Chapter 3 #2
Edward drove his fist into his opponent’s ribs, felt the satisfying give of muscle and sinew. The man grunted and staggered back, blood streaming from his nose. Around them, the crowd at the Crossed Keys roared their approval.
It was not enough.
Lady Sophia’s words echoed in his skull, louder than the jeering crowd, more painful than any blow. A man who does not know the first thing about caring for a child. He blocked a punch and countered with a vicious hook. Before he loses what little remains of his heart.
His opponent crumpled to the sawdust.
Edward stood over him, chest heaving, knuckles split and bleeding. The rage still burned, unsatisfied. He wanted to hit something else. Someone else. Wanted to exhaust himself until he could no longer think, no longer remember the look on Oliver’s face when he screamed for his mother.
Grimsby appeared with the purse.
Edward waved it away. “The orphanage.”
He dressed and climbed the stairs to the street. The night air hit his face, cold and sharp, clearing the fog of violence from his mind. He walked without direction, letting his feet carry him through the darkened streets.
Movement caught his eye.
He slowed, pressing into the shadow of a doorway. Ahead, a small printing office spilled light onto the cobblestones. A figure stood near the entrance, cloaked and hooded, speaking with a lean man in spectacles.
The wind gusted. The hood blew back.
Lady Sophia.
Edward went still. He watched her pull the hood back into place, watched her continue her conversation with the bespectacled man. Their voices drifted toward him on the night air, fragments of words he strained to catch.
“…the applications are increasing…” The man’s voice was thin and reedy.
“…raised the rates as we discussed…” Lady Sophia, unmistakable.
“…another success for Lady Fairhart…”
Edward’s blood turned to ice.
Lady Fairhart. The matchmaker. The woman who had brought Leonard and Jane together. The woman whose meddling had set in motion the chain of events that led to his brother’s estrangement, his exile, his death.
And Lady Sophia stood at the center of it all.
He waited until she bid the man farewell. Waited until she turned down a narrow alley, her footsteps quick and confident. Then he followed.
“So you’re the notorious matchmaker, then.”
Sophia spun around. The Duke of Heatherwell stood at the mouth of the alley, his arms crossed, his face carved from stone.
Her stomach plummeted. She had just left Mr. Colborne’s office, had just pulled her hood back into place after the wind tugged it free. How long had he been watching?
“I do not know what you mean.”
“I heard you.” He stalked toward her. “Talking with that man. Discussing applications. Rates. Lady Fairhart.” His voice hardened on the name. “You are her. The matchmaker.”
“You followed me.” Sophia’s pulse hammered. “You had no right to follow me!”
“Do not take me for a fool.” He stopped, towering over her. “Lady Fairhart matched my brother with Jane. Was that your design from the beginning? To pair your friend with my brother?”
Outrage flared in her chest. “How dare you! I suggest matches. I do not manipulate people. Leonard and Jane chose each other. They fell in love of their own free will.”
“You meddled in my family’s affairs.” His voice rose. “You inserted yourself into my brother’s life, schemed behind the scenes—”
“I gave them a chance at happiness!” Sophia’s composure cracked. “A chance your father would have denied them. A chance you failed to protect.”
He recoiled as if she had struck him.
The anger drained from Sophia, replaced by something sharper. Understanding. “This is not about me. This is about your guilt. You blame yourself for not standing up to your father. For not bringing Leonard home. And now you are taking it out on me because I am a convenient target.”
His jaw worked. His hands clenched at his sides.
“Oliver needs more than a nursemaid and an uncle who cannot look at him without seeing ghosts.” Sophia softened her voice. “He needs warmth. Patience. Love. Things you clearly have no idea how to provide.”
“I know.” The words emerged rough, broken. He turned away, his shoulders rigid. “I know I cannot… provide that for him. I need a wife. A mother for the boy.”
Sophia stared at his back. The silence stretched between them.
He turned to face her. “So you may continue to visit Oliver. Under supervision.”
Hope flickered in her chest. “Truly?”
“On one condition.” His gaze locked onto hers. “You will help me find a suitable bride. Someone with education. Pedigree. A nurturing temperament to care for Oliver. And eventually, to provide me with an heir.”
Sophia’s breath caught. He was asking her to find him a wife. To use Lady Fairhart’s skills for the man who had just threatened to expose her secret.
But if she refused, she would lose Oliver.
“Very well.” She extended her hand. “We have an agreement.”
He stared at her hand for a long moment. Then he took it. His grip was warm, firm, and unsettling.
“The Bancroft garden party is next week.” He released her. “We begin there.”
Sophia nodded. She turned and walked away, her mind spinning with the absurdity of it all.
She had just agreed to find a bride for the most infuriating man in London.
God help them both.