Kathryn Caskie (17 page)

The earl scanned the first page, then reversed it and eyed the columns until he found what he was looking for. “Read this. Go ahead, quickly now.”

Griffin hesitantly took the newspaper. He saw that it was the latest issue of the
Bath Herald.

The earl squeezed up beside him and tapped with his chewed fingernail upon a small advertisement. “Examine this closely, please, then tell me again how certain you are of Miss Chillton’s character.”

Griffin trained his eyes upon the heading:

Guaranteed Matchmaker Services.

“I-I do not understand. Why are you showing me this? I do not need the services of a matchmaker.”

“Read on, lad.” The earl tapped the page again.

And so Griffin reluctantly skimmed over the services offered, one after another, until he came to the name of the proprietress.

His heart skipped inside his chest.

Miss Hannah Chillton, matchmaker

“How can this be?” Griffin turned his eyes to his brother. “D-did you know about this?”

Garnet nodded. “Only recently though. I swear. Miss Howard confided that she had hired Miss Chillton a few weeks ago to arrange to meet me . . .
or you
. Cost her a guinea.”

“And . . .” Griffin swallowed the ache rising in his throat. “She did it.”

“Consider this, brother.” Garnet’s voice was gentler now. “If she truly loved you, would she accept money to introduce another to you? Could she simply have been using you to further this business venture of hers?”

“I know this is difficult for you to hear, lad, but your brother’s comment does give one pause, does it not?” The earl came and rested his pudgy hand on the back of Griffin’s chair. “Are you so sure of your Miss Chillton now? Sure enough of her that you will risk your future, your brother’s, and mine?”

Griffin set his elbow on his knee and rested his head in hand.

Everything was so different only a few days ago. He would have been able to tell the earl that yes, he believed in Miss Chillton and her love for him with all of his heart. His trust in her was absolute.

But somehow, he and Hannah no longer moved in the same orbit. And now, after learning about her profession, he wondered if they ever had—or if perhaps he had just been so completely enamored with her that he’d only imagined they had shared a path . . . and a future.

Damn it all. He wasn’t sure of anything anymore.

Anything at all.

The next morning, the Featherton sisters requested that Hannah join them in their daily medicinal sojourn to partake of the waters in the famed Pump Room.

She wasn’t at all certain why they had insisted she come along on this particular day. They knew she could not abide the thick taste of the mineral water and that she never felt comfortable strolling around the Pump Room as though it were crossed by a grid of garden paths. It was all a bit preposterous if you asked her . . . and well, a bit mad, too.

Society loved its traditions though, and each time Hannah trotted through the doors of the Pump Room, she was always amazed that the numbers of well-dressed ladies and gentlemen ambling through the establishment seemed to increase by a dozen or more.

As was her duty, when she visited the Pump Room with the Feathertons, Hannah handed a few coins to the waiter, then turned to distribute the warm, salty water to the ladies.

But they were no longer standing behind her. Instead, they had positioned themselves in the center of the wide room. Their heads were shifting right, then left, as though they searched for someone in particular.

Hannah squinted her eyes and glanced around the room. She had half a notion that they had invited Mr. St. Albans here as part of some planned ambush.

Her eyes shifted along with the motion of the Feathertons’ heads. But Griffin was very tall, even for a Cornish gent, and as such would have been immediately discernible to her eye.

But then she saw him through the window, walking in the abbey courtyard. Her stomach flipped. How had she missed seeing him? He and Miss Howard had to have just left the Pump Room.

Hannah’s head began to spin, and she grew unsteady on the heels of her slippers. Lud, she felt like she was going to be ill—and she hadn’t even sipped a single glass of the mineral water yet to stir up her belly.

She looked back to the Feathertons, who were standing not far from the quartet of musicians, hoping she could make her excuses and leave the Pump Room that very instant.

Then, suddenly, someone of less-commanding stature came into her view, and their gazes locked. It was the young woman whose feather Cupid had snatched at the lake.

The young woman stared straight at her, obviously recognizing Hannah as well.

She raised her fan and held it before her mouth as she whispered something to the grand matron standing to her left. Now the older woman was staring, too, and lifted her fan to whisper something to the gentleman at her side.

All at once, to Hannah’s horror, the two women lowered their fans purposefully, then they and the older gentleman started toward her.

Now she was feeling even more ill at ease. A sensation of worry, not unlike a cold draft in an otherwise warm room, swept over Hannah, raising the fine hairs on the back of her neck.

Who knew what the trio barreling down upon her wanted. After her advertisement in the
Bath Herald
, it was more than likely that the young woman realized she had fallen victim to one of Hannah’s matchmaking schemes—and was none too happy about it. Perhaps even humiliated!

Hannah glanced at the door to the abbey courtyard just a few feet away. She could make it out the doors if she hurried. But she looked down at the three cups of mineral water in her hands, then up at the Featherton sisters, who had chosen this moment to beckon her back to them.

Blast!

There was nothing she could do except deliver the water as quickly as possible, then slip through the crowd and out the doors unnoticed.

Hannah threw her duennas a flat smile, then brought her cup to her mouth and downed the water in a single, horrid draught.

She handed the cup back to the dispensing waiter, then hastened to the Feathertons with a single cup in each hand, her arms outstretched to thrust the cups into Lady Letitia’s and Lady Viola’s hands all the quicker.

Water sloshed over the rims of the cups as she pushed them at the old women. Her task complete, she was about to step past Lady Viola and merge into the milling crowd when Lady Letitia’s eyes lit with excitement.

“Look there, Viola, Viscount Titchmarsh comes this way . . . oh, and with her ladyship and Miss Petula O’Mara as well.”

Lady Viola smiled broadly, and Hannah knew the trio was standing just behind her. Slowly she turned, eyes downcast to avoid the snarls that would surely greet her, her smile slipping hopelessly from her mouth despite her best efforts to preserve it.

At once the Featherton ladies began to chat with Lord and Lady Titchmarsh. It was not until introductions were made to acquaint every member of the party that Hannah was required to lift her eyes as she muttered her greetings.

Except it was not grimaces and snarls that met her gaze, but warm, inviting smiles and outstretched hands.

“We have not formally met until this very moment,” Lady Titchmarsh said merrily, “but we are well acquainted with Miss Chillton’s talent.”

Oh, dear me.
Now Hannah understood. Being of the peerage, the family was simply too mannered to curse her and her schemes outright. They would deliver the blade gently, politely, but with a firm upward thrust.

Just then, however, a young man joined their circle of conversation, and he, too, was greeted warmly. Hannah could not believe what was transpiring. For the young man was none other than the merchant’s son who had paid Hannah to arrange an accidental meeting between him and a certain nameless miss who read beside the lake each day!

“Lady Letitia, Lady Viola, allow me to introduce Mr. Whitworth. I believe you are acquainted with his father—”

The butcher just off Milsom,
Hannah mentally added.

“Baron Taverner,” Lady Titchmarsh finished. “I daresay, he and Miss Chillton are already well acquainted, aren’t you now? And how fortunate for us all of that, eh?”

Now this
was
a surprise. Hannah stared at the young man as she dropped him a curtsy. “Mr. Whitworth, is it? Son of Baron Taverner?”

Mr. Whitworth laughed. “Forgive me, Miss Chillton. I happened to be walking behind you and your maid one day and overheard a discussion about your success in matchmaking. I was intrigued, so when I heard the maid mention picking up some mutton for your cook, I raced ahead and convinced the butcher to pretend I was his son.”

“Heavens, why would you do such a thing?” Lady Viola’s blue eyes were alight with amusement.

“I know it must sound quite mad to you. You see, I was certain my father would be horrified at the prospect of his son, his heir, working with a matchmaker to secure a wife. Turned out it wouldn’t have mattered to him at all. He met my mother the very same way.”

Hannah raised her brows. “So you pretended to be the butcher’s son. No wonder you did not know the difference between a portion of mutton and loin.”

She could not stifle the chuckle that followed. “Forgive me for sharing this, but the situation is most diverting. Our maid thought that, for a butcher’s son, you were cut . . . a bit thick.”

Miss Petula O’Mara raised her gloved hand to her mouth to cover a meek giggle.

Mr. Whitworth smiled broadly at her, before turning the conversation back to Hannah. “You must understand. To me, anonymity was paramount, which is why I did not share my true identity. I greatly wished to make the acquaintance of Miss Petula O’Mara, but her gentle nature prevented it. You were my only hope.”

The corners of Lord Titchmarsh’s mouth drew up and he beamed at Hannah. “So that we are not rambling on all morn, allow me to thank you for coming upon a way for my daughter to overcome her shy ways long enough to feel at ease with Mr. Whitworth.”

The shy miss was smiling now. “You see, Miss Chillton, Mr. Whitworth and I are to be married. Something my parents and I, because of my quiet nature, never thought an eventuality. But you, dear lady, changed all of that. And for your intervention, I am greatly in your debt.” She took a small step toward Hannah and leaned in to kiss her cheek.

The backs of Hannah’s eyes grew suddenly hot, and when she turned her head to look at the Featherton sisters she saw tears in their eyes as well.

“My goodness.” Lady Titchmarsh glanced around and realized that their story, meant to be private, had been overheard by at least a dozen others standing nearby. She swiped her gloved hand through the air. “Oh, what does it matter? Miss Chillton’s ability to see into the hearts of others is extraordinary. She brought about a miracle. An absolute miracle. My daughter is in love and a week hence shall be married.”

Suddenly a wave of glove-muffled applause rolled through the Pump Room as word of Hannah’s matchmaking miracle spread.

As the clapping grew louder, Lady Letitia slipped her arm around Hannah’s shoulder and hugged her, then leaned her mouth close to whisper in her ear. “You did well, child. You have the gift.”

From her right, Lady Viola kissed and hugged her as well. “Remember, dove, use your craft only for love, never for coin, and successes like this will always be yours.”

Hannah nodded as a tear of happiness rolled down her cheek.

She agreed with Lady Viola’s advice.

Completely.

And she would follow the old woman’s sage words, too—right after she completed the half dozen projects she had recently accepted . . . a few of which, she had to concede, mightn’t
completely
be for the sake of love.

Chapter Fifteen

M
iss Chillton.” Mrs. Penny rapped at Hannah’s chamber door, calling gently from the other side. “You have a caller.”

“I?” Hannah tapped pen’s nib on the edge of the crystal inkpot, then rested it in its burled-wood niche. Snapping closed her claret-hued leather book of matchmaking strategy notes, she rose from her writing desk and hurriedly crossed the chamber to open the door. “I was expecting no one,” she told the housekeeper.

“Nevertheless, miss, there is a gentleman waiting for you in the drawing room. The ladies had just finished taking tea with him when he asked to speak with Miss Chillton, so they sent me to fetch you at once.” The housekeeper gave Hannah a quick vertical sweep with her eyes, then shook her head. “Been working hard, I see. But you’ll be wantin’ to tidy up a bit, for the gentleman is none other than Mr. Hercule Lestrange. Shall I send Annie up to you?”

Hannah shook her head. “No, no. Just a hairpin or two should be all I require. But . . . you mentioned a Mr. Lestrange, and I am quite certain I know no one by that surname.” Though for some reason, Hannah had to admit that the name somehow seemed vaguely familiar.

“I don’t doubt that. His identity is a well-guarded secret, to most anyway. The Featherton ladies are well acquainted with him certainly, through my daughter Jenny’s past connection to him, you know.” Mrs. Penny leaned close as if to share a bit of confidential information. When she spoke, her voice was so soft Hannah could barely hear the older woman. “You are as good as family, child, so I will reveal his identity to you before you utter a single word to him. Mr. Hercule Lestrange is the
on dit
columnist for the
Bath Herald
—so pay heed to what you say. Be very careful.”

“Good heavens, why would an
on dit
columnist wish an interview?” A dart of worry suddenly shot up Hannah’s spine. “Unless he knows about the gaff between Mr. St. Albans and me. You do not think he has heard of it, do you?”

“I couldn’t say, miss. Though I do know there is very little he doesn’t know about the goings-on with the upper reaches of Bath society. I’ve heard he has spies everywhere. Pays them a pretty coin, too, for choice bits of gossip. Don’t misunderstand me, miss. Lestrange is a good man, but a crafty one as well. His column means everything to him, I’ve heard tell. So, if there is something he wishes to know, there ain’t no preventin’ him from findin’ out.”