The Misguided Matchmaker (16 page)

Tristan
nodded stiffly and with a curt bow escaped to his waiting carriage before the
cunning old man could guess that a gaping hole had just opened in his heart,
and his lifeblood was seeping out drop by painful drop.

Maddy
woke from a sleep so sound, she felt as if she had been drugged with laudanum.
Disoriented, she lay perfectly still, trying to determine where she was and how
she had gotten there. Then all at once she remembered. She was in her father’s
house, and this was the bedchamber to which his strange butler had led her.

“This
be yer cuddy, Miss Maddy,” the old fellow had said as he opened the door to the
small chamber. “Though ‘tis not as grand as ye’d find in one of the Mayfair
townhouses, I hope ye find it to yer liking. Cap’n himself picked out the
curtains and such.”

Indeed,
it was to her liking, Maddy decided as she looked about her. At least what she
could see of it. Except for the pool of light cast by a fragrant beeswax taper
on the bedside table, the room was in shadow. But she vaguely remembered noting
earlier that the fireplace gracing one wall was of white Venetian marble, and
the coverlet on which she lay, fully clothed except for her slippers, was a
rich silk damask in pale, leafy green.

The
clock on the mantelpiece chimed softly and Maddy gasped. She had slept more
than two hours. Her father must have tired of waiting for her and dined without
her. Her stomach growled, reminding her it was as empty as an almsman’s larder,
and she suddenly realized it had been a good twelve hours since she’d last
eaten.

Swinging
her feet to the floor, she pulled on her slippers and crossed to the small
marble-topped commode to splash cool water on her face and finger-comb her
curls into a semblance of order before she searched out her father for that
long talk he had promised.

A
nearby shelf caught her eye. A rag doll with scraggly yarn hair and black
shoe-button eyes rested between a miniature sailboat and a dollhouse complete
with tiny hand-carved furniture. Her toys, left behind in the hurried flight to
France her mother and she had made fifteen years earlier. Her father had kept
then all this time—displayed with the same care as the valuable ship’s model in
the entryway. A lump the size of a goose egg rose in her throat at the
very
thought.

The
house was silent as a tomb when, with candle in hand, she made her way down the
curved staircase to the floor below. Where was her father? Or Griggins? Or for
that matter the rest of the servants need to take care of the house?

Then
she remembered Griggins emerging from behind the stairwell, muffin in hand.
Servants or no servants, if she could find the kitchen, she could find
something to eat—or better yet, something she could cook herself. She had
little faith in English cuisine, and she prided herself on the culinary skills
that, despite her grandfather’s disapproval, she’d learned over the years from
an excellent chef.

As
she suspected, a narrow hallway stretched behind the curved stairwell in the
entryway, and once she entered it, she could her voices. Male voices.

She
pushed open the door at the end of the hall and found herself in a kitchen much
like the one in her grandfather’s house in Lyon. A long pine worktable covered
with an assortment of wooden bowls and spoons dominated the center of the room,
an open range complete with drip pan, iron cauldron and a huge copper teakettle
was set in one wall, and on another hung a row of copper pots, most of which
were stained green with verdigris.

“Maddy,
girl! So you’ve finally waked up!” Her father’s booming voice filled the cozy
room. She turned to find him still in his shirtsleeves, seated at a round oak
table with a plate of steaming food before him. Beside him, drinking a cup of
tea, sat Griggins. She tried to picture her grandfather taking a meal in the
kitchen with his servants but the idea was too preposterous to be imagined.

Her
father beamed at her, fork in hand. “I’d given you up for the night.” He nodded
toward an empty chair. “Sit down. Sit down. You must be famished and Cookie’s
had a pot of his tasty stew simmering for hours.”

For
the first time, Maddy noticed the third occupant of the kitchen. Startled, she
looked closer. Two snapping black eyes regarded her from a swarthy face topped
by a head of curly black hair, streaked with gray. Except for the stained white
kitchen apron encasing his thin body, the small man removing a plate from the
oven might well have been her benefactor in Lyon, Monsieur Forli.

“Guiseppi
Pontizetti
del
Florino at your service, Princessa,”
the little man intoned in a heavy Italian accent.

Her
father chuckled. “You can see why we call him Cookie. But the little toad is a
genius when it comes to cooking, so Griggins and I put up with him.” He paused
while Cookie set a heaping plate before Maddy, the aroma of which made her
mouth literally water.

“Well,
this is it my dear,” her father continued as she picked up her fork. “My entire
household.”

“Just
three people in a house this size?”

Her
father nodded. “Oh, I have a housekeeper, two maids, a footman, and a pot boy
who come in by the day. But I wouldn’t have them for a minute if I could figure
out how to get along without them. Never did like a lot of servants knowing my
business.”

He
gestured toward the two men facing him on the opposite side of the table. “But
I’m used to these two. Griggins was my first mate and Cookie manned the galley
on my first ship more than a quarter of a century ago.”

“That’s
right, Miss Maddy, and rough old sea sow she was,” Griggins said. “Nothing like
the trim vessels as sails under the Harcourt flag nowadays. Cap’n retired her,
and Cookie and me as well, when he come by this house. We’ve been doin’ fer ’im
ever since.”

Maddy
smiled to herself. It was plain to see these two men who were “doing” for her
father were his longtime comrades as well as his employees. What a strange
household for a man who was counted one of the richest merchants in all of
England. Yet somehow it fit the plain man he purported to be.

Her
father finished off the last of his supper and placed his fork on his empty plate.
His heavy brows drew together in a scowl and a flush darkened his weathered
cheeks. “This is not a household that would suit any woman, and well I know it,
daughter.”

“It
suits me just fine, Papa,” Maddy said, wondering why he thought he needed
apologize for his beautiful little home.

“Never
say so, Maddy. This house and its staff fit my simple needs, but it’s much too
small and much too far from Mayfair to be a proper residence for a young lady
of marriageable age looking to make her connections in London society.”

Maddy
stared at him in amazement. “But, Papa, I do not care in the least about making
such connections.”

“Of
course you do. All women care about such things, and I’ll not be the cause of
your missing out on them as I was with your mother.”

He
smiled smugly. “But things will be different this time. I’ve more money than a
nabob, and, by all that’s holy, you’ll make your connections if it takes every
last farthing I own to see it done. I’ve a plan already set in place, and
before another year is past, you’ll have all the things a young girl dreams of:
the balls and parties, the voucher to Almack’s—even an invitation to Carlton
House itself, I’ll wager.

She
wouldn’t argue with him, not when he seemed to attach such importance to his
plan to present her to London society. She could never be so cruel as to point
out that if the stories she’d heard of the British
haut monde
were true,
the chance of a merchant’s daughter being accepted as a member of the exclusive
body was almost as remote as the chance that men would someday fly like birds.

Nor
was she so foolish as to think that marrying an ex-spy who was the bastard son
of an earl would add much to her social prestige. But she didn’t care a fig for
the social prestige. Tristan was the man who held her heart in his hands, and
marry him she would…as soon as the slow-top got around to making his offer.

M
addy rose late the following morning
to find her father in the second floor salon in serious conversation with a
thin, nervous-looking woman with lank brown hair and pale blue eyes. “Ah, Maddy
girl,” he said when she stepped through the doorway. “This is Madame Héloïse
Blouseau; the French modiste Lady Ursula tells me is all the rage this season.
I’ve instructed her to make you enough dresses to hold you over until Lady
Ursula can plan an entire wardrobe for you.”

Who
this Lady Ursula was and why she should be put in charge of his daughter’s
wardrobe, he didn’t say—and Maddy was loath to ask in front of the modiste in
case the lady turned out to be his current mistress. She had made the mistake,
just once, of alluding to the aging bird of paradise her grandfather visited
every Wednesday afternoon between one o’clock and four. It was the one and only
time he’d raised his hand to her, but the imprint of his fingers had remained
on her cheek for hours. She would not make the same mistake with her father.

“Lady
Ursula suggested two morning dresses, a carriage dress, and one simple evening
dress that could be used either as a ball gown or a theater costume to begin
with,” Madame Héloïse said in an accent so atrocious, Maddy instantly knew the
woman had never lived a day on the Continent. But though it was all she could
do to keep from laughing out loud, she held her counsel. If she exposed this
Madame Héloïse for the fraud she was, she could cast a slur on Lady Ursula’s
taste in modistes—and her father’s taste in mistresses.

“From
what part of France do you come?” she asked as soon as he left the room. “I
have lived in Lyon since I was five years old and am familiar with the accents
of most of the provinces, but I confess I have never heard one remotely
resembling yours.” She smiled to herself as she watched the bogus Frenchwoman
turn brick red, then chalk white.

“Lord
luv us,” the modiste moaned, “my game’s run out.” She stared at Maddy through
eyes wide with horror. “I suppose you’re going to twig the old gentleman.”

“If
you mean I’m going to tell my father you’re not French—of course not. Why
should I? It’s none of my concern, unless you plan to cheat him.”

Madame
Héloïse drew herself up proudly. “Never fear. He will get his money’s worth.
There is no modiste in London who can match my designs or my workmanship.”

“Then
why pretend you’re French?”

The
modiste gave a snort of disgust. “How long do you think I’d keep my fashionable
customers if I was to admit I’m plain Mary Blodgett, born and raised above a
gin shop in London’s East End? About the time it takes my old man to draw a
pint of ale, that’s how long.”

“Ah,
I begin to understand. A prophet is never revered in his own land.”

“I
don’t know about prophets, but I know plenty about modistes and what makes them
popular with the matrons of the
ton,
” Madame Héloïse grumbled, nervously
twisting her measuring tape around and around her fingers. “Ten long years I
worked my fingers to the bone for a French tyrant name of Madame Adrianne. I
designed and sewed all the gowns; she took all the credit. When the old
harridan finally stuck her spoon in the wall, I come out of the back room and
set up shop as her niece from Paris. I’d learnt enough French from her to get
away with it too—until you came along.”

“But
your secret is safe with me, madam. I swear I will never tell a soul,” Maddy
promised.

The
color slowly returned to the modiste’s thin cheeks. “You’d do that for me?
Why?”

“Because
I think it is very enterprising of you to make such a fine career for yourself.
I have recently come to realize I have great respect for people who rise above
their humble origins.” Maddy smiled. “Now,
mademoiselle
, shall we get on
with the fitting? You would not want to disappoint your patroness, Lady
Ursula.”

Two
hours later, after taking the necessary measurements and displaying the
swatches of material she considered suitable for the planned dresses, Madame
Héloïse took her leave of Maddy. Her last words were a promise to have one of
the morning dresses completed the following day and the others shortly
afterward, and at half the price she charged her titled customers.

True
to her word, she sent a delivery boy around the following afternoon, with a
parcel containing a dainty yellow sprigged muslin dress, a chemise, a shift,
and a pair of silk stockings, as well as a nightrail, dressing gown, and
slippers.

Maddy
immediately asked the day footman to carry a tub of hot water to her chamber so
she could bathe and wash her hair. She brushed her curls dry—one advantages of
her short hair; her long tresses had taken hours to dry.

Then
dressing herself in her lovely silken undergarments and dress, she positioned
herself in the window seat of the second-floor salon to wait for Tristan’s
arrival. She’d grown accustomed to his company on their trip and his absence
left her feeling lost and lonely and anxious for his return.

He
didn’t come. Not that day, nor the next, nor even the next after that.

When
five days had passed and he still hadn’t called on her, she found herself
tortured by the insidious thought he might actually have been serious when he’d
made that preposterous claim that honor forbade his ever offering for her.

But
she managed to hide her fear behind a cheerful façade whenever her father was
near. She was not so lost to pride that she could bear his knowing she had
thrown herself at a man who had summarily rejected her…for whatever reason.

Each
morning at half past eight her father left for his place of business, leaving
Maddy to fend for herself during the long day ahead. The hours would have been
interminable had it not been for Cookie. Once he learned of her passion for
cooking, he welcomed her into his kitchen, a thing she suspected a few chefs
would do. Under Griggins’ watchful eyes, the two of them chopped vegetables and
blended sauces and whipped up desserts that earned her father’s lavish
praise—never guessing his daughter had had a hand in the making of them.

She
earned praise from Cookie as well. He even went so far as to claim that if she
were not Caleb Harcourt’s daughter, she could earn her living as a chef in any
of the finest houses in London.

She
never told her father about her love of cooking, and swore Cookie and Griggins
to secrecy as well. Instinct warned her that, like her grandfather, he would
not consider it a proper avocation for the lady of the manor.

Instead,
she dutifully donned her newest dress each evening before he arrived home and
pirouetted before him, smiling at his admiration as if the only thing on her
mind was the fit of a bodice or the swish of a skirt.

Then,
one sunny afternoon when she was standing at the window watching for her
father, Tristan came riding across Bloomsbury Square. She scarcely noticed the
man beside him as she watched him dismount from a black horse whose flowing
mane perfectly matched his own shoulder-length locks.

Gone
was the rough-and-ready companion of her flight across France. He had obviously
collected his long overdue pay, for this elegant new Tristan was dressed in a
beautifully tailored topcoat in dark blue superfine, buff-colored buckskin
breeches, and a jaunty high-crown beaver. In truth, he looked so breathtakingly
handsome, she forgot to draw air into her lungs and soon found herself gasping
for breath.

“Tristan,”
she cried, running to greet him at the door of the salon when Griggins showed
him in, though she knew full well that was not what any well-bred lady would
do. She smiled up at him, vaguely aware there was someone standing next to
him—a small man whose head stood not much higher than Tristan’s shoulder and
whose pale hair and paler features seemed to disappear next to Tristan’s dark
brilliance.

“Good
afternoon, Maddy.” His cool indifferent voice had a familiar ring; it was the
voice of the man she had taken him to be before she’d glimpsed the fiery
passion behind his icy mask. He drew his companion forward. “May I present my
half-brother, Garth Ramsden, the Fifth Earl of Rand.”

Maddy
extended her hand and the earl raised it to his lips. “Enchanted,” he said,
though he looked anything but. The line of his mouth was grim and his pale blue
eyes held an expression of profound sadness. She wondered if this brother
Tristan held in such high esteem had recently suffered a tragic loss. Could
this be the reason Tristan had been so slow to seek her out? Could his seeming
indifference now be a mask to hide the grief he shared with his brother?

An
uncomfortable silence settled over the three of them once they were seated, and
Maddy gained the distinct impression she was being surreptitiously scrutinized
by the earl, much as he might scrutinize a painting offered for sale.

It
was all too apparent Tristan had decided he must have his brother’s approval
before he made an offer for her. The very thought of such ambivalence on the
part of the man to whom she had unreservedly given her heart sent a twinge of
anger skittering through her. She would never have expected a fellow as bold as
Tristan to wave the white feather, and so she meant to tell him when next she
had him alone.

Still,
she was a lady and as such, rose to the occasion, racking her brain for some
topic of conversation she could safely pursue with a peer of the realm. The
weather came to mind and somehow that evolved into an incredibly boring
discussion of the beauties of nature one could find in the English countryside.
Maddy soon came to the conclusion that it was a lucky thing Tristan’s brother
had inherited a title, since he was obviously a dull fellow with little else to
distinguish him.

Tristan
added nothing to the conversation, but sat silent as a post, leaving the earl
and Maddy to flounder in their tedium like two fish that had swallowed hooks
they could neither digest nor disgorge. Maddy gritted her teeth and swore she’d
make him pay for this transgression if it was the last thing she ever did. How
dare he hang her out to dry in this manner? Was this some test of her ability
to deal with his titled relatives?

She
had literally reached the end of her wits and her temper when, to her relief,
she heard her father’s carriage pull up outside the open window. A moment later
he strode into the room. “My lord Rand,” he exclaimed, a grin spreading from
ear to ear.

The
earl rose instantly, as did Tristan. Standing between the two tall men, the
diminutive earl looked as if he were lost in a forest—a thought she could see
occurred to him as well, from the flush darkening his pale cheeks. For no
reason she could explain, she found herself feeling sorry for the little man
with the sad eyes and disgusted with the two men who towered over him.

Her
father seemed blissfully unaware of the undercurrents in the small salon.
“Well, now, isn’t this nice, Maddy. Your first visitors and to think one of
them is an earl.” He had the look of a hunter stalking his prey, and she was
suddenly reminded of his plan to elevate her socially. She held her breath,
hoping against hope he would stop toadying up to the earl before he made a
complete fool of himself—and her. Of course, the hope was in vain.

“I’ve
been wishing Maddy could meet someone who could help establish her in society,”
he purred, taking a seat and indicating the others should follow suit. Maddy
cringed. The man was practically licking his chops over the poor earl.

“As
a matter of fact…” The Earl of Rand cleared his throat. “I was just going to
mention that Lord and Lady Faversham are giving a ball on Friday next. It will
be a dreadful crush, as everyone who is anyone will be there, but an excellent
introduction into the London social world nevertheless.”

He
cleared his throat again. “Faversham is a particular friend of mine. I have
only to ask and an invitation will be extended to Miss Harcourt if she should
fancy attending.”

“What
a grand idea and how kind of you to think of it, my lord. Of course she would
love to attend, wouldn’t you, Maddy?”

Maddy
managed a strained smile. “I am sure it would be a delightful evening, my lord,
and I thank you for the invitation, but I fear I must decline.” She took a
malicious satisfaction in the dumbfounded expression she read in the three
pairs of eyes turned in her direction. “It would be pointless to attend a ball,
you see, because I don’t dance.”

“You
don’t dance!” the earl and her father exclaimed in unison. The identical looks
of shock registered on both faces were comical in the extreme, and even Tristan
looked baffled by her candid announcement.

“To
what use did your grandfather put all the money I sent him, if not to teach you
the necessary accomplishments of a lady?” her father demanded. “I suppose next
you’ll tell me you cannot play the pianoforte nor sing nor paint a watercolor.”

Loyalty
to her grandfather forbade her admitting she had known nothing all those years
of the money her father had provided. “I cannot account for every franc,” she
said quietly. “But I imagine most of the money was used for bribes to the local
officials to keep them silent about the fact that a sworn enemy of the emperor,
and Citizen Fouché, ran tame in Lyon. And no, I do not play the pianoforte, nor
sing, nor paint. In short, I have acquired none of the talents required of your
English ladies of fashion, so I am afraid your plan to bring me into vogue is
doomed to failure.”