Chapter 2

Two

Mr. Owen Chesterfield readily admitted he didn't understand women and had been informed over the years by members of the feminine set that they found him vastly annoying.

Given what had happened a mere thirty minutes before certainly lent credence to the whole annoying business because the prickly woman, whom he'd taken to thinking of as Goldie as they'd never gotten around to exchanging names, had evidently taken great issue with him for calling her a little lady, and then got downright testy when he'd brought the word calm into the conversation.

In his defense, he'd merely been trying to defuse the situation before someone got hurt, but instead of Owen accomplishing that, Goldie had surprised him by discharging her tiny derringer, and then he'd had one of his Colt Dragoon revolvers snatched straight out of his holster by a woman he'd heard Goldie mention was her paid companion.

The only paid companion he'd ever met was employed by his great-aunt Elma, who'd had to resort to paying someone to spend time with her due to her querulous nature. That companion, Miss Hester Baker, was a very meek woman who spent her days reading to Aunt Elma or penning letters for his aunt because she refused to wear spectacles and was blind as a bat, which made writing, as well as reading, next to impossible. Hester would never contemplate snatching a man's weapon, let alone firing it, but that's exactly what Goldie's companion had done.

She was obviously an unusual companion and possessed a great aptitude for stealth since she'd appropriated his weapon without him even realizing she was up to something.

All he could conclude about that unlikely circumstance was that he'd been far too distracted arguing with Goldie, which was quite unlike him because even though he aggravated women with some regularity, he'd never become so distracted with their aggravation that he'd fallen victim to larceny.

It was evidently a day for firsts, and he'd not even gotten around to contemplating the onslaught of airborne raccoons or the ensuing altercation he'd had with the pack's leader, an aggressive beast with teeth as sharp as razors.

Luckily, the raccoon hadn't gotten an opportunity to sink its teeth into his skin, but it had managed to rip the sleeve of his jacket, leaving it hanging by a few threads, which meant it was now highly unlikely he was going to make much of a favorable impression during what he'd hoped would be a productive business meeting that morning.

A nicker from George, his stallion, drew Owen from his thoughts. After giving George a scratch behind the ears, he blew out a breath. "I know, it's been a most unusual morning, but there's an extra bucket of oats coming your way since you rose magnificently to a most unexpected situation."

George tossed his head, earning a smile from Owen.

"Of course I didn't doubt for a second you'd be willing to abandon our leisurely pace to chase after those men, although I'm hoping the remainder of the day isn't fraught with additional obstacles." He steered George around a large hole in the road. "I'm wondering, though, if I should take our encounter with those women as a sign I should abandon my plan to present a proposal to that matchmaker. Clearly, members of the feminine set are taking issue with me today, and the matchmaker is a woman, after all, and a society matron at that. I'm relatively sure after Walter Townsend told me she's known to be a stickler for the proprieties, that she'll take issue with the derelict state of my jacket and might also take issue with the idea I'm showing up at her home unannounced."

Owen picked off a loose thread from what remained of his sleeve. "In hindsight, I should have taken Walter's suggestion and sent a letter requesting an audience, but I didn't want to delay our return trip home to Wheeling, what with the Luella situation there, nor did I want to give the matchmaker an opportunity to refuse to meet with me, a decision I may now come to regret."

George gave another toss of his head, which Owen took as a sign of sympathy for his plight and earned his horse a pat.

"Who would have thought this unscheduled visit to the Hudson would get off to such a rocky start?" he asked. "I mean, there I was, after enjoying a delicious breakfast at that inn Walter recommended, minding my own business as we rode along, when I spotted that carriage parked in the middle of the road. My first thought, of course, was that it had suffered a broken axle, but then those riders came racing up to it. Instead of holding it up, which is what I assumed they were about to do, they yelled something to the driver, and everyone took off down the road. It was a suspicious circumstance to be sure and meant we had no choice but to follow them. Good thing we did, though, after those women rode into view and it was clear they were in danger. One would have thought they'd have appreciated me dispersing their would-be attackers, but I evidently got off on the wrong foot with Goldie and never got an opportunity to convince her I was there to save her."

He gave his chin a scratch. "I'm still wondering if I should have gone after them once I managed to extricate myself from the raccoon onslaught. The reason I didn't, though, if you were wondering, and before you judge me for not rushing to the aid of two members of the fairer sex, was because Goldie's paid com panion dashed away with one of my Colt Dragoons. While I'm relatively certain that she, quite like Goldie, aimed over my head on purpose before she pulled the trigger, if I'd been able to catch up with them, she might've decided that I really was a threat, which could have resulted in her deciding to aim a second shot to dispatch me instead of warn me off."

George tossed his head again, paired with a nicker.

"Glad you agree with that, and..." Owen's voice trailed off as he took note of a lane to his right, one that was flanked by large maple trees and had two majestic stone lions standing on opposite pedestals underneath those trees. He reined George to a stop. "Looks like this might be the place. Walter told me to look for lions."

He checked his pocket watch, frowned when he realized it was almost ten, then nudged George into motion again.

"We're behind schedule, but hopefully this meeting won't take long and then we can return to the station and get my Pullman car hooked up to the train going back to Wheeling."

After a full five minutes of cantering down the lane, the trees finally gave way and Owen found himself looking across acres of well-maintained lawn, complete with well-trimmed hedges and numerous flower gardens that were even now being tended to by a legion of gardeners.

The gravel lane soon gave way to paved stones that led to a magnificent four-story house, one that was crafted from hand-hewn blocks of limestone. Stately stairs led to the front vestibule, where an unusually large black cat was sunning itself on the very top of those stairs. It immediately lifted its head and settled its attention on Owen as he reined George to a stop and swung from the saddle.

After handing George's reins to a young groom who'd appeared the moment he'd reached the house, Owen thanked the lad and told him he wouldn't be long before he headed up the steps, taking a second to give the black cat a belly rub, pausing when the front door began opening.

Abandoning the cat, who sent him a look of annoyance, as if it felt Owen hadn't given him enough in the way of belly-scratching affection, Owen moved toward the door, where an older gentleman dressed formally in a black suit was already in the process of looking him up and down, his face completely expressionless as he finally caught Owen's eye.

"May I help you, sir?" the man asked.

Owen held out his hand. "I'm Mr. Owen Chesterfield, here to speak with Mrs. Pierpont."

After pausing for the briefest of seconds, the man stepped forward and shook Owen's hand. "I'm Mr. Timken, the Pierpont butler." His gaze traveled over Owen yet again, lingering on his dangling sleeve. "If you're here to sell Mrs. Pierpont something, know that salesmen are expected to use the back door."

It wasn't the first time Owen had been asked to use a back door, nor did he expect it would be his last.

He knew he didn't look the part of a man of fortune, and truth be told, he was a salesman of sorts, but one who sold vast quantities of nails, iron ore, copper, and bauxite to the titans of industry, of which he was considered an esteemed member.

He cleared his throat. "I don't believe Mrs. Pierpont would have an interest in any of the products I sell, Mr. Timken. However, I'm not here to sell her anything, except maybe on the idea that I would certainly make it worth her while if she were to agree to take on a project for me."

Mr. Timken's brow furrowed. "I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage, sir, because I cannot imagine what type of project you'd want to propose to Mrs. Pierpont."

Owen cocked his head to the side. "Ah, right. I should have been more discreet since I'm sure deniability is a must in this household whenever someone arrives out of the blue, looking to secure Mrs. Pierpont's services, which are probably considered a sensitive topic with Mr. Pierpont."

"Mrs. Pierpont's services?" Mr. Timken repeated.

"Indeed, but know that I don't think those services are common knowledge except amongst ladies involved with the Four Hundred. I only learned about them through Mr. Walter Townsend, a business associate of mine who was kind enough to pen me a letter of introduction to present to Mrs. Pierpont, proving I'm a legitimate man of business and have earned the respect of men like Astor, Vanderbilt, Rutherford, and of course, Walter Townsend himself."

Owen began searching through his pockets. "Ah, here it is." He pulled out a crumpled piece of paper and held it out to Mr. Timken, who took the paper with one hand, slipping his other hand into his breast pocket and pulling out a pair of spectacles.

After settling them into place, Mr. Timken uncrumpled the paper, looking over the rim of his glasses to meet Owen's gaze after he scanned the page. "It states that Walter Townsend is well-acquainted with you and finds you to be an upstanding individual with whom he often does business." Mr. Timken handed the paper back to Owen. "It does not mention why you want to seek out an audience with Mrs. Pierpont."

"I think that's best left discussed between Mrs. Pierpont and myself."

The man inclined his head. "Perhaps, but I'm afraid you won't be able to discuss anything with Mrs. Pierpont today because she's not at home."

Owen frowned. "Do you know when she's expected back?"

"The beginning of June."

"Surely not."

"Surely so because she's currently in Paris."

"Paris?" Owen shook his head. "No, I'm afraid you must be mistaken because Walter specifically mentioned that Mrs. Pierpont was currently in residence here on the Hudson, and that I needed to present myself at a proper hour because she doesn't care to receive guests at the crack of dawn."

"It's barely past the crack of dawn."

"It's almost ten. Half the day is considered gone where I'm from."

"And while I'm waiting with bated breath to learn what far-off land that may be, know that if Mrs. Pierpont were in residence, which again, she's not, you wouldn't be able to speak with her right now anyway because she never leaves her chambers until noon."

Owen gave his nose a scratch. "This is a very curious state of affairs because Walter never mentioned a thing about Mrs. Pierpont enjoying a long lie-in every day, or anything about Paris." He frowned. "Could it be that Mrs. Pierpont hied herself off to Paris on a spur-of-the-moment trip to secure a match for someone?"

Mr. Timken blinked. "Good heavens, Mr. Chesterfield, I believe I'm finally beginning to understand this rather unusual conversation. You've evidently suffered a misunderstanding with Mr. Townsend because you seem to be under the misimpression that Mrs. Pierpont is the matchmaker in this family. She's not. You're looking for her daughter, Miss Camilla Pierpont."

"I suppose I could have confused a Miss for a Mrs., but correct me if I'm wrong—aren't matchmakers usually married women and of an, ah, advanced age?"

"Miss Pierpont is an exception to the matchmaker rule, and frankly, her success over the years has far surpassed the more seasoned matchmakers out there."

Owen frowned. "How could she have possibly achieved that success when it seems peculiar that an unmarried lady could effectively orchestrate societal matches when she hasn't been successful securing a match of her own?"

For some reason, Mr. Timken's eyes began to twinkle. "When Miss Pierpont returns, and if she's agreeable to meeting with you, you're going to have to make sure to ask her that."

"Because...?"

"It might be amusing."

"And amusing her might encourage her to consider the business proposal I'm here to present?"

"I didn't say she'd be the one amused."

"Huh." Owen let that settle for a second. "Perhaps I'll keep my matchmaking assumptions to myself."

"Probably a prudent move," Mr. Timken said before he gestured toward the door. "With that out of the way, if you'll follow me?"

"You're not going to relegate me to the servants' entrance?" Owen asked.

"Since Walter Townsend vouched for you, I believe the front door is a more appropriate choice."

"And if he hadn't provided me with that letter of introduction?"

"Given the questionable state of your attire, I would have sent you on your way without a second's hesitation." Mr. Timken gestured toward the house again. "Miss Pierpont is currently not at home, but I expect her to return momentarily. You may await her arrival in the back parlor, which has a lovely view of the Hudson. I'm sure you'll enjoy it, as well as the refreshments I'll arrange for you after I get you settled."

"And you believe Miss Pierpont will be receptive to meeting with me?"

"She's a proper lady, Mr. Chesterfield, which means, if nothing else, she'll at least grant you a few minutes, although I can't say whether or not she'll lend you more time than that to present your proposal."

Taking that as rather promising because he'd been known to close business deals in less than three minutes, Owen fell into step behind Mr. Timken, greeted by the sight of an ornate heart-shaped staircase as he made his way into the grand entranceway, one that split in two when it reached the second floor and was carpeted in a deep shade of burgundy. A chandelier hung from the very center of the second-floor landing, its many crystals catching the morning light and sending prisms of color glittering down walls that were papered in green silk.

After they passed the staircase, Mr. Timken led him down a long hallway where numerous oil paintings and watercolors lined the walls, then past a dining room where china plates, crystal goblets, and silverware that gleamed against linen napkins sat on a very long table, looking quite as if the Pierponts were expecting guests to join them at any moment.

His table at home was never formally set and, in fact, could usually be found with a variety of mismatched dishes sitting on it, ready to grab whenever he found a spare moment to eat. Fishing lures could also sometimes be found scattered about, and occasionally one of his hounds, either Cleo or Calamity, climbed up on the table because in the morning, it was, at least in his dogs' opinions, a great place to catch the first rays of sun.

If the Pierponts owned a dog, he had a feeling it would never be permitted on top of any table.

"Here we are—the pink parlor, as Miss Pierpont fondly refers to it," Mr. Timken said, gesturing Owen into a room that certainly did seem to boast a lot of pink. There were pink chairs, pink settees, and even a pink lampshade, one that had little tassels hanging from it.

"Please make yourself comfortable," Mr. Timken said. "I'll be back directly with some refreshments."

As the butler bowed himself out of the room, Owen set his sights on a pink chaise, sitting tentatively down on the very edge of it and earning a rather worrisome creak from the chaise in return.

Knowing he was hardly going to make a good impression on Miss Pierpont with his tattered sleeve, and not wanting to worsen that impression by breaking her pink chaise, he set his sights on a hardback chair, a sigh of relief escaping him when he sat down and didn't earn a single groan from the chair, suggesting it was more than capable of supporting his weight.

He settled back, crossed his ankles, decided that was too casual of a pose and might lend Miss Pierpont the impression he wasn't there on a serious matter of business, so sat forward again, debating whether to cross his arms over his chest or not when the door that led to the backyard suddenly opened.

His mouth went slightly agape when a woman staggered in, followed by a second woman, both of whom were streaked with mud and soaking wet.

"The first order of business is to ring for a bath," one of the women said, "and then..."

Her voice trailed to nothing when she caught sight of him and froze on the spot. "What are you doing here?" she demanded.

Recognition was swift because standing in front of him was none other than Goldie, the same prickly woman he'd tried to save earlier, the storm clouds gathered in her eyes a sure sign she'd only gotten pricklier as she'd made her way home.

Before he could do more than rise to his feet, the other woman, the paid companion, whipped out his Colt Dragoon and aimed it his way.

His hands were in the air a second later.

"While I understand your shock, or perhaps it's disbelief, over seeing me again," he began, "may I suggest that the two of you—"

"If he tells us we need to calm down, just shoot him, Lottie."

It was not encouraging when the paid companion, apparently Lottie, cocked the hammer and arched a brow his way. " Were you about to tell us to calm down?"

"Not exactly."

"Then exactly what were you about to tell us?" Goldie demanded.

"I was simply going to suggest that the two of you get your overly excited nerves in check before someone gets shot."

Goldie's eyes flashed. "The only one going to get shot around here is you."

"There's no reason to shoot me, Goldie. As I've said numerous times, I'm not a threat to you."

Flames began practically shooting out of Goldie's eyes. "Did you just call me Goldie?"

"Since we never got around to exchanging names and you didn't like me calling you ‘little lady,' I did."

"And you think Goldie is better than ‘little lady'?"

"Indeed, since I chose it due to the brightness of your hair and because I once had a dog by the name of Goldie whose coat was almost the same color as your hair, although..." He shot a glance to the hair in question. "It's definitely not golden right now, more along the lines of dirty blond, and has me wondering what happened to you after we parted company."

"First off, we didn't part company. Lottie and I fled from you. Secondly, we obviously suffered a mishap, and thirdly, am I to understand you're calling me Goldie, not simply because I usually have golden hair, but because I remind you of a dog ?"

He winced. "Your voice seems to have risen another octave again, but there's really no reason for you to have taken offense because my dog Goldie was an adorable mutt that everyone loved."

"I remind you of a mutt ?"

It truly was amazing how much animosity Goldie could extend his way with a few short words.

"Perhaps I phrased that poorly."

"And perhaps Lottie really should just shoot you and put all of us out of our misery."

Before Owen could think of a response to that nonsense, Mr. Timken entered the room, pushing a cart, but stopped in his tracks the moment his gaze settled on Goldie.

"Miss Pierpont," Mr. Timken exclaimed. "What happened to you and..." His gaze darted to Lottie. "Why is Lottie pointing a gun at Mr. Chesterfield?"

It was difficult to resist a groan as it became glaringly obvious his day was not destined to improve since the woman he'd come to present a business proposition to was none other than Goldie.

Given the glare she was directing his way, there was little hope she'd be receptive to his proposal. In fact, it was far more likely she'd soon encourage her paid companion to take a shot at him yet again, and with his own revolver to boot.