The Taste of Temptation

by Julia Kelly

  That was why she needed to marry now. She wanted the financial security a husband could bring to a woman of her station and her diminished means, and Mr. Moray and his pack of scandal-sheet owners seemed intent on threatening that.

  “I’ve always said that there’s no use in lingering on the past,” said Mrs. Sullivan with a wave of her hand. “Why don’t you tell me why you wish to retain my services?”

  Caroline swallowed and looked down at her hands. “Before we begin, I should tell you that I don’t have much money left. The attorneys’ fees—”

  “One of the great luxuries of being a woman of independent means is being able to do as I please—much as it irritates some of the stuffier set. I choose to accept payment from some clients to whom a few hundred pounds here or there is nothing, but mostly I work on what one might call a pro bono basis. I enjoy a challenge, and nothing makes me happier than seeing a young lady happily settled. If we agree to work together, you needn’t worry about payment, just as you won’t worry about securing invitations or making the necessary introductions. It will be my privilege to take care of everything. All I ask is that you pass along my name to another one day, just as Mrs. Grover did to you.”

  When Caroline looked up, the kindness in the matchmaker’s expression made her nose prickle at the threat of tears, but she refused to cry. She’d already carried the weight of so much on her shoulders—Julian’s betrayal, the trial, her mother’s disappointment, her aunt and uncle’s disapproval—that she wouldn’t crumple now.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Sullivan,” she said, tilting her chin up and forcing herself to meet the woman’s gaze.

  “Now . . .” The older woman reached for the notebook she’d placed on the sideboard next to her, picked up a fountain pen, and opened the book to a blank page. “What is it that you’re looking for?”

  “A husband,” said Caroline flatly.

  Mrs. Sullivan laughed. “Yes, I gathered that, but surely you have other requirements. Things that you want.”

  Caroline shrugged. “In truth, I can’t afford to be particular. I have a small amount of money per annum that my father left me upon his death, but most went to my brother. Living under my brother’s protection gives me just enough security that I can spend a little on some trimmings to make over some old dresses, but little else.”

  Mrs. Sullivan set her pen down in the crease of her notebook. “Wouldn’t it be better to live with your brother and his wife for a spell than to rush into a marriage you might regret?”

  “And remain a spinster and a poor relation for the rest of my life? I’d like to meet the lady who wishes for those conditions. I’d like to be married by the autumn and have this whole business behind me.”

  “Very well. If by chance I can find a man with a few more desirable qualities than just his bachelorhood and his desire to marry, perhaps you’d like to tell me what you’d be looking for if circumstances were different,” said Mrs. Sullivan.

  Her treacherous mind stirred up the image of Moray before she could think to stuff it back in the closet she’d shoved it in and lock the door. It was beyond irritating that the man looked like her ideal. Tall, dark, and devastating. He wasn’t fashionably slim like the gentlemen who flitted about London’s ballrooms, waltzing with the nimbleness of a deer. He was a man who took up space, all broad shoulders and brawn. Any woman would be hard-pressed not to think of those arms wrapping around her, no matter his hated profession.

  And then there was that letter. No. Not letter. Clipping. After her laughter had abated, she’d stared at the scrap of newspaper and the scrawled note, wondering why. All yesterday with Elsie and that morning as she’d dressed and taken the carriage over to Mrs. Sullivan’s, her mind had worried over Mr. Moray’s intentions.

  Ultimately all she could decide was that, whether the news item was meant as olive branch or further provocation, she didn’t trust the man or her attraction to him. He was absolutely under no circumstances for her.

  “If I had the luxury of being a little more discerning, I’d prefer some modicum of intelligence,” she said, forcing herself to focus. “I enjoy lively conversation, and I read a good deal.”

  “Good.” Mrs. Sullivan began scribbling. “What else?”

  Caroline tilted her head in thought. “Financial security. I realize it’s not romantic, but I don’t want to marry only to find myself facing down creditors. Neither would I like to see a stack of IOUs on my husband’s dresser, so I suppose gambling is out.”

  “Quite practical,” said the matchmaker. “What about appearance?”

  “Tall,” she said immediately, and then blushed. “I know I’m not particularly gifted with height myself, and my mother always thought that meant shorter men might suit better.”

  “And I take it you didn’t agree?”

  Caroline remembered the way that Julian had felt pressed against her and wishing that he was just a little taller, a little broader, a little more. He’d had a good four inches on her, but he was so slight that it hadn’t been enough.

  “I’ve always felt at risk of overpowering my smaller dancing partners through sheer force of personality,” she said.

  “Well, we can’t have that. Hair color?” Mrs. Sullivan asked.

  Caroline shook her head. “I have no preference. He could be losing all of his hair—it wouldn’t make a difference to me.”

  “And does it matter if he’s been married before?”

  “A widower?” asked Caroline.

  “Or divorced, although you’ll find that here, just as in England, divorce is still shocking to most.”

  Caroline pursed her lips but then nodded. “It is my greatest wish to never find myself at the center of public scrutiny again, but I also understand that I’m not in a position to be too particular.”

  Mrs. Sullivan put down her pen. “A lady should always be particular. Your situation is not quite so dire as you seem to have convinced yourself it is.”

  “I’m twenty-seven,” Caroline blurted out. “I have no dowry and—”

  “You’re famous. Yes, I’m aware. You also are a lovely, accomplished, intelligent lady. You should aim to marry to suit yourself,” said Mrs. Sullivan.

  “And it suits me to marry quickly,” said Caroline firmly, but respectful of the matchmaker’s warning. How could this woman who lived surrounded by beautiful paintings and wore a day dress of the finest merino that no doubt was just one of many beautiful things hidden away in her wardrobe understand? The matchmaker’s comings and goings had been of interest to several of the women calling on Elsie, and three different ladies had made mention of Mrs. Sullivan’s monthly salons where writers and ballerinas mingled with barons and even an earl. Mrs. Sullivan had wealth, position, and independence, while Caroline was clinging to what little dignity she had left.

  “I can think of a few gentlemen off the top of my head who will suit,” said Mrs. Sullivan, tapping the barrel of her pen lightly against the edge of her notebook. “I’ll also consult my files in case there’s anyone I’ve overlooked. I’m certain we’ll be able to find you a husband.”

  Caroline’s breath left her in a rush of relief. “Thank you.”

  “Now, tell me, have you met anyone in Edinburgh who intrigues you? It’s best if we approach this as a task we can tackle together. If you come across anyone who interests you, let me know and I’ll make some discreet inquiries.”

  Caroline shook her head. “I’ve only been here a few days, and most of the people I’ve met have been ladies my sister-in-law, Mrs. Burkett, has called on.” She paused, hesitant to even mention Moray’s name. It was imprudent to speak openly when she didn’t know anything about the shifting relationships between people in this new city, but then again, so was trusting a strange matchmaker referred to her via a hurried whisper and a card pressed into her palm.

  “I’ve already met one man who I know is out of the question,” she said.

  That earned her an arched brow and a tiny smile of amusement. “Is that so? Whic
h gentleman would that be?”

  “Mr. Jonathan Moray.”

  “The owner and editor in chief of the Lothian?”

  “And the Tattler.”

  “Did he present himself as a suitor?” asked Mrs. Sullivan with a laugh.

  “He presented himself as an annoyance.”

  “He’s very good at that, which is fortunate given his line of work.”

  “You know him?” asked Caroline, her whole body flushing at the thought that she might’ve insulted one of the matchmaker’s friends.

  “We’re acquaintances. He’s attended a few of my salons and we speak when we find ourselves at the same dinner table, but you’ll soon learn that everyone in Edinburgh is aware of Mr. Moray. He’s a good man to know.”

  “I can’t see why,” grumbled Caroline.

  “Because he owns one of the most powerful papers in the city, although I’m given to understand that Mr. Ross of the Edinburgh Record is a constant annoyance if not quite a threat yet. What did our Mr. Moray do to take himself off your list of potential husbands?”

  “He was never on it,” said Caroline sharply, even though that wasn’t entirely true. For one act of The Misanthrope, he’d been the most intriguing man she’d seen in her short residence.

  “Why not?” asked Mrs. Sullivan.

  “He’s trying to convince me to sell my story to him.”

  “And you’d like it very much if he left you alone.”

  “Yes.”

  “Interesting,” the matchmaker said, pressing her pen against her lips. “You know that he won’t be the only who will come calling. The city is full of reporters and their editors, each more aggressive than the last.”

  Yes, but how many of those other men would she be attracted to?

  “I am prepared for scrutiny, and any journalists will find me more stubborn than they anticipated,” Caroline said.

  Mrs. Sullivan smiled. “I suspect you’ll do just fine for yourself, Miss Burkett. I intend to give a dinner a week from tomorrow. I’d be delighted if you would join me. The invitation would, of course, include Mr. and Mrs. Burkett as well.”

  “Thank you. I’m sure my brother and his wife would be delighted to attend,” said Caroline, making a note to tell Elsie that she should expect an invitation in the next day. If Mrs. Sullivan was as powerful a woman as she seemed, Caroline had little doubt her brother would turn down an opportunity to dine at the woman’s table and take advantage of her connections.

  “Excellent. Dinner should be an intimate affair—only sixteen of us—but I’ll extend the invitation for dancing afterward to more. I’ll be sure to include several eligible gentlemen, and you may tell me if any of them are appealing.”

  A smile tugged at Caroline’s lips. She could easily recall her debutante days, when she’d been the one paraded before bachelors, hoping to catch their eye. Now it seemed the gentlemen would be the ones on display.

  “And you must be my guest for the Caledonian Hunt Ball,” Mrs. Sullivan added.

  She frowned. “The Caledonian Hunt Ball?”

  “It’s an Edinburgh tradition. Every man and woman of influence in the city will be at the Assembly Rooms on George Street. Tradition dictates that the gentlemen must wear highland dress, and ladies will be in their finest evening gowns.”

  At the mention of evening gowns, Caroline’s stomach sank. She had exactly two evening dresses: the pistachio one that she’d already turned and retrimmed once, which she’d worn to the theater, and a light blue glacé silk from two seasons ago. Perhaps if she picked apart the bodice of the blue dress she might—

  “My dressmaker, Lavinia Parkem, is rather talented, but she’s eager to continue poaching away the ladies currently ordering their wardrobe from London and Paris,” said Mrs. Sullivan. “I suspect that if you agreed to wear one of her gowns to the ball, she’d be so grateful that she would forgo the cost of making it up for you.”

  Caroline’s cheeks flamed as she realized that the matchmaker had read her thoughts so clearly. “But why would she do that?”

  “Because a woman of my age is no great advertisement for a dressmaker’s skill, but someone as young and lovely as you would attract the right sort of attention.”

  Caroline’s blush spread, and Mrs. Sullivan reached across the gap between them to lay a comforting hand on Caroline’s. “From invitations to gowns, I’m here to help you however I can. Please do me this favor and allow me to help you.”

  Looking down at her folded hands, Caroline nodded, not liking to take the charity but knowing she needed to. She cleared her throat and said, “I’d be delighted.”

  “Good.” Mrs. Sullivan sat back and closed her book with a snap. “I’ll send word to Lavinia and set up an appointment here. Perhaps you’ll extend my invitation to Mrs. Burkett. It would be a great pleasure to know her better.

  “Now, let me ask Fergus to bring my writing desk so I can write your brother and his wife out an invitation for the party next week.”

  Caroline returned to her brother’s house a half hour later with Madeline in tow, filled with hope. Her plan was going to work. Shored up by an array of new gowns and under the watchful eye of one of the most powerful women in Edinburgh, she couldn’t fail.

  She was just unweaving the pin keeping her little net-and-velvet hat on top of her chignon when Elsie rounded the drawing room door.

  “How was your visit?” her sister-in-law asked.

  Caroline carefully threaded the pin in the brim of her hat before turning to face Elsie. “A success.”

  “Well, that is promising,” said Elsie. “And will she be able to help?”

  “She seems to thinks so. Do you have any objections?”

  Elsie shook her head. “Not at all. I understand the struggle to find a husband. I was in my third season when I met your brother.”

  Being ten years younger than Michael, Caroline could only remember a few of the details of Michael and Elsie’s courtship that had come through a series of letters sent to her mother at regular, weekly intervals. Her father had been alive then, and Mamma had read them out by the fire. Caroline could remember her griping once that Michael wasn’t aiming higher for a bride with greater connections and a larger dowry—not to mention the fact that Elsie was Scottish rather than English—but Papa had put an end to that.

  When Michael had married, Mamma had transferred all of her ambitions for the family’s upward mobility through her children squarely onto Caroline’s shoulders. Caroline had long thought that Michael had been the lucky one, but with everything she’d seen over the last few days, she wondered if the story was a bit more complicated than she’d initially thought.

  “We shall do our very best to follow Mrs. Sullivan’s instructions,” said Elsie with a firm nod.

  “To that end,” Caroline said, reaching into her reticule, “Mrs. Sullivan has invited us to her home next week.”

  Elsie’s eyes widened as Caroline handed over the invitation. “A dinner? Do you know how long I’ve been—?” But then her sister-in-law stopped herself. “That would be lovely.”

  “Do you think Michael will agree?” Caroline asked, biting her lip.

  “Darling, your brother has endeavored for years to secure an invitation to Mrs. Sullivan’s table, although he’ll deny it up and down. I imagine you’ll have a difficult time keeping him away.”

  “Then it’s settled,” said Caroline with a grin. Everything was coming together just as she’d hoped it would.

  The sweet scent of wet grass underfoot brought a smile to Moira’s lips as she walked through the park with her dearest friend, Flora, by her side.

  “I don’t see what you’re so happy about,” Flora grumbled. “The ground still hasn’t dried out.”

  “But it’s stopped raining, and the city smells fresh,” said Moira. Before them, Edinburgh Castle rose up over the sunken beauty of Princes Street Gardens, and behind them the Scott Monument pierced the brilliant blue sky. It was one of those glorious Scottish days made all the mo
re sweet for their rarity.

  Flora snorted. “You have a new client. You always become annoyingly chipper when you have a new client.”

  “I do,” Moira said merrily.

  “Who is it this time?”

  “Now, Flora . . .”

  “I don’t know why you always try to play coy. I’ll guess, or you’ll just wind up telling me in the end because you can’t resist a triumph.”

  Moira laughed. “Can you blame me? Besides, a successful match ends in a wedding announcement and a ceremony. By that point, everyone knows about the happy couple.”

  Flora harrumphed and drove the parasol she was using as a walking stick into the soft ground with a little more force than necessary.

  “You just enjoy meddling,” she said.

  “So you always remind me,” said Moira. “Now, why don’t you help me draw up a list of eligible bachelors? I could use a second opinion.”

  “I don’t know why you think I would be of any help,” her friend said primly.

  “Because you read the scandal sheets even more religiously than I do. London and Edinburgh.”

  “Well, I might have a few ideas,” said Flora with a toss of her head.

  Moira laughed. “I thought you might. I’ll need to invite at least a couple of them to dinner next week and a handful more for dancing afterward.”

  “Is there anyone in particular?” Flora asked.

  “Yes,” Moira said with a little smile, “I think Jonathan Moray would make a lively companion.”

  “You’re not thinking of Mr. Moray as a possible match for your mysterious client, are you?” asked Flora.

  Moira lifted one shoulder in a noncommittal shrug. “Do you think he’s not suitable? He’s invited to all the right places.”

  “He has no family to speak of.” Flora held up a hand just as Moira opened her mouth to protest that neither had she when she married. “Before you object, I’m not such a snob as to hold that against him. He’s an intelligent man and the newspapers he’s built up are nothing to thumb your nose at, but he’s also an inveterate bachelor.”