Page 5 of Match Made in Heaven (The Cricket Club #5)

With one last knowing look, the brothers took each other in, spending an extra few seconds trying to imprint each other’s faces so that, if needed, they could live in that last moment for the rest of their lives.

Then Oliver broke the spell, escaping back into the carriage as he hit the top of the ceiling, instructing the driver to move on.

His whole life had been ahead of him, as had Jack’s.

But it wasn’t supposed to land them here.

In this same goddamned carriage.

Jack wished that he would have offered his brother the same warning. Try not to wind up dead.

But would he have listened? Oliver made a habit of never listening to others. Jack always liked to think he was an exception—that Oliver would always heed him—but deep down knew that wasn’t the case.

The carriage lurched to a halt.

Jack yanked the shade out of the way and peered out the window.

A crescent of stately rowhouses trailed down the road, seemingly growing into the burnt-orange horizon that soaked through London’s hazy sky.

He shuddered through a haggard sigh and grabbed his hat next to him.

Throwing it on his head, he hauled himself out the door.

Time was precious. Lingering in the past was not.

Thankfully, he only had to give the door two raps before a severe, ancient-looking butler came to his rescue and directed him to the drawing room with shaking, craggy limbs.

Although it was nothing like the sprawling home he’d grown up in, Jack could tell money and care went into the upkeep of the fine room.

There were no loose threads on the damask curtains, no frayed corners on the thick Turkish carpet.

Viscount Weston clearly wasn’t hurting for funds, like some of the ton ’s finest families who failed to grow with the times.

Jack tried to sit on the velvet settee, but was on his feet in minutes, wearing out the rug, checking his watch so many times that he didn’t even bother tucking it back into his waistcoat pocket.

Everything about him felt raw, naked to the elements.

Being here in this well-appointed home, waiting for some well-heeled chit, was the last thing he wanted to do, especially while Oliver was laid out in his bedroom, unconscious, fighting for his life. Fighting for all their lives, really.

For two days he’d shown no progress. Not even a slight improvement. No moving. No speaking. Not opening his eyes. Barely breathing. Jack should be there at his side! Providing… what? Something. Anything.

But his mother—who’d never shown any inclination for religion before this—suddenly was a full believer in the Lord’s mysterious miracles, and she was desperately hoping the girl in this fashionable house would be a conduit for one of them.

Maybe his mother was right, Jack conceded.

If the rumors were true, and this woman had managed to entice a proposal out of the feckless, profligate Duke of Winchester, then maybe the impossible was still alive and well in Victoria’s London.

Needless to say, desperate times made believers out of everyone.

And Jack spent his days and nights with a bunch of superstitious sailors who would pray to an old shoe if they thought it could deliver them a fortuitous wind, so although he wasn’t the first to drop to his knees and press his palms together, he wasn’t above lifting an ear to a hopeful story.

Footsteps echoed along the shiny parquet floor outside the room.

Jack turned to the door. The knob was twisted slightly before going still, as if the person on the other side had changed their mind.

Exasperated, Jack charged forward, about to whip open the door himself when the latch finally clicked and a small, unassuming woman entered the space.

At first, Jack thought it was a child come to tell him that Miss Ella was delayed writing letters or arranging flowers, or whatever it was ladies did to fill their interminable days.

But as she ventured toward him, he realized that children didn’t hold themselves in such a stately and collected manner.

Nor did they reek of sherry.

Head bowed and demure like a geisha from the Far East, the girl misjudged the distance between them and halted a hairsbreadth away.

For long, ungainly seconds, she stood there, and all Jack could do was wonder how much she’d had to drink while he stared at the dark blonde hair pulled tight across the crown of her head.

The part in the middle was so aggressive that he spotted a couple of perfectly round freckles peeking out through the veil of hair.

She was thin, giving Jack the impression that her skeleton was holding up her pale-yellow dress and not much else.

She reminded him of a bird, one that had little hope of making it through winter without the help of a strong and determined mate.

Again, Jack meditated on his brother’s intentions. This plain girl? How could she entice the duke when he needed neither the money nor the social advancement?

His eyes immediately went for her stomach, which was as flat and unremarkable as the rest of her. Jack was no expert on the subject, but a woman in difficult, delicate times surely showed more than that. If Oliver had put the girl in a bad position, wouldn’t it have been more apparent?

Time gnawed away at him, eating at him like Prometheus’s ever-present vulture. This wasn’t the moment for these meandering questions. Nor was it for shyness or fear.

She hiccupped.

Or drunkenness.

“Are you…” Jack stopped when the girl’s narrow shoulders bounced in surprise. He tried again, softening his tone. The silly woman might jump out of her translucent skin if he raised his voice above a whisper. “Are you Miss Ella?”

She hesitated a beat and then nodded.

Jack ran a frustrated hand over his face. Christ , he couldn’t throw the woman in the carriage and speed off without her at least speaking first. Getting to the point was imperative. “The same Miss Ella who saved Lord Oliver’s life two days ago—”

Another hiccup. Or was it a sob?

Jack rolled his eyes. He didn’t know what he wanted her to be less, drunk or hysterical.

“Do not toy with me, Lord John. I do not think I can take it.”

Jack hesitated. The tenor of her sentence was rather unexpected. As was hearing his given name. No one called him Lord John. Ever.

Her voice was deep and husky, completely foreign to the picture she presented. That low, toe-curling sound wasn’t the voice of a shy girl who’d snuck into the sherry bottle, but of a woman. Jack widened his stance, rooting his feet in place in case any other surprises emerged to topple him over.

Face still downcast, Ella went on, “Please don’t make me wait. Tell me now… is he still alive?”

She lifted her head. Slowly, with undiluted authority, she met his gaze, holding it with the blazing heat of steady conviction.

It was that courage, that tenacity, that stilled the words on Jack’s tongue, though the dark brown eyes were equally arresting.

Time—which had ridden him like an impatient jockey over the last two days—seemed to slow.

The girl—Ella—arched a brow in mild irritation. “Sir?” she said, seeming vexed. With him! “Please… will he live?”

Jack continued to peruse her face, wondering what it was that had captured his brother’s attention first. Was it the eyebrows that framed her eyes, bushy and a darker shade than her wheat-colored hair?

The high cheekbones that were at present drained of color, but Jack suspected were infused with soft pinks at the best of times?

Or maybe the lips that lacked the plumpness of a seductress’s, though still yielded an enticing invitation as she gritted her teeth in irritation behind them.

These were all small things, barely noticeable to men with big appetites, men with far-reaching tastes that could only be bothered with bigger and better and more, more, more.

Men like Oliver.

On the other hand, maybe he appreciated the fact that the girl enjoyed a tipple.

Now it was all starting to make sense. Goddamn you, Oliver! Couldn’t you have picked a respectable girl to bring home… for Mother’s sake?

This girl couldn’t possibly provide the miracle his mother needed. And yet she wouldn’t rest until Jack delivered this little drunkard. Again, he bristled at the waste of his time.

A tapping noise yanked Jack from his fury.

For some reason, he swept his hand to his heart, but that organ was not the source of the noise.

His heart was pumping much faster, at the speed of a hummingbird’s wing.

He dropped his head and noticed Ella’s dainty yellow slipper punching into the floor as she waited for him to connect his brain to his mouth.

Jack settled his hands on his hips. “I thought a girl like you would have figured out the secret by now.”

Her brows pulled together in confusion. She shook her head for a couple seconds too long, causing her body to sway with it. “What secret?”

Jack leaned in, to the delicate lobe of her ear.

He also did this for a few seconds longer than necessary, enjoying the way she held her breath, as if he were about to tell her the answer to life’s greatest mystery.

“You should always dab a little perfume after you’ve been at the bottle.

” He flicked a smooth swath of skin right behind her ear with the tip of his finger, causing her to jerk away in a rush.

“It won’t mask all the smell, but it helps. ”

Ella’s mouth and eyes battled to see which one could widen the most in indignation. Her eyes won. “How dare you! I haven’t been— Hiccup … It’s medicine!” Glaring at him, she breathed into her hand and held it to her nose. She closed her eyes, her shoulders deflating.

Ha! Serves her right. “Medicine, sure, yes…”

“It is! I haven’t been able to get warm. My brother-in-law assured me that a capful of sherry would do the trick.”

“Who’s your brother-in-law, Blackbeard?”