Chapter One

Sussex, 1810

If Adelaide Northrop ever found herself short of funds, she fully intended to ply her trade composing a very detailed and, at times, scathing accounting of the traveling inns of England. She had eaten, slept, waited, or cringed within the walls of nearly all of them. The one in which she sat at the moment would be evaluated as both harmless and forgettable, which was not a complaint.

She almost hoped the gentleman she was meeting in this inauspicious corner of the kingdom proved equally dull and innocuous. Vapid people weren’t her preference, but finding a match for someone astoundingly boring would certainly be a challenge. After years of being the ton’s most sought-after and successful matchmaker, she needed a more ambitious assignment now and then.

Her arrival in Sussex had occurred a few minutes ahead of their decided-upon meeting time, giving Adelaide time to review her new client’s letter requesting her services. Her abilities were in enough demand that she could pick and choose which ventures she took up. This one had been surprisingly intriguing.

Mr. Porter Bartrum. Widower. Young father. Dunderhead, apparently.

“I do need a wife,” his letter said, “but I don’t know that I could choose one well. A poor choice would cause my son to suffer, and I certainly do not wish for that. I need your help, as I fear I might bungle this.”

The gentleman had been married before, yet he thought himself unequal to the task of managing the thing again. That part had stuck in her mind, refusing to allow her to set aside his request. He doubted his ability to do what he’d already done.

“Well, then, Mr. Porter Bartrum, let us see if you and your heart can be sorted out.”

* * *

“And she’s in the private dining room at this very moment?” Porter’s best friend, Vance, eyed the door to the dining parlor with misgiving. “A matchmaker? Truly?”

Why was this so difficult for him to comprehend? “Yes. I need a wife. She is known for making matches even for the most difficult of people.”

Vance eyed him dryly. “You are one of the least difficult people I know.”

“Yes, but if she managed to succeed under such unpromising circumstances, she can certainly find me a wife.” He cringed a little at the mercenary sound of that. “Rebecca has been gone for two years now. That’s more than half Lewis’s life. He needs a mother.”

“And this lady will find him one during the course of a single house party?”

Vance was making Porter begin to doubt this plan, the only strategy in which he felt even the slightest degree of hope. He simply could not afford to second guess himself. He’d tried a few times to sort out this business on his own and had failed miserably. He needed help.

“She will at least begin her efforts during the house party. If she is as miraculous as I have heard, she might even manage the thing by Christmas.”

A laugh, threaded through with curiosity, touched his friend’s expression. “How do the unattached ladies at this party feel about her arriving to ‘manage the thing’?”

This was the bit he needed Vance’s help with. “I’d rather the ladies not know. The ladies or the gentlemen.”

Vance shook his head. “A fool’s hope, my friend. She is too well known. The ladies eager for any match will toss themselves into the fray. Those with other options will retreat.”

He had thought of that complication. “I need you and Chloe to put it about that Mrs. Northrop is a family friend and is here in order to spend the holiday season with the two of you. She can be seeing to the business at hand with no one the wiser.”

“You’re daft, Porter. Utterly daft.”

“What I am is desperate.” He set his hand on the doorknob. “Will you help me?”

Vance shrugged and nodded. “I always do.”

That was true. They’d been each other’s greatest allies ever since their days at Harrow. Porter had seen Vance through the unexpected death of both his parents. Vance had been with Porter during the grueling days and weeks after Rebecca’s death. They’d shared happy times as well, celebrated life’s triumphs. If anyone could be counted on to help him pull the wool over the eyes of an entire house party, Vance could be.

He pushed open the door. No matter that his mental image of Mrs. Northrop was a bit hazy, having only descriptions of her work to build upon, he was surprised by what he saw. She was relatively young, likely less than ten years his senior. She dressed in the trappings of Society. He had, for reasons he couldn’t fully explain, expected her to be more severe, more like a governess or bluestocking. As it was, she would have blended in at any Society gathering. It was a bit of a surprise, yes, but also a tremendous relief. If she looked the part of a guest at a house party, few would doubt she was precisely that.

Mrs. Northrop rose and eyed him assessingly, then turned that same analyzing gaze on Vance. “Which of you is Mr. Bartrum?”

“I a—” He cleared his throat against the thickness there. “I am.”

She gave a single nod and faced him directly. “I am Mrs. Northrop. Please, be seated.” She gestured to the empty chairs at the table where she had been sitting before turning to Vance. “And you are?”

“Vance Munson, Bartrum’s friend.”

She nodded that same crisp motion and indicated Vance join them at the table as well. There was nothing of the shrinking violet about her, that was for sure and certain. Porter was a gentleman grown with a son and an estate and a great many responsibilities he saw to with competence. Yet, standing in front of her, he felt like a school boy again.

“It is good of you—thank you for—” Laws, he couldn’t get a single sentence out whole. “A pleasure to—to meet you.”

“And you.” She lowered herself onto her chair. He did the same. “Tell me what it is you wish for me to do.”

Odd. “I sent—I wrote to you.”

She held up a letter—his, if he didn’t miss his mark. “I have read it thoroughly, I assure you. But I want to hear directly from you what it is you are in need of.”

“A backbone,” Vance muttered.

Porter shot him a look of warning but earned only a bitten-back smile for his efforts. Vance was reliable, but he could, at times, be a thorn. An amusing thorn, but a thorn nonetheless.

After a quick breath to regain his equilibrium, Porter answered Mrs. Northrop. “I am in need of a wife.”

She raised a single eyebrow. “Was that a question, Mr. Bartrum? It certainly sounded like one.”

This was not going at all as he had imagined. The famous matchmaker would declare him a lost cause and simply leave. He was nearly certain of it.

“I do need a wife.” He spoke a little more firmly despite her continued evaluating gaze. “I was simply caught off guard that you didn’t seem to know that. Er, I mean that you needed me to repeat it. Wanted me to repeat it.”

“Hmm.” He hadn’t the first idea what that sound meant. “I understood from your letter, Mr. Bartrum, that you have a son.”

“I do.” Lud, that had sounded like a question as well. “His name is Lewis. He will be four years old next month.” There. That sounded more authoritative.

“And will he be present for this house party?”

Porter nodded. Mrs. Northrop watched him, clearly expecting something more. But what? He had answered her question.

“I believe the lady wishes to know where the little ragamuffin is,” Vance said out the side of his mouth.

“Ragamuffin?” Mrs. Northrop repeated the word as if she found great significance in it.

Porter’s protective fatherly instinct rose to the surface on the instant. “Lewis is a fine boy. Mr. Munson thinks so as well. He simply likes nettling me.”

“That and Lewis is an utter delinquent.”

Far from shocked, Mrs. Northrop simply continued watching him with the same look of intent interest.

“He isn’t,” Porter insisted.

“He also isn’t present,” she pointed out.

“Vance’s sister took him out to the privy. They’ll be here shortly.”

“Hmmm.” Again, that unrevealing sound of pondering. What did she think of him?

A moment later, quick, light footsteps approached, accompanied by the swish of skirts. Porter rose, knowing it would be Chloe and Lewis. His little boy flew into the room like a terrier in hunting season. Before he could go far, Porter scooped him up, holding him tucked under his arm. It was the only position the child tolerated when he was determined to run. Held parallel to the ground, facing the floor, Lewis laughed and pumped his legs.

Porter loved his son, but the boy was exhausting.

“Mrs. Northrop, this is Miss Chloe Munson.” Porter motioned with his head toward Chloe, his arms full. “Miss Munson, this is Mrs. Northrop.”

Chloe dipped a quick curtsey even as a smile spread over her face. “Are you the famous Mrs. Northrop, maker of matches and worker of miracles?”

The matchmaker took the question in stride. She took everything in stride. “I see my reputation has preceded me.” With a dip of her head, she acknowledged the introduction before returning her attention to him. “Which brings me to the next bit of business, Mr. Bartrum. Your letter indicated you wish my purpose here to be kept secret. I am quite curious how you mean to accomplish that.”

He would have sat once more, but Lewis would never have endured it. The boy continued his aerial sprinting tucked close against Porter’s side. “Mr. Vance and his sister have agreed to put forth that you are a friend of their family and have come as their guest. We cannot prevent people from recognizing you and recalling your usual undertaking, but I would far prefer they not know—that people not realize—” How was he to get through an entire house party filled with clandestine matchmaking if he couldn’t even talk about it? “I would rather not be an object of pity, curiosity, or amusement.”

At the moment, Chloe was watching him with obvious amusement. It didn’t bother him. She was the cheeriest person he knew, and her laughter was never at his expense.

“I don’t know about my brother,” she said, “but I am perfectly willing to perpetrate a falsehood if it means watching how this potential disaster plays out.”

Mrs. Northrop folded her hands on the tabletop. “Why do you anticipate disaster?”

“Because everyone knows who you are and will wonder at your purpose no matter what we say that purpose is. Because Mr. Bartrum is the worst liar I have ever encountered in all my life. And because our host, Mr. Ellsworth, has all the curiosity of a bloodhound with none of the qualms.” Chloe’s lips twitched. “This may very well be the most entertaining Christmas any of us has ever known.”

“Hmmm.”

Porter suspected he would soon be heartily sick of hearing that sound.

“I find myself thoroughly intrigued,” Mrs. Northrop said. “I accept the assignment and look forward to helping you find your happiness, Mr. Bartrum.”

He hadn’t realized her acceptance was not a foregone conclusion. Vance rolled his eyes. Chloe grinned unabashedly. Lewis squirmed and laughed in his arms. Mrs. Northrop simply rose and offered a brief dip.

“I will gather my things and have them placed in your traveling carriage.” With that, she left the room.

Chloe, he feared, might have been more correct than he’d suspected. His plans might prove to be an absolute disaster.