Time to get to business. “I have a small fee,” she said delicately. “A small token of appreciation, my clients consider it, just a—”
“I will pay double,” interrupted the dowager countess.
Theodosia’s eyebrows raised. Very few clients ever quibbled over her fee; that would be bad manners, and the last thing one wanted to do in the process of securing a matchmaker was to come across as miserly.
At the same time, few people looked forward to paying it. With about twenty matches made every year, Theodosia had to charge sufficiently high fees to live on.
The Lenskeyn family was wealthy, certainly. But why double? Why was his mother so desperate to marry him off?
As though able to read her mind, the dowager said quietly, “I need heirs, Miss Ashbrooke. My son grows old, and I grow older, and yet there are no heirs to the earldom.”
Theodosia nodded. It was not a new story.
“I inherited the earldom through my father for my son,” the elderly woman continued. “The line of the Lenskeyns runs through my veins, and I will not allow the family name to disappear. There may have been…children, you understand. My husband was not an honorable man. But not heirs. For a legitimate heir, my son needs a wife. Find him one.”
Theodosia swallowed. This was all most irregular. She had usually met the son in question, or the daughter, depending on who was paying the fee and could estimate the level of difficulty that finding a partner for them would be.
Everyone had faults. She had seen too much of the world to think otherwise. But in the case of the Earl of Lenskeyn, she had no idea what faults she would be forced to look past or…well, improve upon.
Handsome or ill-featured? Charming or despicable?
It was impossible to tell. There was not even enough gossip about the earl to draw upon.
“My son. He is a true challenge.”
Theodosia smiled. She could not turn down a challenge. She never had.
Nevertheless, it was against her better judgment that she said, “You know, my lady, I cannot make promises. Not every client of mine finds their true match immediately, and your son is…?”
“Near forty,” said his mother with a sniff. “And double your fee may not be enough.”
What was this man like? “You know exactly what to say to interest me, don’t you?”
Finally, the Dowager Countess of Lenskeyn turned to look at her. Her face was wrinkled, and her eyes a soft blue with the same sharpness they had undoubtedly possessed fifty years ago.
It was an appraising look, and her words were direct when she spoke. “Miss Ashbrooke, it is clear to me you are plain but clever. You are precisely what my son needs. Coaching to become a better man. A matchmaker to find him a wife.”
It was impossible not to feel offended at the woman’s words, but Theodosia was not proud enough to argue. She had a little beauty, but it had already started to fade. She had no title, no wealth to recommend her, besides the small amount she had squirreled away for her pension.
“And that is what makes me an excellent matchmaker,” she said. “You cannot have a pretty one.”
The dowager graced her with another smile. “I knew we would understand each other, Miss Ashbrooke. So, will you accept my son as a client? A project?”
Theodosia hesitated. It went against her better judgment, accepting a client without even meeting him. The little his mother had said about him hardly recommended him to a matchmaker, and the doubled fee suggested his parent considered him twice as difficult to match.
She nodded. “I will.”
The dowager nodded as she rose to her feet. “Good luck. You will need it.”
Chapter Two
Albemarle Howard, Earl of Lenskeyn, sighed heavily as he looked around the stuffy, over-adorned rooms his mother had secured for the Season in Bath. Gold trimmings around the paintings, red velvet curtains with beads along the bottom, a carpet so deep his boots were rapidly disappearing…if he cut his mother in half, he would find ostentatious carved through her.
He would not have minded so much if the indulgence had been in the latest style. Grecian columns were very popular at the moment, and Albemarle had spent enough time in Greece to appreciate the architectural styling.
But as his gaze swept across the room, he saw none of the fashionable choices he had hoped for. No, it was all 1790s glamour, the style his mother had adored when he had been a child.
It felt like a lifetime ago. It was a lifetime ago.
Now his next birthday would be his fortieth, and he was beginning to feel…not old, exactly. Not even matured.
Left behind.
His back hurt if he slept on his stomach now, and he had more silver hairs than he would care to examine.
“I do not know why she wanted to meet me here,” he said. “Or at all, for that matter.”
His mother was not in the room to explain her strange plans. She had not yet appeared, and so instead, he spoke to the footman in their damned livery, all blue and yellow. Like a canary.
The man looked straight ahead without saying a word. Utter passivity, just like the ruling classes, Albemarle thought dully. It would not be long before he was back on the Continent, away from all this drudgery.
When had England become so…boring?
After another five minutes of waiting, the earl put his plate of cake down and started pacing about the room. Like a caged lion captured from the plains after years of ruling as king, he was stuck here.
He reached the window and watched the world go by. He was a dutiful son, in the main. At least, he considered himself a dutiful son. His mother said, “Do not get into mischief in London,” so he went to the Continent for a decade. His mother said, “I need you back in the country,” and he spent a year in Ireland with Patrick O’Leary. Good man. Viscount Donal was different, though. Married.
But today was perhaps her most specific demand. Meet her here, in her rooms, at eleven o’clock the next morning.
And here he was. It was impossible to refuse, and not just because the demand was written in her own hand. It was a strange summons, even for her. He had arrived with five minutes to spare, but now the clocks were chiming half past the hour, and he was getting impatient.
A gaggle of schoolboys swept along the street, hurried along by a schoolmistress who looked quite domineering, even from two floors up. A pair of gentlemen walked by, debating something hotly. Politics, probably.
And there was a lady. She stood on the other side of the street, a pocket watch in her hands. Probably waiting for a friend to visit the shops on Milsom Street, Albemarle thought.
Even she had something better to do than wait around here for his mother.
Despite himself, he smiled as he started pacing again. His mother always ensured she was late, even for her son. She always did whatever she wanted. Her superiority complex dwarfed the Regent himself.
“You are very quiet.” The words were snapped out by the only person in the world who could order him about in the sure knowledge he would acquiesce.
“Yes, I am, Mother,” Albemarle said quickly, falling back in the ridiculous armchair with more stuffing than a turkey.
The dowager countess swept around the room and stood, meaningfully, beside his armchair.
Albemarle sighed, rose, and kissed his mother on the cheek.
“I should think so,” she said haughtily, but her lips curled up at the corners. “Now sit down, Albie, that’s a good boy.”
The good boy of almost forty years sat, lounging back as he beheld his mother. She had not seemed to age a day since he had last saw her—what, a year ago?
Whatever reason she had for summoning him, it was probably just one of those visits she demanded periodically because she missed him, a sentiment which always confused him.
He had invited her to Greece, not once but several times. She had refused to make the visit. They had met once, by appointment, in Paris. A compromise, he had said. A damned cheek, she had said.
&nbs
p; “You look terrible,” she said as she took her seat.
Albemarle smiled. “You always say that, and I never do.”
Every so often, this happened. She would get worried about the family and demand to see her sons. If he were nearby—or on the same island, which essentially was the same thing—he would come, sit with her, and then be back on his way.
Elmore’s death had hit her hard. The funeral had only been…what, a week ago? It felt like an age. No mother should bury her son.
Unaccustomed to seeing his mother twice in the same calendar year, let alone the same month, Albemarle shifted in his seat. He had nothing against her, obviously. Damn fine woman. But she was hardly the best companion.
“Hmm,” his mother said, pouring a cup of tea and handing it to him without asking whether he wanted one. A plate of biscuits was between them. She did not offer them to him. “And how have you been, Albemarle? You may go.”
This last sentence had been thrown at the footman who bowed, relieved to be given permission to escape.
As the door shut, the dowager countess snapped, “You have not told me how you are.”
“I was waiting for the hired help to depart. I don’t know where you find them, Mother,” he said, drinking the lukewarm tea. “And I have been fine, thank you.”
After pouring a cup of tea for herself, she looked at him critically. “And there isn’t anything else?”
He sighed. It always went in this pattern—he was not even sure anymore why he bothered turning up. He knew the script and could probably fill in half her words to boot.
“What do you want to hear about, Mother? My gambling debts? The man I almost fought in a duel last week for his cheek? The woman I—”
“That is quite enough of that,” his mother interrupted wearily. “You know I have no wish to hear about anything like that. Really, you are a most disagreeable child.”
He grinned. “Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, Mother.”
It was impossible to keep a mischievous tone from his voice. They shared the same opinion of his father, and it had been a relief to many, not just the family, that the man had died twenty years ago.
He reached for a biscuit and almost gagged. It was very dry. Taking a huge gulp of tea to force it down, he tried not to cough.
“I attended the wedding of Charles, Duke of Orrinshire, a few days ago.”
Albemarle rolled his eyes. He did not need his mother to continue—now he knew precisely why he had been summoned, but no amount of complaining would do any good.
He was not going to roll over like a damned dog and simply accept a bride because his mother wanted him to have one.
“Oh, yes?” he replied as casually as he could. No point attempting to head her off the topic. Better to let her get it out of her system, and then they could return to conversation like rational beings.
“Yes,” said his mother, her voice iron. “The bride was a Miss Priscilla Seton. Nice girl, I think. Good family.”
He smiled. “I am very pleased for Orrinshire, then. You know, I heard of a scandal recently that I think you will like. ’Tis between Marnmouth, the Earl, you know, and—”
“I do not want to hear the gossip of others,” she said, slamming her teacup onto its saucer. Tea seeped over the rim. “I want to create some gossip for ourselves—meaningful gossip. Albemarle Howard, you are the fourteenth Earl of Lenskeyn. You are almost forty! It is time you were married.”
Albemarle’s heart sank. Just another advancement in the campaign to force a bride upon him.
She wanted to marry him off, like some sort of…of woman!
“I thank you for your concern, Mother, but I have plenty of time,” he began easily.
Her glare deepened. “You are almost forty, you foolish man. Do you really think you have that much time?”
It was at that moment his damned back gave a twinge. He had never given his age much thought. What was forty? Now he was starting to feel it. When a cold wind blew through Ireland, his bones knew a storm was coming.
“I do not feel old,” he said defensively, a complete lie in the moment.
His mother snorted. “When I was your age, I had two sons and four daughters. What do you have?”
Albemarle smiled. “Debts, a mysterious reputation, and no ties to anyone, save yourself, Mother.”
It was possible the look she gave him—a mixture of disapproval, disappointment, and disbelief—hid a smile.
“I should have known you would not take this seriously,” she sighed. “You will have to eventually.”
“I honestly do not see why.”
She was not a woman easily beaten, but her voice cracked as she said, “Because my husband—your foolish father!—changed the entail, that’s why.”
The words rang out in the drawing room, and for the first time in the conversation, Albemarle leaned forward with interest.
“Ah, the old Lenskeyn entail,” he grinned. “I think it was a rather good idea. No reason why, just because you did not have any brothers, that the line should go extinct. You carried the title through your bloodline and into me, your son.”
His mother looked quite distressed now. “Yes, but that was the old entail.”
“The old entail?” He had never heard of a change. “Why was I not told about this before?”
She glared. “When you live on this island for more than two minutes, then you can dictate what you should or shouldn’t be told!”
The barb barely stung. Albemarle had no love for England—no hatred for it, either. It was just…boring. He wanted to see the world. Now he was back, and the entire way his title would descend had been altered?
“You are my only male heir, and you have no children. Your father…” His mother’s voice trailed away for a moment as she collected herself.
Albemarle’s features hardened. Neither of them had kind words to say about his father, and they had mutually agreed, years ago, to speak of him as little as possible.
“He changed the entail,” she managed. “One of your sisters can no longer inherit the title for their sons. It has to be one of my sons, and that means you. If your brother had lived…”
Once again, her voice trailed away, the anger gone. She gave a huge sigh and covered her face with her hands, sobbing loudly. The iron dowager had been reduced to tears.
It was this emotion, rather than the barely concealed fury, that finally broke through Albemarle’s armor.
“Damn it all, Mother, don’t cry,” he said quietly, fishing out his handkerchief and handing it over.
It took a few minutes for the older woman to collect herself, breathing slowly for a minute, before she could continue in a firm voice.
“If Elmore had lived, it would have been different. He was married. Why, his widow may even now be with child!”
Albemarle nodded. Unlikely, but possible. “I admit, I find it hard to believe he died only two weeks ago.”
“Well, there it is,” his mother said, irritably. “If she is with child, if she has a son, that will be different. We will have a Howard of the next generation, but if it is a girl…We need to wait and see, but until then, we need you to marry. One heir is not sufficient. We need more.”
Albemarle shifted uncomfortably. Elmore was besotted with his wife. Everyone knew that. After five years of marriage, of waiting, of prayers, no child had come. Elmore had died just weeks ago, and he had barely considered what that would mean for him.
Heirs. Damn and blast, but he, a father?
“We need heirs,” his mother repeated.
“No, you need heirs,” he snapped, unable to help himself.
Her eyes sparkled. “Yes, I need heirs. ’Tis my title I have carried for you. If I could have more sons, I would, but the baton has been passed to you now. It is time for you to act like your title, like the privilege your name has accorded you, and look for a bride.”
She was staring with such desperation that Albemarle actually considered the possibility. A bride. A wife.
A mother to his children?
It was a heady thought, and though it conjured up some rather fanciful ideas about pleasure on tap, surely no amount of bedding could make up for the fact he would be tied down. One woman. One home. A family.
It was not for him.
One look at his mother told him, saying that outright was hardly a wise idea. He would not lie to the poor woman, but neither must he tell the absolute truth.
Humoring his mother was not the same as lying. She did not need to know he had no intention of marrying anyone.
There was a way out of this, if only he could find it.
“’Tis not as easy as all that, Mother,” he said, testing the waters. “There are not as many eligible young ladies around, and then there is all the trouble of courting, wooing, and then the proposal—it is a lot of work.”
“If you are about to try to tell me that finding a bride is as difficult as carrying and birthing a child,” his mother said severely, “I recommend you desist.”
Albemarle swallowed. Well, that was probably fair.
“But you must admit, I could spend all that time on a lady just to find that she has no serious intentions,” he said.
The damned title. What did he care for a title? It could go to a cousin for all he cared—there were plenty of Howard cousins in the most fashionable homes in the country.
“Mother, I understand your desire to know where the title will go next,” he said instead, trying a different tack. “I think it is probably easier to find a Howard cousin, and—”
“Do not worry yourself,” she interrupted imperiously. “I have taken care of everything.”
Albemarle’s heart sank. That was an ominous phrase, especially from his mother. It was only then that something which had been nagging at the back of his mind finally came to the fore.
She was still holding his handkerchief, but now he examined her face more closely, it was clear she had not shed a tear.
“What do you mean, taken care of it?” he said suspiciously. “No, I am serious. I heard all about Orrinshire’s two engagements, the nonsense and trouble he managed to land himself in. No arranged marriage, do you hear me? I would have thought his experience would have frightened you off that trick.”
Always the Matchmaker (Never the Bride Book 8) Page 2