Chapter Five
“He moved you into one of his houses?” Mirabel, Lady Palmer, said and gave a small, glad squeal of happiness. “Oh, this is wonderful. This is more than I could have ever hoped for you! Lord Lyon. My dear, he is the prize, and you have bagged the prize—”
“No, wait, you don’t understand,” Thea protested. She’d been sharing with Mirabel the story of her adventure the other evening with Lord Lyon.
Mirabel brought her finger to her lips. “I understand perfectly and shall keep mum. Mum, mum, mummmm. . . .” She drew the last word out with delicious pleasure.
They sat in Mirabel’s morning room, which overlooked the town house’s garden.
It was a small plot but done up with Mirabel’s style so that it outshone almost any other garden Thea had ever seen—including her own father’s.
Mirabel did most of the work herself, claiming to adore puttering around in mud and dirt.
The boys were there now, galloping on imaginary horses around the flower beds, playing a game of Horse Guard. Thea had broken up one strong argument—both boys wanted to name their steeds Ajax—and now her sons had settled into happily entertaining themselves.
Mirabel was twenty years older than Thea, her hair still a pale, sunny blonde. She was tall, and thin, and very fashionable, and her deep blue eyes were always brimming with laughter.
When Thea had first returned to London, Mirabel had been the only one who had opened her door to her. Everyone else had been too intimidated by the duke of Duruset’s power and his threats. But as Lord Palmer’s wealthy widow, Mirabel hadn’t cared.
And it had been Mirabel who had suggested Thea trade on her background as a duke’s daughter and knowledge of society and marriage to offer a discreet but important service as a matchmaker.
Thea had rejected the idea at first, but as her situation had grown more desperate, she’d realized Mirabel was right. She did have a good understanding of the ton. She’d not made a good match herself, but she had discovered that she could be very clearheaded in what would be good for others.
Furthermore . . . she was the current duke of Duruset’s scandalous sister, and that served her well.
So far, the people who had contacted her for assistance had been the minor gentry—a squire with a beautiful daughter and no dowry, Sir James’s challenging nephew, and a few aristocratic sons and daughters of middling fortune and unexceptional, sometimes even unfortunate, looks.
Every one of them had mentioned her connection with the powerful duke of Duruset, and though most had known that she’d been disowned, that hadn’t stopped them from engaging her services.
They’d all been too desperate to find decent spouses for their family members.
Besides, amongst the ton, everyone liked connections, even Mirabel.
Indeed, Thea sometimes suspected her friend would give all she owned to be accepted into the first circles of society.
She knew all of their names and ranking of importance.
Thea had grown up with these people, and she could have told Mirabel there was nothing special about them.
She far preferred Mirabel’s happy spirit to their self-important ones.
“Lyon and I are friends,” she now stressed to Mirabel. “Nothing more. We knew each other in childhood.” She wasn’t about to share Neal’s confession of having feelings for her at one time.
“Oh, I bet there could be something more,” Mirabel speculated, wicked glee in her voice. She was arranging a vase of flowers on a table, and she placed a peony amongst the white roses she had purchased from a hothouse. Thea sat at the same table, drinking tea, ink, pen and a list in front of her.
“Men are not generous without a reason,” Mirabel assured her. “Ever.”
“Well, this one is. And it isn’t generosity,” Thea insisted.
“I’ve paid for a lease.” She actually hadn’t.
Mr. Givens, Lord Lyon’s man of business, had offered her a period of grace until the beginning of the month before she needed to pay a rent, which Thea had thankfully accepted.
In truth, she was quite pleased with the modest home with decent furnishings.
It was a vast improvement over where she had been living, and she’d enjoyed the two days she’d taken to move her small family into it.
“Besides,” Thea continued, “if your suspicions were true, I would have seen him by now. Over the last three days since he took us to the Clarendon, there hasn’t been a word from him.”
“No, just his servants to help you move,” Mirabel countered with a sly smile.
Thea made a dismissive sound and poured a heaping spoonful of honey into her tea. “You are exaggerating. However, I have a larger problem. I must choose women for Lord Lyon to meet. I’ve been working on the problem in my mind. His wife can’t be just anyone.”
“What does he want in a wife?” Mirabel said, moving the vase of arranged flowers over to a side table.
“Someone he can’t abide,” Thea said.
Mirabel sat across the table from Thea. “What do you mean ‘someone he can’t abide’?”
Thea sat back in her chair. She studied her friend a moment, then pushed the list of names over an inch before asking, “Do you believe in superstitions?”
“Superstitions?” Mirabel shrugged. “I do not like spilling salt, and if I wager, I always chose the number seven because I usually win with it. Do you believe in superstitions?”
“No.”
“That was very blunt of you.”
“I feel that strongly. I believe we create our own fate. There is no hand of God directing us or supernatural beings pushing us to do their whims. We have free will.”
“Very well,” Mirabel said, reaching for the teapot, “but what does that have to do with finding a wife for Lord Lyon? And why would you want to saddle him with a woman he can’t abide?”
Thea hesitated a moment. She had to talk to someone about this, and she trusted Mirabel. “I asked about superstition because Lord Lyon believes he is cursed.”
That grabbed Mirabel’s attention. “In what way?”
Thea leaned across the table. “You mustn’t breathe a word of this to a soul.”
“I promise. What do you mean?” Mirabel vowed and demanded without taking a breath, her eyes wide with anticipation.
“He said there is a curse handed down upon his family from a Scottish witch. When a Chattan male falls in love, he dies—which is why Lord Lyon wants a woman he can’t fall in love with.” She felt silly just repeating it.
“Well,” Mirabel said, sitting back and reaching for the honey pot, “no wonder you are denying there is anything between you. He’d fall in love with you.”
Heat stole up Thea’s neck. “He would not.”
“Of course he would. Thea, I wish you would see yourself as others do. You are an attractive woman . . . and if Lord Lyon didn’t fall in love with you, he would fall in love with your sons.”
“There you are correct.” Thea looked out the window to the garden, where the boys were now busy building something out of twigs and leaves and whatever rocks they could find. “He wants children.”
“Most men do. Otherwise they would never settle down,” Mirabel observed.
“You and Palmer didn’t have children,” Thea observed.
“I said ‘most.’ Palmer had me. I was child enough for both of us.”
Thea smiled. “Everyone knows the two of you lived for each other in spite of being opposites—” Her voice broke off with sudden realization. “That’s it.”
“What is it?” Mirabel echoed.
“Lord Lyon needs a regal wife. One with excellent bloodlines.”
“Like yourself?”
“Mirabel, if you insist on speaking this way, I shall leave,” Thea said without any heat in her voice.
“No, don’t go. I’ll behave, at least as much as I can,” she promised. “What is your brilliant idea?”
Thea tapped the list she had been making. “I have very nice women here, but they are all boringly pleasant. He needs spirit. Vitality. Independence.”
Mirabel stirred her tea pensively. “Yes, independence. One who will go her own way.”
“And independence is also selfish,” Thea pointed out. “And selfishness keeps a man at arm’s length, no?”
“I’m selfish,” Mirabel argued, twisting one of her blonde curls around a finger. “And men have always been after me.”
“You are not. You are the most generous woman I know. And the very best friend. No, the person I’m thinking of is one who has been hard to marry off because she is almost masculine in her manner, and yet she is a woman—”
“Lady Lila Corkindale,” Mirabel said, guessing accurately.
“Exactly. She’s beautiful but a man-eater. However, I’ve heard rumblings that she needs to marry. She is the sort who wants only the best.”
“And Lord Lyon is the best.”
“Furthermore, she is so bold, I can’t imagine any man loving her. She is not that sort of woman. However, no one could call her cold. I hear she has a temper.”
“I think you have hit upon a match,” Mirabel agreed.
“Perhaps,” Thea hedged. Did she really want to see Neal saddled with Lila Corkindale for the rest of his life?
A shudder went through her even as she reached for the silver inkstand, dipped the pen nib in ink and wrote Lady Lila’s name to her list. “Now, who would be a tad tamer than Lila Corkindale?”
Before Mirabel could answer, her butler, Osgood, knocked on the morning room door. He held a silver salver in his hand. “My lady, Lady Montvale and Mrs. Harrison Pomfrey have come to call.”
“Vanessa Montvale and Sarah Pomfrey? Here?” Mirabel repeated in disbelief with an incredulous look at Thea. The two women were the most fearsome hostesses of the ton. They only associated with “those who mattered.”
“I do not know their given names, my lady,” Osgood answered. “However, here are their cards.”