Chapter One

32 Grosvenor Square, 1803

Matthew watched his father, the Earl of Wisterley, pace the library. His parents had arrived to Grosvenor Square the night before, but he'd been conveniently absent. He'd left them a note claiming he was not certain which day they would arrive so he'd gone to his club.

When he'd returned home in the early hours of the morning, he'd found that his father had written him a note back. They had arrived, and he would see his son in the library at precisely eleven o'clock.

Eleven was rather early for a meeting in the library.

"Woke you up, did I?" the earl said, no doubt noting his less than exuberant appearance.

"I was out very late, Father."

"I suppose you were. Now listen here, this gallivanting about Town has gone on for three years and it's come to an end. You must marry this season."

"I really do not see what the rush is," Matthew said.

"You know very well why," the earl said uncomfortably.

"But are things as bad as all that?" Matthew asked. He hoped the answer was no, but he was not certain of it.

"Let's put it this way—if you do not bring an infusion of cash into the estate and then produce an issue who will eventually grow and marry and bring another infusion and so on, there will be no estate to call your family seat. Do you not know how these things work? Our estate has never covered our costs, we always need to bring in a bride with a significant dowry. It is the way of England."

His father had said something like it a hundred times before. But Matthew thought the logic did not quite hold up. If his family could not generate extra pounds and pence, then how were other families coming up with dowries?

It remained a bit of a mystery, though he understood from his mother that she and the earl were greatly relieved that no daughter ever hit the nursery, as they had no idea what they would have done about it.

Still, though his father had been harping on the subject for several years, this was the first time the old soldier had come to Town for the season. Matthew supposed the earl meant to increase the pressure by being in the house—ever staring and inquiring into where he was going.

Matthew was not sure what to do about it. On the one hand, he did not like to let his father down or shirk his duties to the estate. On the other hand, he did not like to set out on a fortune hunt. Was he to just take note of the largest dowries going and then pretend to be hopelessly besotted with the ladies who brought them? He did not think his acting skills would be quite that good.

Matthew had been long hopeful of encountering a lady who bowled him over, who at the same time bowled over his father with money. He wished for the sort of marriage his grandparents had. They had disappeared from dinners and winked at each other right to the end of their days.

Certainly, there was a lady out there who would affect him so. It was just that he had not encountered her yet. Of course, he also knew that he'd not spent much time in places a lady such as that would be.

He well knew he spent far too much time at his club. Of the times he had gone to balls, and Almack's even, he'd not been bowled over by anybody. Rather, he'd felt like a hunted animal. He could not fathom why, either. He was not the greatest catch in the world. His lady would eventually become the countess of a respectably sized estate, but there were far bigger fish floating round the bachelor seas just now.

"It's Wednesday," the earl said. "I've arranged it all—your mother and I will accompany you to Almack's. Put your practical hat on, son. It's time to do your duty."

Matthew nodded, though he'd really rather say no, turn on his heel, and stalk off. There was only one person in the world who held sway over him and that was his father. He could not get round the idea that the gentleman deserved his respect. As a compromise of sorts, he did not always do what the old fellow wished, but he did not trouble him with outspoken defiance either.

Almack's. He supposed it would be a very long evening.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Lady Constance Condower, daughter of the Countess and Earl of DeWitton, considered the two dresses her mother had selected as being the most appropriate for Almack's. A certain Madame LeFray had been brought in as her modiste and had spent months living with them at DeWitton Hall on the run up to the season.

The madam had brought with her a coterie of seamstresses and most of the west wing had been given over to them for bedchambers and work rooms. Constance could sometimes hear the young seamstresses' laughter drifting down the corridors and it made her wistful that she did not have sisters and brothers.

No expense had been spared in preparing her wardrobe, nor had any expense needed to be spared. Constance was a very rich young woman, though how that had come about had been very much a surprise.

A distant cousin named Mr. Harold DeWitton Canbury had, many years back, decided to take his chances in America. He'd done exceedingly well for himself, but he'd kept his success under wraps lest he have cousins of all descriptions turning up on his New York doorstep.

He did not, in his later years, have any close relations. He'd never married and his only brother had died without issue. Mr. Canbury had been ignored and then forgotten by the rest of his extended relations.

Ignored, but for Constance and her mother.

The countess remembered Harold fondly from their youth and had always worried about him setting off for the wilds of America. She'd kept up a regular correspondence with him, always encouraging him to come back home should the barbaric nature of Americans become too much for him.

Mr. Canbury had never agreed to come home, and he'd also been exceedingly vague about his circumstances. The countess had been left with the impression that he was ‘comfortable enough.'

When Constance had learned to write, her mother had set her to writing letters to Mr. Canbury in New York. It was considered great practice to write the letters and then Constance was always rather thrilled to receive a letter back from the far-off town of New York. The contents of those letters she received were always very kind. She might write of the upset of not being able to locate a certain stuffed rabbit that was necessary to her sleep. Mr. Canbury would respond with a full paragraph over his concern regarding the current location of Bitty-Bunny and inquire if she'd checked under the bed as that was a known hiding place for such creatures. He'd been right—Bitty-Bunny had been under the bed.

As she got older, they spoke of other things. There was a time when she wrote very extensively about her pony, Daffodil, and then she reached a time where she was out of patience to be older, and finally a time when she was older and contemplated her coming out season. Whatever she'd wished to write about, Mr. Canbury always took her thoughts and opinions seriously and she adored him for it.

Then four months ago, a solicitor sent them a letter. He must see the countess at her earliest convenience—Mr. Canbury had died.

At that moment, Constance's mother had presumed that it was to be laid at her door all the arrangements that must be made for her departed cousin. She was happy to do it, and she was determined that he should be brought home and buried in England.

That was not what the solicitor had come about, though. It seemed that Mr. Canbury had no close relations and he'd lived a lonely and isolated sort of existence. One of the bright spots in his life had been the letters he received from the countess and Constance. Therefore, they were to inherit all of that gentleman's worldly goods.

Mr. Canbury turned out to have quite the pile of worldly goods.

The countess was bequeathed twenty-six thousand pounds, the proceeds from the sale of his house, and all his art and furniture. Constance was bequeathed twenty thousand pounds.

They were all very rich now, but it was a closely held secret. Nobody knew of the inheritance, and they would keep it that way until Constance married.

The fortune hunters who cruised through London like sharks looking for a rich fish would swim by Constance Condower, blind to her allurements. She would be forever grateful for her father to have seen the sense in it. Both the earl and his wife had a dozen ideas of making improvements to the estate, but they would wait. They would not draw attention or speculation until Constance was safely wed.

The gentleman who did propose would believe he would receive three thousand pounds from her dowry. Respectable, but not enough to catch a fortune hunter's eye. Those fortune hunters would beat themselves about the head when the contract was drawn up and the truth was known—the real amount she brought was twenty-three thousand.

"Well, what do you think?" the countess asked as they examined the dresses that lay on Constance's bed.

One was a divine dark blue silk with embroidered violets of the same color lining the neck and delicate puff sleeves. The other was a cream silk with no embellishments, just an elegant and precise cut that Madame LaFray called grace et facilité.

"I think the cream does better for my coloring," Constance said. She did not say, but often thought, that her coloring was not very interesting. She was brown-haired and brown-eyed and, as she had spent the warmer months mostly atop her horse, her complexion was just now a little brown too. She had once pronounced it drab and her mother had said it was "not that bad."

The countess nodded at her choice of dress. "Now, my darling, you are not to get yourself in a lather about Almack's. I know Lady Jane went on and on about her nerves over being faced with the patronesses, but it's all nonsense."

Constance smiled. She was ever so fond of Jane, but she suspected it had been all nonsense. Jane had named the patronesses dragons of the worst sort. Though, when pressed, she could not claim they'd breathed any fire on her. Lady Jane was mercurial and could be the most practical or the most fanciful lady alive, depending on the day.

"You do not think anyone will know?" Constance asked.

It was not necessary to explain what the thing was that people might know. Both she and her mother knew very well that they spoke of the money.

"No, I do not. The only people in the world who know of it are the solicitor, you, me, your father, and Letty. We can all be trusted."

Constance nodded. She had been assured that the solicitor could not reveal anything he knew even if he wished to. Her parents were a given. And then of course, Letty was her lady's maid and they were thick as thieves. Letty would never betray her.

"That is the only thing I really worry over," she said. "Let the patronesses breathe fire on me if they wish, I only pray that the money stays a secret."

Constance was determined to marry for love, without the taint of money hanging over the whole thing. She could not go forward for the rest of her life wondering if it had been an inducement.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Mr. Wilburn experienced the smallest of tremblings as he entered the league's headquarters in Cheapside. His fellow members were all arriving, on time as always. This was to be his moment, the moment he led his illustrious colleagues in matchmaking.

It must all go smoothly. There must not be the windings and turns and ups and downs of last season. He would not tolerate such tomfoolery.

They had entered the main room of the place, it having another room in the back overlooking a garden that served as a library and smoking room.

The room was not overlarge, but it had been comfortably appointed. There was a thick carpet underfoot and they had arranged the chairs in a circle, each with its own side table to the right. A large oval table sat in the middle of the circle for a tea tray and other conveniences.

Mrs. Bellkey, the landlord's wife, had kept the place spotless for them. Now, she bustled in with a tea tray.

"Welcome back, gentlemen," she said. "Mr. Belkey sends his regards and his hopes that you find the rooms in satisfactory order."

The six butlers had ranged themselves in their circle, each taking their own special chair.

"It is well done, Mrs. Belkey," Mr. Wilburn said, "just as we have come to expect."

Mrs. Belkey nodded and her expression said she'd been sure that would be the case. And why not? They must be the easiest tenants Mr. Belkey had ever had. They were not there too often, and not at all when it was not the season, they paid on time, and they paid to have it cleaned weekly.

The door shut behind Mrs. Belkey and each gentleman took his tea.

"Mr. Harkinson," Mr. Wilburn said, "do provide us with an update on last year's efforts. How do the duke and his new duchess get on?"

Mr. Harkinson had led the last season's adventure, and frankly it had been a little too adventurous for Mr. Wilburn's taste. Lady Jemima and the Duke of Barstow had wed, but what a struggle to get there.

"They get on splendidly, Mr. Wilburn," Mr. Harkinson said.

Mr. Wilburn was glad to hear it, considering the time they'd had of it. Though, Mr. Harkinson looked strangely wide-eyed just now. He supposed it had to do with the question of head injuries. They'd spent a deal of time under the impression that Lady Jemima had suffered a blow to the head to account for her various surprising attributes. Then they'd invented the duke having had a blow too, to make her sympathetic toward him. Recently, though, there had been talk that neither one of them had experienced a blow.

Mr. Wilburn did not know where the truth really lay, but he thought they'd all be well-served to wash their hands of it.

"I think we must consider last year's first venture into matchmaking as a resounding success," Mr. Penny said. "We had our moments of doubt, but we persevered."

"Cum Virtute!" Mr. Browning said.

"Cum Virtute," the members answered in unison, all heads turned toward the wood plaque over the mantel. It was their motto, elegantly carved—with valor. Whatever was to beset them, they would go forward with valor.

Mr. Wilburn thought some valor would not go amiss this season. It could not possibly be as harrowing as Mr. Harkinson's entry onto the field, but there were some small difficulties to contend with.

"Mr. Wilburn," Mr. Browning said, "you are to take the lead this season—tell us where we are."

Mr. Wilburn had, of course, known this moment would come. He must acquaint his fellow members with the truth. Or at least part of it.

"As you know, gentlemen," he said, "many of our esteemed English families must keep a close eye on the subject of…the matter of…dowries."

None of them said anything, but there was some grave nodding being done, which was rather encouraging.

"The Earl of Wisterley is desirous that young Viscount Bramley keep practicality in mind when choosing a wife."

Mr. Wilburn stopped there and hoped the members were astute enough that he did not need to elaborate.

"Oh I see," Mr. Penny said. "The earl hopes his son will wed a lady with a respectable dowry. Quite right, to my mind."

"Perhaps more than respectable," Mr. Wilburn said, shifting on his chair.

"How much more than respectable?" Mr. Rennington asked, putting the teacup down that was just now shaking in his hand.

"A very good dowry, I think he means to say," Mr. Harkinson said.

"An excellent dowry, is what I mean to say," Mr. Wilburn answered. It was uncomfortable to establish that point, but that point must be established.

"A excellent dowry? How many excellent dowries are hanging about?" Mr. Feldstaffer said. "I knew something would go wrong."

Mr. Wilburn stared sternly at Mr. Feldstaffer. If that fellow was told the sun was up, he'd think something had gone wrong because it was bound to go down again.

"Nothing has gone wrong, Mr. Feldstaffer," Mr. Wilburn said.

"Wrong is barreling down the road right toward us," Mr. Feldstaffer muttered, always unwilling to admit that things weren't going wrong.

"Let us put our heads together, gentlemen," Mr. Penny said. "There is no use trying to turn the earl's mind from what he wishes for, therefore we must attempt to achieve it."

Mr. Wilburn nodded gravely and was rather thankful that none of them had bothered to inquire what Viscount Bramley, the earl's son, wished for.

That rapscallion did not wish to marry at all this moment. At least, not as his father would have it. Last evening, Viscount Bramley had done an awful lot of complaining to his valet, who relayed it all to the eager ears in the servants' hall at breakfast.

Apparently, the viscount said he wished to marry when he became "bowled over" by some lady. Mr. Wilburn presumed this was some ridiculous notion of romantic love.

What was it with these young people, thinking romance was a necessary requirement?

Mr. Wilburn was not married himself, but were he to ever consider it, being bowled over would not be on his list of requirements!

"Mr. Penny," Mr. Wilburn said, "I have already resigned myself to your very sensible suggestion of working to satisfy the earl's requirements. I have thought deeply and it seems to me that the two most promising candidates are Lady Juniper Croydon, coming with fifteen thousand, and Miss Bessy Semper, coming with ten thousand."

"Bessy?" Mr. Browning said. "We have a cow named Bessy on the estate."

"We all have a cow named Bessy on the estate," Mr. Harkinson said.

"That is neither here nor there," Mr. Wilburn said.

"Ah, now I never like to disparage a lady," Mr. Penny said, "but I have heard that Lady Juniper is…or rather is not…very genial?"

"It's said she snaps at people. I suppose she even snaps at the butler," Mr. Browning said.

This did give the members pause. It was a rather horrifying idea to be snapped at. Mr. Wilburn was no less affected, and perhaps more—if Lord Bramley were to wed that lady, he might very well find himself snapped at. He was a butler. The only person who dared snap at him was the earl, and that had only happened twice over the years.

Of course, poor Mr. Rennington was routinely snapped at by his housekeeper. But that was thought to be a one in a thousand aberration!

Nevertheless, the snapping lady came with sufficient funds.

"Well now, I suppose Miss Semper will be found to be pleasant," Mr. Penny said.

Mr. Feldstaffer snorted. "It is said she resembles nothing so much as an overdecorated petit gateau—she is short and her dressmaker has piled on every frippery in London. She is a walking pastry. We are doomed."

"Whatever deficiencies may be present in her wardrobe can be fixed, I'm sure. The question is" Mr. Wilburn said, "what can we do to push these two ladies in Viscount Bramley's direction?"

"My cousin is cook to the Earl of Wellerston, Lady Juniper's father," Mr. Rennington said. "I might tell him the viscount looks for a wife. Lady Juniper's lady's maid will know it soon enough, then the lady herself will know it soon enough."

"I see what you say, Mr. Rennington," Mr. Penny said. "It will pique her interest and separate our viscount from all the fellows who are just out for a jolly time."

Mr. Feldstaffer shook his head and whispered, "Men who are jolly are not fully awake to this world."

Fortunately, they were all so accustomed to Mr. Feldstaffer's rather depressing views that nobody took notice of the comment.

"Oh and I have an old friend who is the coachman for Lady Florence Mullery," Mr. Browning said. "I understand Miss Semper stays there for the season."

"We will put the word out to those two ladies," Mr. Wilburn said.

"Perhaps we do not think big enough," Mr. Browning said. "Perhaps we let all the ton know that Viscount Bramley is ready to settle himself with the right young lady. Our connections are very good, but there may be a lady we are not yet aware of who would fulfill our requirements."

"That is a promising idea," Mr. Wilburn said. "One cannot be too careful or assume too much."

"And we might even softly hint that he requires an excellent dowry, thereby weeding out anybody who would not suit," Mr. Browning said.

Mr. Harkinson waved his hands. "No, no, no, we cannot do that. My experience last year was very eye-opening. It seems that a lady is only interested in knowing if the gentleman is entirely overcome by her. Bringing a balance sheet into it will chase them all away."

"Mr. Harkinson is right, women are not very sensible creatures," Mr. Rennington said. "We cannot overlook that fact. Just yesterday, my earl's housekeeper said if I spoke to her one more time without looking her in the face, she would turn my face with a broom."

"Why?" Mr. Browning asked.

"Nobody knows," Mr. Rennington said sadly.

"We are decided," Mr. Wilburn said, thoroughly unwilling to consider what Mr. Rennington's housekeeper might do next. "We put it about the ton that Viscount Bramley has an eye to wed."

The members all nodded in agreement.

As for Mr. Wilburn, he had fingers and toes crossed that Viscount Bramley would be promptly bowled over by either Lady Juniper or Miss Bessy Semper. Despite their less than stellar descriptions.