“That’s splendid, then. But tell me, have you made any matches among the nobility?”
“A duke, in fact.” Never mind that the agency’s only duke had married her sister. It still counted as a mark in the success column.
“Any others?”
Briar swallowed. “Not at present.”
Their one viscount client, in addition to a handful of barons, had all rescinded their subscriptions. Sadly, some people believed that Uncle Ernest had started the business solely to marry off his nieces. Which wasn’t true in the slightest. They never fell in love with their clients.
Well . . . except for Jacinda. And occasionally Uncle Ernest.
“That’s what it will take to get you out of this pickle, you know. You’ll need to marry off someone high in the ranks. Someone who titillates the imaginations of every debutante and on-the-shelf spinster. Someone whose name is frequently in the newspaper’s society page. For then your agency’s name would be right beside it.” Sconce light gleamed in the emerald depths of her eyes, making them almost hypnotic. “I can tell by the look of you that your first inclination is to make a hasty match so the ton will forget today’s error. Perhaps you even have a country squire in mind, and the daughter of a clerk. Veritable paragons of virtue.”
Dimly, Briar nodded. Strangely enough that was precisely what she’d planned.
“But what attention would you gain from such an uninspiring union? Nothing at all,” the woman continued, raising her finger to stir the air as if she held a wand. “Ah, but if you found a bride for an obscenely wealthy nobleman, then no one would stop talking about the match for years to come. Your matrimonial agency would be legendary.”
Briar let out a breath, shaking free of the spell. While it was a compelling notion, there was one glaring flaw in her idea. “Unless you have a duke in your pocket, the point is moot.”
“Would an earl do?”
Briar’s attention was caught, snared on a sudden rush of expectation. “Just to be clear, you know an earl who is eager to sign up for a subscription?”
“Even better. I’ll pay you . . . hmm . . . fifty pounds if you find him a bride.”
“Fi—that’s quite a lot of money.” Briar’s income barely kept her in gloves and ribbons. In fact, she’d dipped into her £200 dowry to hire the harpist to play lovely music for today’s dreadful event.
“True, but it would be worth every penny if you succeeded.”
Suspicion prickled along Briar’s spine. “If he’s such a wealthy earl, then why hasn’t anyone snatched him up yet? Is there something wrong with him?”
“Not at all. He’s very fine, indeed. Handsome. Clever. A bit of a rake—irredeemable, some might say—but nothing too terrible.”
As the daughter of a philandering father, rakish tendencies were something she could not overlook. She would rather the agency fall into ruin before she made a match for a man like that and risk having someone suffer the same fate as her mother. “Sorry, but we only make matches for suitable applicants with redeeming qualities.”
Briar turned to leave, her fingers curling around the smooth brass knob.
“When it comes to his family, he’s loyal to a fault,” she said quickly, her words clipped, tense. “And his love for them is unshakable.”
Love and loyalty were Briar’s weak spots. Such characteristics covered up all manner of sins. In her mind, if a man was loyal to his family and truly loved them, he would never betray them.
She released the knob. “Yes, I could find a bride for a man like that. But only if he wanted to be married.”
The woman took a step forward. “Don’t you find that the most worthwhile of men tend to be elusive . . . until they are wooed toward the idea of marriage?”
Again, Briar found herself nodding. “But he would have to be faithful.”
“Why marry otherwise?” She shrugged, the ghost of a grin on her lips. “Once you find someone he cannot resist, she’ll bring him to heel.”
“You make it sound quite simple, but how will I know what he finds irresistible? How can anyone truly know?”
“That, my dear, is where the true test of your abilities will come into play.” She strummed her fingertips together and began to pace, plotting along the way. “The way I see it, this particular earl doesn’t spend enough time in polite society, mingling with the marriage minded. However, if someone from a matchmaking agency were to let it slip that he was looking for a bride, then he would be beleaguered by invitations to balls and parties. Dozens of husband-hunting mamas would find their way to him. He wouldn’t be able to go to his clubs without fathers bartering off their simpering daughters for a profitable alliance. Doubtless, he would see it as pure torture.” She laughed and clasped her hands together as if she’d caught a gold sovereign. “It would be positively perfect.”
“By your description, matchmaking sounds like unleashing a pride of lionesses on a single gladiator.”
“What is the Season if not a blood sport? Most debutantes are escorted to this London coliseum by their parents, instructed to make a fine match or else an odious one will be made for them.” She paused, issuing a taut exhale through the seam of her lips before her hands curled into fists as she lowered them. “But you, Miss Bourne, could fight for them—be the claws and teeth that bring this earl to his knees. That is, if you keep the doors of your uncle’s agency open by inciting interest instead of ridicule.”
Briar frowned, not terribly keen on the analogy or the violent imagery it conjured. And yet . . . there was something intriguing about seeing herself as a warrior. A warrior of the heart. “Still, it hardly seems like something to which the earl would agree, and there is no assurance he would marry one of these debutantes.”
“Ah, but if he does, then you will have proven your abilities. The ton will never doubt you or the agency again. And don’t forget the £50 prize.” She shrugged. “If you’re up for it, that is.”
Briar felt the sudden zing of challenge course through her in a rush of pins and needles. Thinking about the experience she could gain—not to mention the respect of her sisters and perhaps even an office of her own—the proposal was too tempting to pass up. “How much time will I have to find him a match?”
“Let’s say you have till the end of the Season.”
“But it’s nearly May. That would only give me a month.”
She pursed her lips. “True, and there is always the potential of a house party in the summer. Very well, we’ll make it August.” She held out her hand.
Briar hesitated to take it. “But I don’t even know your name. How are we to settle up?”
“I’m Genevieve . . . Price, but that’s just between us. I’m a friend of the family, you might say. So it wouldn’t be prudent to speak of our arrangement.” Receiving a nod of agreement, she continued, her lips curling slowly upward at the corners. “As for settling up, I already know where to find you, don’t I?”
Indeed. Briar’s profession and blunder were all they had talked about. “I suppose I only need to know now the gentleman’s name.”
“Are you acquainted with the Earl of Edgemont, by chance?”
Briar stifled a triumphant smile. Yes, the name was quite familiar. She’d heard it nearly every day since meeting Temperance. Only, her friend referred to the earl as Cousin Nicholas.
And if Temperance was so fond of her cousin, it surely wouldn’t be that difficult to find him a bride. “I am not, but I shall make it a point to become so.”
Briar shook the woman’s hand. This was going to be as simple as sinking an arrow into a target from just two paces away.
Chapter 5
“She was disgustingly, was suspiciously reserved.”
Jane Austen, Emma
Briar threw off the coverlet the following morning, brimming with an eagerness she hadn’t felt since they’d first arrived in London.
Today was most assuredly the day. Proof of that was the missive she’d received from Temperance this morning, announcing h
er cousin and brother had arrived and inviting Briar to meet them at her earliest convenience.
Padding barefooted across the crisp weave of the bedchamber rug, she withdrew a box from her wardrobe. Then, with great reverence—and an imagined chorus of angels—she lifted the lid.
And there they were . . . her lucky slippers.
After last year’s debacle, she’d taken them to the cobbler to have them recovered in a pretty azure blue with silver threading. Since then, she’d carefully tucked them away, hoping that when she needed them, their luck would be overflowing.
Dressed in a bib-front white muslin dress with blue netting, she pinned her pale hair up into a twist and glanced at the book on her bedside table. “What do you think, Mother? Do I look like a determined matchmaker today, one capable of finding a bride for a rake?”
Mother agreed, of course.
Blowing a kiss to the red leather tome, she swept out of the room, heading in the direction of the offices. In the corridor, she met up with their maid, carrying a basket of linens.
“Good morning, Ginny.”
Ever cheerful, she smiled back, her copper penny eyes bright. “A fine one, to be sure. Mrs. Darden has a fresh batch of scones waiting in the kitchen.”
Among the pleasures in the world—at least the ones Briar had experienced—Mrs. Darden’s scones ran a very close second to a good cup of chocolate. Pair them together and you could actually feel the rebirth of your soul.
“Is there a pot of chocolate, by chance?”
If ever a day deserved to begin with chocolate, it was today.
“Sorry, miss, just tea. Mrs. Darden said you’d had your heart set on chocolate but bid me to tell you that there were no cakes in the larder. The price has been too high at the market of late. And with so few clients . . .” Ginny let her words trail off.
Yesterday’s matchmaking blunder hovered like a storm cloud overhead. Briar felt an eerie twinge in the soles of her feet. She glanced down at her lucky slippers and contemplated changing them for another pair.
Then again, not having chocolate was surely just a matter of mischance. “Well, I’d best be off. I have an urgent matter of business to attend.”
“Of course, miss. Are you making a new match today?”
“Yes, indeed! I’m going to marry a rake.” A jolt buzzed up from her instep all the way to the top of her head and back down again. The sensation stopped her so fast that she nearly tripped on the runner, a peculiar tingling sprinting through her limbs.
She tried again. “What I meant to say is that I’m going to marry off a rake—to find a bride for him—not to become the bride.” A nervous hiccup escaped as she forced out a laugh.
Without another word, Briar left Ginny to her task and hoped the peculiar sensation would stay far behind as well.
Down one set of stairs, she headed toward the offices of the Bourne Matrimonial Agency. These were actually small parlors that had been allocated for business. On one side of the hall was Uncle Ernest’s, and on the other, a pair of sitting rooms—one for Ainsley and one for Jacinda.
To this day, Briar had never been given an office. And since there was not a third sitting room that adjoined the two, it was also clear that they never anticipated Briar becoming a matchmaker at all. How wonderful it will be to finally prove them wrong.
It came as little surprise to see Ainsley already at work, head bent over a stack of papers, her teacup and scone nudged off to the side of her slender writing desk. She lifted her head in a cursory brown-eyed glance, absently brushing wisps of chestnut hair from her cheek. “You’re awake early.”
“And good morning to you, too.”
“It’s just that no one usually sees your face until half past ten. Did you have trouble sleeping?” Ainsley’s voice was edged with needless worry like a mother hen clucking over her young.
Part in parcel with having older siblings was that they tended to be overprotective.
“If it was the noise coming from Sterling’s again,” Ainsley continued before Briar could answer, “then I’ll march over there this instant and have a word with that oaf.”
“No need to bother Mr. Sterling this week. Unless, of course, you simply desire to see him in his shirtsleeves again. Then I’d be happy to accompany you.”
During their last visit to complain about the filth on the pavement in front of his establishment and the papers that had blown onto their own doorstep, Mr. Sterling had just finished a boxing match in the ring upstairs when he’d come down to greet them. Perspiration had dampened his hair, curling against his temples, and made his shirtsleeves cling to his broad, muscular torso. He was quite the specimen.
At least, Ainsley seemed to think so. She’d gone completely still, ogling him, open-mouthed for a full minute before she started to harp on him about the rubbish.
Briar grinned when she saw the barest spots of color bloom on her sister’s cheeks. “Come to think of it, I did have a very restless night.”
“He should never have greeted us in such an unsavory state,” Ainsley grumbled, but with a slight catch in her breath.
At the escritoire, Briar helped herself to tea, nipping sugar from the cone. Looking over her shoulder, she saw Ainsley staring distractedly toward the door, and she couldn’t help goading her just a bit. “Well, you did demand to see him straightaway. Do you think he removes his shirtsleeves when he boxes, or just his cravat and waistcoat?”
Ainsley straightened in the chair and quickly resumed reading the letters. “I wouldn’t rightly know. It isn’t something I waste my time pondering when I have more crucial matters at hand—like keeping the agency afloat. Six of these letters are from clients who wish to withdraw their subscriptions.”
Briar felt a knot of guilt rise up her throat. Nevertheless, she did not appreciate that Ainsley’s verbiage made it seem as if the burden were her own to bear, not Briar’s. “Since it was my blunder that cost us a handful of subscriptions, then I should be the one to make amends. It would help immeasurably if I could attend a few more events.”
Ainsley didn’t even glance in her direction. “Jacinda and Rydstrom have already accepted the invitations for this week. There’s no reason to send another person from the family.”
Briar swallowed her sip of tea and set her cup in the saucer, a glimmer of hope shimmering on the surface. “Then next week, Uncle Ernest and I will accept. After all, Jacinda is newly married. Surely she doesn’t want to spend so many evenings at balls and parties when she could be alone with her husband.”
“Jacinda is a duchess now. Her attendance at these events is the only thing that gives us any credence at the moment.”
And there it was, the undertone of blame. Yet, since yesterday, Ainsley hadn’t directly accused her for the blunder, as Briar wished she would have done. If Ainsley had raised her voice or even shouted, at least then Briar would know that she was seen as an equal.
“I didn’t know they were related,” Briar said quietly, awash in frustration and guilt.
Ainsley lifted her head, her dark features set in stone, her voice cool. “If you would have vetted their information instead of becoming enamored with the idea of finding a match, then it never would have happened. And we wouldn’t be the laughingstock of London.”
For an instant Briar went still, her breath catching in her lungs. As strange as it was, she was thrilled that her sister might actually argue with her.
But then, Ainsley slowly expelled a breath, her unerring gaze alighting on the red leather book propped on a table along the far wall. The third volume of Emma, the one that mother had said showed Miss Woodhouse’s wisdom.
Ainsley’s features softened. “Never mind all that. I know it was your first time.”
“I won’t fall apart, you know. We can have a row just like you and Jacinda do,” Briar said, disappointed.
“That’s silly. It would be like arguing with—”
Ainsley stopped, leaving the rest unsaid as she pretended a sudden need to clear her thr
oat. She affected a cough as well, but her dramatic skills had always been lacking. So she completed her performance by taking a sip of tea.
But Briar knew what Ainsley had been about to say. She’d heard it often enough throughout her life—that she was Mother’s exact copy, both in appearance and mannerisms. The same woman who’d been so fragile and brokenhearted after Father abandoned them that she’d given up on life. Who’d sat for days in her room listless and staring out the window, until her heart had beat for the last time.
And that was all they could see when they looked at Briar.
“Someday, you’ll realize that I am not her.” Briar was much stronger, and soon she would prove it.
“Good morning,” Jacinda said, gliding into the room, her auburn coiffure mussed, cheeks rosy, calamine blue eyes bright as she stifled a yawn behind her hand. “I had the devil of a time waking up this morning.”
“Really, Jacinda. Must you use such language?” Ainsley glanced pointedly at Briar as if she were standing there dressed in nappies.
Jacinda wrinkled her nose. “The minister says devil each Sunday.”
“Oh, how my innocent ears doth bleed. No more, dear sister, I beg of you,” Briar intoned, pressing the back of her hand to her forehead and expelling a dramatic sigh. She aimed a rueful look toward Ainsley.
Lowering her slender frame onto an upholstered chair, Jacinda laughed, the unreserved sound breaking through the palpable tension in the room. “Crispin is below stairs, seeing if he can cajole a few scones out of Mrs. Darden. We’d just finished breakfasting before we left not a quarter hour ago and he is hungry again, if you can believe it. That man certainly has an appetite.”
Jacinda’s grin turned sleepy and gradually color climbed to her cheeks until even her ears were rosy.
Ainsley cleared her throat and returned to the pile of correspondences. “We were just speaking of the Throckmeyer Ball and the Huntington dinner. You are still planning to attend, are you not?”
“Because if you would rather spend time alone with your husband, I would be more than happy to take your place,” Briar interjected.
Ten Kisses to Scandal (Misadventures in Matchmaking) Page 5