A Match Made In London

by Christina Britton

  Which meant, of course, she would have to hail a hansom cab. Something that would require her to dip into the meager funds she had managed to squirrel away over the years.

  A cold feeling settled in the pit of her stomach. Even as she turned the corner, her steps faltered. What if, in the packing of her belongings, the housekeeper had “conveniently” forgotten to pack her savings? It would not be the first time she had been stolen from, and she doubted it would be the last. Even so, before she got too far she’d best take a look in her bag.

  Heaving a disgusted sigh, she propped her bag on an obliging fence and opened it, rummaging through the hastily packed items, her only belongings in the world. She found the bag she kept her funds in, the one usually hidden at the bottom of her unmentionables. A quick shake of the purse told her coins were present. Even so, she yanked it open, taking a quick peek inside to determine all was as it should be.

  Relief flowed through her. It appeared all was in order. Even so, she could not be too careful. She would see to it that the coins in her reticule had not been disturbed, either. For in her dire straits, every penny counted.

  The small embroidered reticule, one of her mother’s things she had been able to salvage after her father had lost even the clothes on their backs, was at the very bottom of the bag. She dragged it through the tangle of stockings and dresses and chemises, pulled at the drawstring opening, reached inside.

  Yes, the coins were there, clinking merrily in the bottom. But as she extracted her hand, her fingers brushed against something hard. Frowning, she reached for the unknown object, pulling it out of bag. It was a small ivory card, covered in elegant script.

  Grace, Lady Belham.

  Ah, yes. The woman from the ball the night before.

  She was about to drop it back into her reticule when a faint recollection of the woman’s parting remarks swirled in her brain.

  I like you, Miss Merriweather. I haven’t many friends in town. If you’re ever up for a visit, please do stop by an afternoon. I would so love to continue our exchange.

  Rosalind had been much too distracted at the time to give the suggestion the proper attention it deserved. Now it struck her more for the strangeness of it than anything. The woman was of the upper echelons of society. She was nobility. Yet she had asked a mere companion to visit her. Rosalind fought to remember Lady Belham’s face when she had made her peculiar request. The woman had kept her smile in place. Yet hadn’t there been something lost, perhaps lonely in her eyes?

  And didn’t lonely women need companions?

  In an instant she had her bag put back together and was walking down the street at a brisk pace, the card clutched tight in her fist. The hand-written address indicated the woman was currently staying in Upper Grosvenor Street, only a short walk away. She could be there in no time at all.

  As she crossed the street, dodging a fast-moving carriage, the creeping thought intruded that perhaps the woman would not welcome her begging at her door for a position. Mayhap she had read the woman wrong. Perhaps Lady Belham had been in her cups the evening before and regretted now that she had ever asked someone as low as Rosalind to visit her.

  But she couldn’t think of that. She had to take this chance. For she had nothing to lose and everything to gain.

  Even if she was humiliated in the process.

  In no time she turned the corner at Grosvenor Square and into Upper Grosvenor Street. She waited for an elegant town coach and four beautifully matched bays to pass before hurrying across the street to the townhouse indicated on the card.

  She purposely ignored the elegant surroundings, the size of the house, the way it fairly reeked of old wealth and grandeur even to where she stood on the pavement. If she concentrated on these things, she would never find the courage to approach. Hers had been a life of genteel poverty up until that point, and until the Gladstows she had worked for women who had been no better off than her father before he’d lost it all and had the bad sense to die and leave his daughter a pauper. Even with the Gladstows, there had been something gaudy about their wealth, as if the sheer amount of gilded objects in their homes could take away from the fact that theirs was a new fortune, something Mrs. Gladstow seemed to find the worst kind of embarrassment.

  But this was something altogether different. It spoke of blue blood, and elegance, and a deep-seated belonging. It reminded her of those homes she had gone to with the Gladstows where she had been afraid to even brush against a wall for fear of ruining something. Thus, she would focus on the door, and the knocker, and assure her expression was confident enough that even the most discerning butler would not question her appearance.

  It appeared, however, that was not something she had to worry about. For as she reached for the knocker the door swung open to reveal Lady Belham herself. The woman was adjusting her gloves, dressed for an outing in an elegant deep blue walking gown and wide-brimmed bonnet, when she looked up and spotted Rosalind.

  “Miss Merriweather? Is that you?” She smiled in delight. “Ah yes, I can see it is. How lovely to see you. I admit, when I issued my invitation, I did not expect you to take me up on it. But Miss Merriweather,” she continued, her expression sobering as she took Rosalind in, “is something amiss?”

  Rosalind raised her chin, holding her bag to her chest, knowing she must look odd standing on the woman’s doorstep with all of her belongings and not even a cloak or bonnet on.

  “I wonder, my lady,” she said with as much confidence as she could muster, “if you would be opposed to sitting with me a moment while I propose a business venture?”

  Lady Belham blinked in surprise. “But of course. Danielson,” she said to the butler that was hovering in the shadows inside the door, “my walk will be delayed this morning. Please see to it that a tray is brought into the drawing room.”

  “Of course, my lady.”

  Lady Belham led the way through the front hall, up the sweeping staircase. Rosalind did her best to appear unfazed by the surroundings. But though she kept her gaze fixed to the other woman’s back, she could not fail to be aware of the soaring, hand-painted ceilings, the gleaming marble floor, the intricately-carved railing beneath her hand. She had thought the outside impressive. Yet it was nothing to the splendor of the interior.

  What kind of person was Lady Belham’s cousin? Rosalind darted quick glances to the walls, hoping for some insight into the woman. Yet there were no portraits at all. Not one. She frowned, wondering at the complete lack of personal paintings. Didn’t people of rank like to showcase their long, prestigious lines? Didn’t they like to flaunt their histories? Yet there was not a single portrait in the place.

  They entered the drawing room then, and Lady Belham sat, indicating a comfortable chair close by for Rosalind. “Now,” she said with a kind smile as Rosalind settled herself, “what was this about a business proposition?”

  Despite not having practiced what she would say to this woman when the time came to ask for a position as her companion, Rosalind had no doubts she could make a case for herself.

  Now, however, the strain of the past hour caught up with her. She held her bag tight to her chest, feeling like, if she let it go, she might very well unravel.

  Lady Belham seemed to sense her troubled thoughts. She tilted her head in concern. “First, though, perhaps you’d best tell me what has you so out of sorts.”

  Rosalind gave a short bark of surprised laughter. “Do you know me so well then that you know what I’m like when I’m in sorts?”

  The woman’s lips quirked. “You’re right on that score. I can hardly claim to know you well after a five minute conversation at a ball. Though I think that, any time a person comes to my doorstep carrying what looks to be the entirety of their possessions, there is something wrong. Now tell me, does this have anything to do with Miss Gladstow’s engagement last night?”

  Sudden exhaustion laid waste to Rosalind’s hard-won poise. She slumped back in her seat, eyeing Lady Be
lham wearily. “You are quick, aren’t you?” she muttered. When the woman merely waited patiently, she sighed. “I’m afraid Mrs. Gladstow was not pleased with the outcome of the evening.”

  One perfectly manicured brow rose high up Lady Belham’s forehead. “One of those women, is she?”

  “Oh no, I’m quite certain Mrs. Gladstow is an original,” Rosalind said, bitterness coloring the words.

  “Don’t be fooled, darling,” Lady Belham drawled. “Sadly enough, women like her are not rare in society. Though I cannot understand why she would let you go, simply because her daughter is marrying a man not of her choosing.”

  Rosalind shrugged, beyond trying to make sense of what her life had become. She would like nothing better than to reverse time to yesterday morning, to have never stepped foot outside her bedchamber. She would still have been miserable in her position as companion to the unhappiest woman in creation. But at least she would not now be wondering where she would find her next meal.

  As if to underscore that last point, her stomach gave a mighty growl, reminding her she had not made it to the breakfast room before Mrs. Gladstow’s tirade. She flushed, pressing a fist to her traitorous stomach to quiet its rumblings.

  Lady Belham gave her an amused look. “Well then, we’d best get you something to eat. But first, we must locate you a room.”

  Rosalind looked at her uncomprehendingly. “A room?”

  “Certainly. It is why you came here, wasn’t it? To secure a position?”

  The woman rose. Rosalind scrambled to her feet, flushing under the woman’s kind gaze. “I know this is most unusual. And I would not dream of imposing. Only you appeared so lonely last night, and I assumed perhaps you might benefit from a companion.” Her skin heated all the more. “That is, you looked like you could use a friend. Not that you don’t have any friends. And your cousin, of course, who you mentioned you live with. And so you cannot be completely devoid of companionship. Yet I remember you said you are new to town, and it is never easy making new acquaintances, and we seemed to get along so wonderfully. So I thought I would give it a try, and see if you would hire me on.” She smiled, a sickly thing that must have been more grimace than anything. “And so here I am.”

  Lady Belham laughed, a throaty sound that was nevertheless pure delight. “And I am so very glad you came. For I did not realize how much I would like a companion until you showed up at my door. Now, about that room.”

  In a daze Rosalind followed Lady Belham as she went in search of the butler. She must be dreaming. It could not be this easy to obtain a position. She shifted her bag, took the skin of one arm in between her fingers, and gave a vicious pinch.

  To her utter shock she remained where she was. There was no sudden awakening in the narrow bed and dingy room at Mrs. Gladstow’s, no crashing back to sad reality. No, she was still here, with Lady Belham, in the elegant townhouse in Upper Grosvenor Street. She had done it, she thought with mounting excitement. She had started a new life for herself, a better life.

  But even as hope burned like a newly kindled flame in Rosalind’s breast, a small voice of reason whispered in her ear.

  Warning her that her luck, ever capricious, could not possibly hold.

  Chapter 8

  Even after a night of heavy drinking—and fleecing his friends of a goodly portion of their yearly income—the next morning found Miss Merriweather still firmly entrenched in Tristan’s thoughts.

  Of all the women in London to capture his interest, why did it have to be her?

  But no, he reminded himself brutally as he gazed out the window of his carriage, he was most certainly not attracted to Miss Merriweather. It had been that vulnerable look in her eyes the evening before and nothing more. She had been upset about something, and it had snagged on his intrinsic protective instincts. There was nothing more to it than that.

  Even as the thought crossed his mind, though, he knew he was merely fooling himself. There was something about her that pulled at him, like a moth to a flame.

  He had been drawn to other women, of course. Some he had even fancied himself in love with. Yet this was different. It was like a bright and glowing light just out of the corner of his eye, constantly snagging his attention, making him turn his head in search of her. He might believe his thoughts had been successfully detoured elsewhere. Eventually, however, there was that light again, almost out of view, sending his thoughts clattering back to her.

  He frowned as the carriage pulled up in front of his townhouse. He needn’t worry about her presence today, thank goodness. The timing could not be better for Mr. Marlow to declare himself to Miss Gladstow. For Tristan did not think he could take one more day of Miss Merriweather’s company without either losing his willpower or his sanity.

  It was time, he decided, to reclaim his life, and his wandering mind right along with it. He would fall back into his old habits and pursuits with passion, and it would soon be as if Miss Rosalind Merriweather had never encroached upon his time. With that thought in mind he eschewed going inside, instead starting off for his friend Lord Willbridge’s townhouse with a determined gait. If anyone could drag Tristan from his doldrums it would be the delightful company that could be found at his friend’s home.

  He made it to the townhouse on Brook Street in record time, letting himself into the front hall as was his custom, calling out heartily as he strode across the gleaming parquet floor, “Good morning, Masters family!”

  Willbridge’s youngest sister, Lady Daphne Masters, poked her head out from the sitting room. “I shall forgive you your blatant disregard for the time of day, as I have the distinct feeling you were quite inebriated after your splendid victory last night.”

  Tristan grinned, striding forward to buff Daphne on the cheek. “You could help next time, you know. I’ve seen for myself how brilliant you are at a bit of matchmaking.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Caleb would have both our heads if he heard you suggest such a thing,” she whispered, indicating with a jerk of her chin her brother’s presence in the room behind her. “Not only would he be utterly shocked that you have taken up matchmaking as a hobby, but he’s still not forgiven us our part in Emily’s marriage.”

  Which was nothing but the truth. Oh, Tristan knew Willbridge was happy enough with it now, having seen his sister, the former Lady Emily Masters, positively bloom in her new position as Lady Morley. That did not mean that he was ready and willing to forget that it had been largely in part to Tristan and Daphne’s meddling that had brought the union into being.

  He supposed a man would feel that way, when one of his best friends went and married his little sister.

  Of course, Willbridge’s feelings on the matter might be a bit skewed. Ever since he’d gone and married, he’d shed his libertine ways—quite blissfully, Tristan might have added—and taken up the mantle of familial duty with a vengeance. That sense of honor had only increased in the last week, since learning that his bride, Imogen, was in the family way.

  At the thought Tristan smiled. He had not believed a man could be more besotted with his wife. Until said wife announced the eventual arrival of the man’s heir. Now there was no standing the couple, who more often than not were making cow eyes at one another.

  It was a glorious sight, indeed.

  “And how are the soon-to-be parents?” he asked.

  “How do you think?” she said in a purposely carrying voice. “Sickening to be about.”

  Willbridge’s voice called from within. “I heard that, you harridan. Why don’t you remove yourself from the doorway and let the man in?”

  “You’re only jealous that he prefers my company to yours now,” Daphne quipped, skipping back into the room. Choking on a laugh, Tristan followed.

  The private sitting room in the Masters household was a hodgepodge of styles and colors. From dainty rosewood furniture to overstuffed couches piled high with pillows to amateur watercolor paintings of every subject and level of talent, the
room was centered on comfort rather than fashion. In the midst of this cacophony of tastes sat Willbridge in a heavy, scuffed leather chair, his long legs stretched before him. Imogen was beside him, reclining comfortably in a pale blue damask seat, her feet propped up on a cushion, one slender hand resting lovingly over her still flat stomach. They both greeted him warmly as he entered.

  Nothing had ever looked so gloriously welcoming.

  “Tristan,” Imogen said with a concerned look, “how are you doing today?”

  He gave her a puzzled smile as he bent over her, kissing her on the cheek before taking a seat close by. “I’m well, thank you. As I ever am.”

  She peered closely at him. “Are you certain?”

  “Of course.” He looked to Willbridge. “What is this all about?”

  His friend’s lips quirked. “Imogen is worried you are nursing a broken heart after Miss Gladstow’s unexpected engagement last night.”

  Goodness, he must have done a better job at playacting for Miss Gladstow’s beau than he had thought. Chuckling, he leaned back and crossed one booted foot over the opposite knee. “Now, Imogen, I know you want me happily settled. But I assure you, my feelings for Miss Gladstow were purely platonic. She is a wonderful girl and I enjoyed her friendship, but nothing more.”

  “You are certain?” Imogen asked, frowning.

  “Of course. Don’t worry your pretty head over me, my dear.”

  “Well, I must say I’m relieved.” She gave him a smile. “And now I may express my joy that Miss Gladstow is settled, and with a man who appears to love her deeply. She is a sweet girl and deserves every happiness.”

  “Meaning,” her husband said, reaching for her hand and linking fingers with her, “you are glad to see another woman escape the nefarious clutches of a scheming, overbearing mother, such as you did.”