They had reached a landing on the stairs, and Matthew was about to ascend the next flight when he stopped. “Ploy?” he repeated.
Glancing around to ensure no one else was within earshot, Titan leaned in and said, “I know it does not feel like it, but you are in good company this season. I believe Mrs. Dove-Lyon sent similar letters to all the unmarried aristocrats who might have suffered economically due to the weather.”
“For what purpose?” Though he tried to hide it, Matthew knew the annoyance in his voice was unmistakable.
“She’s a matchmaker, my lord. Charged with finding titled men in need of wealthy wives, and… vice-versa.”
Matthew scoffed. “You’re saying this letter is merely an… anadvertisementfor her services?”
Titan resumed the climb up the next flight of stairs. “Partially,” he replied. “But if there’s a mention of existing debt to the Lyon’s Den, then that would have been her impetus to write to you.”
Matthew huffed as they topped the stairs and stopped in front of a closed door. The short corridor continued, apparently to meet another set of stairs. Two women briefly paused in their ascent to glance down the hall in their direction before they continued upward and disappeared from view.
“They came in through the side door,” Titan explained, before he knocked. “The ladies’ entrance.”
“So the women don’t have to enter where the men do for the gaming hell?” Matthew guessed.
“That’s correct. They have their own gaming room and observation gallery. Even their own dining room,” Titan explained.
Matthew was about to say he was surprised to learn women gambled—he was sure his mother had never done so—but thena feminine voice called out, “Come,” from the other side of the door.
Titan turned the handle to reveal a small office featuring several windows at the back, apparently overlooking the main gaming hall. There was a fireplace flanked by several wingback chairs and a low table in the center. But the widow was at the desk to the side of the room and his attention moved there to see her. Like her employees, the proprietress was clad in black, the crepe gown typical of widow’s weeds. She also wore a black hat with black netting that draped down to hide most of her face, making it nearly impossible to guess her age.
“Mrs. Dove-Lyon,” Titan said, “Matthew, Earl of Wingfield, is here about a letter you sent him.”
“Ah, Lord Wingfield,” the matchmaker said brightly. She didn’t stand to curtsy but merely waved to a chair in front of her desk. “Please, have a seat.” She turned her attention to Titan. “Bring tea,” she ordered. “And if cook has them ready, do bring some fresh biscuits, too.”
“Right away,” Titan said before he left the office, closing the door behind him.
Matthew’s first thought was the desk lacked space for a tea service. In addition to an ink pot and pen, the surface was nearly covered with papers neatly stacked in several piles. One such pile was suddenly in the matchmaker’s hands, and she rifled through the pages until she pulled out one and set the rest at an angle atop another pile.
“I appreciate your timely response in this matter, my lord,” she commented, finally glancing up to regard him with what he discerned was a slight smile.
“As I mentioned to Titan, I wasn’t aware my father owed you any money. I have no record of it,” Matthew said without preamble.
“Lord Wingfield’s vowels were hardly worth pursuing,” she commented. “Five pounds lost in a game of hazard back in…” she paused to glance at the paper she held, “February eighteen-thirteen,” she stated.
Matthew winced. “I suppose there’s interest on top of that?” he asked, not hiding his annoyance.
The widow settled back in her chair and sighed. “I’m willing to overlook a few pounds in exchange for therealreason you’re here.”
Blinking, Matthew sounded a scoff. “The real reason?” he repeated. “I assure you, I am—”
“In need of wife,” she finished for him.
Matthew shook his head. “No, ma’am.”
She angled her head to one side, the move exaggerated by the wide-brimmed hat she wore. “You are in debt, my lord. Other than the vegetables you grow in your greenhouse, your crops failed. Your debt will continue to worsen until you might possibly be saved by the harvest in not one, but two years,” she went on.
Furrowing his brows, Matthew felt heat rising to color his face, both from embarrassment and from anger. How did a woman he had never met know his financial situation? “Has my foreman contacted you?” he asked in dismay.
Although he couldn’t see her eyes directly, he was fairly sure she rolled them. “My lord, it is my business to know my clients’ situations,” she replied, waving to the papers.
Matthew drew in a breath, alarmed. “I’m not one of your clients.” His gaze darted to the top sheet on one of the piles. Even upside down, he could read it was about a baron in Derbyshire. Atop another pile, a sheet seemed to include information about the Marquess of Hawke.
“Of course you are. You are in need of a wife with some means,” she stated. “You’re past the age a man in your positionis usually married, and you need to begin your nursery. You need an heir,” she added. “The good news is, your debt is not so large that you must take justanywoman who wishes to be a countess.”
“That’s the good news?” he asked rhetorically.
