A Matchmaking Miss (2 page)

Raj watched him, his blue eyes thoughtful. "Are you quite certain all is well with the estate?" he asked, studying the toes of his new Hessians. "Perhaps your Mr. Stone has a reason for requesting your company so earnestly."

"I've already thought of that," Joss said, turning and pacing the room. As always, the thought of returning to Kirkswood had a disquieting effect upon him, and he found himself unable to remain still. "After receiving the first letter I went to my solicitor, and he assures me everything is fine. He agrees with me that this Stone is naught but a hysterical old fool, and he suggests I replace him."

"Mmm."

The noncommittal response stopped Joss's pacing, and he turned to find Raj frowning into space. "And what is that supposed to mean?" he demanded suspiciously.

Raj gave an indifferent shrug. "Nothing."

Joss thrust a hand through his thick red hair. "Don't act the enigmatic
fakir
with me, Rajana," he said, with an impatient sigh. "If
something is troubling you, then for God's sake say so."

Raj raised his head, his blue eyes sharp as he met Joss's. "You cannot hide forever, Joss," he said, his voice gentle. "You must return home."

Joss's tanned cheeks paled, then turned a dull red. Had any man other than Raj dared say such a thing to him, he would be calling him out. But as it was . . . he turned away, unable to hold his friend's compassionate gaze.

"They threw me out, Raj," he said, his voice harsh with pain at the decade-old memory. "I was just the second son, and they made it obvious that my presence was neither required nor desired. Am I supposed to drop everything and go dashing back to Kirkswood because Frederick is dead and now
— now
they have need of me?"

Raj paused, weighing his words with his customary calm. "Your parents are dead, Joss, and now so is your brother. You are the marquess, and however that might chafe you, it is your destiny. You have no choice but to accept it."

Joss stood in front of the desk, his back to Raj as he ran a finger across the silver top of the crystal inkwell. It had belonged to his grandfather, and he remembered being severely punished as a boy for presuming to play with it. "I'm not denying my destiny," he said at last, still tracing the lion carved into the heavy silver.
"I know I must return to Kirkswood to take up my duties, and I will, Raj . . . someday. Someday; not now."

"When?"

The gentle question brought a rueful smile to Joss's face. There were times when he forgot that Raj had inherited more than his mother's exotic good looks. He'd also inherited her Eastern philosophy, and a mystic acceptance of life, and as usual, his relentless logic made Joss feel like a bloody fool. He turned around to face him.

"The day after tomorrow," he said at last, knowing there was no other answer. "I'd leave sooner, but unfortunately I can't afford to miss Lady Burlingham's ball tomorrow night."

Raj looked thoughtful and then gave a solemn nod. "Very well, then. But in the meanwhile, what of the letter? Will you answer it?"

Joss glanced down at the letter. "Perhaps I will," he said, reaching out to pick it up. "And this time I mean to make it plain to him that
I
am master at Kirkswood. If he persists in harassing me, I shall have him removed."

"Can you do that?" Raj was pleased to see Joss had his fire back.

"Of course." Joss sent him a wolfish smile. "As Stone himself is so fond of reminding me, I am the marquess, and I can do whatever the devil I please. If Stone cares for his precious
position, he will not bother me again."

"You sound rather sure of that." Raj was amused.

"I am." Joss grinned again, thinking of the blistering letter he would write. "Trust me, Raj: we have heard the last of Mr. M. Stone."

"I wish you would reconsider this," Miss Eloise Dickson complained, her expression guarded as she hovered at Matty's side. "They hang kidnappers, you know."

Matty paused in the perusal of her prey long enough to send her old school friend a chiding look. "I'm not
kidnapping
his lordship," she denied, her lips curling in a teasing smile. "I am merely borrowing him for a few weeks."

Eloise rolled her eyes heavenward. "Trust you to play fast and loose with semantics," she muttered, shaking her head in disgust. "The magistrates aren't Miss Bailey to be baffled by your sophistry. I doubt they'll look any more kindly upon your 'borrowing' the marquess than they would upon your kidnapping him."

"I'll put him back when I am finished with him."

Eloise would have liked to laugh, except that she knew Matty was in dead earnest. "This is madness," she said, fighting a reluctant smile, "and what is madder still is that I have agreed
to help you. Have you any idea what Lady Burlingham would say, should she learn I helped you carry off one of her guests?"

Matty felt a twinge of guilt as the possible consequences of her scheme occurred to her once again. She'd spent days laying her plans, carefully stalking the marquess as she looked for an opportunity. Learning he was attending the countess's ball had seemed like a godsend at the time. But now . . .

"If this will jeopardize your position, I could always try some other night," she offered uncertainly. "It would be difficult, but I — "

"I was only twigging you," Eloise interrupted, draping a comforting arm about Matty's shoulder. "My position was jeopardized the day Lady Burlingham's hatchet-faced daughter came to live with us. I don't mind helping the countess with her toilet, but I positively draw the line at ironing the harridan's gowns. I had already planned to give notice when you contacted me."

Matty was not comforted by her friend's assurances. "I could ask Lady Kirkswood if she might be of assistance," she offered, her expression thoughtful. "She is the sweetest lady, for all she is a widgeon, and I am sure she would be more than willing to assist you should the need arise."

Eloise gave her a quick hug. "Don't be so horribly managing, Matty," she reproved, soft
ening the words with a sweet smile. "I'm not one of your hen-witted employers who must be guided and protected by you, you know. I
can
take care of myself. In fact, I've already arranged for a position with Lady Kesselrode. Now, do you want to meet his lordship, or not?"

Matty's fingers closed around the vial of laudanum she had secreted in her pocket while she and Eloise had been dressing. "I do."

"Then come with me," Eloise lay her hand on Matty's arm. "Just mind you don't dose some other poor man by mistake, else we'll doubtlessly end our days dancing on a gibbet." And with that cheering thought, she led Matty off to meet an unsuspecting Lord Kirkswood.

Joss stood in a corner of the ballroom, a scowl stamped on his handsome features as he watched Society's
crème de la crème
moving about him in a whirl of color and laughter. Why the devil had he bothered coming, he wondered sourly, lifting a glass of champagne to his lips. Prior to being sent off to India, he'd had as little use for the
ton
as it had for him, and eleven years in India had done little to alter that . . . at least from his perspective. But from the fawning greetings of his hostess and several other ladies, however, he gathered Society had
had a change of heart. Amazing what a little thing like a title could do, he thought with a derisive sneer.

"Courage, my friend," Raj said, noting Joss's expression with amusement. "The night can't last forever, you know."

"No, it can only seem like forever," Joss grumbled, shifting restlessly from one foot to another. Since entering the ballroom he had had the oddest sense of danger, and the feeling had grown too powerful to ignore. Keeping his face expressionless he turned around and let his eyes sweep the room. Nothing.

"Is everything all right?" Raj was regarding Joss with sharp-eyed interest.

"It seems to be," Joss admitted, with an uneasy shrug, his senses still prickling. "I just have the oddest feeling someone is watching me." He sent Raj a sheepish look. "It is probably just my imagination," he said with an uneasy laugh.

Raj lost his easy smile, his face taking on a guarded look. "Perhaps," he agreed, his own eyes moving slowly about the room. "But I've learned to have the greatest respect for those 'feelings' of yours. They've saved both our skins on more than one occasion."

Joss said nothing, remembering a fire-lit campsite in the mountains. His flash of intuition had been all that had saved him and Raj from being slaughtered in their sleep by the
group of thieves who had infiltrated their camp. He banished the brutal memories from his mind and gave Raj a half-smile. "That is so," he agreed, feeling foolish. "But as it is unlikely a group of
thugees
followed us here from Calcutta, I'm sure it's nothing more dangerous than some matchmaking mama sizing me up for her insipid daughter."

"A prospect more terrifying than a dozen deceivers," Raj agreed, although he wasn't smiling. "Do you wish to leave?"

For a moment Joss was tempted to say yes, an impulse that had him mentally shaking his head in disgust. There was no danger, he told himself firmly, and he was damned if he'd break rank and flee like a green recruit. He was about to make a jest when he saw two rather plainly dressed ladies bearing down on them. He recognized the shorter of the two, as his hostess's companion, but not the tall, dark-haired lady walking confidently at her side. He was wondering who she might be when the two ladies paused in front of him.

"My lord, I trust you are enjoying yourself?" The shorter lady, a Miss Dickson, if memory served, gave him an anxious smile. "Is there anything you require?"

"I am fine, Miss Dickson, I thank you," he answered, inclining his head in a polite bow. He felt rather sorry for her, being forced to endure
Lady Burlingham's senseless chatter, and he was determined to treat her with the same respect he accorded every female he met. "May I say how becoming your gown is?"

The tide of color that washed over the companion's face came as no surprise to Joss, who expected that she received few such compliments. "Thank you, your lordship, that is very kind of you," she said, tugging on the other woman's arm and dragging her forward. "Sir, if I may I should like to introduce you to my very good friend, Miss . . . er . . . Miss Winkendale. Miss Winkendale, the marquess of Kirkswood."

"Your lordship." Miss Winkendale dropped a respectful curtsey. "It is an honor to meet you; I have heard much of you in the few days I have been in the city."

"Miss Winkendale." Joss bowed, wondering why he felt as if the woman had just subtly insulted him. It was something in her eyes, he decided, noting that their ebony-flecked depths met his without a flicker of the shyness that afflicted her friend. Dismissing the notion, he turned to Raj and performed the necessary introductions.

"Ladies, allow me to present my friend, Mr. Rajana Fitzsimmons. Raj, make your bows to Miss Dickson and Miss Winkendale."

Raj gave both ladies the benefit of his dazzling smile. "Ladies," and he bowed to both.
"How delightful to be presented to two flowers of English womanhood. It is an honor."

Miss Winkendale raised a dark eyebrow. "Fitzsimmons is an Irish name is it not?" she asked, her low voice filled with amusement.

"It is, ma'am."

"That would account for it, then." She gave Raj a warm smile. "I have heard the Irish are a dangerously charming lot."

"Miss Winkendale's brother was recently posted to Calcutta," Miss Dickson said, sounding breathless as she glanced uncertainly from her friend to Joss. "She has been rather concerned about his welfare, and I was hoping you might be able to reassure her. One hears such terrible things."

"Your brother is in the army, Miss Winkendale?" Joss asked, recalling he'd heard a new regiment of soldiers was expected.

"He's with the Company, actually," came the answer, as Miss Winkendale transferred her dark gaze to him. "A junior clerk assigned to Lord Castner."

Joss repressed a grimace at the thought of the officious man, who was rumored to be a vicious tyrant to anyone unfortunate enough to serve under him. "Ah, the Company has been the making of many a man," he said, deciding it was the most diplomatic thing he could say. "I am sure your brother will do quite well."

"I am sure he will." A slight smile touched her lips, giving her an almost fey beauty. "You went out to India with the Company, did you not, my lord?"

"In '97," he agreed, his voice growing cool as he remembered the humiliation of being forced to slave as a customs man on the sweltering docks of Calcutta. He'd later learned that his father could have secured him a safer post, but had refused to pay the hefty bribe that was required.

The talk then turned to the wonders of India, and obligingly he described the beauty to be found on the mysterious subcontinent. Somewhere during the conversation, Raj and Miss Dickson had wandered off, leaving Joss and Miss Winkendale alone. He'd acquired a glass of champagne along the way, and sipped at it halfheartedly. Trust Lady Burlingham to fob an inferior vintage off on her guests, he thought, wincing at the oddly sweet taste. He'd no sooner set his empty glass to one side than Miss Winkendale pressed another glass on him. Not wishing to hurt her feelings, he took a reluctant sip.

"Of course, the best time to see India is early in the morning," he said, unaware that he was beginning to slur his words. "The streets are washed with the colors of the rising sun, and the air is so still, so perfect, it is like
drinking the sweetest of wines."

"You sound as if you love India," Miss Winkendale said. Her voice echoed oddly in his head. "Tell me more."

"At midday, even in the hottest time of the year, the flowers bloom," Joss answered, swaying slightly. "Near my warehouse there is a garden, and when the window is open the smell of the jasmine floats in the air. Sometimes . . ." His voice trailed off, and he passed a shaking hand over his eyes. "Blast."

"Is there something wrong, my lord?"

Joss bit back another, more colorful oath, as he realized he was about to disgrace himself. Since he'd had but two — or was it three? — glasses of champagne, he knew he couldn't be bosky. Which left only one explanation for his current condition. "I beg your pardon, Miss Winkendale," he said, alarmed by the sudden onslaught of weakness, "but if you would kindly fetch my friend, Mr. Fitzsimmons, for me, I should be eternally in your debt. I fear I am not well."