Page 7 of No Match for Love (Regency Love Stories)

“You see here my explicit instructions to speak with her though?”

“I do not care one whit for your instructions.”

“But her grandfather—”

“Her grandfather was a lowborn swindler, and I haven’t a care for his wishes.”

Grandfather? A blood relative? Yet she was sent to Lord Tarrington for guardianship? And she’d never heard of this grandfather before now?

She stepped even closer, more than curious. Her heart hammered in her chest, both at the subterfuge and the feeling of proximity to knowledge she’d never before had.

“Her grandfather was anything but, my lord. If you’ll only let me speak with Miss Faraday. He left her—”

“That is enough. You will go.”

There was the distinct sound of a chair pushing back on the floor. Lydia startled, jolting from the door at the same moment a second chair moved back, slower than the first.

“Very well. I bid you good day, Lord Tarrington. If you change your mind—”

“I will not.”

Rather than making for her room, she retraced her steps to the library, curiosity propelling her. This was a chance at information, at learning of her past.

The broken strains of the man’s final parting met her ears as she turned the corner. “You can find . . . at . . . Strand . . .”

Her heart had already been beating quickly, but now it seemed to shake the lace trimming her bodice.

She had a grandfather? She had family? A long-repressed yearning broke somewhere deep in her chest. She had family .

Family that was trying to find her? She could not miss an opportunity to learn more.

As the door to Lord Tarrington’s study opened, Lydia made as if she were just exiting the library.

She pulled up short, affecting surprise at the two men before her.

Lord Tarrington had his usual disgruntled expression, and the short, thin man beside him had a similar look upon his face, though it was woven with a sense of anxiety or confusion. Both men looked at her.

“Oh, hello,” Lydia said, proud of how she hid her unease.

The solicitor was shuffling some papers into one arm, but he met her eyes with surprise. His mouth opened. Tarrington stepped between them.

Lydia was undeterred. She craned her neck around her guardian. “Who is our visitor?”

Lord Tarrington grunted. “None of your concern.”

She ignored him. “I am Lydia Faraday,” she said to the shorter man. “And you are?”

“Oh. Oh, I am Mr. Sperry. I—” He darted a glance at Lord Tarrington but straightened his slim shoulders with confidence. “I was hoping for a chance—”

Tarrington turned, presenting Lydia with his back. “And, as I told you, you would not have one. Now, leave my home before I am forced to remove you myself.” He coughed—a deep, racking sound that belied his pronouncement to bodily remove Mr. Sperry.

The solicitor ground his teeth, eyes flicking between Lydia and Lord Tarrington, but he nodded with a jerk. “As I said before, you can find my office on the Strand, just beside—”

“Now,” Lord Tarrington cut across the man’s words, but Lydia filed them away. If Lord Tarrington would not tell her what she needed to know, she could always go in search of the information herself.

The sound of the front door closing filtered back through the house to them. Lord Tarrington grumbled something about layabout working men then started to reenter his study. Lydia put out a hand, grabbing his wrist.

The man looked down at her hand then up at her with a lift of the eyebrow. She pulled back but did not back down. “What was the solicitor here for?”

Tarrington turned back to his study. “Nothing.”

Lydia began to follow him. “He did not seem particularly happy.”

“Good.”

She threw caution to the wind. “Did he want to see me?” He did—she’d heard him.

Tarrington paused for only half a step. “No.” Then he closed the door veritably in her face.

Lydia bit down hard on the insides of her cheeks.

Her insatiable curiosity had more urgency than usual.

Because this was larger than usual. More important.

This was not just the tail end of an interesting conversation about who fancied who in the neighborhood or what someone found hiding in the middle of their sheep herd. This was her life. Her family.

Family. What a novel idea.

“Miss Faraday,” a sharp voice sounded, wrenching Lydia from her thoughts.

Lydia’s new maid was rushing down the hall, appearing flustered.

“You have a visitor. Come, let me fix your hair.” Jones had not reached Lydia but was already turning back for the staircase with a jerk, expecting she’d follow.

Lydia had learned two things about her new maid: First, despite being old enough to be her grandmother, Jones was not grandmotherly in the least—she acted more like one of Lydia’s governesses than a maid.

And second, if they put her in charge, the war with France would likely be over in a week or two.

Oh, there was a third too. Evidently it was not proper to call one’s maid by their first name. So “Jones” the maid was called—supposedly it was a mark of her status in the household to be called by her surname. Just one more thing to learn about “polite society.”

Lydia fell into step behind her. “A visitor?”

“Yes. Mr. Frank Colbert is waiting in the drawing room. Come! We cannot take long, but your hair is a sight.”

“I have done nothing to muss it.”

Jones spared her half an incredulous look. “Well, it needs fixing regardless.”

Lydia lowered her hand and sat at her dressing table, allowing Jones her ministrations, all the while fixated on the fact that no matter how handsome and charming Mr. Frank Colbert may be, she’d rather be visiting with one Mr. Sperry just then.