Mrs. Dove-Lyon uncrossed her arms and seemed at the end of her patience. “Simply agree to meet him, won’t you? It won’t cost you more than your time.”
Narrowing her eyes, Catherine considered the offer. “How much will it cost me if I end up agreeing to marry him?”
Inhaling slowly, the matchmaker seemed to make a mental calculation before she said, “Normally, ten pounds, six farthings, and—”
“That’s absurd!”
“—you’ll have to use part of your marriage portion to pay off his debts.” Before Catherine could put voice to another objection, Mrs. Dove-Lyon held up a hand. “Your father will pay him a far greater dowry than what he will be willing to give you directly,” she claimed.
Shocked by the comment, Catherine couldn’t think of how to respond and simply listened to the rest of what the matchmaker had to say.
“Once the weather improves and his farms return to profitability, he’ll be able to restore your dowry to its full amount and set it aside for you so you’ll have funds to live on should he expire before you.”
Catherine was about to ask if he was a farmer when she remembered landowners rarely worked their own fields. They had tenant farmers to see to the planting, harvesting, and livestock. “Where?” she asked.
“Where?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon repeated.
“Where are these farms?”
“Oh. Berkshire. Eastern edge.”
Inhaling softly, Catherine understood immediately why a landowner would be having financial trouble in that particular part of England. Berkshire had been one of the worst hit in terms of the weather over the past summer. The news sheets had been filled with the bad news of late.
She dipped her head and sighed in resignation. “All right. I’ll meet this man, but I won’t make any prom—”
“I shall send word of when and where,” the matchmaker said.
“Someplace public,” Catherine said. “But not out-of-doors.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon seemed to think on the terms for a moment before she nodded. “Agreed.”
“How will I know… it’s him?”
It was the matchmaker’s turn to chuckle. “I’ll be sure it’s obvious,” she said, lifting one of the books from the stack on the floor, its leather binding a bright red. She held it out. “He’ll have this in his arm.”
Catherine leaned her head to one side to examine the title on the spine. “All right,” she agreed, grinning.
“Good day, Miss Kingston.”
Before Catherine could respond, the matchmaker disappeared down the stairs.
Shaking her head in disbelief—what had she just agreed to do?—Catherine returned her attention to the empty shelves and the stacks of books surrounding her.
Although it would take her the rest of the day, she managed to finish rearranging the first bookshelf, noting only after the fact that none of the books had the bright-red leather binding of the book Mrs. Dove-Lyon had taken—Henry Clay’s English translation of Dante’sDivine Comedy.
She hoped she wasn’t about to become the butt of some joke perpetrated by the matchmaker.
Chapter Ten
Two Bank Notes, One Missive
Later that day, Wingfield House, South Audley Street, Mayfair
Given the limitedstaff in the small townhouse in South Audley Street, Chessings had agreed to join his master in the capital to run the household. The former butler had been pensioned following the close of Parliament in early July, but Matthew had decided it best he not replace him. He simply didn’t have the funds.
A knock at the front door had Chessings heading that way as one of the household maids saw to removing the Dutch cloths from the furnishings in the breakfast parlor. She had already prepared the other day rooms and the master bedchamber for Matthew’s arrival the week prior, and at the sound of the knock, she bundled up what she had collected and disappeared in the direction of the kitchens.
“Skittish thing,” Chessings murmured, before he opened the door to discover a street urchin holding up a folded note.
