Page 31 of Matching Mr. Montfert (Apsley Family #2)

Chapter thirty-one

Grace

Rus claimed every flower had a meaning, that the colors and species were a language all their own. As I stared down at the three red roses that had arrived yesterday morning, I could not help but wonder what they might say.

The curiosity was made worse considering the note attached to them: Forgive me . Such a curt and simple phrase, and yet one that held so much feeling.

At first, I had thought the flowers came from Mr. Willoughby, who had called on me with more frequency after seeing him at a dinner party several nights ago, or perhaps from Mr. Cosgrove, a school friend Rowe had introduced to me. I found both men jovial and kind and certainly more receptive when shown unguarded interest from me. I had even allowed myself to consider a future with them, not because I was immediately drawn to the men in that way, but because Phillip’s words had left an impression.

You allow your leg to hold you back.

Yes. I had allowed it, despite my proclaiming otherwise. I had seen every eligible male acquaintance with the assumption they would become a friend at most. Never a suitor. Never a potential companion or husband. That assumption had prevented me from truly pursuing anyone or showing interest. I hadn’t seen a purpose in it, believing it would only cause disappointment. I had been afraid.

You allow your leg to hold you back.

Not any longer. I would choose optimism from now on. I would choose to believe that, one day, I would marry. I would find love. My weak leg would not stop me. I could still help others find their matches until then, but the two endeavors need not be mutually exclusive.

My fingers ran over the note, the edges already worn from how often I did so. Forgive me. Those words could only have come from Phillip given our last exchange. In my mind, there was nothing to forgive. Phillip had spoken in earnest, and while the delivery was made in frustration, I had needed to hear it. My only regret was the criticism I had dealt to provoke his rebuttal.

Forgive him? It was I who should be asking for grace, not him. But did the flowers say more than his plea? Was there a deeper meaning, and was I a fool to dare hope for such a thing?

Drat it all. Why did Rus have to leave?

“You are scowling at those flowers quite fiercely,” said Rowe, entering the drawing room with an amused smile. “Whatever have they done to deserve your ire?”

“They have secrets, I am quite certain, and the man who could decipher them is gone.”

“Ah,” Rowe nodded in understanding. “Well, most men, including me, haven’t the faintest idea what certain flowers mean. There is a good chance whoever sent that bouquet simply believed you would like them.” He paused, his eyes narrowing. “Who sent them?”

My lips pinched. I had yet to tell Rowe of my matchmaking endeavors over the last few months, but I was tired of keeping it from him. Besides, how was I to explain the flowers otherwise?

“They are from Phillip Montfert,” I said.

Rowe’s brows rose. A fair response since he had overheard the man speaking of his proposal to Miss Rigby. A proposal that—to my knowledge after scouring the papers day in and day out for the announcement—had not taken place.

Yet.

Had his uncle not given him but a week? That time had passed. What was Phillip waiting for?

“You are scowling again, Grace.”

I heaved a sigh and gestured to the chairs in the center of the drawing room. “Perhaps we ought to sit down for this discussion.”

Rowe’s expression pinched with concern, but he nodded and followed me to the forest green sofa. We took our seats, and I drew in a breath, uncertain where to begin. From the beginning, I supposed. “I have been meeting with Phillip Montfert in secret since we came to Town.”

“What?” Rowe sputtered. I had never seen him look more horrified. Perhaps that was not the best beginning.

“Not for anything untoward,” I said quickly. “Before we left Kenwick, I decided I would spend the Season matchmaking. Do you remember? I had mentioned it.”

“Yes. Of course, I remember, but I had hoped you would forget the notion or it would simply be a game to pass the time.” He eyed me warily. “Grace, tell me what you’ve been doing. The whole of it.”

I winced. “When Rus first met Mr. Montfert, he mentioned that his uncle demanded he find a wife this Season. One that met his ridiculous list of qualities. Phillip—”

“Phillip?” My cousin’s brows were high on his head again.

“Mr. Montfert,” I corrected. “He was struggling to make any progress, and Rus offered to set up a meeting between us. I agreed to help him make a match that would satisfy his uncle’s requirements.”

Rowe swore. “I might kill my brother. To put your reputation at risk this way. He hasn’t the faintest idea of the pressure that comes with being a woman’s guardian or running an estate. It is a heavy burden to have so many people relying on you, which he might understand if he took any of his responsibilities seriously.”

I grabbed Rowe’s hand, and he looked at me, his anger deflating a little.

“I do not disagree with you about Rus, but he was careful about the entire thing. We all were. I always had a chaperone. Well, almost always”—I continued quickly when Rowe’s face contorted with exasperation— “You needn’t worry after my reputation. It is safe, and I haven’t met with Phi—Mr. Montfert in well over a week. We argued at the Davenport’s dinner party. The flowers are an apology.”

Rowe rubbed a hand slowly over his face with a groan. “Why, Grace? Do you have any idea how fortunate you are that no rumors are circulating about the two of you? And you did it all without telling me.” At this, a flash of hurt lit his eyes.

“I did not want you to stop me,” I admitted. “Can you honestly say you would not have?”

“Of course, I would have. It was reckless, and I am responsible for you.”

I smiled lightly. “Which is why I did any of this in the first place. You are so focused on taking care of me—taking care of Amelia and my mother—that you think so little about your happiness. It is an honorable thing, Rowe, and I appreciate your care more than you know, but I did not wish to stand in the way of your future either. I did not believe I would ever marry because of my leg, and I did not want to be a burden on you for the rest of my life. Becoming a matchmaker was the solution to finding my independence. To finding financial security that would give you freedom, too.”

Rowe shook his head. “You are not, nor have you ever been, a burden on me, Grace. I am so sorry if I did or said anything—”

“You did not.” I squeezed his hand. “And I understand my folly in all of this. I had resigned myself to spinsterhood because of my ailment, but that resignation is gone.”

My cousin smiled wryly. “And all it required for you to come to your senses was a reputation-risking scheme. I trust you will discontinue such behavior?”

I hummed thoughtfully. “You may trust that I will not keep things from you anymore.”

Rowe scoffed, but he fought a smile. “If that is the best I can hope for, I suppose I will accept it.” He nodded toward the flowers. “What of Mr. Montfert? I sense there is more you’ve not told me.”

“Well, I found him a match. His uncle approves of Miss Rigby.”

“But?” The way he looked at me suggested I would not get out of a confession.

I shrugged. “But I went and fell in love with my client. I’m quite certain he cares for me, too. None of which matters, mind you. His uncle would not approve of me after what happened between Sabrina and Lord Emerson. He blames Amelia for that, and me by extension. Never mind that I do not meet his list of qualifications.”

Tears pooled in my eyes, and Rowe shifted closer. His arm wrapped around my shoulder, and he pulled me close as those tears broke free. “I am sorry, Grace.”

Despite my sobs, I was not sorry. No matter how it pained my heart, I could never regret having met Phillip. Even in heartache, he had given more than he would ever know. Perhaps one day I would have the strength to thank him for it.

I tossed the morning paper aside with a grunt, and Rowe lifted his brow, taking a sip of his coffee. Ten days had passed since the Davenport’s dinner party, and still, the papers said nothing of Phillip Montfert or Harriet Rigby. The situation was perplexing, and my curiosity had grown to an unbearable monster. I could pretend my interest came down to seeing my client’s success, but lying to myself was pointless. It took everything in me not to march to his townhouse and demand answers.

As his matchmaker, did I not have some right to know what was going on?

“I think we ought to take a walk through Hyde today,” announced Rowe.

“Why?”

“Because you never leave this house unless we are invited to some party or another, and even then you feign a headache more often than not.”

I scoffed. “I did not feign anything. If you must know, my megrims were very real.”

“And had nothing to do with avoiding a certain gentleman, I presume? Or his supposed fiancé?”

Supposed? Hah! What an understatement that was. Why was there nothing in the papers? Did Mr. Perry wish to keep the engagement a secret or had there been no proposal at all?

I was going to go mad.

“His uncle gave him a week to propose,” I said, needing some sense of reassurance. “Surely there would be something about it in the columns?”

Rowe shrugged, and I glared at him. He smiled playfully in response. “What would you have me say, Grace? Certainly, Mr. Perry would put it in the papers if a match had been made. I cannot imagine Mrs. Rigby foregoing an announcement for her daughter, either. Even a scandalous one. She is too proud to disregard a chance for such fame.”

“Fame? Really, Rowe, you make it sound as though an announcement of marriage, even by scandal, will raise her status.”

Rowe set his empty glass down on his breakfast tray and gestured for a footman to take it. “No, I daresay Mrs. Rigby already fancies herself high as nobility, title or not. She is rather self-important.”

I could not disagree with him there.

In another bout of frustration, I reached for the paper, letting my gaze trail the engagement columns once more. There were three there today, but none of them said Montfert or Rigby.

“If you are merely going to stare at the same page, perhaps you might allow me to have a look?” asked Rowe.

“No.” I folded the paper again, lifting my chin. “I shan’t let you look. I am convinced the moment you do, a certain pair of names will appear no matter how many times I have checked.” It was ridiculous, I knew, but I had gained a sort of possessiveness over the morning paper. Rowe had not touched a single copy in days due to my hoarding.

Which he had not once complained about.

Rowe sighed, rose from his seat, and offered his hand to me. “Come. Let us take a walk to the park. We should both feel better with a bit of fresh air, I think.”

“Very well, then. Allow me to gather my things, but let us keep to a slow pace. I’ve no desire to agitate my leg.”

Half an hour later, we walked in the sunshine toward Hyde Park. The streets were particularly crowded with the fair weather, and countless carriages drove down Rotten Row. Bonnets and top hats filled my view like a sea of colorful, moving blossoms, with larger ones created by those carrying bright parasols. Men and women alike stood conversing along the footpaths, and the titter of gossips brought a smile to my face.

I had missed the park more than I realized, especially this time of day when it was so full of people. No matter which way I looked, I spotted potential romance. It was nearly as enjoyable as reading a novel, and I made a game of creating stories in my mind for the couples we passed.

Hmm. Perhaps it was more distraction than a game. Regardless, it eased something within me, dulling a residual ache.

Only when Rowe stopped suddenly did my thoughts pull back to the present. “Mrs. Rigby. Miss Rigby.” He released my arm and dipped a bow. “What a pleasure to see you both.”

Miss Rigby. She looked lovely as ever, her brown hair perfectly coiffed, her eyes sparkling with quiet reserve. She would make Phillip a handsome wife, and yet, I could not say for certain she was to be his wife. She did not radiate the joy of a woman recently engaged, but then, would she? In all her time with Phillip, had he captured any part of her heart as he so easily had mine? And if not, why ? Why did she not see the wonderful man he was? My mind could not fathom it.

Shaking away my thoughts, I curtsied. “Yes, a pleasure.”

The women returned the greeting, though nothing of Mrs. Rigby’s expression said she was at all pleased to see us. Miss Rigby, as always, smiled politely.

Mrs. Rigby’s eyes narrowed on Rowe. “Which one are you?”

I fought a bout of laughter, and even Rowe’s lips twitched. The woman was certainly blunt about having no desire to waste her time.

“Rowe Apsley, ma’am. The spare, as most would call me.”

I scoffed quietly. That was hardly true. No one called Rowe the spare . At least no one who cared about him. I supposed it would make sense for Mrs. Rigby to view him that way.

The woman’s frown deepened, though how it was possible, I did not know. “The rumors are true, then? Lord Paxton and his heir have left Town.”

“I am afraid so, ma’am. Miss Scott and I will join them soon.”

“You are leaving?” Miss Rigby’s question caught me by surprise, but more so the disappointment in her voice. We had become friends but not close enough to warrant the kind of sadness she exuded in both tone and expression.

The question that had been lurking inside me for over a week teetered on the edge of my tongue. No, I could not ask. It was too much.

I swallowed it instead.

“Yes,” I said. “Once Mr. Apsley has concluded business on his father’s behalf, we will depart.”

“Which is fast approaching,” Rowe added. “I’ve but a letter to deliver to Lieutenant Paget, then we may leave.”

My eyes darted to Rowe, my brows drawn tight. Lieutenant Paget? What should Rowe need to deliver a letter to him for? Or Lord Paxton, rather. The two men had often had private discussions even while the viscount remained bedridden, but what was so important to require a letter? And one Rowe must deliver himself. Curious.

Rowe ignored my prodding stare, shifting uncomfortably. “I hope you enjoy the remainder of the Season.”

That sounded far too much like a goodbye for my tastes. I could not leave the Rigbys. Not without an answer. Was I brave enough to ask?

“Why are you not engaged?” The words slipped out, and I bit my tongue. Brave, indeed. I was no such thing, merely a wreck of curiosity and emotion.

Miss Rigby smiled, far brighter than I had ever seen. “Has he not come to see you yet?”

“Come to see me?”

Miss Rigby nodded, still smiling. “He has been busy, I imagine, but do not lose hope, Miss Scott.”

Hope. That dangerous word. But what did she mean he had been busy?

I did not have to ponder the question long, for Mrs. Rigby was eager to share her knowledge of the subject. “It has been all over the papers! Have you not seen it? Mr. Perry has been carted off to Newgate, and can you imagine it? His nephew and daughter raised the charges! Despicable men, the both of them. To think my daughter was nearly pulled into the scandal by marriage. The entire family is ruined.”

I looked to Rowe, hoping he would provide more clarity, but he merely shrugged as if to say ‘you do not allow me to look at the papers’.

“And there is more,” Mrs. Rigby continued, so lost in her jubilance at spreading gossip she seemed to forget herself. “Can you believe that Mr. Montfert has been hiding that he is deaf? Deaf, and wished to marry my daughter! Absolutely not. Mr. Rigby and I put a stop to his courtship as soon as we learned of it.”

“ After Mr. Montfert had ended it,” added Miss Rigby, who then gave me a very pointed look.

A look that I would analyze later. Right now, my stomach swirled so violently that I might lose my breakfast. Phillip had wanted to keep his ailment a secret for perfectly understandable reasons. Many of the ton would look down upon him. I may have chided him for it, but I would never reveal his struggles. That was not my place, no matter how I felt about the matter.

But so few knew Phillip’s secret. Would he blame me for word getting out? Would he believe I betrayed his confidence?

What if that is why he has not come?

My heart beat quicker. No, no, I needed to stop this. Phillip did not deserve to have his name bandied about.

“Are you certain he is deaf?” I asked, pressing a smile into place with great effort as I faced the matron. “Where did you hear such a rumor?”

“Why, he told me himself,” answered Mrs. Rigby.

“He…he told you?”

“Yes, right in my foyer. Admitted the whole of it.” The rest of her words were muffled by my thoughts. Phillip had told Mrs. Rigby of his hearing impairment. Surely he must know the woman would judge him for it, and worse, spread it about Town to anyone who would listen as she did now.

But why? Why would he do it after being so set against it? I wondered if my words had struck him as deeply as his had struck me. I had not ceased pondering them. Did he do the same? Phillip had always listened to me and took time to consider the topics of our discussion. Our argument had been heated, but why should it surprise me that, once his emotions had tempered, he would consider my words, just as I had considered his?

More importantly, what did all of it mean?

Forgive me , his note had pleaded.

After he ended the courtship , Miss Rigby had said.

Phillip had made the decision not to propose to her. And he had told Mrs. Rigby his long-kept secret—a secret I had berated him for hiding.

“Oh, Phillip,” I whispered, my words drowned out by Mrs. Rigby’s persistent chatter. “What have we done to one another?”