The Misguided Matchmaker

The Misguided Matchmaker

by

Nadine Miller

L
ike
a magnet, the massive black funeral wreath spanning the door of Winterhaven
Manor drew Tristan Thibault’s eyes. “So, the old reprobate who fathered me
really is dead,” he said aloud, reining in the tired nag that had carried him
up from Dover through a bitterly cold rain.

He
shook his head in amazement. The lecherous Fourth Earl of Rand had finally
cocked up his toes, and his passing evoked no feeling whatsoever in this
particular by-blow except a firm conviction that the fires of hell must be
burning ever hotter with Dickie Ramsden as the netherworld’s newest resident.

The
fading light of the winter afternoon lent a grim ambiance to the graceful,
porticoed entrance of the three-storied stone manor house he’d called home
until the day he’d turned two and twenty. Even the rows of narrow, mullioned
windows looked dark and uninviting—almost as if the family had given up
expecting him.

Mentally,
he reviewed the cryptic note he’d received from his half-sister apprising him
that the earl had quit this earthly vale. “Please come home,” Carolyn’s nearly
illegible scrawl had begged. “Father was killed in a gambling hell brawl and we
are in desperate trouble.” A contradiction if ever he’d heard one. The old
man’s demise could be nothing but a blessing to his long-suffering wife and
progeny. Every problem that had ever plagued the Ramsdens, including Tristan’s
own illegitimacy, had stemmed from the Fourth Earl’s excesses. With his shy,
sober-minded son, Garth, as the Fifth Earl, life at Winterhaven had to improve.

Tristan
frowned thoughtfully. He half suspected Caro’s frantic plea for help would turn
out to be much ado about nothing; she had always had a tendency to fly into the
boughs at the slightest provocation. Still, he hadn’t dared ignore her
note—hadn’t even wanted to. It was the first word he’d received from home in
the six years he’d lived on the Continent, and he’d devoured every word with an
eagerness that was embarrassing to a man of his age and temperament. A British
secret agent posing as a Citizen of Napoleon’s France had no choice but to
sever all personal contacts. But the war was over at last and the Corsican
safely on Elba—and once again Tristan could turn his thoughts to Winterhaven and
the people he had come to think of as his family.

He
looked around for a groom to lead his horse to the stable, but strangely, none
was in sight. Stranger yet was the absence of the usual footman hurrying down
the shallow stone steps to take his saddlebags. Feeling his first twinge of
genuine uneasiness, he secured his horse by looping the reins around a
winter-bare shrub, left his bags, and made his way up the steps to the massive
oak door.

Before
he could lift the heavy brass knocker, the door burst open and a small,
golden-haired whirlwind launched herself at him. “Tristan!” she shrieked. “I
knew you’d come. I just knew it.”

Tristan
dropped his saddlebags and crushed his slender young sister in a fierce hug.
“Of course I came.” He chuckled. “Though I’ve a strong suspicion I’ve been well
and truly diddled by your dramatic missive, you little scamp. Not that I care.
If the truth be known, I was ready to come home and settle down on that small
holding Garth promised me years ago.”

Carolyn
wound her arm about his waist and pressed her cheek to his chest. “Oh Tris, how
I wish I had exaggerated our troubles—but I haven’t. Her voice broke. “It’s
like a dreadful nightmare from which one prays to wake and never can.”

Tristan
put her from him and stared into her face, shocked by what he saw. Gone was the
rosy-cheeked mischievous child he’d left six years earlier and in her place a
pale young woman whose solemn blue eyes were underlaid with dark smudges.
Gently, he drew her down onto the night footman’s bench which stood against one
wall of the entry way. “Tell me all about it, including how in holy heaven you
managed to insert your note into an official Whitehall packet addressed to Lord
Castlereagh at the Congress of Vienna.

“I
have friend who is a clerk at Whitehall,” she said simply. “He’d heard rumors
you were with Lord Castlereagh, so we thought it worth a try, though it would
surely be the end of his career if anyone learned he helped me contact you, so
never ask his name.” A lone tear trickled down her cheek. “I didn’t know what
else to do. Neither Garth nor Mama know I sent for you.

Carolyn
slipped her hand into Tristan’s and rising, drew him up beside her. “Mama is in
her sitting room. We should go to her; she’ll take such comfort in your
presence, and
it’s
best you hear the story from both
of us at once. It’s not one you’ll want to hear again.”

So
saying, she led the way up the stairs to the countess’s private suite. Tristan
followed, his anxiety increasing by the minute. They opened the chamber door to
find Lady Ursula reclining on the chaise lounge, covered by a feather quilt.

A
gloomy pall hung over the usually cheerful room. The small pile of glowing
coals in the fireplace added little warmth, and the only light came from a
single-candle sputtering on the Chippendale writing desk beneath the window.

Carolyn
advanced into the room, a determined smile on her face. “You’ll never guess
who’s here, Mama. It’s our own dear Tristan, come to help Garth sort out our
problems.”

Lady
Ursula Ramsden turned her head and surveyed them from red-rimmed eyes.
“Tristan? Thank heavens you’re home at last.” She sat upright. “Well, that’s
that then. I absolutely refuse to worry one more minute. Between the two of you
you’re bound to come up with a solution to this dreadful bumblebroth.”

She
brushed a lock of faded golden hair out of her eyes. In all the years he’d
known her, Tristan had never seen a single strand of hair out of place. Today
she looked strangely unkempt, as if she’d somehow escaped her faithful
dresser’s careful vigil.

Her
pale blue eyes surveyed him from head to toe. “Good heavens, I’d almost
forgotten how exceedingly tall you’d grown and how stern of countenance. I’d
scarcely recognize you as the dear little fellow I used to tuck into bed each
night.”

Carolyn
nodded. “Mama is right. With your long black hair and sun-bronzed skin, you
look more like a pirate than our own Tris.”

“I’ve
been called worse.” Tristan chuckled. “One old flower lady at the
Marché de
Paris
went so far as to cross herself each time I looked at her with my
‘devil’s eyes’.”

“What
trials you’ve suffered—what trials we’ve all suffered since last we were
together.” Tears welled in Lady Ursula’s own expressive blue eyes as she opened
her arms to Tristan—a gesture evoking bittersweet memories that made his heart
twist painfully in his chest. In just such a way had this generous-hearted
woman greeted a frightened six-year-old who’d arrived on her doorstep with a
note claiming he was the bastard son of her profligate
husband.
“Lord Tristan,” she’d directed the servants to call him, and “Lord Tristan”
he’d been ever since, though he had no more claim to the title than the
lowliest denizen of the Rookeries, from whence he’d come.

Tenderly,
he knelt, clasped the slender, middle-aged countess in his arms, and placed a
gentle kiss on her forehead. She clung to him, as Carolyn had, with the fervor
of a drowning person who’d just been thrown a lifeline.

“Now
what is this about problems Garth must sort out?” he asked. “Where is the new
earl? And why have the servants let the fires go out? This chamber is colder
than my cabin on the channel packet ship.”

“The
new earl is here, my brother,” a familiar voice declared from the doorway, “as
is the wood for Mama’s fire, but the servants are all gone except our loyal
housekeeper, Mrs. Peterman, and the old head gardener, who stayed on without
pay.

Tristan’s
mouth dropped open in shock at the sight of his brother, the Fifth Earl of
Rand—his face haggard, his clothes dirty and disheveled, and his arms laden
with firewood like the lowliest tenant on the estate. “What the devil is going
on here,” he demanded.

Garth
deposited the wood on the hearth, then turned to face Tristan. “It’s a long,
sordid story and I won’t burden you with the details. Suffice to say I sold out
my commission once Boney was defeated and returned home to find our father, may
he rot in hell, had managed to gamble away everything he owned before he was
sent to his just reward by some Captain Sharp he’d tried to cheat at Hazard.”

“Everything?”
Tristan choked.

“Everything.
The hunting box in the Midlands, the London townhouse, the farms in Suffolk,
even Winterhaven and all its furnishings.” Garth ran his fingers absentmindedly
through his thick blond hair. “His sole legacy to his heirs is the collection
of vowels he owes various London gambling hells, which add up to nearly twenty
thousand pounds.

Tristan
stared at his brother in disbelief. The old earl had always been a wastrel, but
it would take most men two lifetimes to gamble away such impressive assets as
the Ramsdens had once owned. An icy rage gripped him and he swore softly in the
gutter French he’d picked up in the Paris slums. He had learned to fend for
himself during his years in France, but these three gentle people he loved had
no concept of how to survive without the wealth they’d always taken for
granted.

Still
reeling from shock, he tucked the quilt around Lady Ursula, then moved to the
fireplace to build up the fire with the wood Garth had delivered.

Garth
watched him with listless eyes. “There’s more,” he said in the same dull
monotone with which he’d recited the first part of his incredible tale. “The
mortgages on the properties, as well as Father’s vowels, have all been bought
up by one-man—Caleb Harcourt.”

Tristan
looked up from his task. “The wealthy cit who owns Harcourt Shipping?”

Garth
nodded. “And the Harcourt woolen mills and two of London’s finest hotels and
God only knows what else. I wonder if the fool thinks that by owning the
properties of the Earl of Rand he may somehow acquire the title. Rumor is he’d
been negotiating with Prinny for a baronetcy in exchange for the blunt to pay
of his most pressing debts.”

“I
think it is safe to assume Caleb Harcourt is no fool.” Deep in thought, Tristan
stirred the coals with the poker until they ignited the dry wood. “He must have
a reason for going to the trouble of searching out the earl’s creditors and
paying them off—though God knows I cannot think what it might be.”

“Nor
can I, but it is something I intend to ask him when, at his request, I call on
him tomorrow morning at his place of business on the London docks.”

“When
we
call on him. We will beard the lion in his den together,” Tristan
said, his heart aching for Garth. He could imagine how bewildering it must be
to go from a position of undisputed wealth and respectability to abject poverty
and disgrace in the blink of an eye.

“Is
that wise, my dears?” Lady Ursula’s small heart-shaped face lacked its usual
mask of calm serenity. “The man is a common cit, for heaven’s sake, regardless
of his enormous wealth. How can a gentleman hope to reason with someone so far
below his social level?”

Garth
moved away from the fireplace, pulled the chair out from under the desk, and
sank onto it, obviously exhausted. “What choice to I have, Mama?” he asked with
a touch of impatience. “Thanks to Father’s penchant for gambling, this common
cit currently owns everything that should be mine. I am at the fellow’s mercy.”
He raised agonized eyes to Tristan. “I cannot even deed you that unentailed
estate in Suffolk, I promised you. It went the same way as the rest of my
holdings.”

Tristan
hid his bitter disappointment behind an indifferent shrug. “Not to worry. I’m
not certain I was cut out to be a sheep farmer anyway.” He forced his lips to
form a semblance of a smile. “As for dealing with cits, I have dealt with
nothing else during my six years in France—including the infamous Fouché,
Napoleon’s Minister of Police. By and large they are no better or worse than
their counterparts in the titled gentry. We will simply take this English
interloper as he comes and proceed accordingly.

It
was a foolish speech which said nothing and promised even less, but he could
see from the two pairs of hopeful feminine eyes turned his way that it had the
desired effect on the countess and Carolyn.

The
bleak expression on Garth’s face said he wasn’t fooled by such blithe
sentiments, but after a telling look from Tristan, he seconded them. No use
cutting up the ladies’ peace of mind any more than they had to. Moments later
the two brothers took their leave, claiming they needed to plan their strategy
for the coming meeting.

“Does
Lady Sarah know of your problems?” Tristan asked as they made their way to the
book room. The daughter of their neighbor, Viscount Tinsdale, had dogged Garth’s
footsteps since they were children growing up together. Both families had
always taken it for granted the two would someday marry.

“I
have not yet steeled myself to terminate our ‘understanding’,” Garth’s
pain-filled voice trembled noticeably. “Everything else in this miserable
bumblebroth pales beside the anguish of knowing I must hurt the woman I
love—and in the worst possible way. Sarah has waited so long for me to
officially declare myself that she is almost past the marrying age, and now I
must tell her all the plans we made are for naught.”