Authors: Love Is in the Heir
The Feathertons clucked at that.
The earl paused for a moment and lowered his voice, forcing Hannah to draw closer to the door.
“But my dear ladies, what you do not know—and I tell you this only because I know I can trust you implicitly and you will not share what I am about to say with anyone . . .
anyone
—is that the entire future of the Devonsfield earldom rests on the immediate union of Mr. St. Albans and . . . a woman of quality.”
The two ladies gasped loudly with surprise at this revelation—as would have Hannah had she not cupped her hand over her mouth.
“His choice, for reasons he does not wish to expound upon,” the earl continued, “is your charge, Miss Chillton.”
“Um . . . exactly what do you mean by that, my lord?” Lady Letitia asked. “I fear your statement was too oblique for my tea-deprived mind fully to understand this morning.”
The earl sighed and dropped his tone to little more than a heavy whisper. “My sons, and recently my brother as well, passed on unexpectedly, leaving Devonsfield without a clear heir for the past few weeks.”
“Oh, my.” Lady Viola’s voice seemed abnormally high and thin to Hannah’s ears. “But Mr. St. Albans is—”
“Yes. Yes, he is.” The earl exhaled and for a few seconds he sounded as if he struggled to steady his breathing. “I . . . I will not bore you with the minutiae,” he continued a moment later, “but in order for Mr. St. Albans to move from Devonsfield heir presumptive to heir apparent, he must marry before I die.”
“But my lord, you appear quite the portrait of health,” Hannah heard Lady Viola say. She never spared the sugar when adapting the truth was necessary.
“My physician does not agree with you, my lady. He does not expect that I will survive the year.” Several seconds of silence passed before the earl spoke again. “So you see, Mr. St. Albans must marry—immediately.”
Hannah heard the hiss of a shoe scraping the floor, and she whirled around.
“Shall I announce you, Miss Chillton? Is that why you are still standing here?” came a deep voice from the deep morning shadows of the passageway.
Goose bumps raced over Hannah’s skin. “Who is there?” she asked weakly.
A figure rose from a chair in the corner and walked into the bright wedge of light breaking through the window.
“Pinkerton.”
Hannah exhaled. She had completely forgotten that Annie had warned her the earl’s man was outside the drawing room. “You need not announce me,” she said mutedly. “I was just on my way into the drawing room.”
Pinkerton said not a word.
“I
was,
” she hissed on a rush of breath.
With no other choice, for certainly everyone in the drawing room had heard Mr. Pinkerton’s rude prompt, Hannah sucked in a deep breath and strode into the center of her elders’ conversation.
The earl came to his feet immediately.
Hannah knew she did not possess the skill, as did Lady Viola, to sprinkle her words with sugar or even to lighten them with tincture of fresh cream.
She had always spoken her mind, for good or ill, and that is what she decided at that instant to do.
“My lord.” Her tone was shrill, even to her own ears. “Mr. St. Albans may well need to marry immediately to protect the future of the Devonsfield earldom. I am afraid, however, I will not be that woman.”
“Hannah!” Lady Letitia’s faded blue eyes shot to the earl. “Do forgive her manners, my lord. Miss Chillton is simply distraught and her sensibilities taxed.” She looked to Hannah once more. “Isn’t that so, dear?”
“Yes, I am distraught. My every sense is shredded. But the fault of my state is hardly mine. Mr. St. Albans, and his roguish ways, did this to me.”
“Hannah . . . you surprise me, child. I know your heart, and I am fair convinced it lies with Mr. St. Albans.” Lady Viola started toward her with her arms outstretched. “Tell me what happened, dove.”
Hannah shook her head and raised her hand to stop any additional questions.
“Well, no matter what happened between you and our Mr. St. Albans, it can be set to right. Please, only agree to talk to him. I have a strong notion that a misunderstanding is all that separates the two of you.”
Lady Letitia pushed up from the settee and sidled up to Hannah as well. “We shall send for him at once to allow the two of you some private time together. I agree with my sister. Grant Mr. St. Albans an interview, and I vow we shall be celebrating a wedding by supper.”
The earl flashed Hannah a hopeful smile. “Yes, yes. By supper. He already has the license, you know. The two of you could be married by week’s end if you wished. . . .”
Lady Letitia clapped her hands and gazed admirably at the little earl. “I simply adore your way of thinking, my lord. The drawing room is perfect for a wedding breakfast. Why, we only need a few gatherings of hothouse flowers on the table there, and over there some cakes. I shall have Mrs. Penny set Cook to baking right away—”
“No,
no
! There will be no wedding.” Hannah shook her head, loosening several hot tears she had not even known had collected in her eyes. “Nor will I grant an interview to Mr. St. Albans. There is no need for that, for I already know the sort of man he truly is. Clearly, all of you do not.”
She looked across the room at the earl, who appeared completely dumbfounded.
“I am sorry for you and your family, my lord, but as I told him, I will never marry Mr. St. Albans.
Ever
.”
B
y the end of that day, having lost all confidence in everlasting love . . . in love at all, at least for herself, Hannah did her best to set aside the pain of loss that still throbbed in her breast and rededicated her life to finding suitable mates for other unfortunates.
By the end of the week, her belief in the good she was doing for others grew ever firm, and Hannah ventured so far as to pay for an advertisement in the
Bath Herald
.
She’d once kidded with the Featherton sisters that she ought to commission a carved shingle to promote her matchmaking service, but only a couple of days past, she’d done just that. And when the sign arrived a day later, she proudly carried it outside and hung it above the kitchen door just below the entry to the Feathertons’ grand residence.
Surveying the shingle from the flagway, just beyond the iron-railed stairway that led down to the outer kitchen door, Hannah allowed herself a pleased smile.
The sign was bright and vividly painted. An emblem of two linked rings of gold gleamed in the center of the shingle. Even Annie, who was always quite critical, admitted that the effect was quite arresting. And it was.
Anyone who visited, or even strolled past Number One Royal Crescent would not be able to avoid noticing it, especially when the sun angled just as it did now, making the rings glitter almost magically.
Still, Hannah did not delude herself into thinking Bath society would support such a venture. Indeed, the fashionable collective would surely gasp at her audacity in establishing a matchmaking business.
But flaunting it in the newspaper and in the street, especially while the Featherton sisters, pillars of the community, were charged with her guidance—well, that was beyond the pale.
Still, Hannah wasn’t about to allow the attitudes of others to stop her. No, she had learned that lesson with the earl. She would be true to herself—and in this instance, that meant assisting the lovelorn who had not the skill or nature to secure mates on their own.
It would not be easy, standing up for her service, and especially not at home. The two elderly Featherton sisters would see that her sign was removed the very instant they learned of it, for even the quirky, mischievous old ladies had their standards.
Still, the day or two the shingle would hang in plain sight of anyone who passed would be all that was necessary to start tongues flapping with the news of her venture.
Even if the sign was removed immediately, Hannah had convinced herself that it really wouldn’t affect her business so greatly.
Already her matchmaking services were in high demand—and here it was just nine short days after Mr. St. Albans told her that he loved her, then suddenly could not remember ever having done so.
The wretched rogue.
Surprisingly enough, even the gossipers’ retelling of her painful tale of loss, no matter how untruthful or fanciful the story they chose to spread, secured her new business.
Her credibility did not suffer in the least. If anything, her tragic loss of love actually prompted her clients to identify fast and true with her.
This wasn’t so with all of her clients certainly, but it didn’t matter a smidgen to Hannah that several mamas who dragged their unmarried daughters to her were more interested in learning how she, a simple city miss, had drawn the amorous attention of the heir to an earldom.
It mattered not whether a potential client wished for advice or for Hannah to contrive a meeting with the gentleman or miss of his or her dreams.
Business was business, and her process was always the same, as well as her fee: a single guinea.
And not one customer had quibbled over the cost. Not one.
That proved how vital and valued her matchmaking truly was, didn’t it?
Hannah smiled at her shingle, quite proud of her accomplishments that week. She wondered if she ought to write her brother, Arthur, about all the coin she’d been earning, but then decided against it.
Arthur would cease sending what little money he did. And who knew how long her matchmaking service would continue to thrive.
There were only so many eligible, unattached people in Bath. And at this rate, she would have matched them all by May Day.
That evening, Hannah went to bed quite pleased with herself.
She was weary to the bone after meeting with three potential clients that day. But between rising that morn and laying her head to her pillow, she had also taken two new matchmaking projects and planned an “accidental meeting,” her specialty, between a scientist visiting the city to attend Miss Herschel’s Bath Comet lecture series, and an aging modiste who lived comfortably, yet alone, above her shop on Trim Street.
Yes, Hannah told herself as she closed her eyes and snuggled against her pillow, in no time at all the comet would pass over Bath, and all the city’s learned visitors would leave.
All
of them.
And, in no time at all, she would have completely forgotten about Mr. St. Albans.
It would be almost as if they had never met.
That was exactly what would happen.
She was sure of it.
Griffin could not believe what he was hearing. Granted, he had expected as much from the earl, whose remaining days, few as they were, held but a single focus—preservation of the Devonsfield earldom.
But Garnet, too—his own blood?
He never thought he’d see the day when his own twin chose wealth and position over his own brother’s happiness. Still, it seemed the situation had come down to exactly that.
“Do not take my warning lightly, lad.” The earl walked within a breath of Griffin, peered high up into his eyes, and waved a plump finger before his face. “You cannot inform Miss Chillton, or anyone for that matter, that the earldom is in jeopardy—
owing to a question of birth order.
”
“From what you have said, my lord, it seems you have already confessed as much to the Feathertons and my Hannah.” Griffin caught the earl’s finger as it swiped rudely past him again and folded it back toward the earl’s palm.
“Why must I hold secret,” he asked, “one bit of information that could quite possibly return her to me?
I love her.
I have never felt this way for anyone before. Does my life, my happiness, mean nothing to either of you?”
Garnet settled his hand on Griffin’s shoulder. “You know it matters to us, brother. Greatly. But the future of the family is at risk.”
Griffin shrugged his shoulder, knocking Garnet’s hand away.
“I know we can trust her—”
Garnet turned and filled a crystal with brandy. He pressed the short-stemmed goblet into Griffin’s hand. “Griffin, Miss Chillton is angry with you . . . or possibly
me
. . . now.”
Griffin grimaced. “I am quite sure ’tis
you,
Garnet.”
Garnet shook his head. “Well, that is neither here nor there, is it? The point I am trying to impart is that she’s hurt, and when a woman is in pain, she is likely to lash out. Think about it. Who knows what Miss Chillton might do if she learns we are twins and that Devonsfield has no clear heir.”
The earl started to raise his finger again but seemed to think better of it and folded it back against his palm, then clasped his hands securely behind his back. “She might very well send off a missive straight to the Committee of Privileges—the earldom could be dissolved! We cannot allow the risk. We cannot!”
“More likely Miss Chillton would say nothing, and agree to marry me!” Griffin swallowed his brandy, then angrily pushed past the earl and crossed the parlor in four short strides.
He lifted the decanter of brandy from the tantalus and poured another two-finger measure of amber liquid into his goblet. “For nearly two weeks, Miss Chillton has not agreed to speak to me, or even granted me the honor of leaving my card. However, once she knows that Garnet and I are twins . . . and virtually indistinguishable to her eye, she will realize that whatever it was that upset her so was likely
your fault
, Garnet. Not mine. Her anger, or pain if that is what she suffers, will instantly evaporate, and we will no longer have any cause for worry.”
The earl shook his head furiously. “Impossible. We cannot risk it.”
Griffin exhaled. How would he ever convince them? “Putting our trust in her will mitigate the risk. She is not a vindictive sort, who would lower herself for revenge.” Griffin sank into a chair near the front window. “She is an honest, kind woman, incapable of such craftiness of thought.”
The earl’s beady eyes took on a suspicious gleam. “Is that so, lad? Are you sure of that?”
“I am.”
“Really now. Curious.” The earl called for Pinkerton, and when his ebony-clad man entered the room, the earl whispered something in his ear. When his man returned a few moments later, he presented the earl with a newspaper, ironed perfectly flat.