Chapter 24

Percy awoke with a jolt to bright sunlight streaming across his face. He sat up and rubbed his bleary eyes, confused as to his whereabouts. It took him longer than it should have to realize that he had fallen asleep on the comfortable brocade settee in the library of Harewood Court, and that it was way past the hour for his departure.

He got to his feet and nearly tripped over a small stack of books on the floor. One lay splayed out, as if he had dropped it when he fell asleep.

All at once, the events of the previous night swept back into his head. It had been very early in the morning when he had returned, but he had been restless, and had hoped that a nip of brandy would help him sleep. As he had sipped, he had drawn out some of the romance novels that he knew Anna favored, and by candlelight, he had begun to read one: Pride Prejudice, by Jane Austen.

“She will kill me if she finds it like this,” he mumbled, hurrying to put the books back where he had found them.

That done, and feeling like he had not slept a wink, he shambled out into the hallway.

“Your Grace!” A startled voice made him whip around. “Are you quite well? Have you been in the library all night?”

Straightening up, he attempted to maintain any residual scrap of dignity, though he was in a considerable state of undress in just his shirt and trousers. The former was unbuttoned to the chest, and the poor housekeeper seemed to be doing everything in her power not to stare at that triangle of exposed skin.

“The journey exhausted me,” he said. “I apologize. I must have fallen asleep.”

The housekeeper took a breath. “Don’t apologize, Your Grace. You’re a guest here.”

“Yes, about that.” Percy cleared his throat. “Might you have some of the footmen prepare my belongings for departure? I intend to return to Granville House as soon as possible.”

The housekeeper frowned, but did not argue. “Of course, Your Grace. I’ll see to it right away.” She paused. “Will you want your carriage prepared, too?”

“Yes, if you would. Thank you.”

The housekeeper bobbed in a delicate curtsy and turned back the way she had come, where she would no doubt inform the entire household of the travesty she had witnessed.

Shaking his head and sweeping his hands through his hair to try and flatten what the settee had tousled into a wild mane, he padded back into the library. Standing on the threshold, the book he had been reading caught his eye once more, sticking out slightly.

I will return it, he told himself, as he headed over to the bookshelves and took it from its place.

Remembering the titles of those he had stacked up last night, he withdrew two more from the shelves: The Mysteries of Udolpho by Mrs. Radcliffe, and Le Morte d’Arthur by Sir Thomas Malory. He had heard Anna mention that last book so often yet had never felt an inclination to read it until then.

Retrieving his waistcoat and tailcoat from the settee, he folded the books inside, then darted back to the bookshelves to readjust the books. That way, it would likely take Anna longer to realize there were books missing, and he would hopefully have returned them by the time she did.

He tucked the impromptu parcel underneath his arm as he headed back out into the hallway, wondering if he ought to go to the kitchens to see if he might be given some manner of breakfast.

Before he had taken more than two paces, the front doors of Harewood Court burst open, and three figures walked in. Max and Dickie flanked the shorter figure in the center, her arms through theirs.

Anna stopped dead as she saw him standing there, so inappropriately attired that he might as well have been in his nightclothes. His heart leaped and sank at the sight of her, for his legs wished to run to her, while the rest of him resisted, holding him firmly in place.

And she was not the only one who looked shocked to see him.

“You are still here?” Max asked grimly. “I thought you said you needed to depart at once because there was a… fire at Granville? Did you receive news?”

Percy could not take his eyes off Anna. She looked just as beautiful as she had last night, though she had on a simple dress, and her hair was modestly drawn into a bun, and she wore no adornments or embellishments. Perhaps, she looked somewhat tired, but otherwise, she was radiant.

“I was… waylaid,” he replied. “The footmen are gathering my belongings as we speak. It shall not be long before I depart, for I did not have much to bring.”

Dickie glanced at his sister. “What do you say we invite Percy to breakfast with us, Anna?”

“What?” Anna’s head jerked up to look at him.

“It seems as if he has had a rough sort of night. It would be too cruel of us to send him on his way without some eggs, at least,” Dickie replied, jostling his sister’s arm slightly.

Percy shook his head. “I could not trouble you.”

He immediately thought of the clothes-wrapped parcel under his arm, wondering if he would have the time and privacy to put them back. Taking them to read, to understand Anna better, had seemed like a good idea before they returned, but he could not just steal them from under Anna’s nose. Nor could he ask if he might borrow them, not after last night.

“Nonsense. It is no trouble,” Dickie said decisively. “Come, let us retreat to the breakfast room. No need to change your attire, Percy—Max and I are in a similar state of disrepair.”

Dickie walked off without waiting for Max’s agreement, tugging Anna along with him. And as they headed down the hallway to the breakfast room, Max and Percy approached one another as if they were already in the midst of the duel that Max had promised.

“I thought I asked you to be gone,” Max said, wearily.

Percy nodded. “I truly intended to be, but I fell asleep. I promise, I will be gone directly after breakfast.”

“Very well.” Max clapped him on the shoulder. “When all is well at your estate, write to me and I will visit. In the meantime, I hope you can understand why meeting with you will not be possible for a while.”

Percy forced a smile. “Of course, Max.”

He would not tell his dearest friend that it was going to be the greatest loss he had ever endured, to lose both Max and Anna, and to some extent Dickie, in one fell swoop. In truth, he had not felt so despondent since he was a boy, being hoofed out of his own home by his father and stepmother, barely escaping with his life.

* * *

Is this a ploy to utterly torment me? Anna did her best to concentrate on her toast and marmalade, but with Percival sitting across from her, with his shirt unbuttoned, devoid of a cravat, it was a near-impossible task.

She had never seen skin more perfect, lightly browned by the summer sun, nor had she ever seen a neck more… distracting. She could have watched the way his throat bobbed as he ate and sipped weak coffee for hours and not grow bored. She could have spent an entire afternoon admiring the cords that stood out, and the freckles that dotted the column of his throat, and the hint of more that peeked out from the collar of his shirt when he moved. She could have spent a whole evening, fascinated by the lines of muscle that showed through the somewhat flimsy material of that flowing shirt.

Add to that the way he had rolled up his sleeves, revealing browned and muscular forearms, and she was doomed to never eat more than a few mouthfuls of her toast.

“Did you see the fireworks last night, or had you departed already?” Max asked, reminding Anna that her brothers were present.

Percy nearly choked on a mouthful of eggs. “I did. Most diverting.”

“Which fireworks are we referring to?” Dickie replied, with a wicked grin.

Max groaned. “Not now, Dickie. Have a day of rest from your unyielding witticisms, I beg of you.”

“Impossible, Brother. It is an incurable affliction. There are no days of rest from it,” Dickie replied.

“Well, mutter them quietly if you must,” Max said, chuckling despite himself.

Dickie opened his mouth, likely to explain why that would not be possible either, when the butler entered, carrying a silver tray. Upon it, Anna spotted the newspaper that would surely have the scandal sheets tucked inside. It took every shred of willpower she possessed not to leap up and grab it from the tray.

The butler presented the newspaper to Max, before pausing to pass a letter to Percival. Percival took it swiftly and slipped it beneath the table, making no move to open it.

A private matter, I suppose. Anna was almost more intrigued by the letter than whatever was lurking within the newspaper. At first, anyway.

“I suppose we ought to get this over with,” Max said, sliding the wretched scandal sheets out of the newspaper. “Perhaps, the Countess has managed to silence her guests. If anyone can, it is her.”

Dickie sipped his tea. “There is the power of the Countess, and then there is the power of gossip. I wish it were otherwise, dear Anna, but the latter is far more potent.” He smiled. “All will be well. Indeed, remember this—whatever is written about you, I guarantee that they have written far worse things about me.”

With a frown etched upon his brow, Max’s eyes skimmed the pamphlet of gossip and scandal, the furrows growing deeper with each slow movement from left to right.

“Max!” Dickie barked. “Do not keep us in suspense. You know I loathe suspense.”

Max looked up as if he, too, had only just remembered there were others present. “It is… not as grim as we might have thought.” He hesitated. “Actually, it is not all that unpleasant at all. Society will make their judgments, of course, but… I do wonder if this was written by someone who understands you, Anna.”

“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 do not know 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 the ton, 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. “Is that why you did this? Is that 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?”