“Er—good.” Reggie glanced at the man, unaccustomed to such enthusiasm. Most people seemed determined to act nonchalant when they met him, whether they were boxing or aristocrat aficionados. Still, it was better for people to be happy at his appearance than unhappy. For a moment, he remembered the servants in livery who’d taken pleasure in scolding him as a boy, asserting an authority they might not otherwise have in their lives.
“Please do come inside, Your Grace.”
“Very well.” Reggie stepped inside.
The man’s eyes widened, as if Reggie were the king. “I’m your new manservant. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Your Grace.”
“Likewise.” Reggie forced a smile on his face, even though he despised meeting new people. “What’s your name?”
“John Alistair, Your Grace.” Alistair leaned toward him. “Jack on my days off.” The man immediately flushed. “Not that I’m thinking of days off. Not at all. I’m here to work. Head to the millstone and all that.”
“You’re welcome to your days off,” Reggie said.
“But I’m certain you’ll want to have all sorts of parties with other aristocrats.” Alistair had that same far-off look as before.
“I can assure you, there will be no festivities.”
“No festivities?” Alistair’s face whitened, as if Reggie had canceled Twelfth Night. “I know this isn’t a castle, like you’re used to, but the rooms do include a ballroom.”
“Indeed,” Reggie murmured. He decided not to mention that his castle lacked the glamor people tended to ascribe to it. His ancestors had neglected to repair it, and the dwindling debts his father had left him made any repairs impossible. Now Darby Castle was cold and musty in even the wings that were not locked up. He shuddered at what he might find in the attic or armaments.
“You should just show me to my room,” Reggie said.
A pained expression moved over Alistair’s face before he bowed. Reggie cringed. No doubt he’d said the wrong thing. Reggie was always saying the wrong thing.
Alistair led Reggie over a black-and-white tiled floor. Crystal chandeliers that looked as if they’d been hauled from Venice glittered above.
“Are there often parties here?” Reggie tightened his grip on his cane.
Alistair beamed. “Oh, indeed. Most of the bachelors are eager to entertain.”
“Ah.” Reggie cursed his estate agent for finding this place.
He followed Alistair up a set of stairs that curved unnecessarily, as if its entire purpose were to present people dramatically when they strolled up and down it.
“I love the staircase,” Alistair said. “You’ll adore it.”
“I’m certain.” Reggie grasped hold of the cold marble banister skeptically.
“There are three bedrooms here,” Alistair said, “should you desire overnight guests.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
Alistair shrugged. “Very well. Though who does not want to bring their friends to Bath? The most wonderful city in Britain!”
“I take it you are a native?”
Alistair twirled around and grinned. “I am a most fortunate man.” His face sobered, perhaps considering that Reggie was not from Bath. “And you are fortunate to be here now.”
Reggie didn’t feel fortunate, but he decided not to dampen Alistair’s enthusiasm by repeating the list of reservations he’d had before coming here.
Finally, his new manservant led Reggie to a bedroom. It sufficed in pleasantness, even if the previous occupant had decided a four-poster bed with hideous green fabric to convey masculinity was necessary.
“Voilà.” Alistair pointed to the picture windows in triumph, as if he’d personally installed each windowpane and arranged the view of uniform honey-colored buildings below.
“How nice,” Reggie said politely.
“It’s magnificent,” Alistair corrected. “Bath is superior to London in every manner.”
“Indeed?”
“Most certainly. We have our Assembly Rooms, our Theatre Royal, our Bath Abbey.”
Reggie waited, lest Alistair recite more places, but the man was silent.
“I think I’ll go outside now,” Reggie said. “Perhaps you can—er—unpack.”
“Certainly. Are you sure you do not desire to rest?”
“No, no,” Reggie lied. “Best to see Bath.”
“Despite the rain?”
“The rain is no impediment.”
“Ah.” Alistair nodded knowledgeably. He moved to the window, stretched out his arms, and swirled. “That is the reaction these views inspire.”
Reggie gave him a tight smile, then hurried from the bedroom and its abundance of velvet and silk. Personally, Reggie was partial to plainer, starker rooms that didn’t make him think of their expense. Simplicity was a forgotten virtue. He descended the elaborate stairs. This building must have been designed at the height of the 1790s, when architects considered gold a vital design element.
He quickly left the building. He glanced upward, then decided to take Ulysses on a tour of the town.
The streets were crowded, even if Bath lacked London’s chaos. Respectability emanated from every person. The limestone buildings, devoid of any variation of color, provided a claustrophobic backdrop, despite Alistair’s earlier effusions of their supposed charms.
The rain began to plummet, no doubt finding staying in the clouds sufficiently tiresome. Reggie wanted to tell them there were more interesting places than Bath for them to land. Instead, the rain dampened his clothes, and he decided to return to his new rooms.
His knee ached, but he ignored the jolt of pain. Damnation.
He knew one thing: he needed to leave here as soon as possible.
DAISY LINGERED IN THE corridor of her spa as she waited for someone to open the large door. She’d just taken the waters. Perhaps the attendant had become distracted and forgotten her presence.
Daisy tapped her fingers against her chair. Boredom filled her, despite the excitement this morning of Mrs. Powell pushing her Bath chair down the hill to the spa. Now Mrs. Powell would have to add taking her to the waters as one of her duties.
She sighed. She would have to find some way to earn money.
For now, she remained bored. The feeling was not unfamiliar, even if it was a state she preferred not to experience. Unfortunately, the water made book reading difficult, especially when her attendants seemed to think they would only be fulfilling their roles if they submerged her.
Things had been better before her friends had decided to marry. Fortunately, they’d all married in the most exciting manner, which provided Daisy with good stories. Unfortunately, there were few people now to hear her stories.
She peeked through a narrow window at the other clients.
A man glowered from the other side of the spa.
A man she recognized.
The man’s bushy brows were knit in an expression of perpetual pain. He must only be a few years older than her, and his generally symmetrical features would have warranted a second glance even if he were not contorting them. Most of the people here were older, and those with salt-and-pepper speckled hair were considered young. Daisy didn’t frequently see young men here.
And there was certainly something about him that seemed familiar... Daisy tilted her head, willing herself to remember. Not every man had such broad shoulders, such a generous frame. Certainly, few men had such scarred faces.
She widened her eyes. Heavens, this was the Duke of Hammett. Dukes rarely frequented Bath.
She stared at the man, but that was definitely Reginald Smythe, Duke of Hammett. Daisy had only seen him once before, but that had been sufficiently long to imprint his features on her mind. Then he’d been capably dancing at a ball. Daisy had only seen him during the brief intervals when the dancers and surrounding guests had separated.
Unfortunately, while sitting in a chair might have various advantages, height and the accompanying view was not one of them. Sometimes Daisy won
dered what it would be like to see everything from a taller perspective, to not have one’s friends and acquaintances tower about her before settling down or moving away. Now, Daisy’s view was thankfully unimpeded.
The man’s undeniable handsomeness did not lessen the foulness of his mood. He moved, and Daisy remembered she shouldn’t be looking at a man’s scars, even if this tiny window was at her perfect height, and no matter if no one else had discovered this was no place for a window to be.
She turned away. She knew little about the Duke of Hammett. Well, not much except the fact he was a prized boxer and that he’d had an injury two months ago. Daisy’s favorite section of the broadsheets was not the discussions on sport, though she knew the duke was much admired for his athletic prowess.
Athletic prowess that the man no longer possessed. Or at least, no longer possessed to his customary degree.
She scrunched her lips together. None of the newspapers had mentioned he was still injured. Was it possible no one knew?
Certainly if he thought he might no longer box again, he might be distressed. Daisy’s heart tightened, and she glanced at her legs. Hammett’s friends had recently married. She knew that—her dearest friends had married them. She wished Margaret or Juliet lived nearby. She would love to question them about the duke. They’d attended a house party with him once. Unfortunately, her friends had spent more time talking about the men they’d eventually married.
Daisy frowned. She was certain she hadn’t heard anything untoward about the duke. She tilted her head. She knew that odd sense of sullen hopelessness. Some people experienced it right before they married. Since all the ton would be speaking if the duke had become engaged, chattering about the wedding and pondering the luck of the bride, the man was evidently untied.
An idea darted into Daisy’s mind, and soon, her lips jutted upward, and even her heart seemed to swell experimentally. Heavens, the man was in need of a bride.
Daisy excelled at arranging matches. She’d matched Miss Alcott and the Colonel, and she’d matched many couples before them. Perhaps she was just the person who could help the duke. Certainly, he was hardly going to find someone if he whiled away his days in the spa, casting sullen glances at everyone, as if his life’s work was to resemble the more intimidating gargoyles in Bath Abbey.
A man like him, unattached and lacking the helpful hand of a matchmaking mother intent on finding a daughter-in-law who would not drive her mad, required assistance.
Daisy smiled. She excelled at providing assistance.
If she could marry him off, she would be given respect. Heavens knew, respect was an important part of a successful business. She would be able to build a client list, she would be able to get paid for matchmaking people, and then she wouldn’t have to worry about her future. She would have her own money.
Her parents would no longer feel compelled to spend money on her. Her father would no longer insist on dragging her to each doctor, proclaiming a cure was at hand.
Hope surged through her. Now, the only thing she needed to do was get the duke alone. To do that, she needed to know his address.
She smiled and wheeled her way to the reception desk.
CHAPTER THREE
Daisy clutched the paper holding the address she’d scribbled on it and stared at the glossy black door where the duke had taken his rooms.
“It’s an awfully grand building,” Mrs. Powell said in an awestruck manner.
“Yes.”
“You can still change your mind,” Mrs. Powell reminded her.
“Nonsense.” Daisy leaned forward and rapped on the door. Even though she didn’t use the door knocker, the door opened abruptly.
A young man wearing gold livery who had his hair arranged in a queue stared at her, and his eyebrows leaped upward.
Daisy raised her chin. She would not allow herself to be intimidated. No matter if women usually didn’t go about calling on strange men. After all, soon he would not be a strange man. Soon, he would be a client.
“I’m here to visit His Grace,” Daisy said. “I—er—wanted to welcome him to Bath.”
The man widened his eyes, then he broke into a wide smile. “You’re a guest!”
“Yes,” Daisy said.
The man grinned. “It is nice to have a guest.” He leaned toward her. “Cook has been preparing a selection of sweets for just this sort of event.”
Daisy glanced at Mrs. Powell. Her eyes had grown wary.
“The duke does not have many guests?” Mrs. Powell asked.
“Er—no,” the servant said reluctantly. “Still, we’ll make certain you’re comfortable. Come on in.”
Mrs. Powell tilted Daisy’s chair back to go over the door ledge, and the man bent down and helped Mrs. Powell carry the chair inside. The man set Daisy’s chair down gently. Daisy glanced around her new surroundings.
“It’s beautiful,” Mrs. Powell breathed.
And it was. Glossy black-and-white tiles gleamed, and a large crystal chandelier dangled from the ceiling.
The manservant beamed, and dimples formed in his cheeks. “I’m Alistair, by the way.”
“I’m Mrs. Powell, and this is Miss Daisy Holloway.”
Alistair gestured to a large set of double doors. “The drawing room is in here.”
Mrs. Powell pushed Daisy’s chair toward it, and Alistair rushed to open the doors.
The drawing room exceeded the foyer in loveliness. Gold furniture shimmered against pale blue tufted upholstery. The walls were a pleasant cream color.
“I’ll light the candles.” Alistair sprang into action. He darted from candelabra to candelabra until the whole room danced with light.
Mrs. Powell pushed Daisy toward a long, sumptuous sofa.
“I’ll tell the housekeeper you’re here and inform His Grace. He should be down shortly.”
Daisy thanked him, and Alistair hurried away.
A few minutes after, the door opened. Daisy straightened and prepared to speak to the duke. An odd nervousness moved through her, but she pushed it away. The duke wasn’t interested in hearing a nervous quiver in her voice or an unnecessary pinkening of her cheeks. He wanted to know she was capable of finding him the most important addition to his life: a wife.
The duke did not appear. Instead, a woman carrying a tray and wearing a black dress tied and a frilly white apron entered. She gave a bright smile at Mrs. Powell and Daisy, and the corners of her eyes crinkled.
“Guests!” The woman exclaimed happily, and the ribbons on her cap swung because of her vigorous movement. “I almost didn’t believe it when Alistair told me. I brought tea and sweets for you.”
“That’s very kind.” Daisy returned the housekeeper’s smile, then glanced toward the duke. “When do you expect the duke to be in?”
The housekeeper’s face paled, and she chewed on her bottom lip. “I’m certain he’ll be here. Probably.”
Confusion must have shown in Daisy’s face, for the housekeeper sighed.
“He’s a bit shy, dearie.”
“Indeed?” Daisy scrunched her lips together. This was good information that would help find him a suitable wife.
“At least, I think he’s shy,” the housekeeper amended. “He hasn’t had any other guests.”
“That might indicate shyness,” Daisy said, and the housekeeper’s shoulders seemed to broaden.
“I thought so.” The housekeeper placed a tray filled with delightful sweets on the coffee table. Candy-colored macarons glimmered appealingly, and the housekeeper laid a silver teapot on the table with some gold-embossed cups and saucers.
“This looks lovely,” Daisy said.
The housekeeper beamed. “We’ve been waiting for this moment for a long time. I’m so pleased the duke has guests. Alistair and I have worried about him. He does keep to himself, poor thing.”
The housekeeper took the tray and padded from the room. Daisy and Mrs. Powell ate in silence. Minutes stretched into more minutes. The grandfather clock in the room c
ontinued to tick. Eventually, it clanged.
Heavens. It must already be midday.
“More tea?” Mrs. Powell asked.
“Yes,” Daisy said.
Mrs. Powell poured the tea and added milk. The lilac ribbons on Mrs. Powell’s bonnet waved. “Perhaps he hasn’t dressed yet. These dukes can be party-goers.”
“Perhaps,” Daisy assented, even though the duke’s reputation was not being a partygoer. Mostly people whispered about him.
Finally, the door opened, and Alistair glanced at them apologetically.
“The duke will be a bit longer,” he explained. “I’m so sorry.”
“We’re quite comfortable here,” Mrs. Powell said reassuringly.
A wide smile darted across Alistair’s face. “Oh, you are the best guests.”
The housekeeper appeared, holding another tray. “I thought you might like some more sweets.”
“How very kind,” Daisy said.
“We do enjoy having guests.” Alistair glanced at the grand piano. “Perhaps you would care for some music?”
“Do you play?” Mrs. Powell asked.
“He used to be on the stage,” the housekeeper said proudly.
“Bath has a superb theatre. Not just London.” Alistair eyed the piano. “Perhaps the music might inspire the duke to join.”
Alistair sat at the piano and started to play a jaunty melody.
Mrs. Powell clapped her hand with excitement, and the housekeeper joined Alistair in a song.
Daisy bit into another sweet. Happiness moved through her, and her heart felt light.
Voices sounded from above. Loud voices. Well, one loud voice. “Alistair! Alistaiiiiiiiir!”
Alistair halted his piano playing, and a guilty expression flitted over his face.
“Perhaps the music was not helpful,” the housekeeper said remorsefully.
“It was lovely, though,” Mrs. Powell said.
“Most lovely,” Daisy agreed.
“I’m glad,” the housekeeper said. “We do both like having guests. Festivities are so fun.”
The Duke Meets His Matchmaker (The Duke Hunters Club, #5) Page 2