The boy looked up at her with wide, earnest eyes, his small hand gripping the strap of a leather satchel that swung at his side. “You are Madame Selina Mullens? The matchmaker?”
The boy’s question hung in the air. Lucy blinked, unsure how to respond. “I am not Madame Selina,” she said cautiously, straightening in her seat. “I am Lucy Crampton, her niece. She sent me.”
The boy’s eyes brightened at the confirmation, and without another word, he leapt into the carriage beside her. The door slammed shut with a decisive thud, and the horses clattered back into motion, sending a jolt through the floorboards. Lucy gripped the edge of the seat, heart racing, startled by both his sudden presence and the swiftness of his action.
“I am Anthony Clawridge,” he said matter-of-factly, settling with the air of someone much older than his years. “First son of the Duke of Langridge, and you...” He tilted his head, studying her closely. “...are here because of the letter.”
Lucy’s mind spun. She stared at him, trying to read the expression on his small, earnest face. “It was you. You sent the letter?” she asked cautiously, the words slipping out before she could stop them.
Anthony nodded. “Yes. I wrote it myself. I thought… you could help. You must remain here in Langridge. Father needs a wife, someone proper, someone to care for us. I wanted someone who could make the household right again.”
Lucy’s pulse fluttered between frustration and disbelief. She couldn’t decide whether to be angry at the audacity of a twelve-year-old orchestrating this scheme or impressed by his determination. “You do realize that you have humiliated me by doing this without the Duke’s knowledge?”
Anthony’s small hands clenched the straps of his satchel. “I know, and I apologize. I know it seems… bold. But you don’t understand. My father won’t ask anyone for help. He is a proud man. He’ll never admit he needs help. But he does. He needs help desperately. He needs someone to make the house a home, to care for us. Miss Crampton, we need your help.”
Lucy frowned, leaning back slightly. “So, you decided that sending a letter to a matchmaker without telling him was the way to do it?”
“Yes,” Anthony’s eyes widened, earnest and unwavering. “It was my decision. I wrote it myself. My father has three sons. I am the oldest. Our governesses are the ones practically raising us at this point. I can tell you without a doubt that we need someone. A wife for my father and a mother for us. My father can be a stubborn man, so if he won’t take the initiative, I will. I can’t do it. I don’t know what to say to my brothers. I’m only a boy. I heard that Madame Selina is clever and that she understands people. That’s why I wrote to her. So she might be able to find a suitable lady for my father.”
Lucy stared at him, blinking in disbelief. “You expect me to convince your father, the Duke of Langridge, to accept a wife when he vehemently does not want to?”
Anthony’s expression hardened with determination. “Yes.”
Lucy’s chest tightened. She pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to suppress her frustration. “So let me get this straight. You’ve orchestrated my entire journey here based on your belief that a stranger can accomplish what your father refuses to admit he needs?”
Anthony’s shoulders straightened, his small frame suddenly rigid with resolve. “Perhaps it was a foolish thing to do, but I had to try. I may be young, but I’m being taught to be a Duke. Everything I do, every lesson, every expectation, is to prepare me to lead, to take care of the family. I cannot fail. Father is strict, and he expects everything of us, all of us. I need someone to care for my brothers, too. Not just Father, but for them and me. A mother figure, someone who can make this house feel like a home.”
Lucy pressed her lips together, astonished at the maturity in his words. “You need someone who will willingly manage the house and care for your family?”
Anthony’s expression softened, a vulnerability peeking through his otherwise resolute demeanor. “Exactly. Someone who can teach, who can be kind, who can show him and us that a family can be more than rules and duty. I can try to do what I must, but honestly, I am not sure what I am supposed to be doing. That is why I sent for you. I thought maybe you could make it right,” he hesitated, just briefly. “Father tries. I know he does. But he does not like admitting when he needs help.”
Again, Anthony took a short pause and sat back. “I think…” he continued quietly. “… that he believes asking for help means failing. Especially when it comes to us. That is why I sent for you.”
Lucy shook her head, a small laugh escaping despite herself. “You are remarkably determined for a twelve-year-old.”
He tilted his head, expression unwavering. “I have to be. Someone must. Perhaps you can succeed where others would fail.”
Lucy exhaled, leaning back in her seat. “Oh, this is so complicated.”
Anthony’s lips curved into a small smile. “Will you help me?”
Lucy leaned slightly forward, curiosity tugging at her. “Anthony, forgive me, but I must ask. What happened to your mother? Your birth mother?”
The boy instantly lowered his eyes, a shadow passing over his face. But before he could answer, a sudden clatter of hooves and shouts outside shattered the moment.
“What is that?” Lucy gasped and sprang to her feet as the carriage jolted violently. The door rattled under force, and voices, rough, threatening, echoed from the darkness beyond.
“Bandits,” Anthony muttered, already sliding to the edge of the seat with surprising agility, his small frame tense and alert. “Stay behind me, Miss Crampton.”
Lucy froze. “Stay behind you?” she questioned his audacity, pulling him towards her so she could shield him as the unknown assailants tried to pry the door open. “Stay close. God forbid anything happens to you. Your Papa would have my head.”
Lucy’s mind raced as she scanned the shadows outside the carriage, searching for any way to protect Anthony from the people trying to force their way in. Her hands clenched at the edges of the seat, her pulse hammering, every instinct screaming at her to act, to shield the boy who had tried to take charge of the impossible situation.
Then, through the cacophony of hooves and shouts, a voice cut sharply through the night air, one she recognized though she could not place it right away. Her breath caught, and her gaze darted toward the source, frozen in confusion.
“That’s… that’s my father’s voice!” Anthony shouted suddenly, his small hand gripping her arm with surprising strength.
CHAPTER THREE
