Page 34 of A Wager with the Matchmaker (A Shanahan Match #3)

34

Another unsold painting.

Bellamy McKenna shoved the canvas back onto the shelf on top of the half dozen other landscapes no one wanted.

He had to remember he wasn’t to blame for the lack of interest, and he couldn’t take the rejection personally, not after how well he’d been doing all spring.

No, it was the cholera’s fault. With the epidemic getting worse, more families were leaving St. Louis to escape the growing death toll. That meant fewer people were left to visit the art galleries and shops. Those who remained behind had other more pressing matters on their minds than purchasing paintings.

“It will pass.” His whisper echoed in the shadowed shed that served as his art studio. But even as the words settled around him, so did a cloud of despair. If W. B. M.—William Bennett Moore—eventually began to sell art again, William Bellamy McKenna would still be just a nobody in Oscar’s Pub.

Maybe Bellamy had been wrong to take a secret identity in order to sell his paintings. Maybe he’d been a coward. Maybe he’d relegated himself to living a lie.

“Bellamy!” Oscar’s voice boomed across the alley from the back door of the pub. “Stop your dawdling and bring in more Guinness.”

Bellamy exhaled a tight breath into the shed’s stifling air. With the arrival of July, a fresh wave of heat and humidity had descended upon the city like a sticky, damp blanket. He could hardly move without sweat trickling down his back, plastering his shirt and vest to his body.

He ran a hand across the large trunk where he kept all his supplies. Maybe for the time being he needed to keep things locked up, give his painting a rest, focus on other things—like his matchmaking.

“What the wee devil are you doing in there, Bellamy?” came Oscar’s voice again. “You better not be wasting time doing you-know-what.”

Bellamy’s muscles turned rigid.

Doing you-know-what was as close to describing the act of painting that Oscar ever got because saying the word painting was equivalent to using God’s name in vain. Other than the derisive insinuations, Oscar never talked about it, never showed an interest in it, never acknowledged it.

It was almost as if by ignoring it, Oscar could make it go away. Just like he had with Mam’s painting ... And look how that had ended.

Bellamy had the urge to yell back and tell Oscar to get the Guinness himself before walking away and never glancing back.

But as strong as the urge was at times, Bellamy could never do it. Instead, he forced himself to heft up the closest cask of the Irish beer, then kicked open the shed door.

Across the alley, Oscar stood in the back door of the two-story building that housed the pub, his thick, wavy gray hair damp with perspiration, his face and nose ruddier than usual. He’d shed his suit coat and had his shirtsleeves rolled up past his elbows, the armpits wet and yellowed.

“You know what you’re needing?” Oscar called as his eyes narrowed on Bellamy.

Bellamy started to cross the alley, the Guinness sloshing with each step he took. “I’m sure you’re going to be telling me whether I want you to or not.”

Oscar’s grin kicked up. “You know me well, that you do.”

“Oh aye.”

“Then you’ll not be whining when I tell you that it’s time for you to find a match of your own.”

“You’ll not be whining when I tell you that I’m not ready.” Bellamy never would be ready, not when every matchmaker in his family that he could remember had been unlucky in love. Very unlucky. The matchmakers excelled at finding love for others but failed miserably when it came to finding love for themselves. Oscar knew that. In fact, he’d had a disastrous marriage.

“You keep saying you’re not ready,” Oscar said, waggling his brows, “but I saw the way you were looking at Zaira Shanahan.”

Bellamy couldn’t hold back a scoff. “I was looking at her like the annoying pest that she is.”

Oscar guffawed. “You were looking at her like you wanted to annoy her right back ... with a kiss.”

With a kiss? Bellamy stumbled and then halted near the door. Heat rose into his face that had nothing to do with the humid summer day. Aye, there was no denying that Zaira was attractive. She was a beautiful spitfire, one whom any man would want to kiss.

But even if he had been in the business of kissing beautiful women—which he wasn’t—he still wouldn’t kiss Zaira ... because he didn’t like her or the fact that she knew his secret identity as W. B. M. Somehow she’d figured it out, and now she lorded it over him, teased him about it, and made him squirm with the worry of who she was going to tell.

The truth was, he didn’t want to have anything to do with her, wanted to stay as far from her as possible. And he certainly didn’t need anyone hearing Oscar’s declaration about kissing Zaira and the word getting around to her. She would only lord that over him too.

He checked both ways down the alley to see who was around. The back door of the adjacent store was wide open, but thankfully, no one seemed to be listening.

“Ach, it doesn’t matter.” Oscar scratched at his round belly. “James Shanahan may have accepted one working-class match with Kiernan, but he’ll be looking farther up for his next child.”

Bellamy shrugged. “’Tis not my concern.”

“It might be your concern soon enough when he comes calling to find Zaira a match.”

Protest pushed to the tip of Bellamy’s tongue. Zaira was too young at nineteen to get married. Wasn’t she?

With Oscar’s keen gaze upon him, Bellamy schooled his features into passivity and gave another nonchalant shrug. “If Mr. Shanahan comes calling, I’ll find Zaira an annoying husband to keep her company.”

Oscar stepped out of the doorway to allow Bellamy to pass. “Your reputation as a matchmaker is growing, especially because word is getting around about the love matches you made.”

“Naturally.” Bellamy set the cask down on the floor inside the kitchen.

Jenny and Gavin were both at work preparing food for the noon and evening meals—although they didn’t need large quantities of late, since they had fewer customers.

Jenny paused in her swift chopping of vegetables at the center work table. With her dark hair pulled up into a twisted knot, she was as elegant and pretty as always. At certain times, when she looked contemplative—like at the moment—she reminded him of Mam, and the usual pain stabbed his heart.

At the stove, Gavin was in the process of shredding chicken into a pot and didn’t bother turning around. As a brother-in-law, he was quiet but had been a solid and kind presence in their family for the past ten years that he and Jenny had been married.

“It’s good that everyone is hearing about your love matches.” Oscar lumbered through the kitchen, swiping up a biscuit from a platter on the sideboard overflowing with dishes. “You need to build a name for yourself as an intuitive matchmaker who knows how to find good, solid matches that will last a lifetime.”

Bellamy halted. Something wasn’t right. Oscar never had anything positive to say about his unconventional methods. So why now?

Oscar paused in the doorway that led to the bar and dining room and gave an impatient wave. “Come on, then.”

Bellamy arched a brow. “Doncha be prodding me along without telling me where you’re pushing me.”

“Senator Whitcomb is here.” Oscar’s eyes took on a glimmer that told Bellamy everything he needed to know—that the senator was important and that Oscar counted it a great honor to have him visit the pub. Also, the senator had clearly come to see Bellamy for matchmaking help, and that’s why Oscar was being so nice.

“And ...?” Bellamy prompted.

“And the senator wants you to help him with a match for his daughter.”

“Is that so?”

“Apparently, Miss Whitcomb heard about your love matches for the Shanahans, and she’s hoping for the same.” The older man chomped another bite of the biscuit, sweat rolling down his forehead.

Bellamy doubted any of that was true. The senator likely had a much stronger reason to seek out a matchmaker at midday in the midst of the worst cholera epidemic in decades. Bellamy studied Oscar for any clues.

The tenseness in Oscar’s shoulders was the sign that he would have preferred to handle the match for himself, that he wasn’t necessarily happy to hand it over to Bellamy. But at the moment, he had no choice but to humor the senator and bring Bellamy into the process.

Bellamy combed his damp hair off his forehead and then started toward the dining room. He’d just been telling himself to focus on matchmaking. He liked the challenges, liked analyzing people, liked giving couples the happily ever after that he’d never get for himself.

As he stepped out of the kitchen and into the front room, the waft of old beer and cigar smoke greeted him. The shutters were pulled closed on the windows, keeping out the sunshine and the heat, but also closing in stale air.

The room was nearly empty. Georgie McGuire sat in his usual spot at the bar counter, his head down on his arms, loud snores rumbling around him. A group of older men congregated at their regular table and paused in their conversation at the sight of Bellamy.

He nodded a greeting in their direction, then turned his attention to Oscar’s corner table where a well-dressed, middle-aged man was smoking a cigar and twisting at a glass of Bushmills whiskey. He’d taken off his hat to reveal slicked-back brown hair and long sideburns with a neatly trimmed mustache. His face had a youthfulness as well as an edge of frustration.

It was easy to deduce that the frustration was the reason the senator had come to form a match for his daughter. Now Bellamy just needed to figure out what was causing the frustration, then narrow down the best groom who could help alleviate the problem.

As Bellamy wound around the bar counter, the senator rose from his chair and examined Bellamy from his head to his toes, as if assessing whether he had what it took to solve the dilemma.

From behind, Oscar’s voice was low and filled with warning. “The senator needs a match for his daughter in one week. If you can’t do it, just say so.”

Bellamy’s steps didn’t falter. He’d found a match for Enya Shanahan in less than an hour. Surely he could find a match for the senator’s daughter in a week.

“There’s no room for failing this match.” Oscar spoke firmly. “If you do, it’ll ruin you.”

Bellamy hadn’t failed yet. Of course, he’d only had three matches—the three for the Shanahans. But he’d done a fine job. And he’d do a fine job for the senator too. “I won’t fail. Doncha be worrying about that.”

Oscar didn’t answer, not even with a snort or harrumph.

At the silence, Bellamy’s pulse tripped. Oscar was rarely silent. And so the lack of response spoke louder than anything else, alerting him that the match would indeed be difficult, perhaps more difficult than any he’d done yet.

He might not be successful at painting ... yet. And he definitely had no hope of being successful in finding love for himself. But there was one thing he was good at, and that was finding love for others. He’d do it again now. That’s all there was to it.