The Matchmaker

by Kay Hooper

  “Felice says we are, so I suppose I will. It’ll be stifling, too, with a house full of people. I swear if this heat doesn’t end, I’m heading north until winter.”

  “You hate winter.”

  “I’ve learned to hate summer.”

  The conversation remained casual all the way back into town, and it wasn’t until he was dressing later that Cyrus allowed himself to consider the question of his birthmark. He paused before putting his shirt on to study it, frowning. No soreness, no heat, no reason at all to suppose he’d done anything to injure that part of his arm and change the mark. But it was definitely different from last year, last week. Different from yesterday.

  He went to his wardrobe and reached into the back to get the cane, then carried it to a chair near his bed and sat studying it. Though the carving of the gold looked merely ornate at first glance, a closer look revealed a number of symbols nearly hidden within meaningless decorative contours. Cyrus had found them the night the cane had been left for him, but they hadn’t meant anything to him. Now he wondered if they should.

  Stars, some connected with faint lines. Planets. The sun. And the moon. The quarter moon.

  The crescent shape was carved into the gold on the top of the cane, where a hand would normally rest when it was in use, and it was more deeply carved than any of the other symbols. Cyrus looked at it for a long moment, then held the cane in one hand and pressed that golden quarter moon against the mark on his arm.

  It was a perfect match in size and shape.

  In the silence of his bedroom, Cyrus asked, “But what the hell does it mean?” And there was no answer.

  —

  The timing, he had decided, had to be perfect, and so he had been forced to curb impatience…and wait. He felt an odd fascination for the other, a strong curiosity. What interested him most of all was, the other had no awareness of him. A blind spot, perhaps. He had certainly recognized his womb-mate the first time he’d seen him.

  It had been very difficult to contain his rage then, the first time. But it had gotten easier. Especially when he’d understood the other sensed no threat from him. Indeed, his womb-mate seemed not to know of his existence, of their connection. It was odd. He’d been given the knowledge, so why hadn’t the other? He had finally come to the conclusion it was because he was the true son. He had, after all, meddled in the other’s life with impunity, arranging several events so skillfully, his shaping touch had never been detected. It was clear evidence of his superiority.

  He found it amusing to interfere with the destinies of people and course of events, to snip a thread here or there so the pattern became disturbed. He wanted to go on doing that, but a sense of urgency had come over him in recent days. Something new had entered the pattern. He didn’t know what it was, but he felt it. The other was changing too quickly. Was it because of the woman? She annoyed him; he couldn’t seem to affect her life entirely the way he’d meant to. He had known she was intended for his womb-mate, and he’d made certain she was out of reach, but she hadn’t broken as he’d been sure she would.

  Still, it might be amusing to watch the two of them struggle against fate. For a while, anyway. The only danger to his plans would be if they mated now—but she was too terrified to let that happen. He had made very sure she would be.

  In the meantime, he had to consider carefully the best way to proceed. He had the gun primed and ready; all that remained was to decide when to point it and pull the trigger. He found it difficult to think of autumn in the sweltering heat of summer—but it would come, then winter, and it had to be over by then.

  He thought he could afford a little more patience. A few weeks, perhaps. But he’d have to keep a close watch, and be alert to everything that was going on. He’d have to try to discover if there really was something other than the woman causing his womb-mate to change and, if so, what it meant to his plans.

  But he was confident.

  —

  “My compliments to the cook. This is excellent.”

  “I’ll tell her. I’m sure she’ll be pleased.” Julia smiled politely at Cyrus, conscious of the strong feeling of unreality. At the opposite end of the long table, Adrian was laughing at a joke someone had told him, and between her and her husband a dozen guests talked as they ate dinner.

  Just a normal party, that was all. Except that from the moment Adrian had formally introduced her to Cyrus, Julia had felt the strange sensation of everything around her being unreal and peculiarly deceptive. It wasn’t only her tension or her acute consciousness of Cyrus and what had passed between them; it was almost like watching a play, and knowing it wasn’t real, knowing when the curtain came down it would be over.

  It unnerved her.

  She couldn’t fault Cyrus’s behavior. He’d been the perfect dinner guest, dividing his attention equally between Julia and the lady on his right. His eyes expressed nothing but mild enjoyment, his voice was quiet and calm, and he hadn’t betrayed by so much as the slightest sign that he considered Julia anything other than his hostess at a social event.

  Julia hoped her mask was half as deceptive. Her emotional state was so odd, and between the heat, Adrian’s ragged temper, and the tension of knowing she’d have to get through this party, she was so exhausted she just wanted to find a dark, cool place somewhere and sleep for a week. But she doubted anyone suspected her feelings. Social manners had been drummed into her all her life, and in the past two years she had perfected her public behavior.

  So she was able to talk to both Cyrus and the man on her left calmly about casual subjects, performing her duties as hostess with the elegance and grace for which she was well known. No one, except perhaps Cyrus, could possibly have guessed her serene facade concealed a chaotic bundle of tense emotions.

  It was a bit easier for her later, when the party guests arrived and the ballroom filled with the noise and movements of nearly a hundred people. Julia kept busy as hostesses always did, moving around the huge room speaking to people, finding dance partners for wallflowers, performing introductions, and overseeing the servants. She held on to her smile, acted by rote, and tried not to think at all.

  —

  “The Populist Party won’t last much longer,” Cyrus said, leaning back against the balustrade with his arms crossed over his chest.

  “They sure as hell haven’t been able to elect a president,” Fred Daulton said with a laugh, taking a glass from a passing maid’s tray and managing to “accidentally” bring his hand into contact with the breast of the servant.

  It was fairly dark on the veranda, Cyrus thought, so maybe it had been an accident. Then again, since the darkly handsome Daulton had a reputation among his male friends for preferring servant girls or whores to ladies, perhaps not. Cyrus took a glass from the girl’s tray with a nod of thanks and returned his attention to the group of men who stood around him a few feet from the open French doors of the ballroom.

  “They got a foot inside Congress,” Adrian Drummond reminded the others.

  “A small foot,” Cyrus interjected. “But they have a few good ideas. The other parties may adopt some of them.”

  “Didn’t know you followed politics, Cy,” Noel commented a bit dryly.

  “I read the newspapers.”

  “What’s your party?” Drummond asked in a casual tone.

  Cyrus lifted his glass in a faintly mocking salute. “I vote for the man, not the party.”

  Peter Reynolds slapped at a mosquito and said irritably, “There isn’t a man worth voting for, not these days. Those fools in Washington are going to bring us all to ruin.” He was a heavyset man of average height and excessive arrogance who had been known to knock another man down for expressing different views. He was also known for his unshakable belief that women’s suffrage would destroy the country.

  “If we give them the chance,” Adam Prescott said. He was a tall man, blond like Drummond, and tended to be both cheerful and affable. Like the others in the group, he was personally wealthy and qui
te influential in Richmond. “We need to make changes, and soon.”

  “Perhaps it’s time for fresh blood,” Adrian Drummond suggested. “New ideas.”

  “Do you have any?” Noel asked him, and only Cyrus realized that the question was more than a little ironic.

  “I have a few.” Drummond went on to explain where he stood on several subjects, expressing himself with such appealing candor and earnestness that it took even Cyrus a few moments to realize that the man’s political ideas were old and stale rather than new, strongly favored the rich and influential, and contained more than a suggestion of about five different kinds of bigotry.

  When the speech had ended, Cyrus said casually, “Interesting views. But there are other important issues. We all know where Reynolds stands on the subject of granting women the vote. What’s your position?”

  Drummond laughed. “I think any man would agree the ladies should tend to their homes. They aren’t capable of logical thought, and certainly haven’t the knowledge to form intelligent political opinions. Aside from which, can you imagine the lengths unscrupulous politicians would go to in order to secure female votes? We’d have population explosions of bastards born nine months after every election.”

  If he even knew that Cyrus himself was illegitimate, he seemed to have forgotten the fact. Cyrus didn’t change expression, still smiling faintly when he said, “I see. Then you favor strong laws restricting women’s rights—both in and out of marriage.”

  “Naturally. We know what’s best for them.”

  “Not according to my wife,” Noel put in.

  Indulgently, Drummond said, “Oh, they may resent a few things, but the laws have to make sense. If we left it up to the women, they’d have us turn all our money over to them and be legally obliged to smile and give our names to other men’s bastards.”

  Noel spoke up then with an innocent statement to the effect that he’d heard Congress was weakening on the subject of women’s suffrage, which, with Reynolds a part of the group, was tantamount to throwing the cat among the pigeons.

  The attack on Washington instantly became a bit fiery as at least three voices hotly questioned the rationality and sense of the government. When Cyrus, who hadn’t offered an opinion, slipped away to head toward the ballroom, Noel followed him as far as the French doors.

  “Cy, are you out of your mind?” he demanded in a low voice. “I half expected you to ask point-blank if Drummond would mind his wife being unfaithful to him.”

  Calmly, Cyrus said, “I got the information I was looking for.”

  “Which is?”

  “Have another drink, Noel. And enjoy the party.” He strolled into the ballroom.

  —

  Julia had danced several times with guests, but it was still something of a shock when Cyrus approached her halfway through the evening and asked her to dance.

  No one was near them, and Julia hesitated almost imperceptibly before she gave him her hand.

  He looked at her very steadily, and said in a quiet voice, “I always dance with my hostess.”

  The musicians were playing a waltz, and as she went into his arms, very conscious of one big hand at her waist and the other holding hers in a light clasp, she fought a half-guilty, half-fearful impulse to look around for Adrian. Cyrus seemed to read her mind.

  “He’s out on the veranda discussing politics. Don’t worry, Julia. I really do always dance with my hostess.”

  He danced beautifully, with astonishing grace for such a big man. She had to tilt her head back to look up at him, and only the fact that he seemed so calm enabled her to keep her own mask firmly in place. “Do you pick and choose social conventions according to what might amuse you to obey?” she asked lightly.

  “I’m afraid so. The trick in life is to set your own standards. Now, I happen to believe showing appreciation to one’s hostess is a sensible and polite thing to do. On the other hand, not speaking to a lady until I’ve been formally introduced seems quite ridiculous.”

  “Is that why you spoke to Lissa?”

  “She told you about that, I see. Then you must know if I’d waited to be introduced before speaking to her or, God forbid, touching her, she would have broken her neck. Instead, I broke a rule. Sometimes we have to do that, Julia.”

  “You shouldn’t—”

  “I know, I shouldn’t address you so familiarly. I won’t, except when no one can hear.”

  His voice roughened on the words, and it made her heart skip a beat. Quite suddenly, she couldn’t think of anything to say.

  After a moment, his tone casual again, Cyrus said, “Lissa seems a very nice girl. I like her frankness.”

  “Oh, Lord, what did she say?” Julia asked involuntarily.

  A gleam of amusement lit Cyrus’s eyes. “Nothing scandalous. Just that I wasn’t nearly as bad-mannered as people said.”

  Even as Julia was thinking, He does have a laugh in his eyes, she was saying, “I’m sorry, she shouldn’t have said that.”

  “Why not? It’s perfectly true. I’m bad-mannered only when I want to be. I hope you’ve noticed that tonight I’m on my best behavior.”

  Julia didn’t quite know how to respond, so it was lucky the dance ended then. He escorted her to an unoccupied settee placed against the wall, collected two glasses from a passing tray, and sat down beside her with the correct foot of space between them.

  Before she could say a word, he handed her a glass and said, “I always spend a few minutes sitting with my hostess.”

  She couldn’t help but give him a wary look. “Do you?”

  He smiled slightly. “I really do. I also spent over an hour talking politics with your husband, and I’ll make a point of spending time with several other ladies before I go. No one will notice anything out of the ordinary, Julia.”

  Again he’d left her with nothing to say. She sipped the chilled fruit juice in her glass, then unfurled her fan and began using it. Though the French doors leading to the veranda were standing open, the ballroom was uncomfortably hot, and with all the layers of clothing fashion demanded—most especially the rigid corset—Julia felt enervated. She hadn’t been so conscious of it before, and with all her attention focused on Cyrus she had even enjoyed the dance, but now she could feel the effects of heat and tension wearing away at her.

  “Is it Adrian you’re afraid of?” Cyrus asked abruptly.

  Julia clung to her gracious and meaningless smile, but she couldn’t look away from those intent black eyes, and was frightened that her own might be pleading. She kept her voice low. “Please, you said you wouldn’t—”

  “I said I wouldn’t show my feelings publicly and I wouldn’t keep pressing you. But I have to know the truth, Julia. You didn’t refuse me, you refused an affair. The very idea seemed to terrify you. All evening I’ve felt the tension in you, wound so tightly it could snap at any minute. If it’s because I’m here, then you’re afraid of so much more than simply betraying what might have been between us.” He drew a short breath, and the intensity in his voice didn’t show at all on his face. “You act like the perfect wife, but it doesn’t come from your heart. So where does it come from?”

  “You have no right to ask me such a question,” she said softly. “My marriage is my own concern.” She wondered if her polite smile looked as unnatural as it felt.

  “Julia—”

  “Cyrus, please.” She was at the end of her rope, and the strain quivered in her voice. She’d used his given name without thinking, realizing only when his eyes flickered.

  “All right,” he said immediately, gently. “All right, I won’t say anything more about it. At least for now.” Before she could reply, he began talking casually about a new exhibit at the museum, asking if she’d seen it. She replied almost at random, her mind worrying over his last promise—and it had been a promise. He wasn’t giving up.

  When another guest approached them a few minutes later and requested a dance with Julia, Cyrus gave way with perfect propriety and no app
arent reluctance. She saw him numerous times afterward, dancing with several ladies, married and unmarried, and sitting with at least three others for a brief, socially correct interval. She saw him outside the French doors talking to a group of men that included Adrian. She saw him dance with Lissa, who seemed highly entertained by whatever he was discussing with her.

  Remembering later, Julia was never sure how she managed to get through the remainder of the evening. No one looked at her oddly or commented, so she supposed her behavior was normal enough. By the time the last guest had departed, however, and Adrian had gone up to bed—cheerfully, for him—Julia was so drained she felt she couldn’t put one foot in front of the other.

  She told the servants they could clear the post-party clutter in the morning, then went slowly up the stairs. She met Lissa, already in her dressing gown, on the landing, and her sister’s pretty face immediately tightened in concern.

  “Julia, you look worn out!”

  “It’s the heat, I think,” Julia responded with what ease she could muster. “I’ll be all right once I peel away about three layers of fashion and have a cool bath.”

  “Didn’t Adrian come up a little while ago? You can use my bath if you don’t want to disturb him.”

  “No.” Julia knew she’d answered too abruptly, and fought to keep her voice light. “My bath’s filled and waiting for me.”

  Lissa shook her head slightly, a troubled frown on her face. “You have to stop pushing yourself so hard, especially in this heat.”

  “I wasn’t the one who danced all evening,” Julia returned.

  “You certainly weren’t a wallflower! And, anyway, I mostly danced with Mark, except for that waltz with Mr. Fortune. Do you like him, Julia? I saw you dancing with him. He’s very pleasant and amusing, isn’t he?”

  Casually, Julia said, “Yes, very.” Then she looked at her sister rather searchingly, wondering if Cyrus had made too strong an impression on Lissa. Other than Adrian, she’d never seemed to notice older men before. Slowly, she said, “It seems to be getting serious with Mark.”