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The Muddled Matchmakers
Chapter One
The coffee room at Boodle’s Club in St. James Street was almost silent. From time to time someone coughed or rattled the pages of a newspaper, but few noises diverted Sir Malcolm Seymour from his gloomy thoughts.
He glared at the pinpoint of ruby light reflected from the fire in his glass of claret. If he swirled the wine, the light danced and shimmered. If he held it motionless, the jewel tone lay quiet, glowing and frozen.
Dawn, his daughter, was like that point of light, quiet and unmoving, when she needed to be stirred up, spun into the lively, shimmering young woman she had once been. She was the best of daughters, devoted to her little son, loyal to the memory of the husband with whom she had shared only a few weeks before he went off to the war and met his death. Above all she was kind and attentive to her mother, a lady whose health complaints were as acute as they were numerous.
Nonetheless, Dawn’s life should not be so circumscribed. It was neither fair nor reasonable for a lovely young girl, a mere twenty-four years of age, to do nothing but cosset her mother and fret about her fatherless son. She should be out in society, enjoying the company of friends, living again and perhaps even finding another husband.
“Evening, Malcolm.”
Sir Malcolm started out of his trance and squinted up at Alastair Grayson, the Earl of Carey.
“Carey, evening.”
“May I join you?”
“By all means.”
“I could use a glass of that claret.” The Earl motioned to a waiter, gave his order and settled into an armchair. “The club is quiet tonight. I suppose everyone is off at another of those extravaganzas Prinny has conjured up to celebrate the victory. I myself have had my fill of bread and circuses.”
“As have I.” Sir Malcolm swirled his claret and watched the sparkling ruby radiance spin in his glass. “My concerns of late have been more of a domestic nature. I confess I am not in much of a mood to celebrate, however gratified I am at our dominance over Napoleon.”
“Your concerns, then, are much the same as my own. I too am relieved at the conclusion of the war, but I cannot shed my worries about my son.”
“About your eldest?”
“Yes. Hugh is… not like himself anymore. Withdrawn. Almost four years have passed since his wife’s death. If anything, he is more despondent now than he was at first.”
Sir Malcolm searched his memory while Carey accepted the glass and took a sip. Unless he was quite mistaken, the young Lady Grayson, Hugh’s wife, had died in childbirth.
“I am sorry to be so absentminded, but I do not recall if the child…”
“Oh, my granddaughter is quite healthy and growing rapidly. Hugh dotes on her, as do I. He has diverted all his energies onto the estate, studying new varieties of plants brought from foreign soils. He spends a great deal of his time pouring over arcane publications about the latest discoveries of exotic botanical species.” The Earl shook his head sadly. “I spent a year or so mourning after my Martha died, but I found the gumption to move on with my life. And I was well over forty at the time. Hugh is 26. He ought to find another wife, get back into public life.”
Sir Malcolm straightened up and tossed down the last of his wine. His mind whirled with an outlandish thought. Would Carey be game?
“Alastair, what do you know of matchmaking?”
“Matchmaking? A constant pastime of the ladies, but certainly not an activity for males.”
“To put it bluntly, you have no lady and my lady is nearly an invalid. Other than you and me, who could undertake the assignment? Now let me tell you all about my daughter Dawn.”
******
“Mother, you have no need to worry about a thing. Father has seen to all the arrangements.” Dawn Neville adjusted the soft cashmere shawl around Lady Seymour’s shoulders.
