The Matchmaker's Marriage

by Meg Alexander

  To her surprise he shook his head. ‘You are a woman grown, my dear. These decisions must be in your own hands.’

  Amy pulled a face at him and was surprised to see his expression change. She had meant her grimace as a joke. Surely James could not have taken offence? Then she followed the direction of his gaze and realised that Philippe de Vionnet was standing behind her.

  ‘Miss Wentworth, I am come to claim my dance.’ The Comte bowed and offered her his arm.

  Amy was startled. Until that moment she had not realised that Vionnet had returned to Bath. Now she did not hesitate. Ignoring James’s thunderous expression, she took the proffered arm and allowed the Comte to lead her into the ballroom.

  Then she saw that he was grinning down at her.

  ‘My memory must be failing, sir. How could I have promised you a dance when you were not in this neighbourhood?’

  ‘My own memory is perhaps at fault, Miss Wentworth. Somehow I had it in my mind that it was so. Will you put the mistake down to my advancing years?’

  Amy began to smile.

  ‘That’s better!’ he encouraged. ‘I bent my failing steps towards you in the hope of being of some little service.’

  ‘In what way, sir?’

  He assumed an expression of mock gravity. ‘Why, to avert an apoplexy, ma’am. I could not decide who was likely to succumb first…you or your previous partner. I could not take the risk that he might claim another dance.’

  Amy was mortified. ‘Is my dislike of him so obvious?’ she asked in a low voice. ‘I would not give our famous gossips cause for comment.’

  He was quick to reassure her. ‘It was not obvious to others, I believe, Miss Wentworth, but only to one who has learned to read your every glance and gesture with an over-flowing heart.’

  Amy blushed a little. ‘Pray do not look at me like that or you too will give the gossips cause for comment, sir.’

  ‘My face will become a mask of indifference. See, is this better?’ He glanced about him with an air of such hauteur that Amy found it difficult to keep her countenance.

  She gave him a demure look. ‘My dear Comte, I suspect that you are an accomplished flirt, and I don’t believe a word you say.’

  ‘Now I am crushed,’ he announced. ‘I begin to understand why Frederick Skelmersdale was about to have an attack of the vapours.’

  Amy’s laugh rang out. ‘Gentlemen do not suffer from the vapours,’ she assured him. ‘Now, sir, I beg that you will be serious.’

  ‘I was never more serious in my life…’ The dark eyes held her own with an expression that was unmistakable. ‘Will you let me be your friend at least? I do not hope for more at present.’

  Amy turned her head away in some confusion, but her voice was steady as she answered him.

  ‘I shall be glad to be your friend, monsieur, but you must not…I mean, I should prefer that you do not continue to speak in this extravagant way.’

  ‘Ah, Miss Wentworth, I am a Frenchman and, for us, love is all.’

  Amy recovered some of her composure. ‘That may be so, but you do not know me, sir, nor I you. We have not met on more than three occasions…’

  ‘You have not heard of love at first sight?’

  ‘I have, but I don’t believe it. I suspect that it can only lead to disappointment when the object of such affection is discovered to be less than perfect.’

  ‘And are you seeking perfection, ma’am? I am too much of a realist to expect it.’

  ‘I am not seeking marriage, sir. The world is wide. It seems to me that there are other subjects of more interest.’ As Amy looked up at him she became aware that the music had stopped, and that she and the Comte were the cynosure of all eyes. They were alone on the ballroom floor.

  Philippe de Vionnet was untroubled. With an elaborate bow he thanked her for the dance and led her towards her friends.

  Her cousins engaged her at once in conversation, but she was soon aware that James Richmond had disappeared. Her enquiry led to the information that James had left the Assembly Rooms as he had an early start on the following day.

  ‘But where is he going?’ she asked. ‘He said nothing of this to me.’

  ‘Great heavens, Amy, he don’t have to tell you of his business!’ Henry frowned at her. ‘You ain’t his wife, you know, and nor is he in leading strings.’

  ‘He is gone to Oxford, coz,’ Crispin said more kindly. ‘It’s all to do with this scheme of his for digging up the countryside. Sir William has some maps, which may not be removed from the library. Richmond and his friend will copy them.’

  ‘I see!’ Amy tried to hide her chagrin. James might have told her of his plans. Perhaps he intended to punish her for ignoring his warning to discourage Philippe de Vionnet. Well, he did not own her. Much as she valued his friendship he could not be allowed to dictate to her. Her choice of friends must be her own. When the Comte sought her hand once more for the waltz, she accepted in a spirit of defiance.

  ‘Certain relationships are difficult, are they not?’ he whispered in her ear.

  Amy eyed him coldly. ‘I do not understand you, sir.’

  The Comte stepped back in mock alarm. ‘Ah, now I have offended you and I would not do so for the world. Believe me, ma’am, I sought only to assure you of my understanding. Something has upset you. I see it in your face. Is there nothing I can do to remedy matters?’

  ‘Yes, there is,’ she said deliberately. ‘I shall be obliged if you will change the subject. For some reason known only to themselves all the gentlemen of my acquaintance do not hesitate to offer me advice. It is both unsought and unwanted. I can’t imagine why they feel that it will be welcomed.’

  The Comte’s lips twitched. ‘A trial indeed, Miss Wentworth! Let me assure you that I shall not follow their example. I have suffered from such kindly solicitude myself from every female in my family. In my case I have been tempted towards murder!’

  He grinned down at her with such a rueful expression that she began to smile.

  ‘It is hard to bear,’ she agreed. ‘Still, I expect that they mean well…’

  ‘And the road to hell is paved with good intentions?’ he quipped. ‘Tell me about Richmond’s intention to continue his work in England. It sounds interesting. Does he plan to search for some long-lost hoard of gold or silver?’

  Amy chuckled. ‘He would be horrified to hear you accuse him of treasure-hunting. His is to be a serious scientific expedition. Sir William Linden is to join him. You know of him, I expect?’

  Something flickered behind her companion’s eyes, but Amy did not see it. ‘Ah, yes, Sir William! I met him once, in Egypt, I believe. Do you know the gentleman?’

  ‘I have never met him, but I know of him by reputation…that is, I know him to be a scholar of some renown.’

  The Comte raised his eyes to heaven. ‘You English-women! Shall I ever learn to understand you? A scholar, Miss Wentworth? Has he nothing more to recommend him…his wealth…his estates…the fact that he is a bachelor?’

  ‘Why should that concern me?’ Amy asked. ‘I hope to find him sensible and pleasant and not averse to having me included in the expedition—’ Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh, dear, that was supposed to be a secret for the moment. I beg that you will not mention it to anyone.’

  Her companion placed a hand upon his heart. ‘It is forgotten. I did not hear those words. But since I know of it, will you tell me, just between us, how you hope to help?’

  ‘In any way I can…taking notes and writing up the findings of each day, perhaps…that is, if Sir William does not object.’

  The Comte smiled down at her. ‘That would be highly unlikely, Miss Wentworth.’

  ‘Oh, I do hope that you may be right. Perhaps I am a little daunted by his reputation. Tell me, what is he really like?’

  Her companion assumed an air of mock gravity. ‘I hope that you are not hoping to meet an Adonis, ma’am. Sir William pays no heed to the dictates of fashion. In fact, on more than one occasion I have hea
rd him referred to as a scarecrow.’

  ‘How unkind! Appearance is not the most important guide to character, you will agree.’

  ‘I do, Miss Wentworth, but Sir William is not in the least in the common way. He is extremely tall and thin to the point of emaciation. He forgets to eat, or so I’m told. His hair…well, the less said about that the better, except, perhaps, to mention that his barber does not see him from one year to the next. His garments are made to his own design, rather for comfort than for style.’

  Amy was intrigued. ‘I like him more and more,’ she said. ‘He sounds so unconventional. Perhaps, after all, he will allow me to join the expedition. He does not sound so…so hidebound as certain gentlemen of my acquaintance.’

  ‘That is a stern comment, ma’am. I hope I am not included in your strictures?’

  Amy gave him a sunny smile. ‘Oh, no, sir! Never think it! I fancy that you care for convention as little as I do myself.’

  The Comte slipped her arm through his. ‘Well then, since we are comfortable with each other, what do you say to a visit to the Sydney Gardens tomorrow? Your English weather is uncertain, but I’m told that it will hold for the next week or so.’

  ‘I should need my aunt’s permission, sir.’

  He laughed. ‘Not so unconventional after all, Miss Wentworth? Pray don’t frown! I did not mean to tease. I had intended to ask if your aunt would care to join us.’

  ‘Perhaps if you were to ask her, sir?’

  De Vionnet did as she suggested, but he was forced to wait until the following week before the proposed outing could take place. Miss Langrishe had a busy social life, and was committed to a round of concerts and dinners in the next few days. They settled upon a Thursday, six days hence.

  The Comte kissed Amy’s hand as he took his leave of her.

  ‘I shall count the minutes until our meeting,’ he assured her. ‘Expect to find me pale and worn, my dear. I shall languish in despair until then.’

  Amy laughed at him. ‘Now, sir, you are flirting again, and I will not have it. I am sure you have much to occupy you until next week.’

  ‘Indeed! On Monday I return to Bristol, but my business there will not take long. I shall be with you again by Thursday.’

  He was as good as his word, and, as he had hoped, the weather held. They set off for the Sydney Gardens on a perfect early autumn day. There had been no frost so the leaves had not begun to fall, and the trees were in their full glory.

  ‘You don’t dislike this season, ma’am?’ The Comte bent towards Miss Langrishe, who was gazing about her with unfeigned pleasure as her manservant pushed her bath chair at a steady pace. ‘Some find it depressing, so I understand.’

  ‘To me it has a golden splendour,’ she assured him. ‘I love it even when the trees are bare. I always feel that they are resting, conserving their strength for the return of spring.’

  ‘You are a nation of gardeners, ma’am. There is no country in the world that enjoys the pastime with such passion. What it is to have the confidence to plant your trees with no hope of seeing them reach maturity!’

  ‘We plant for the coming generations, sir.’ Miss Langrishe gazed past him towards the entrance to the gardens. ‘Why, here is James returned to us, and with Sir William, too.’

  Amy spun round to see the gentlemen approaching along the path. They were deep in conversation, and clearly had no notion that they were almost upon their friends.

  They could not have presented a greater contrast. Sir William was the taller of the two, but Richmond was the more striking.

  Amy tried to decide why it was so. As always, James was plainly dressed, but his athletic figure showed to advantage in the well-cut coat and perfectly fitting buckskins. Beside him, Sir William Linden was almost a caricature of the absent-minded scientist.

  The slight breeze had lifted his flowing locks into a pale halo about his head. When they fell into his eyes he brushed them aside with an impatient hand, dislodging his spectacles as he did so. His ancient coat was causing much amusement to the passers-by. Clearly there were holes in the pockets for he was followed by a trail of papers, a snuff-box and several handkerchiefs. Behind him, and at a safe distance, a group of small boys kept up with the pair as they walked along. This clown-like gentleman was more than they could have hoped for in a morning’s outing to the park. Only the presence of the other gentleman kept them from whistling and making cat-calls.

  Amy smiled as she looked at the pair. ‘You are right, I believe,’ she whispered ‘Sir William is not in the least in the common way…’

  The Comte’s expression was unfathomable. ‘Harmless, would you say, Miss Wentworth? Will you believe me when I tell you that those two gentlemen are responsible for the deaths of at least a dozen men?’

  Chapter Four

  Shock brought Amy to a halt in the middle of the footpath. Then disbelief gave way to anger. She glanced towards her aunt, but Miss Langrishe had been wheeled ahead and was already out of earshot. She swung round on her companion.

  ‘Is this your notion of a joke, sir?’ she demanded ‘If so, it is in the worst possible taste.’

  ‘It is no joke,’ the Comte said lightly. ‘Believe me, the remark was not meant as a criticism. I have the greatest admiration for both these gentlemen and not least for their chameleon-like ability to pass themselves off as eccentrics, dilettantes, or whatever you will in the midst of English society.’

  ‘You must be mad!’ Amy’s retort was crisp. ‘Is this any way to speak of a man whom you claim as a friend?’ She didn’t wait for his reply but hurried to her aunt’s side.

  James had already introduced Sir William. Now both men bowed as she approached them. No trace of annoyance showed in Richmond’s manner, though it might have been expected. After all, he had warned her more than once about the gentleman in whose company he found her.

  Now civilities were exchanged, but Amy sensed an undercurrent of tension. Glancing at the bland faces, she told herself that she was allowing her imagination to run riot. Philippe de Vionnet’s words had shaken her to the core. He must have heard some ridiculous story and was teasing her by repeating it. Did he think her a fool? How could he imagine that she would believe it?

  Relief was mixed with annoyance when he excused himself on the pretext of an urgent appointment. That she knew to be a lie. He had planned to spend the morning in her company, but now he kissed her hand as he took his leave.

  ‘I’ll explain later,’ he promised in an undertone. Then he was striding away.

  Amy did not watch him go. She was furious with him. Most certainly he owed her an explanation of his shocking statement, but she wanted it now. How dared he slander her dearest friend? He must be the most gullible creature in the world if he imagined her beloved James to be a murderer. And as for Sir William…? Amy’s brow cleared as she looked at her new acquaintance. The thought was too ludicrous to countenance.

  Sir William was distraught. He had given up on the social niceties. Now he was patting his pockets with a worried expression.

  ‘I can’t have lost it!’ he muttered to the world in general. ‘I made a note or two even as we entered the park.’ He gazed in despair along the path, but could see no trace of the missing notebook.

  It was the fashionable hour for a morning constitutional, so the path was crowded. Then a small knot of people detached themselves from the others and came towards him.

  Mrs Skelmersdale had changed her plans at a moment’s notice. Intelligence had reached her that her quarry was walking in the Sydney Gardens. She abandoned all thought of visiting the Pump Room and hurried Charlotte into her most becoming toilette.

  ‘And you will join us, Frederick?’ It was more of a command than an enquiry, but her son did not hesitate. He loathed Sir James, but he must attempt to get his sister wed before she became an intolerable burden.

  Now he strolled slightly behind the two ladies, attempting to appear indifferent as his mother kept Sir William in view, collecting the debris
in his wake with great intensity.

  ‘There Charlotte! He has missed his possessions! Do you give them to him!’ Mrs Skelmersdale thrust papers, snuff-box and the notebook into her daughter’s hands and increased her pace.

  ‘Oh, must I? I do not know the gentleman…’

  ‘Dear God!’ Mrs Skelmersdale threw her eyes to heaven. ‘Is this not the perfect opportunity to do so? Sometimes I think that you have only cloth between your ears… Get on with it, you stupid girl!’ A sharp push sent Charlotte to the outskirts of the group.

  Amy saw her first, and greeted her with pleasure, but it was Miss Langrishe who noticed the crumpled documents in her hands.

  ‘My dear Charlotte, have you been enjoying a paper-chase this morning?’ she enquired.

  Charlotte blushed. ‘No, ma’am,’ she replied faintly. ‘It is just that this gentleman seems to have lost… I mean, the children behind him were gathering up the objects which fell from his pockets. Forgive me, I didn’t mean to intrude upon your party.’ Suddenly she was aware that all eyes were upon her and her colour deepened.

  It was Sir William who walked towards her. ‘How very good of you to take the trouble to make up for my carelessness,’ he said gently. ‘I would not have lost my notebook for the world…’

  Charlotte looked up quickly. Behind the thick glass of his spectacles the pale blue eyes were kind, but it was his voice that charmed her. It was very deep in timbre, and it fell upon her ears almost like a caress.

  It was her mother who broke the spell. Bossy and effusive, she pushed her way into the centre of the group, greeting Miss Langrishe with many expressions of concern for the state of that lady’s health, and nodding and smiling at the others.

  Then she noticed that Charlotte had not yet relinquished Sir William’s possessions. She gave the gentleman an arch smile.

  ‘My daughter is quite overcome, Sir William,’ she confided. ‘She knows of your reputation, sir, and is unused to the company of famous men. Charlotte, Sir William will not eat you! Do give those objects to him!’