A Matchmaker's Match

by Nina Coombs Pykare

  She stopped, waving a hand in an aimless circle, then pressing it to her brow. “Oh dear! And now I’ve lost track of what I meant to tell you.”

  “Perhaps,” said Lady Linden, her round face creasing into a satisfied smile, “perhaps it had to do with Lady Psyche’s fortune-telling. Earlier today you mentioned that she can tell amazing things about the future. And with just a deck of playing cards.”

  “Oh yes!” Aunt Anna cried, clapping her hands. “She can!”

  Psyche swallowed an urge to garnish Lady Linden’s more than ample bosom with the remains of her tortoise soup. She’d been quite right in her supposition. As usual, the Lindens were out to make trouble. Unfortunately, she had no means to stop them.

  “My dear,” Aunt Anna cried, her eyes sparkling, “after dinner you simply must amuse us.”

  “I’m afraid I have no playing cards,” Psyche said, careful to keep the satisfaction out of her voice. She sent a speaking look to Overton, silently imploring him not to produce a deck of cards.

  Beside her, the earl frowned. It was obvious to him that Psyche didn’t want to tell fortunes. It was equally obvious that the Lindens would continue to harass her until they trapped her into more Lady Bluestocking bon mots. Surely telling fortunes from cards would be the safer pastime.

  He smiled to himself. If Psyche told fortunes, he could assist her. He could carry her about. And he could get her to read the cards for him. She would not be able to escape him—at least not for the space of her fortune-telling. And the Lindens would not get any more ammunition to use against her. Psyche was not to be trifled with. Not when he was present, at least.

  When the Lindens said nothing, Psyche heaved a sigh of relief. Apparently they had no cards either. They were foiled—at least for the moment.

  And then from beside her, from the last person she would have expected to give any help to the Lindens, came a deep chuckle. “I have a deck of playing cards,” the earl said, “quite new, in fact. And I shall be pleased to offer them to Lady Psyche if she will entertain us later.”

  His smile was all graciousness, but his eyes were twinkling again. What strange ideas of amusement the man had.

  But she knew she was fairly caught. Glancing down the table she saw Aunt Anna beaming happily, Gresham nodding enthusiastically, and Georgie clapping her hands in glee. “It will be capital fun,” Georgie cried. “Psyche is really very good at it.”

  Psyche, stealing a glance at the Lindens, found them both wearing complacent smiles. And no wonder. They had achieved their end and now would be able to bruit it about London that Lady Bluestocking was up to her old tricks.

  Smiling, Aunt Anna returned to her dinner, Georgie turned to converse again with Gresham, and Amanda resumed her agitated discussion with her guardian, the subject of which Psyche feared was the distressing conduct of her new mentor. Psyche resumed eating her partridge.

  “Your popularity spreads,” the earl remarked softly, leaning toward her.

  She fixed him with a gimlet eye, trying to appear incensed. But he was such a devilishly attractive man with his eyes sparkling in that mischievous way and his lips curling into that appealing smile that she found her own lips trying to curve into an answering smile.

  Still, she tried to be stern. “Perhaps,” she told him, “I do not wish to tell fortunes. Didn’t that occur to you?”

  “No.” He appeared genuinely surprised. “It didn’t. Why ever not? As Georgie says, it sounds like great fun.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “For you, perhaps. But tell me”—she lowered her voice—”why do you abet the Lindens in their infamous behavior?”

  He shrugged his shoulders, reminding her again of their considerable breadth. “Perhaps I wished to see you in action.” He grinned. “Or perhaps I wanted to discover my future.”

  “I can tell you your future without cards,” she said darkly. “You will come to no good end.”

  He chuckled. “Because I have aided and abetted the enemy?”

  She knew she was smiling, yet she was unable to stop. “Precisely. If you had kept quiet, I could have avoided this tangle.”

  He shrugged. “Perhaps. But to what end?”

  She stared at him. “To what end? To the end of not adding to Lady Bluestocking’s already more than adequate notoriety.”

  His eyes danced. “Do you seriously believe you can keep the Lindens from spreading gossip about you?”

  She smiled grimly. “Not unless they are both taken deathly ill and rendered mute.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Then why not amuse the rest of us with your talents?”

  Why not, indeed. She supposed her reluctance must seem peculiar to him. “You see— It’s just— I had hoped to leave Lady Bluestocking buried, keep her out of my return to London. Resurrection of the Bluestocking stories will hardly increase Amanda’s matrimonial chances, you know.”

  He looked at her over the rim of his wineglass. “Does that mean you have made up your mind, you have decided to take on the come-out?”

  She nodded, the decision made. “Yes, it’s quite foolish of me I suppose, but I have always risen to a challenge. In effect the Lindens have dared me to do it. And so I feel I must.”

  He seemed to consider this for some moments while he ate. Then he turned to her and raised a dark eyebrow. “So, did someone dare you to become Lady Bluestocking?”

  She sighed, wishing for the hundredth time that the Lindens had let Lady Bluestocking lie-dead and buried—and quite forgotten. “No,” she said. “It just—sort of happened.”

  That was not precisely the truth. It had just-sort of—happened because she had made it happen. She had set out deliberately to make herself the talk of the town, and she had succeeded beyond her fondest aspirations. Lady Bluestocking’s escapades, her anti-marriage sentiments, her diatribes against husbands, her acid recriminations against the male half of the species, were recounted far and near, whispered about in every fashionable club and drawing room in London—and far beyond.

  She had achieved the effect she desired, convincing her suitors that she was not suitable wifely material, that marriage to her, in spite of her rather large fortune, would be more trouble than it was worth.

  She sipped her wine. What a pity the earl hadn’t been around then. Lady Bluestocking might never have seen the light of day if the handsome, witty earl had been there to trade badinage and warm looks with her.

  But of course the present warmth in his looks was entirely due to his friendship with Overton. She was, after all, cousin to Overton, and so the earl would exert himself to keep her amused. And, of course, being Lady Bluestocking, she was safe company. There was nothing more to it than that. She was going to London to arrange Amanda’s come-out, after all, not to embark on some husband-hunting jaunt of her own. Lady Bluestocking would never find a husband. She had seen to that five years ago.

  A lump rose in her throat, making it temporarily difficult to swallow. How silly people could be, believing every ridiculous thing she said—or at least believing she believed it.

  Chapter Six

  After dinner, the gentlemen, eager to hear their fortunes read, decided by common consent to forego their port. The earl dispatched a footman to his room to acquire the playing cards from his valet. Then he lifted Psyche again and carried her back to the library.

  He paused in the doorway, looking down at her with sparkling eyes. “Where do you wish to be deposited?” he inquired.

  Psyche found it difficult to behave normally, as though they were just making polite conversation, when all the time this most attractive man had one arm under her knees and the other around her back, when her cheek was resting against his shoulder, and his darkly handsome face was so close to hers that her heart wanted to jump out of her bosom.

  She tried to think sensibly, but it was not easy. “I don’t know. I shall need a table—to lay out the cards. And something to sit on.”

  He nodded. “Perhaps the sofa is best for you. You will be more comfortable t
here with your foot up.”

  “Yes, I suppose so.” She appreciated the earl’s concern for her. Goodness, without him she’d be stuck up there in her room, with only Curtis for company. Still, it did seem that he was carrying his friendship for Overton a little far, especially considering her cousin’s prudish anxiety over reputations.

  Then she had another thought. Perhaps this was not a thing of friendship, perhaps the earl was ragging his friend. These London bucks did like to tease each other. And Overton certainly had a tendency to get flustered, to be overmuch concerned with propriety.

  As though her thoughts had summoned him, Overton crossed the room, his forehead wrinkled in a worried frown. “Really, Psyche,” he said, pulling at his cravat. “Don’t you think this is a trifle excessive?”

  From her place in the earl’s arms, Psyche gave him a hard look. “Indeed, I do. But it was your guests and your mama who insisted upon my doing it.”

  Overton looked pained. “I did not mean--That is, I meant--”

  Oh no, Psyche thought, averting her gaze, not another scold. The Lindens already had sufficient verbal ammunition to keep the ton talking about her for months on end. What could being carried one more time add to that?

  The earl frowned. Overton was overdoing this propriety thing. If he didn’t want the Lindens spreading their malicious tales throughout the ton, he should have countermanded his mother’s invitation and sent the pair packing. Two unlikelier, more unwelcome, house guests had seldom been seen. And Overton had played right into their hands.

  The earl fixed the man with a grave look. “Psyche’s right. What else could she do when everyone asked her? You were talking about the fortune-telling, weren’t you?”

  With a look at Psyche, Overton sighed sheepishly.

  The man had not been thinking of fortune-telling, the earl thought. That was plain enough. Overton had been thinking of the impropriety of one of his male guests carrying one of his female guests about. Well, he could fret all he wanted. If Psyche needed carrying, it would be done by the man who loved her.

  Overton pulled at his cravat again. “Yes, of course. Really, Psyche, I am only thinking of Amanda, you know. The ton can be very hard on-”

  “Indeed, I know,” Psyche interjected smoothly. “And because of that perhaps you had best let your mama handle Amanda’s—”

  “No!” Overton glanced around, frowning.

  She was good, the earl thought. She knew how to bring Overton around.

  The earl smiled. He hadn’t done so badly himself. Overton was convinced that Psyche was the one to handle Amanda’s come-out. And that had been no small feat, though knowing Overton’s esteemed mama’s alarming proclivities had helped considerably.

  Overton sighed again and went on in a lower voice. “I want you to do the come-out. The girl needs a good husband and you’re the one to find him for her. I want Amanda to have the best.”

  Psyche swallowed a sigh. Overton and his ward were agreed on that one thing, at least. Unfortunately agreed. She could understand a schoolroom girl, which was what Amanda really still was, falling head over heels for the handsome, dashing earl. But Overton ought to know better than to encourage her. What had possessed her cousin to think that Amanda, that green girl, would suit the earl? Why, he’d be bored with her in one night, at the most two. And then what would the child do?

  The earl put Psyche on the sofa. “You’ll be comfortable here,” he said, bending to pile pillows behind her back and more under her injured ankle to properly elevate it.

  She saw Georgie sending her knowing looks. And Amanda was frowning fiercely. Psyche avoided her gaze, trying to think about something else. But unfortunately, what she thought about was not any less disturbing. She was actually sorry to be out of the earl’s arms. She had been quite comfortable there. Well, not exactly comfortable, but happy. Now she was experiencing a most peculiar sense of loss and an intense desire to be that near him again. This was insanity! She must forget such thoughts immediately.

  The earl smiled down at her. “I shall find the table and chairs you require.”

  As he moved away, the others pulled their chairs into a circle, curiosity on their faces. Except for Amanda. She looked like she’d eaten too many green apples. They must have a talk—and soon. No man would wish to marry a woman who went around looking like she had a perpetual stomachache.

  The earl returned, carrying a small fluted table whose pedestaled base looked like the foot of some great leviathan. Psyche smiled. Aunt Anna’s taste in furniture had always leaned toward the Egyptian, but this table was grotesque. The earl put it beside the sofa, then placed a lyre-back chair on the other side of it.

  He set another chair at the foot of the sofa, facing Psyche, and with a satisfied smile sat down, saying, “For tonight consider me your servant. I shall be completely at your beck and call.”

  Psyche tried not to smile foolishly at the man. Probably she should discourage him. But how to do it? He did not seem a man who discouraged easily and he had certainly been persistent in his attentions. Had this been her Season or had he not known her identity as Lady Bluestocking, she might easily have deceived herself into believing that he had a tendre for her.

  But this was not her Season and he did know her identity, so that could not be the reason for his attentions to her. And then she realized what the reason was! It came to her with all the suddenness—and the pain—of a stubbed toe.

  The earl was cultivating her acquaintance because he knew she was going to manage Amanda’s come-out. Knowing Amanda’s chaperone would give him the inside track in the matrimonial sweepstakes. As if he needed it!

  Yes, that must be it. Knowing Overton’s skittishness about reputations, the earl had thought it wise to take precautions, to ingratiate himself with Psyche so that she would be on his side. That was certainly prudent of him—and reasonable. Then why did it make her want to cry? To stamp her foot and run off to her room in a fit of petulance?

  Of course she could do neither and so she sat, struggling to get herself in hand. Now that she had discovered his real intentions, she surveyed the earl with a jaundiced eye, seeking his faults. But there was certainly nothing to fault in his looks. The best legs in London were now gracefully crossed, admirably broad shoulders leaned back against his chair. He had a very handsome if somewhat commanding face, and a low vibrant voice that could echo deep in a woman’s bones. As for his behavior—

  The footman appeared with the deck of cards and silently handed them to the earl.

  “Who shall be first?” he inquired politely, turning to face the others.

  “Me! Oh me!” squealed the stickish Miss Linden, smoothing the skirt of her Grecian gown. The girl was too young and too thin for the Greek style. Its severe lines did little to make her more attractive. She looked like a little girl masquerading as a grown-up lady.

  Handing Psyche the cards, the earl slowly winked. This evening was going to be fun. He meant to stay close to her, for as long as he could.

  He got up. “Sit right here, Miss Linden. Allow me to help you.”

  Miss Linden lowered her gaze and flushed clear to her pale forehead. “Oh, milord, you’re most kind.”

  He pushed her up to the table and then turned back to the sofa. He leaned over, examining Psyche’s foot where it lay propped up among the pillows. He tugged a pillow a few inches to one side. Actually, it was not the pillows he wanted to touch, but Psyche herself. She looked so fetching, lying there like that. Almost as he had pictured her in Spain, only then he had not imagined her on a sofa.

  Psyche shuffled the cards and, seeing the red stain spreading on Amanda’s pale cheeks, wished herself someplace else, any place else. “I am fine,” she snapped at the earl. “Quite comfortable. Kindly sit down.”

  The earl raised a surprised eyebrow at this unprovoked waspishness, but remained silent, resuming his seat.

  Psyche sighed. What was she to do? She was not a quitter. She had never been a quitter. And she certainly had no i
ntention of letting the despicable Lindens drive her back to the country.

  Imagine those two thinking themselves responsible for her departure from town! She’d been bored, that’s all, tired of town life—the patent artificiality, the glittering false world of on-dits and scandal where kindness was a flaw and lies and innuendo everyday fare. So she had gone back to her estate in Sussex, lived there quite comfortably, too, until Overton had come to disrupt her orderly, if somewhat lonely, existence with his pleas for help.

  She dealt out thirteen cards, face up in a circle, then put three more, face down, inside it.

  Miss Linden leaned forward, her expression eager, her pale hands plucking nervously at each other. How strange that such a girl should put store in this kind of thing.

  Psyche looked down at the circle of cards. “Ten of clubs,” she said. “Beware, a popular young woman you know is not to be trusted.”

  Miss Linden’s pale brow furrowed. She was reviewing her so-called friends, Psyche thought, and probably mistrusting every one of them. “Eight of spades,” Psyche continued. “Unless you are careful you will lose a friend through selfishness.” Surely that was likely, if the girl had any friends to begin with. She moved on to the next card. “Five of diamonds. You will inherit something of value.”

  Miss Linden’s plain face brightened. “Can you tell me what it is?”

  Psyche shook her head. “The cards don’t say.” She continued her reading, ending with the last of the thirteen cards. “Five of clubs. Someone will try to get you to repeat gossip. Pretend you know nothing and save yourself a lot of trouble.” Excellent advice, Psyche told herself, but clearly wasted on someone of Miss Linden’s ilk.

  Miss Linden gnawed on her lower lip. “Is there— Is there nothing of a romantic nature in the cards?”