Helping himself to the cup of tea, Matthew glanced at the mail and pulled a few pieces from the pile. Most were invoices, but there was one that appeared to be a letter.
Not recognizing the seal embossed in the dark-red wax on the back, he unfolded the envelope to discover a page of feminine script.
My lord,
When you are next in London, a situation I expect will occur in January for the purpose of attendingParliament, please consider paying a call at the Lyon’s Den.
As you are no doubt aware, the previous Earl of Wingfield frequented my establishment when he was in town. His debt, a sum that is not particularly considerable, is still due in full.
If that is the case, I have a proposition you may find amenable to help in discharging the debt owed me as well as any others Lord Wingfield incurred prior to his death.
As a matchmaker, I specialize in finding wealthy wives for men such as yourself.
I look forward to meeting with you in person.
Sincerely yours,
Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon
Proprietress, the Lyon’s Den, and Matchmaker
9 Cleveland Row, St. James’s, Westminster
“As if I need a wife,” Matthew murmured in disgust.
“My lord?”
Straightening in his chair, Matthew’s attention once again went to the door. Chessings was there, and next to him was the foreman, Edward Dixon.
Had the mere thought of the man conjured him into existence?
“Mr. Dixon. I was thinking of meeting you at the pub later this afternoon,” Matthew said by way of greeting.
Dixon bowed as Chessings said, “I’ll see to more tea.”
“Oh, none for me,” Edward said. “I won’t be long.”
Although the man didn’t appear particularly troubled, the words had Matthew on edge. “Do sit down, Mr. Dixon. What brings you to the house on such a gloomy day?”
Dixon nodded to the window before he took the chair in front of Matthew’s desk. “The gloomy day,” he replied. “Or months of it, rather.”
“I take it the harvest was bad?” Matthew guessed, his teeth clenched against whatever news his foreman was about to share. What crops had survived in the rain-flooded fields had finally been collected in a much-later-than-usual harvest only a few weeks earlier.
“I would ask ‘what harvest?’, but it’s not all bad,” Dixon hedged. “Everything in the greenhouses is edible, although the tomatoes are taking their dear sweet time in ripening. The wheat crop drowned and never recovered. Beans… there might be enough for a few meals for your tenants,” he said.
“The corn?” Matthew prompted hopefully.
Dixon shook his head. “It’s too poor to sell at market, but we can use it to feed the animals. It will get us through until the spring.”
“Well, aren’t you the harbinger of good news?” Matthew asked rhetorically.
The foreman managed to appear sorrowful. “Apologies, my lord. I know it does no good to remind you, but you are in good company. The neighboring estates are all reporting the same results. The entire county suffered terribly.”
Matthew nodded his understanding. After the horrid winter—one of the coldest he could remember—and the rainy spring and summer, it would have been a miracle for any crops to survive. “I know I usually pay you and the farmers after the crops are sold, but if there are no crops to sell…” He tugged on his earlobe and winced.
“If I may, my lord, perhaps you do need a wife.”
Giving a start, Matthew furrowed his brows. “What?”
