“You won’t mind if Miss Woodchurch remains,” he said to Lady Aleksander. “I might be required to write a letter of apology to some poor unsuspecting lady.” He smiled as charmingly as Hattie had ever seen him smile.
It had the intended effect—Lady Aleksander almost blushed. “You’re very amusing, my lord.”
“I’ve never been accused of it.”
“I sincerely doubt you’ll be writing any letters of apology. You’ll probably be fending off invitations like they were invading troops. Keep your nibs sharp, Miss Woodchurch.”
What were they talking about? Hattie wasn’t following the conversation exactly, but it was clear the lady didn’t want her there.
As if to prove it, the lady said, “Are you certain you won’t mind, my lord? This meeting could be delicate in nature. Most are generally held in the strictest of confidence.”
Delicatein nature? Strictest of confidence? Was the lady a doctor? Highly unlikely but possible.
But the viscount chuckled darkly. “Madam...do you think there is anyone left in London who hasn’t heard that I am in want of a wife?”
Hattie nearly gasped out loud. Awife? This woman had to do with him and awife? She didn’t want to hear about it. She didn’t want to imagine it. She loved her position here and wanted nothing to ruin it for her. A potential wife absolutely would ruin it—she would probably shunt Hattie off to some attic office to do her work.
Hattie didn’t know where to train her eyes. She feared meeting his gaze would betray her true feelings. She could feel her face heating with...what, exactly? She didn’t understand herself at all—why should she be affected by any feelings whatsoever? It wasn’t a wife or whatever they meant to discuss forher. And yet, she did not want to hear a word of this conversation—except for the part of her that wanted to hear every single word.
Lady Aleksander smiled thinly. “Probably not. However...” She moved a little closer and spoke low. But not low enough—Hattie could still hear her. “Some clients prefer to keep these meetings private, as the details are usually of a very personal nature?”
One of Lord Abbott’s dark brows arched with amusement. “We’ll be fine.” He gestured to the settee. “Shall we sit?”
Some clients. What sort of clients?
“Thank you,” Lady Aleksander said, and with a sigh of exasperation, she sank down onto the settee.
Hattie sat gingerly in her seat, then splayed her hands on her desk, uncertain what to do with them. Should she pick up a pen? Wait to be called? Try and fade into the drapery? Unfortunately, she was wearing her terrible purple dress today, so fading into anything would be impossible.
Lord Abbott took a seat in a chair across from the lady, crossing his legs casually. From her vantage point, Hattie could see them both quite clearly. They looked as if they were about to start a chess match, each eyeing the other with discernment.
“You are looking very well, my lord,” Lady Aleksander said. “The London air agrees with you.”
“I am surprised. The London air is not very good.”
“It’s not, is it? And yet, there is quite a lot more to recommend London, I’m sure you’d agree.”
“Such as the custom of taking tea. I’ve taken the liberty of asking for it.”
“Wonderful! I find a cup of tea tends to help move these meetings along.” Lady Aleksander’s gaze slid to Hattie.
What sort of meeting?Hattie wanted to shout.What was this? What did this lady have to do with the viscount at all?
“I find whisky helps even more,” the viscount said, and stood up, went to the sideboard, and poured. “Lady Aleksander?”
“Oh dear, none for me, my lord. I think I’ll need all my wits about me.”
Lord Abbott looked at Hattie. “Miss Woodchurch? Whisky?”
She almost choked on her surprise. “No, thank you, my lord.” She thought she might need all her wits about her, too. She picked up a pen, ready to write whatever she was instructed.
Lady Aleksander leaned down and retrieved a leather journal from her bag and set it on her lap. It looked worn, its edges discolored. Bits of paper had been stuck between various pages.
Lord Abbott returned to his seat, whisky in hand. “What’s this?” he asked, nodding at her notebook.
The lady ran her hand lovingly over the cover that looked smoothed by age. “This book has been my companion for many years. It is a list of wonderful men and women, all desiring love and companionship, along with ticket stubs and embossed invitations, letters...all the keepsakes of successful matches I have made.”
Matches.Hattie stopped breathing. This woman was a matchmaker.A matchmaker!
