Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE

" O ne day, you will have to tell me where you find the funds for your infamous parties," Anna said, laughing as she sipped her lukewarm tea.

She and the Countess of Grayling had gotten so lost in their conversation, that she had quite forgotten to drink the tea before it cooled. A common problem when she met with the countess for one of their fortnightly afternoons. A woman of many names—the Countess of Grayling, the Sorceress, the Silver Widow, the Cunning Countess—but Anna knew her simply as Beatrice: friend, mentor, and fount of all society knowledge.

Beatrice chuckled and tapped the side of her nose. "I could not possibly. I trust the vault of your loyalty entirely, dearest Anna, but once a secret is shared it is no longer a secret. It amuses me to keep people guessing." She hesitated, flashing one of her delightfully wicked grins. "But I shall tell you this—it is a far duller secret than anyone suspects."

"I shall not relent until I find out." Anna smiled, taking a bite of a lemon cake. "But speaking of dull, did you see that dear Lady Emily has found a husband at last?"

Beatrice gasped, scandalized. "I am surprised at you, Anna, calling a poor soul like Lady Emily ‘dull.' It is most unbecoming."

"No, no, that is not what I meant!" Anna's hand flew to her chest, a ripple of horror running through her. "I meant, because you find talk of marriage and engagements so dull. Goodness, I would never call a fellow woman something so unkind!"

Beatrice smiled and reached over to pat Anna on the arm. "I was only teasing, dear friend. That was unkind of me ."

"I doubt I shall ever grow accustomed to your sense of humor." Anna relaxed, her heart returning to a more ordinary beat.

She would have insulted herself before she insulted another woman, especially one who had, until recently, been in her position of spinsterhood. Indeed, she knew better than anyone what it was like to be a wallflower of society. Worse, an unmarriageable. At six-and-twenty, she was well beyond the age of being anyone's first choice, and as the years had gone on, she had come to confirm what she had long suspected—that she would never be anyone's choice, first or last, or anything in-between.

Beatrice insisted that it was a liberating situation, but her situation was not the same as Anna's. For one thing, Beatrice was twenty years her senior, though she did not look it. For another, Beatrice had been married, and when her old, cruel, vile husband had died, she had petitioned the Royal Court to gain the title of Countess of Grayling in her own right. How she had managed it was another secret that no one knew the answer to, though Anna hoped that she might be privy to that information one day. Not that it would change anything for her.

"What manner of husband has Lady Emily found for herself?" Beatrice prompted.

Anna smiled. "A fine gentleman. The Viscount Marchmont. They were friends in their youth, but the Viscount married another. He had been a widower for some years when he happened to meet Lady Emily again, just three months ago. At one of your balls, in truth. It was love at second meeting! I received an invitation to their wedding this morning."

"And Lady Emily has never been married?"

Anna shook her head. "She is rather like me, I suspect."

"This has been happening rather a lot of late, do you not think?" Beatrice toyed with the pearls at her throat, deep in thought. "In the past year alone, I have read of countless matches that have seemingly emerged from nowhere. Yes, I remember reading an article about it."

She twisted on the drawing room settee, sifting through a small pile of papers on the table beside her. She plucked the telltale rectangle of the scandal sheets from the stack and smoothed it out on her lap, eyes darting left and right as she skimmed the words for what she was looking for.

"Here it is!" She passed the sheets to Anna. "What do you make of that?"

It was a short half-page regarding a mysterious figure called ‘The Matchmaker' who had worked miracles for the ladies of the ton , particularly those who might otherwise have been overlooked:

Nobody knows their identity, but for the past two seasons, she has brought hope to the hopeless, marriage to the unmarriageable, and salvation to countless spinsters. It is said that you cannot go to this mystery Cupid, but they will come to you in your hour of greatest need, in the form of letters suggesting one's ideal match and signed ‘The Matchmaker.' All you need do is give consent to proceed, and wedding bells will soon be tolling!

Anna's eyes widened, her heart swelling in her chest. "I think one would have to ask Lady Emily if her impending marriage is a result of ‘The Matchmaker.' Perhaps, she has been told not to say."

"I should like to meet her. The Matchmaker, I mean," Beatrice said.

Anna raised an eyebrow. "You are reconsidering your position?"

"Mercy, no!" Beatrice burst out laughing. "However, I am intrigued by such a woman. Her rate of success is unheard of. Famous matchmakers have come and gone, but I have never seen anything like this."

Anna tilted her head, rereading the article to see if she had missed something. "What makes you certain it is a woman?"

"Only a woman would do this for the women that society has cast aside," Beatrice replied solemnly. "A man would say, ‘Hard luck, ladies' and concentrate on pairing the debutantes and beauties with sickeningly wealthy old men. A man would work for the benefit of the men, not the women."

Anna could see the wisdom, and no small amount of the resentment, in her friend's words. Beatrice spoke very rarely of her time as a married woman, and everything she had done since her husband's death had been an act of powerful defiance, no doubt partially driven by her desire to make her husband turn in his grave. At least, to begin with. And, sometimes, doing good deeds and inspiring things had no choice but to come from the darkest of places.

"I do wish she would hurry along and find me a match, then," Anna said with a sigh, passing back the fortnight-old scandal sheets. "Although, I assume there is a rather long list, and I am nowhere near the top of it."

A sad smile graced Beatrice's lips. " I could find you a husband, if you would but ask me. I judge no one, dearest Anna. You know already that my own experience does not mean I am against the institution of marriage, and among your friends, I have seen some of the happiest examples of what marriage should be. An act of love. A promise of the heart, not the coffers."

Anna's own heart flinched a little, as it still did every time she thought of her beloved friends and their blissful unions. It had been several years since ‘The Spinsters' Club' had all actually been spinsters, and when Olivia, Leah, and Phoebe had found love, she had been overjoyed, championing their pursuit of romance with everything she possessed.

But when Matilda, her last ally in spinsterhood, had been forced into a marriage of convenience that had become a union of love, it had knocked her to her very foundations. She still was not certain she had recovered, though she was happy for Matilda and her husband, Albion. It just hurt to be the last spinster in The Spinsters' Club. And it hurt all the more, considering she was the only one of them who had never actually wanted to be a spinster in the first place. That had been a matter of shyness and circumstance.

"I think I am beyond such hopes," Anna confessed, adding with a laugh, "It would never be what my heart desires, either. I have read too many romantic novels and love stories to settle for anything less. I have poisoned myself with my own passions. However, my brother could certainly use the talents of this Matchmaker."

Beatrice sipped her tea, amusement dancing in her honey brown eyes. "Ah, whatever shall we do with dear Dickie? Always falling in and out of love. I suspect he secretly read some of your treasured books when you were younger, but missed the part pertaining to one powerful love, forever."

All Anna could do was chuckle at that, for she had long ago decided it did not serve her to keep despairing over her brother's rakish antics. She had tried to scold him, Max had tried to rein him in, but he had ignored both of them and done as he pleased anyway. It did not help that he was endlessly entertaining and charming, so it was impossible to stay angry at him.

"Apparently, he has changed his ways," Anna said, flashing her friend a pointed look. "He announced to me and Max at breakfast the other day that he fully intends to find a wife this season. I suspect it has something to do with Max's recent inheritance, and a few brotherly threats that he will not petition the Royal Court if he does not change his ways."

A distant relative had died a few months prior, leaving no heirs aside from Max. Having already inherited the title Earl of Greenfield from their father, Max had thought it rather too greedy to be both a Duke and an Earl, and had promised to petition for the title of Earl to pass to Dickie. Of course, it had come with a few stipulations, but society had already heard of what might be unfolding, making Dickie one of the most eligible bachelors in the country.

"I doubt he will struggle," Beatrice said. "Not with the matching part. The marriage part might be slightly more difficult than he is anticipating, but at least he will have a title and a beautiful residence to soothe his sore eyes when they begin to wander. Nevertheless, I pity his wife, and he has not even met her yet."

Anna nodded. "As do I. Although, we might be surprised. He might meet his match in more ways than one."

"That would be a fine thing." Beatrice grinned. "And what of Maximilian?"

Anna tilted her head from side to side. "Reluctant."

Just then, the carriage clock on the mantelpiece chimed out three o'clock in the afternoon. The last soft ting made Anna sit straighter in her seat, a prickle of panic shooting up her spine.

"Oh, Beatrice, it has happened again! I swear, time moves too fast when I am here," she cried, getting to her feet. "Goodness, Max will be cross with me. I am supposed to be back at the manor by four o'clock for the party."

It was at least two hours from the Grayling Estate to Max's new residence of Harewood Court, and as it was Max's first garden party since accepting the title of Duke, she had promised she would be there.

"Your brother could never be cross with you," Beatrice assured, rising from the settee to lead Anna out. "Will I see you at the Westyork Ball next week?"

Anna nodded, quickening her pace. "I would not miss it."

"Nor would I." Beatrice pulled Anna in for a swift embrace as they reached the grand double doors of Grayling House. "Journey safely, dear Anna, and enjoy the garden party. I always think it is best to make a late, dramatic entrance anyway."

Anna chuckled. "I would not know how to be dramatic, even if I were shoved upon a stage."

"You could borrow a gown?" Beatrice's brown eyes twinkled with mischief.

"For Westyork, perhaps. Something red and bold." Anna snorted at the very idea of herself in one of Beatrice's striking ballgowns, dripping with jewels. "But I shall make no promises. It has been a delight, as always, but I really must hurry."

Beatrice followed her out to the carriage, acting as footman to open the door, much to the shock of the actual footman. "Will our old nemesis Percival be there? It is summer again, after all."

So jarred by the question that she nearly missed the edge of the squabs as she sat down, Anna's face contorted into a grim look. "I shall hope and pray that he is not, for the entirety of the journey."

Over the recent years of their unexpected friendship, she had told Beatrice everything about Percival, and had been endlessly grateful to have the older woman's support in her hatred of the man. Mainly, during the times when she did not want to—or could not—bother the rest of the Spinsters' Club with her complaints.

"If he is there," Beatrice said, "remember all I have taught you about such men. Make him rue the day he was born." She flashed a wink and closed the door, banging on the side to let the driver know he could move away.

As the carriage began to rattle down the lengthy driveway, Anna slumped into the velvet squabs and clasped her hands tightly together, praying with all her might that she would be granted just one summer without a single glimpse of Percival Sinclair.