Page 42 of Lady Emily’s Matchmaking Mishap (Merry Spinsters, Charming Rogues #5)

Chapter Twenty-One

It was exactly the kind of encounter Emily had always dreaded.

Here was Mr Edward Matthews, a man from their past life, someone they’d thought they’d never see again, appearing in the middle of the Royal Menagerie in London, addressing them in public with names they'd thought they'd long left behind.

It was enough to make one’s hair stand on end.

Emily glanced around. Fortunately, no one seemed to have heard them, since the people in the other group were too far away to overhear their exchange.

She tugged at the Duke’s sleeve, who looked at her with a frown.

“You are mistaken, sir,” Cissy said as haughtily as she could, but two patches of frantic red on her cheeks belied her. “The name is Lady Lydia Featherstone.”

“But how can that be? I am certain you are Lady Cecily Hepplewhite?” the man pressed.

“A mistake.”

The Duke stepped in, not mincing words. “Who the devil are you?”

“I-I beg your pardon,” Matthews stammered, his cheeks flushing. “The name is Matthews. Edward Matthews. I have an acquaintance with Lady Honey and Lady Annabelle from Bath. With whom do I have the honour of speaking?”

“Wolferton,” the Duke drawled.

Matthews paled. It was obvious he knew the name.

“And this is my betrothed, Lady Poppy Featherstone.” He nodded to Emily, then to Cissy. “Her sister, Lady Lydia Featherstone.”

The man flushed painfully. “I beg your pardon,” he stammered. “I must have made a mistake.” With a last doubtful glance at Cissy, he retreated.

Emily grabbed the Duke’s arm and pulled him away. "Let us go."

“Hepplewhite?” the Duke inquired once they were safely back in their carriage. “A manifestation of one of your former lives?”

“He was one of my sister's beaux,” Emily explained.

“He was not.” Cissy sat as stiff as a statue and averted her face. “He's no one. A man of no importance at all. I've already forgotten his name.”

Emily waved an impatient hand. “We thought he would come up to scratch and ask for Cissy’s hand, but he never did; he just disappeared one day.” She bit her lower lip. “We think maybe he was intimidated by Aunt Henrietta and the Hepplewhite name.” Which was ironic, of course, since it wasn’t really theirs to begin with.

“Dastardly of him,” the Duke remarked with a shrug. “Giving up at the first sign of an obstacle. A little rain never hurt anybody.”

Emily looked at him with wide eyes. “Oh. Indeed.” Something about his words tugged at the edges of her memory. It was a fleeting glimpse of something she couldn’t quite place.

“It was so long ago,” Cissy said, with a white, drawn face. “In another life. Let us not speak of it again.” She lifted her chin with a forced smile. “What shall we do next? Astley’s?”

Wolferton consulted his pocket watch. “I think we must return for tea. My aunts want to take us to the opera tonight.”

“Famous,” Cissy said, in a deflated voice.

Emily chewed her lip anxiously. One went to the opera to be seen, not to hear music. What if they met more people like poor Mr Matthews?

“I hope it’s not a bad idea to go,” Emily muttered. “I don’t want any more encounters like the one we just had with Mr Matthews.”

“Of course it’s a bad idea,” the Duke said cheerfully. “But if my aunts insist, what can one do? They are all too eager to show off their nephew’s bride.” He held her eyes, as if to remind her to keep her promise.

Her first opera visit was all she’d ever wanted it to be.

The music—Rossini’s Il Barbiere di Siviglia —was divine. They had their own box, which gave them both privacy and publicity. Sitting in a box was like sitting in a shop window: one was on display for all London society to see. The ladies showed off their latest gowns and jewels, while the gentlemen paraded like peacocks in the gallery behind them. During the intermission, they received visitors who wanted to be introduced. Girls sold oranges in the pit and champagne in the refreshment room. The Duke sent a footman to bring the champagne directly to their box, so they did not have to mingle with the crowd.

When the music began, her fears were forgotten. Emily’s heart soared with the music, for she had never heard anything so glorious, so divine. For once, she felt she was in the right place at the right time.

Wolferton, it seemed, was watching her more than the stage.

When her eyes teared up at Rosina’s aria, he pulled out a handkerchief and handed it to her. Emily wiped her nose and handed the crumpled ball back to him, and he pocketed it without a word.

“It was wonderful.” Emily chattered excitedly all the way home. “That music, that clear voice. I wish I could sing like that.”

“But you can,” Lady Dalrymple said with a sniff. “I daresay you can easily hold a candle to any of them.”

“Nonsense,” Emily said, blushing. She had been asked to sing for them every evening after dinner, and it had become a cherished part of their routine. His aunts listened with rapt delight, while Wolferton usually lounged in his armchair with his eyes closed, seemingly unmoved. Only a muscle twitching in his jaw indicated that the music might be affecting him more than he led on.

“I quite agree,” Lady Mabel chimed in. “Your voice is much sweeter.”

“Bellini sings beautifully,” Lady Jane agreed. “But our Emily sings like a nightingale.”

“Or a lark,” Mabel suggested.

“A wren, more likely,” the Duke said quietly. Then, seeing Emily’s face, he raised an eyebrow. “What, my dear? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Nothing.” She shook her head. “I haven't heard the word in a long time. It is what Papa used to call me,” she added in a whisper.

Back at the townhouse, Emily rushed into her room, sat down at her desk and hastily took out a pen and paper. Her hand shook as she began to scribble.

Crumpets

Boots

Violets

Candied violets

The Royal Menagerie

The Opera House

Coquelicot ribbons

A little rain never hurt anybody

Wren

She stared at the list in disbelief. Her mouth went dry as a single thought took hold of her mind.

This couldn’t be. Surely not.

Her forest fay had been a figment of her childhood imagination—or so she had always assumed when she was younger. Later, she’d realised he was just a boy, maybe the vicar's son, maybe the steward's son from the neighbouring estate, sharing her dreams and secrets through the hollow of a tree. Her attempts at discovering his identity had been unsuccessful, because Fenn had been uncooperative.

Her eyes scanned the words again. These phrases and gestures were so painfully familiar. These were not just the Duke’s gifts or comments—they were details from her childhood letters. Letters she had exchanged with her forest fay, Fenn.

The crumpets, her favourite food, which she'd written about in her letters, describing the delight of their buttery warmth on cold mornings because they reminded her of her mother. The bouquets of violets, her favourite flowers, and the candied violets she had dreamed of eating as a child. The coquelicot ribbons, Fenn's first gift to her. The boots. The Royal Menagerie and the opera houses she’d longed to visit. Even the phrase ‘A little rain never hurt anybody’ was something Fenn used to write.

Sweet heavens.

Emily’s pen slipped from her hand, splattering ink across the page. She pressed her palms over her mouth, shaking her head as if trying to dislodge the thought.

“No, no, no. This is absurd.” She jumped up to pace the room, her skirts brushing against the furniture. “Coincidences. Pure coincidences. That’s all this is.”

But was it, really?

She stopped pacing, her hands clenched at her sides. Her eyes snapped back to the list.

Could it be true? Could the Duke of Wolferton really be her forest fay, Fenn?

It was inconceivable. It was entirely impossible. Fenn had been kind, whimsical, and full of dreams. Fenn had loved her. Or so she'd believed.

But Wolferton was arrogant, cold and self-important. They couldn’t be the same person.

He couldn't possibly be her childhood sweetheart, her soulmate, her first love.

Could he?

A harsh, disbelieving laugh escaped her lips.

And if he was—assuming it was true—why hadn’t he said anything? Why had he remained silent, as though their shared childhood had meant nothing? Why had he begun dropping these hints—as if to tease her, as if he wanted her to remember?

Her chest tightened as if a hot, sticky weight pressed down on it. If he was Fenn, what was he playing at? Why the charade? Why not tell her the truth?

But then again, if he had approached her saying, “I’m Fenn, your childhood friend and your first love,” she likely would have laughed in his face and dismissed it as a cruel jest.

Two hours of restless pacing and agonising over every detail had brought her to one conclusion: she needed proof. Hard, undeniable proof.

She would get it, no matter what it took.