree with me about the necessity of having garlands at Lady Winship’s ball.’

Henri gave Miss Armstrong a stern look. The conversation was fast becoming insupportable and beyond the bounds of propriety. She refused to think about any sort of wife that Montemorcy might take. She forced her breathing to be calm, even as a great hole opened up inside her. Robert Montemorcy couldn’t marry. It would change everything.

Miss Armstrong’s rosy cheeks became a slightly brighter hue. ‘That is to say, Lady Thorndike, I hope the rumours are wrong. I merely sought to inform you so that you could make a reasoned judgement and not faint at any gathering.’

‘Such considerations have never troubled me, Miss Armstrong. I never faint.’ Henri put a hand to her chest and adopted her ‘woman of sorrow’ expression. It had held her in good stead for ten years whenever the prickly subject of remarriage was brought up. ‘After all, a woman can only ask for one chance of happiness. And my dear sweet Edmund was gentle perfection. He never said a cross word or argued with me. He was quite simply irreplaceable.’

‘You have always struck me as someone who enjoyed a good argument, Lady Thorndike. I fear I was mistaken.’

‘Obviously.’ Maintaining all the poise she could muster, Henri swept away from the infuriating woman.

As she entered the coolness of the circulating library, Henri stood for a moment and allowed the scent of leatherbound books and dust to fill her nostrils. There was something wonderfully calming about a library. Visiting one always restored her mood. And right now she needed to piece together the various bits of news and discover the truth. Robert Montemorcy had an unmarried female visitor—that much was clear from Miss Armstrong’s testimony. But the precise nature and reason for the visit was shrouded in mystery. And she hated mysteries of this nature.

She hated the small spiral of jealousy that encircled her insides. Hated to think about him verbally sparring with this unknown woman. Would they wager as well? She clenched her fists and counted to ten.

Suddenly, down one of the aisles she spied a pair of broad shoulders encased in a form-fitting frock-coat: Robert Montemorcy. Who should have been at his desk in Newcastle, pontificating about the scientific method to his managers, or attending to his new guest, rather than causing innocent people’s pulse to race and lose all power in their legs. Henri turned on her heel and started to tiptoe down the next aisle. Blindly she picked up a book and pretended to be reading.

She struggled to breathe and wished her corset was a smidgeon looser. It hurt far more than she thought that Robert Montemorcy had not bothered to confide in her, and the reason for the wager was now transparent. He was going to marry this unknown, and did not want anyone else encouraged to take an interest. But why the subterfuge—why hadn’t he just told her? It was not as if she held any claim on him. She had thought they were friends. She could keep a secret and she wouldn’t have interfered…beyond introducing the woman to society. She knew what it was like to be new and friendless.

‘Lady Thorndike? Is something wrong?’ Robert Montemorcy asked with a concerned note in his voice. ‘You failed to acknowledge my wave. It is most unlike you. Preoccupied, yes, but never rude.’

‘Go away. I’m reading.’ Henri buried her nose deeper in the book and tried to ignore the way he towered over her. She wasn’t attracted to him in the way Miss Armstrong suggested. Attraction was a gentle comfortable thing such as she had felt for Edmund. Robert Montemorcy always made her feel unsettled and determined.

‘You will find it more edifying if you attempt to read right-side up, Lady Thorndike.’ Strong fingers took the book from her unresisting ones. ‘Allow me to assist.’

Henri’s cheeks burnt and fury swamped her senses. How many people had thought him…her property? And was he truly going to marry this Diamond of the Season? A girl in her teens would be wrong for him. There was no way on God’s green earth she could actually ask him. She had to banish all thoughts of such a thing or else…it would come out at precisely the wrong time. She squared her shoulders, forcing her mind away from Mr Montemorcy’s matrimonial prospects.

‘I wanted to look a point of information up,’ she said quickly before she blurted out her real intention of regaining her composure after The Shocking News.

‘Lady Thorndike, since when did you need to know about The Good Husbandry of Cattle on the Yorkshire Moors? Are you truly a secret bluestocking? Or is this in aid of some match that you intend to facilitate at some later date?’

‘That is not what the book is about,’ Henri said, putting a hand on her hip, trying to ignore the way his sandalwood scent enveloped her. ‘You are merely seeking to discomfort me.’

He held out the spine. Henri read the title with a sinking heart. Of all the books she could have randomly chosen, it would have to be one that she had not the slightest interest in. She hurriedly replaced the book on the shelf. ‘It simply proves why I couldn’t find what I was looking for.’

‘And here I thought you were trying to avoid me.’ The richness of his voice rolled over her in delicious waves.

‘Why would I want to do that?’

He gave a maddening shrug of his shoulders, emphasising their breadth. Henri forced her gaze upwards to his sardonic face. ‘You know better than I. A guilty conscience? How are your attempts at keeping the wager going? Finding it difficult to stop playing Cupid? I hear the curate took the vicar’s youngest daughter for a stroll after church last Sunday. Did you have a part in that?’

‘I’ve kept to the letter of our agreement, which is more than I can say for you.’ Henri gave him a stern look. How dare he insinuate that she was attempting to hide something! She had played the hand strictly according to Hoyle, not deviating at all, not even when Doctor Lumley had asked about the vicar’s eldest daughter and whether she could sew a fine seam. He, on the other hand, had cheated. Manipulated her for mysterious reasons of his own and, what was worse, she had fallen for it. ‘You attempted to deceive me. You procured our wager on an entirely false premise. It is only because I never go back on a promise that I’m even contemplating keeping it.’

He stilled and his cheeks flushed the slightest tinge of pink. ‘What gossip have you heard, Lady Thorndike?’

‘I’ve heard all about Miss Ravel’s arrival. The village buzzes with the news.’ And the impending nuptials, she thought with a pang. But she wasn’t about to stoop that low and mention them! Robert Montemorcy had to reveal the news and then she’d make some withering retort, the perfect sort of response for when one with whom one’s name has been inadvertently linked becomes engaged to another. Henri touched her little brooch that Edmund had given her for luck.

‘News travels fast. Miss Ravel and her stepmother only arrived last night. I am attempting to choose some reading material for Miss Ravel as she has a preference for popular fiction, rather than the scientific tomes that populate my library. Do you think Ivanhoe will strike the right tone? Or would she prefer the latest Fenimore Cooper?’

He was searching the stacks for reading material for the unknown Miss Ravel. Henri hated how the knowledge hurt. ‘If she likes such books, the young woman in question will have probably read Ivanhoe. And I believe Mr Crozier has the latest James Fenimore Cooper out. He might not be going to America, but he has developed a taste for adventure.’

‘You are quite right. I will have to find another selection.’ He stood there, looking at her, waiting.

‘Why didn’t you tell me that someone from London was arriving? With two carts full of trunks and bags. And a birdcage, general rumour has it.’ Henri tapped her boot against the wooden floor as the words rushed out of her.

He gave her a level look with his dark brown eyes. ‘Was it any of your business, Lady Thorndike? You would have given me a long list of things that needed to be done, people that she needed to meet and committees she needed to be on without ever having encountered Miss Ravel.’

Henri ground her teeth. Being new in a village like Corbridge was difficult. When she’d arrived, she had longed for someone to take her under their wing and provide some guidance. No one, not even her aunt, had, and she’d resolved never to allow that fate to happen to anyone else. She had organised the Corbridge Society for Hospitality, making Miss Armstrong her deputy, in part because of Miss Armstrong’s ability to learn of new arrivals first, but also to keep Miss Armstrong fully occupied. ‘Was Miss Ravel one of the reasons why you enticed me into this ridiculous wager?’

He was silent for a long heartbeat. Anger coursed through Henri. He was playing games with her. Nobody did such a thing. And it hurt all the worse that it was someone she liked and respected. She had thought he understood that she only wanted the best for people, and the fact he so offensively misunderstood her motives was deeply upsetting.

‘I won’t lie,’ he said gravely. ‘Miss Ravel’s situation did have some bearing on my request.’

‘Mr Montemorcy, you have treated me with contempt,’ Henri ground out. Her insides ached. Robert Montemorcy hadn’t trusted her enough to confide that his guests were expected up from London. He thought her so callous that she’d spread gossip or worse. And even now he kept the true reason for Miss Ravel being here hidden from her. ‘I deserved better than that.’

‘I had my reasons.’

‘And they are.?’ Henri asked in a low tone. ‘Is there anything I should know? I have no wish to make any more mistakes.’

‘That is Miss Ravel’s business and not mine to tell.’ A muscle jumped in his jaw and his face appeared more remote than ever. ‘I will not have her become the subject of common gossip. I made her late father a promise and I intend to keep it.’

Henri took a step backwards and felt the books dig into her back. Her throat became dry. He had given Miss Ravel’s father a deathbed promise. She’d rather thought her life was going to go on an even keel, but suddenly it was all change. She’d mistaken everything. Her blood fizzled. ‘And you don’t trust me with the truth. What are you afraid of, Montemorcy? What did you think I’d do? Shout the news from the top of the church steeple that you were about to be betrothed?’

‘Miss Ravel is the daughter of an old and dear friend, Lady Thorndike, and my ward.’ Robert attempted to contain his anger. How dare she stand there wearing a fierce expression and the ribbons of her bonnet trembling! His private life was private. And he certainly was not serving it up for her delectation, fetching bonnet or not. If he ever became betrothed, he certainly would not be informing Henrietta Thorndike first. Asking for her advice? The thought was unconscionable. ‘Please choose your words with care.’

Her blue eyes opened wide. ‘You have a ward? Why have you never divulged this information to me?’

‘There are many things you do not know about me, madam.’ Robert looked her up and down slowly, taking in the way her purple-and-white-checked day dress hugged her curves and then flared out into a full skirt. ‘We are neighbours, rather than intimate companions.’

Two bright spots appeared on her cheeks. ‘Having a ward is hardly a state secret.’

‘My business, no one else’s.’

‘But pertinent to our wager. The fact remains—you manoeuvred me into that wager so that you could protect your ward from what you considered to be my unwarranted inference! I have never interfered when I was unwanted, sir! A simple request would have sufficed!’

Various other library patrons turned around and Robert winced. The gossip that he’d quarrelled with Lady Thorndike would be around the village in a matter of minutes. And it would only add to the speculation about his visitors and their reason for abandoning London. He should turn on his heel and walk away, but he quickly rejected the notion. If the village would talk, he’d give them something infinitely more interesting to digest than the suspiciously sudden arrival of his ward.

He placed a hand on either side of her, trapping her against the bookcase. ‘I gave you the main reason at the wedding breakfast, madam. You are entirely too involved in your matchmaking schemes. You think of nothing beyond the next match. You dominate village social life with your musicales, picnics and dancing classes, which are all designed for one purpose: to facilitate matrimony, whether the parties involved are truly interested or not. Are you attempting to back out of our wager? You were so certain of victory. Do you wish to admit defeat?’

‘No, sir, I’m not ready. I am no faint heart.’

Rather than seeking to escape, she held her head high and her being radiated hurt dignity. A vague sense of admiration filled him. He leant forwards so his breath would brush her cheek. ‘I’m glad to hear it.’

‘You are behaving improperly, sir,’ she said as her breath came faster. ‘In a public place!’

‘Am I? How intriguing.’ He fastened his gaze on her full red lips. ‘Precisely what am I doing wrong, Lady Thorndike? Do tell. I wish to remedy my bad behaviour.’

The air between them crackled.

‘I hope your dancing shoes are polished and ready,’ she said with a husky note in her voice. ‘I expect a polka worthy of the name after your underhanded behaviour.’

‘My dancing shoes are in my wardrobe where they will remain. You will be unable to resist temptation, Lady Thorndike. We both know it. Admit defeat now and have done with it.’ He leant forwards so that their foreheads nearly touched. Her lips were softly parted and he could see the pulse beating in the hollow of her throat. Silently he willed her to lean forwards and complete the tableau. ‘Miss Ravel’s visit is sudden. Her story is not mine to tell. But I promise you, if you attempt to ensnare my ward in any of your matchmaking schemes, you will regret it.’

Henri lifted his arm away from the bookcase as her eyes blazed defiantly. ‘I have done nothing to facilitate or suggest any such match. Nor do I intend doing so in the near future,’ she said in a furious undertone. ‘You should have confided in me, instead of attempting this flim-flam nonsense of a wager to curb my behaviour. My behaviour, sir, has been exemplary in the extreme.’

Robert counted to ten and breathed deeply as the whispers grew in the library. The gossip would now centre on Lady Thorndike rather than on his ward. But he had not one twinge of regret. His ward’s already fragile reputation needed protecting, which wouldn’t happen if Lady Thorndike could not resist meddling. And the only way he could think of to ensure that had been the—deliberately provocative, he’d happily admit it—wager. ‘You have several weeks to go. Temptation will get the better of you, Lady Thorndike. It always does.’

Henrietta Thorndike opened and closed her mouth several times, before twitching her skirts away from him. ‘Good day, Mr Montemorcy. I believe we have entirely fallen out of civility with each other.’

‘Were we ever in civility?’ he murmured, his hand skimming her arm. ‘Pray tell me when.’

‘I have certainly tried to be polite, but I now see politeness is beyond you,’ she snapped.

‘Lady Thorndike, people are starting to stare. You are in danger of becoming remarked on.’

‘Let them. This is a war of your making. I am through with being polite. Ponder on that.’ She marched away, her purple-and-white gown swinging to reveal her shapely ankles.

Robert slammed his fists together as red hot blood rushed through his veins. Was there ever such an obstinate woman as Henrietta Thorndike?

Henri pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose and took a deep breath, attempting to calm down after her run-in with Montemorcy. She hadn’t been this angry in a long time. Serenity and a happy outlook on life were what she strove for, but really what she wanted was to run Robert Montemorcy through with a skewer. He’d tricked her into this idiotic and offensive wager. And now there was the problem of how his ward might fit into the delicate fabric of Corbridge social life.

She took a deep breath and twitched the folds of her dress so that they hung straighter.

When she was done, he’d be the one who was discomforted. He would be dancing the polka and she would hold picnics at the Roman camp. ‘I promise,’ she whispered. ‘I will do it.’

* * *

Aunt Frances’s house with its gable roof and white-shuttered windows was as solid and welcoming as it had been when she arrived sixteen months ago, seeking to begin her life again. She forced air into her lungs. Robert Montemorcy had simply unnerved her. She hated quarrelling with anyone. Least of all a man she’d previously held in such high…regard.

‘You’ve returned to home fires, sweetest of all the cousins in the entire world. Come share some cucumber sandwiches with me. We’ve much to discuss.’

Henri froze, her hand on the ribbons of her straw bonnet. The use of the phrase—sweetest of all the cousins—meant her cousin, Sebastian English, the fourth Viscount Cawburn, had returned to his birthplace and wanted something from her, something that would entail a great deal of trouble on her part with little thanks for her efforts on his. It was the very last thing she needed today, particularly not after her contretemps with Robert Montemorcy. All she wanted was a quiet turn about the garden to see if the roses had started to bloom, and a chance to calm her still-racing heart.

Was that too much to ask?

‘The answer is no, Sebastian.’ Henri’s gaze focused on Sebastian’s attire. His neckcloth was twisted as if he had struggled to tie it properly on the first try. Her heart sank. Further confirmation, if she needed it, that her life had taken a turn for the worse. She knew the signs. ‘Definitely not.’

‘You do not even know what I was going to ask!’

‘It’s something to do with a woman,’ she said, setting her bonnet down on the entrance table and controlling her temper by taking her gloves off one by one. Sebastian’s last adventure resulted in a furious former mistress, a cuckolded husband and a trio of pug puppies laying waste to the drawing room while Sebastian conveniently departed on a ship bound for Venice in the arms of another female. ‘That much is perfectly clear.’

Sebastian’s jaw dropped. ‘How did you know?’

‘Every time your stock and neckcloth are twisted in that particular fashion, a woman is involved. And if that is the case, you will be endeavouring to find a way out of the tangle you have created.’

‘Nothing is wrong with my stock, is there?’ Sebastian crashed his cup down and went to the mirror over the fireplace. He frowned and, with expert fingers, readjusted the stock. ‘Henrietta, I’m worried that you’ve suddenly developed a suspicious mind. What is wrong with proclaiming your sweetness?’

‘When you are in a normal frame of mind, you use Henri, and may I remind you that I’m your only cousin.’

‘That makes you the sweetest one.’ Sebastian wandered over to the plate of sandwiches, picked up one and resettled himself on the sofa. Before he bit into the cucumber sandwich, he gave one of his heart-melting smiles, the sort that had the débutantes and their mothers sighing in droves. ‘It stands to reason.’

Henri motioned for the footman to remove the pile of cucumber sandwiches some distance away from Sebastian. ‘You won’t get around me that easily. And if you keep eating sandwiches at that rate, you will need a corset to fit into your frock-coats.’

‘Gaining weight has never been one of my vices. You are far too young to become censorious.’ He counted on his fingers. ‘You’re only twenty-nine. And do not look a day older than twenty-eight.’

‘Twenty-seven next birthday,’ Henri replied through gritted teeth. ‘And not censorious, merely following my husband’s deathbed advice. You’re always trouble when you’re besotted.’

Sebastian swirled the remains of his tea in his cup. ‘I try hard to be good, but things happen. Edmund would’ve understood. Why can’t you be understanding and considerate like he was?’

Henri pasted a smile on her face. ‘We’re speaking about your new love, not my late husband. She will be gone from your brain within a month.’

Sebastian adopted his injured-angel look. ‘This time it is different, Henri. This time it is for ever. But how can I prove this to you, if you refuse to help?’

‘Who is she? And, more importantly, does her husband shoot straight?’

‘Miss Sophie Ravel is highly respectable. I resent the insinuation.’ He leant forwards and his eyes were alight with an eagerness she had not seen since…since before Edmund’s death. ‘You’ll love her, Henri. She is my other half. I swear it.’