so sorry to hear that.” Truly sorry. Mary Archer was one of the most patient and kind women of my acquaintance. I’d be hard-pressed to find another suitable lady if she wouldn’t do. Though I could hardly tell him that.
“It sounds as though you’ve grown fond of Mrs. Archer. Are you certain you wish to end the acquaintance? What you now view as a difficulty may, in time, become nothing.”
He set his jaw and gave a slight shake of his head. “No, I don’t see how I can pursue the connection. If there’s someone else of your acquaintance who might be interested in an introduction,” he added, his expression a mixture of hope and doubt.
“I’m sure there is, Charles. But in an effort to avoid another mistake, perhaps you could tell me why you didn’t suit.”
“As to that, I’m afraid it would be rather ungentlemanly to say more. I found no fault with Mrs. Archer and I do wish to marry, but we simply—”
“Didn’t suit?” I raised my brows.
“Exactly!” He gave me another glimpse of his dimples. “I knew you’d understand.”
I did not understand. Nor was it likely I’d gain any insight by speaking to Charles. Perhaps George could provide me with some guidance. Or Mary herself.
Yes, Mary was far more likely to provide an explanation for their rift. I’d have to pay her a visit tomorrow. “Just give me a few days, Charles. I’ll let you know how I get on.”
* * *
The garden party lasted only a few hours more. Storm clouds rumbled overhead as I took my leave of Fiona, forcing the stalwart Brit to endure my hugs since I likely wouldn’t see her until spring. Unless, of course, I gave in to Lily’s longing for a winter wedding. Fiona would certainly attend that event. I doubted I’d be able to hold Lily and Leo off much longer. The way they were saying farewell, one would think they too wouldn’t see one another until spring. In fact, their parting would only be for perhaps a day.
Once they completed their farewells, the four of us—Lily, Lottie, Aunt Hetty, and I—climbed into George Hazelton’s carriage. Mr. Hazelton was my neighbor, Fiona’s older brother, and a wonderful friend who acted as escort to our little group when he was free and loaned us his carriage when he wasn’t. Though I had funds sufficient to maintain my household, they didn’t stretch to keeping a carriage and horses. Lily had traveled to England with Aunt Hetty as her chaperone. Hetty was my father’s sister and shared his genius for making money, but I didn’t know how long she’d be staying with me and I feared growing accustomed to living within her means.
The two young ladies took the rear-facing seats, allowing Hetty and I to face forward. She climbed in first, pulling out the newspaper she’d tucked into the seat earlier. I tutted as I seated myself beside her. “Hetty, you’ll strain your eyes reading in this light.”
She dismissed my concerns with a few mumbled words and folded the broadsheet to a manageable size. “Don’t concern yourself with my vision, dear. It’s fine.”
I frowned at the paper hiding her face. “Can’t you put that down? I have a dilemma and hoped to get your opinion.”
“We have opinions.” Lily gestured to Lottie and herself.
“Of course, but I’d like Aunt Hetty’s, too.” I gave her a nudge with my elbow.
“Go on, I’m listening,” she said.
“I just spoke to Cousin Charles.” I sighed. “He tells me he no longer wishes to pursue a connection with Mary Archer.” I glanced up at my relations, hoping for some sympathy.
“And you thought they were such a good match,” Lily said. “Did he say why?”
“No, just that things did not work out between them, and he’d be amenable to another introduction if I knew of someone suitable.”
“He’s the nice cousin, isn’t he? And Hazelton’s friend?” Aunt Hetty tucked a wayward strand of dark hair up into her hat. She was nearly fifty, and though her face was just beginning to show the years, her hair was still jet black. She wrinkled her nose. “The rather dim-witted one?”
“He is Mr. Hazelton’s friend, but he’s not dim-witted. At least I think that’s rather harsh. He’s such a good-hearted man, and pleasant company. Just confusing at times. Or maybe confused.”
“He’s very handsome,” Lily offered.
“And he is his brother’s heir,” I said, “so one day he’ll be Viscount Evingdon.”
“So, he’s good-hearted, handsome, and will possess a title. I don’t suppose there’s a chance he’s wealthy in the bargain?” Hetty glanced from behind her paper, arching a dark brow.
“That part of the family is quite well off.”
“Then why did he need your help in finding a match? I’d assume such a man would have women making offers of marriage to him on a daily basis.” She stared at me with a confusion I fully understood. She was new to London society, quite different from New York, but even she knew a great catch when she heard of one.
“Actually, he does find it difficult to keep the ladies at bay, but he’s hoping to find someone who is attracted to him, rather than his title and fortune.”
“And his handsome face,” Lily added. “Don’t forget that.”
I glanced across at my sister. Only eighteen years old and replete with blond-haired, blue-eyed, china doll loveliness. Indeed, she was the very image of my mother, while I was a combination of both parents—dark brown hair with blue eyes and fair skin. And like my aunt Hetty, I fairly towered over my petite sister. At twenty-seven, I was nearly a decade older as well. It came as a surprise that she would see beauty in a man almost twenty years her senior.
“I suggest you never let Leo find out you have an attraction for older men,” I said, smiling as she blushed.
“I have eyes, Frances, but while I can see the man is handsome, it doesn’t necessarily follow that I’m attracted to him. You know I’m completely devoted to Leo.”
Indeed, I did know. This was just another of Lily’s reminders that I was delaying their wedding, and for no good reason as far as she was concerned. In fact, later this week we’d be dining with Leo’s family and I expected pressure to concede a few months in favor of an earlier wedding date. And ready or not, it was likely Lily would be a married woman before the new year. I dearly hoped she was ready.
She leaned forward and touched my wrist, bringing me out of my reverie. “What about Lottie as a match for Mr. Evingdon?”
I glanced over at Lottie in time to see the girl blush furiously. I should have seen this coming. Lily had invited her to visit during the next social season and allow me to introduce her to London society. Lottie’s mother favored the idea, but not the timing. She’d dropped her only daughter on our doorstep three weeks ago, like a twenty-one-year-old foundling, and took herself off to Paris to have a new wardrobe designed.
Or so she claimed.
Since her forwarding address was in care of the Comte De Beaulieu, I found her cover story rather weak. The Comte was the notorious
