Chapter 5

“Lady Anna, we have arrived.”

She sat bolt upright, rubbing her tired eyes as she squinted through the open carriage door. The footman stood there awkwardly in the dusky light of evening, as her mind took a few moments to catch up to where she was, and what the grand Tudor manor house now meant to her: home. At least until Dickie made his return to Greenfield House.

Will I be allowed to return with him, if he finds a wife before then? She shook off the worry and clambered out of the carriage, offering her apologies to the footman. Of course, Dickie would not keep her from her own home.

“Did we pass my brothers on the way?” She stretched out her arms, grimacing as a tight muscle in her leg sent a ripple of pain down to her foot.

The footman shook his head. “I don’t believe so, M’Lady.”

“No matter.”

Her brothers had chosen to ride ahead on their horses, Dickie claiming that if he was forced into the confines of a carriage, he would undoubtedly be sick. Max had agreed to accompany him in case he got lost or fell from his saddle during a surge of nausea, while Percival had been nowhere in sight, much to her satisfaction.

Still, she had expected her brothers to be back before her. Had hoped for it, in truth, so that they might spend some time together—just the three of them.

They must have stopped more often than intended, she mused with a smile, and went into the manor.

Climbing the rickety staircase to the upper floor, the ancient boards creaking underfoot, she was already looking forward to having a bath while she waited for her brothers. She had not slept well at Westyork, her mind churning with ideas on how to deal with Percival, and her body ached from the carriage ride, but now that things had been set in motion, she could relax for a while.

She knew Caroline had received the letter. She had seen it poking out of the top of the younger lady’s pinafore pocket that morning, at breakfast.

Reaching her bedchamber, Anna halted. The door was wide open. She never left it open, obsessive in her desire to keep it closed. It was a habit from childhood, when she had wanted to retire into the world of her beloved books, shutting herself away from anything that could shatter the illusion each page conjured.

She edged closer and peered around the doorjamb.

A figure sat at her writing desk, the drawers all wrenched open, all of her keepsake boxes ransacked. It was not merely the desk, either. The side-tables, chests of drawers, and wardrobes had been thoroughly raided, as well as the heavy trunk at the end of her bed.

She would have preferred it if the culprit had been a thief, but she knew the identity of this intruder. He was not there to steal anything but her privacy.

“What do you think you are doing in here?” she seethed, stepping into the room.

Percival whipped around, lacking the common decency to look even a little bit guilty. “I might ask you the same question, Catchweed.” He held up a short, round cylinder. “You see, I happened to see this stamp pressed into the seal of a letter that has just ruined my future plans.”

“Well, that is not my stamp. I have never seen it before,” she replied, a note too quickly.

He smiled coldly. “Do not begin with lies, Catchweed. They will not serve you well. I know this stamp belongs to you, and I know what you have been doing. Silly of you, really, to make your seal a buttercup, but you have always been far too sentimental.”

“I have no notion of what you mean.” Panic shivered through her veins, like ice freezing across a winter pond.

She had often thought—especially as her success had increased—that she should change the emblem on her secret letters, in case someone put two and two together. But as only one person called her “Buttercup” and anyone else who knew that name would likely never be a recipient of her talents, she had decided to wait a while before she altered her symbol.

He cannot know. It is not possible. No sooner had she thought that than his previous words finally registered in her head: “I happened to see this stamp pressed into the seal of a letter that has just ruined my future plans.”

“As I see it, there are two explanations to this,” Percival said, rising from her chair with the stamp still gripped in his hand. “Either you are this fabled matchmaker that I have been hearing and reading about, or you have pretended to be her in order to trick Lady Caroline into rejecting me.”

Anna’s heart thundered in her chest, her brow beading with cold droplets of sweat. Maybe, he did not realize it, but he was offering her a way to get out of the situation by simply claiming that she had pretended to be The Matchmaker. Yet, something about his tone of voice and bitter smirk made it feel like a trap.

“I did not know your handwriting before, but I have spent some time studying it,” he went on. “If you are not The Matchmaker, you should know that you share the same writing. Near identical phrasing, too: It is better to be a wallflower or a dreamer than shackled to a life of misery with an unsuitable gentleman. Would you not agree?”

Anna abandoned any hope of convincing him that she was not what he thought she was. Strength and pride poured into her chest, making her stand taller in defiance. She would not allow this oaf to make her feel guilty about the one sincere change she had made to the world, even if it was just the world of the ton.

“There was no trick, Barnacle,” she said coolly. “I did what I thought was right for Lady Caroline. I do not force anyone to do anything they do not want to. I do not make demands of people; I merely make suggestions. If she rejected you, she came to that conclusion of her own free will.”

“Do not take me for a fool.” He walked toward her. “She was not in need of a matchmaker who helps hopeless women, and I suspect you would have stopped at nothing to ensure that my plans were thwarted.”

Her breath caught in her throat as he came closer, the sheer size of him both thrilling and intimidating in equal measure, particularly to someone of her stature. There was a gleam in his intense green eyes, which continued to hold her gaze, as if they were locked in a challenge as to who would look away first. She would not give him the satisfaction.

Anna scoffed. “You thwarted your own plans, Percival. My dear friend Caro is seeking a love match, not a marriage of your convenience.”

He opened his mouth to retort, but she put up a hand. “I am not finished, Percival!”

“Finished or not, you will not speak to me in such a tone. Certainly not after what you have done,” he growled.

She gulped, proceeding anyway. “You said that all you cared about was her brother’s influence and talent for business. You do not care about her at all. It would be a match that is beneficial to you, not her, and I was not going to stand there and let you make her miserable just because a few rafters at your estate are falling down and you need a wealthy, well-connected bride to fix it.”

“You were eavesdropping?” Percival’s eyes darkened.

“I did not mean to, but I am glad that I did!” Anna shot back. “Providence put me in the bushes last night and, yes, you might think that I used my gifts on someone who needs no assistance, but I disagree. She does not need me to find her a match, but she does need someone to help her see that there is no sense in rushing her search, when she is still young and beautiful and of rich and charming character!”

Percival took a half step closer, until they were almost face-to-face—rather, face-to-chest.

“I would have treated her well,” he said. “Better than you could imagine.”

“Oh, please,” Anna tilted her head up, refusing to let his height diminish her anger, “you cannot even treat your best friend’s sister well.”

Percival turned his back on her and stalked to the window, daring to perch upon her window seat as he looked out. It was bad enough that he was in her bedchamber, and had decimated her privacy, without him also touching every surface he had not already tarnished with his presence. Still, she could breathe more easily now that he was not an inch away from her.

“Why?” he asked, a short while later.

“Why what?”

He glanced at her. “Why have you become this matchmaker?” He gestured at the writing desk, where several scandal sheets had been strewn around, plucked from the secret box where she kept them. “I cannot deny you seem to be good at what you do, but what has possessed you to be this thing?”

“That is none of your concern,” she replied, wishing she had not been so prideful. If she had burned those scandal sheets and used a seal that could not be linked back to her in any way, he would not have found her out.

Percival got up and started moving toward her again, stealing the air from her lungs with every step he took. He was gazing at her strangely. Intently.

“Very well. You do not have to tell me, but you will have to tell your brothers. I imagine they will be very keen to hear all about your secret activities,” he said, as he was about to pass her.

Terror ripped through her, panic shooting her hand out as if it did not belong to her. Her fingers curled tightly around Percival’s wrist, squeezing as hard as she could. Although, if he really wanted to leave the room with that threat hanging over her, there was not much she could do.

“Nobody can know who The Matchmaker is,” she said in a desperate whisper. “If you have read those scandal sheets, if you can see how beneficial what I do is, then know that it only works because no one knows the identity of the one responsible. I overhear things that lead me to my next matches. I am able to do so because no one pays me any attention. If my identity is known, the very foundation of my work will be destroyed.”

Not even her friends knew that she was The Matchmaker, for the same reason that Beatrice had never informed anyone of her clandestine activities: once a secret was shared it was no longer a secret. And Anna certainly did not trust the vault of Percival’s loyalty; she could not let him leave without a solid promise of secrecy.

Percival’s eyebrows rose up slightly, and he took a half step back, as if he had not considered the effect his threat might have on others.

His gaze flitted to Anna’s hand, still gripped tightly around his wrist, but he made no attempt to wrench free or prize her fingers away. Perhaps, he thought it would make her more uncomfortable to make her keep her hand there, but all she noticed was how warm his skin was against the cold of hers, and how quickly the little thudding rhythm in his wrist was pulsing.

For an eternity, he said nothing.

“My successes are clear for all to see. I am good at this, in a way I have never been good at anything before,” she said softly. “But who would accept and trust the help of someone who has not been able to gain themselves a husband, if I were to be discovered?”

For another minute, he was quiet. But at last, with a deep sigh, he replied. “For the sake of those you have helped already, and those who might yet need your help, I will say nothing. I will keep your secret.” A muscle twitched in his jaw, as if it pained him to say that. “But there is a condition for my silence.”

“What sort of condition?” Anna finally released his wrist.

He rubbed the joint with his other hand, circling it as if the touch had brought him discomfort. “You are to make up for the time I have wasted on Lady Caroline.”

“All… twelve hours or so?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Do not be obtuse, Catchweed.”

She had not been able to help herself, regardless of the risk of him revealing her secret. Indeed, she did not want him to think that she was happy in any way about his wretched actions.

“Well, you ought to be clearer,” she remarked. “What do you mean?”

That muscle in his jaw twitched with greater agitation. “You will use your strange talents to find me the right match, and then you will make sure to send a letter from The Matchmaker so that whoever this lady is, she can be certain she has found the best man for her. I cannot pretend to understand why your word on the matter of relationships is the be-all and end-all, but I might as well use it to my advantage, so you cannot thwart me again.”

“I will not lie,” Anna insisted, doing her best to stand tall and strong. “I will not threaten the integrity of what I do.”

He smiled stiffly. “But that is what you do, is it not? You match people with their perfect partners. If you do your work properly, you will not have to lie, and the integrity of what you do will not come into question.” He headed for the door, turning on the threshold. “So, I suggest you do not try to trick me, lest you then have to trick the lady you have selected for me.”

“You are serious about this?” She did not know what surprised her more, that he was not going to reveal her secret, or that he was legitimately asking for her help.

“Very serious. I must be married, and with your assistance, I will not have to do all of the tedious work of courtship myself,” he replied. “But if you cannot bear the thought and would prefer me to just inform your brothers of your secret life, I am happy to do so.”

She cast him a withering look. “I will help you, as long as no lady is tricked into an unhappy marriage. I will do the work, but you cannot pretend to be anything other than you are.”

“That suits me.” He stuck out his hand. “Does this mean we have an agreement?”

She took the proffered hand, but before she could shake it, he lifted hers to his lips and kissed it. Any sardonic remark she had been about to make was shocked off her tongue, which had likely been his intention.

“Well?” he prompted, still holding her hand.

She straightened up, refusing to be distracted by his tricks. “Yes, it seems we do.”

And though she did not want to antagonize him by saying it to his face, she could not help thinking, it shall be my hardest challenge yet, for how can I be expected to saddle any poor woman with you?