“Brother, I adore you, but cease teasing us and read it,” Dickie urged.
Max coughed into his fist, and began: “At a Grayling Ball, one expects a certain amount of revelation and scandal, but it is not always a certainty that love might be in the air. For the past few years, the name upon everyone’s lips has been ‘The Matchmaker.’ Who are they? How do they possess such a rare talent for the art? Are they a lady or a gentleman? It has been deliberated at length at every party, every dinner, every ball, every social occasion one can think of, but I do not suspect anyone guessed correctly.
“Lady Anna Dennis, only daughter to the former Earl of Greenfield, and sister to two of the most eligible gentlemen in England—the imminent Earl of Greenfield and the Duke of Harwood—is not a name that one hears often. Perhaps, that is the secret to her success, to wander unknown among society, learning everything about those around her so she can make one of her famous matches. Indeed, it is my hope that you donotknow her, especially those of you still waiting and yearning for your true love.
“Unmarried, and one of the five members of the now rather ironically named Spinsters’ Club, it would be simple to ask how Lady Anna is eligible to take such a role upon herself. Yet, I would urge you to think on this instead: A woman does not have to be a mother to know how to nurture a child. One does not have to be a writer to know that a book is good. A gentleman does not have to be a horse to know how to ride one. Whatever she is doing, and whatever her ‘eligibility,’ it is obvious to all who have benefited from her efforts that her methods work. Indeed, I wonder if it is because she has not found love for herself that she cares so deeply about finding it for others.
“And consider this, too—even the eligible bachelor, the Duke of Granville, enlisted her services. If it is good enough for a duke, perhaps it is good enough for us all.”
Dickie gave a low whistle. “A near miss, Anna!”
“Yes… a near miss,” she mumbled, unable to believe what she had heard. “Are you certain it says that, Max? You are not lessening the scathing remarks about my spinsterhood?”
Max shook his head. “I promise, I am not.” He paused. “They do mention that you were seen meeting with Sinclair, but the writer is sympathetic. They have framed it as a ‘business’ meeting for his bridal search, and that your brothers were chaperoning nearby, so I doubt it shall cause too much harm.”
“But… why would they lie? The pair of you were not nearby.” Anna was grateful, but she could not understand it. The scandal sheets were rarely generous or sympathetic to anyone.
Dickie smirked. “Two words: Silver Widow.”
“Do you think?” Anna’s heart swelled with awe that it might, indeed, be the work of her dear friend, Beatrice. “She did say she would try to ease the furor, but… I suppose I thought the same as you, Dickie, that gossip would surpass her influence.”
Dickie shrugged. “I think you shall still have to face the gossip of theton, and you likely ought to wait before you begin your matchmaking again, but we shall be there to support you through it.”
“I will attest to what is written,” Percival said, meeting her gaze. “If it protects you, I will even say that I spotted you, and thought I would steal your attention for a moment. That you told me to leave you alone immediately, even though your brothers were by the door.”
A lump formed in her throat. “Thank you.”
“We were, in truth, but not until later,” Dickie said.
However, Max was staring at Anna as if he had spied something new on her face. “Isthat why you did this?Isthat why you became The Matchmaker—to find for others what you have not found yourself?”
“It is more like… I found my purpose,” she replied, her gaze darting back to Percival. “And I hid it because of what we all anticipated—that I would be scorned for daring to do something that I could not do for myself. It may still be that way.”
Max glanced at Percival. “And you knew?”
“I did,” Percival replied, though his attention was still fixed on Anna. “I needed her.”
Her heart thudded harder as he held her gaze, an intensity burning in his dark green eyes. A flickering fire, sending smoke signals that she could not understand.
“You needed my help,” she said, seeking confirmation.
Percival took a sip of his coffee. “Is that not what I said?”
CHAPTERTWENTY-FIVE
Percy could not delay any longer, though he had been conjuring up imaginary issues since breakfast—a missing cravat, a lost boot, a very important document. But the carriage was now packed, and he had no further reason not to leave.
“Sinclair, where are you?” Max’s voice echoed in the hallways.
Percy froze, for he had been searching the rooms, hoping he might ‘bump into’ Anna so that he might say goodbye one last time. They had not parted ways at the Orangery in the way he would have liked, and he sought to remedy that.
Noting the garden doors that led out from the Sun Room he had entered, he tiptoed toward them and let himself out. He would be found, of course, but he was not quite ready to give up the sanctuary and comfort of Harewood Court.
A pathway of crushed shells and pristine white gravel guided him through fragrant walled gardens, bursting with wisteria and roses, and around to the rear of the manor. Up ahead, he saw the glinting structures of the greenhouses and potting sheds. The ideal place to steal a few additional moments, perhaps an hour, before Max finally forced him to go.
“Anyone here?” he called out, as he opened the greenhouse door, and was blasted by a smack of thick, humid air.
He listened intently but heard no sound coming from within.
