Page 3 of The Rules of Matrimony (The Matchmaking Mamas #4)

Another day, another argument. Ian stalked away from Father’s office. This time he didn’t have his horse at the ready for a quick escape. This particular attack had been an ambush.

His mother stood at the end of the corridor, fussing over another bouquet guilt-purchased by Father to make himself feel better for his transgressions. The bright blooms overflowing from the top of the French-style console were an antithesis to the giver’s personality.

When Mother looked up, her calm facade did not quite hide the tension Ian knew lay just beneath the surface. She normally did not come to London for the Season, not with the regular rumors of Father’s mistresses circling about, but she had made an exception to keep the peace between him and Father. She was single-handedly the greatest reason Ian had no desire to marry. Father had neglected both of them for the majority of Ian’s life, and Ian would never ruin a family like his father had.

Mother picked up a pile of letters from the edge of the table, but her attention was wholly on him. “Ian ...”

“Don’t you dare tell me that you agree with Father.” He rooted himself in front of her, refusing to budge on the matter. “I cannot relent, even for you.”

Mama’s rigid posture did not even flinch at his harsh tone, and she employed a firm but gentle one in return. “Your father hopes this marriage will secure your future. He wants the best for you.”

“He wants the best for himself.” How was it not obvious to her?

“You have only seen the worst in him for years now, Ian. He’s trying so hard to connect with you, and I do wish you would make an effort in return.” She clutched the letters to her chest in a pleading motion.

“If this is his attempt to forge a relationship with his only son, he should have done better than to try to force Miss Foster on me.”

Mother sighed. “Miss Foster is a spoiled child, but she will certainly provide the needed political alliance your father seeks for you.”

“Exactly my point.” How his mother could love that man, Ian would never know. “I will not marry her.”

Mama nodded. “I should hope not. I had higher expectations for my only daughter-in-law.”

Ian rocked back on his feet, the shock of Mama’s words effectively cooling his temper. “Does Father know you object?”

She reached out and fingered a rose petal. “He does so much for me, I can hardly make a fuss.”

Ian ground his teeth together. A woman shouldn’t have to live off a pile of letters every Season. Father didn’t do enough of what mattered. Ian’s hand slid to his waist and forced his anger to a simmer. “Then, you must know that Father intends to cut me off.”

“I thought as much.” She dropped her gaze, revealing a glimmer of hurt. “There is one alternative.”

Ian folded his arms across his chest. “Anything is better than a union with Miss Foster.”

“I hope you mean that, because the only solution is to marry someone else first.”

His jaw dropped. He should have known his mother would turn to her matchmaking methods to conceive a solution. Of course it made sense to her to solve a problem of an arranged marriage with a second arranged marriage. “Utterly ridiculous. I have no intention of marrying. The house and title can fall to Cousin Edwin. I will commandeer the Dome as my home and live out my life in peace.” The one-roomed Grecian temple on their Brookeside property would be his castle—and he its bachelor king. He maneuvered around his mother and attempted to stalk away, but Lady Kellen followed after him, two of her soft footfalls sounding to every one of his.

“Cousin Edwin has recently been declared mad. The house and title will go to Mr. Balister, your second cousin.”

Ian stopped so suddenly, he had to steady himself with the wall, narrowly missing a portrait of the late Lord Kellen’s dog. “Mr. Howard Balister? The idiot who burned down his last house in a drunken rage and is now living with his mistress? I heard his wife and children fled to Scotland.” Ian had tried to find the family in order to send funds, but they were yet to be located. Seven. The man had seven children. “Why has no one declared him mad?”

“What can I say? We have a family history of madness.”

Ian pursed his lips. “After this morning, I feel the same lunacy threatening to take me over.” He massaged his eyes with his thumb and two fingers. “I’m not giving our lands and titles to Balister.” He growled under his breath. “I am not agreeing to anything, and I cannot even believe I’m considering this, but tell me who you have selected as a candidate to rival Miss. Foster.”

She shrugged. “I have no one in mind at present—at least not someone who could contend against Miss Foster.”

Ian opened his eyes and stared at his mother. “You have no one in mind? You’ve planned the marriages of all my friends and not even spared a thought for your own son? I cannot decide if this pleases me or distresses me.”

“I adore you, son. You are my entire world. But I must say, you are not the easiest person to find a match for.”

“How can you say that?” He gave a short laugh. She was right. He couldn’t disagree.

“You are a good man, extremely generous and loyal.”

“But?”

“But you lack a certain softness that would make for an ideal companion.”

“Softness?” He chuckled. “Isn’t that for the weak?”

“I think you mean meek, Ian. The women might chase after you at the balls, but marriage is far more than a dance. You are all passion and no restraint when it comes to your words—a great attribute for politics but not for a husband. And ...” She waved her hand like the rest didn’t matter.

“And?” He wasn’t trying to make his day worse, but something made him press.

Mama shrugged. “And except for your closest friends, you are rather intimidating. But you are a good, valiant son to me, and that is all a mother can ask for.”

Ian blinked at the stark list of his faults set so efficiently before him. No matter how she tried to disguise it with interspersed compliments, it was a mite humbling. He placed a hand on his hip and quipped, “Could you say it any plainer?”

She shook her head. “I would rather not waste time with specifics. Your father is taking me in the barouche to Hyde Park.”

If this was a political move for his father, a few carriage rides wouldn’t convince the public of his devotion to his wife. How could Mama not resent his piddling efforts, as Ian did?

“If you agree to this alternative,” Mama continued, “we will have a great deal to do and not a lot of time to accomplish it. You will have to trust me. I will find you someone sweet and good-natured, someone who will complement your life goals.”

Could he really marry someone? No, he hadn’t the taste for it—nor, clearly, the aptitude. His friends had been a lucky few to have found love, but the odds were against him. He’d incur misery. “Never mind, Mama. I will think of another way to get back into Father’s graces. You will be relieved to know, it will not consist of ruining some poor debutante’s life by an engagement to the hopeless Lord Reynolds. And it certainly won’t include Miss Foster.”

“But, Ian—”

Ian cut her off by reaching over and patting her arm. “There, there. Distract yourself by matching up another unsuspecting fool.” He shivered. He had almost been foolish enough to leg-shackle himself. He was in a real dilemma, no doubt. How could he make a difference in Society without his inheritance and position of influence? His father might not care a whit about Ian’s ideas, but after Father died, Ian would take his place in Parliament. Ian couldn’t let his pride ruin his opportunities to make a wave of change in the world. It was his dream. His passion. People—good people—needed their voices heard. There had to be another way out.

He just couldn’t think of it.

Mama held out one of her letters before he could step away. “Read this before you decide on anything.”

He frowned and accepted the missive. The familiar seal of Lord Felcroft was already broken from his mother’s previous reading. Their good family friend could have nothing to say that would sway him on the subject. He scanned the letter with little patience. “Congratulations on the upcoming nuptials of your son, Lord Reynolds.” Anger seethed from his chest, and he shoved the paper back into his mother’s hands. “How did Father get this out already?”

“I think you ought to keep reading.”

He eyed her sideways and reluctantly took the paper back. “The name Miss Amie Tyler is on everyone’s lips. We look forward to an introduction!” It was signed by Lady Felcroft—a woman he had known all his life to be upstanding and sincere. She was not in the business of passing on random gossip. “Who is Amie Tyler?”

“Don’t you know?”

“I have never heard the name in my life. Why would Lady Felcroft think I am marrying a Miss Amie Tyler?”

“That is a question you need to find out for yourself.” His mother handed him a second letter. One from his best friend, Paul. “The messenger brought it here when they discovered you were not at your townhome. It must be urgent.”

He took it and tore into the letter.

I heard the most outlandish rumor of your engagement. I knew at once it could not be true. Let me know if you need my assistance in rectifying it.

Paul was the best barrister Ian knew, and Paul’s skills had been useful on more than one occasion. Surely Ian did not need his help absolving a mere rumor.

“Of all the ridiculous notions,” Ian said. “Maybe if we ignore it, it’ll go away.”

Mama shook her head. “You cannot have gossip spreading like this. If you don’t put an end to it straight away, you will have to do right by her.”

He coughed. “Marry a stranger? This is worse than one of your matches.”

“The sooner you fix this, the better. These things have a way of getting out of hand. Hire an investigator and find her. You and your father could use a few days apart. Just be back by next Friday when you are to meet with Miss Foster for dinner.”

“Heaven forbid I miss it,” he grumbled.

“Do not make light of your father’s stubbornness,” Mama reminded him. “He means well, bless his soul, but he will follow through.”

“Don’t I know it. Try not to worry overmuch. I will think of something.” He leaned over and kissed his mother on the cheek. “But you may pray for my sanity. It might not be intact upon my return.”

Not a half hour later, Ian was riding toward the Western side of London to the office of a private investigator he had used a time or two before by the name of Harry Boyles. He wasn’t much to look at, with his wrinkled clothes and poor hygiene, but he was a thorough worker. His office was just up from Fleet Street. Ian turned his horse to cut through a side block and nearly cursed under his breath. A sizable crowd filled the road, preventing him from riding any farther.

He should have turned around, but a woman’s scream stopped him. A wave of curiosity mixed with urgency persuaded him to direct his horse closer. A grizzly man outside the butcher’s shop gripped a young woman roughly by her arms. She fought against him, but by her gaunt figure and young age, no more than sixteen or seventeen, there was no way she would win against the much larger man.

“Someone find a constable!” the rough man shouted. By his blood-stained canvas apron, Ian judged him to be the owner of the meat establishment. “I’ve caught a thief!”

More shopkeepers piled onto the street, and bystanders edged closer to the scene.

“What did she take, Mr. Allen?” an older woman demanded from the back.

Mr. Allen dragged the woman forward. “Why, she tried to take off with me cart of meat. It’s worth fifty pounds and not a farthing less!”

“Fifty—!” Ian sputtered under his breath. That was enough to serve as a death sentence. He brought his horse to a stop, quickly swinging his leg over the side. This wasn’t his day.

“He’s wrong!” the young thief cried. “I was ’ardly takin’ enough for me and my family. I swear it!”

“A liar and a thief,” Mr. Allen said. “I’ll see you hang for this!”

“The noose is the only way,” another shopkeeper said. “We don’t need more scum on the streets robbin’ our wares.”

It was a regular mob of store owners against a starving girl. Ian had one chance to do something about it, and he needed to do it right. “Sir,” Ian shouted to the butcher, hoping to be heard over the arguing and scuffle in front of him. “Sir, you have my servant.” His words were lost in the chaos.

“Drag her to the Old Bailey!” the older woman cried.

“Dirty thief ought to learn a lesson right proper,” growled another.

Ian shoved his way through the onlookers, urgency sweeping over him. “Release her!”

His strong voice caused the butcher and the thief to momentarily still.

“Unless you’re the constable, you’d better shove off.” The butcher growled.

“This woman is my servant.” Ian pointed to the unkempt young lady, her scraggly blonde hair strewn half across her face.

The butler seethed, his cheeks turning purple. “This woman is a no-good thief. Didn’t I tell you to shove off?”

Ian folded his arms across his chest and narrowed his eyes to match the man’s attempt to intimidate him. In his sternest voice, Ian demanded, “If you don’t release my servant, you will be the one who pays the consequence. This meat was meant for me, but I forgot to educate the newest member of my staff on the correct way to purchase it.” He faced the poor girl, her pallor the familiar chalky nature of the half-starved. “You must give the shopkeeper the correct address and payment before you take the meat next time.”

A man behind him laughed high and sharp.

Ian didn’t exactly have time to finesse his rescue, so his bumbling efforts would have to do. Ignoring the onlookers, Ian’s gaze moved to the furious butcher, who was not at all amused. “She was never trained properly,” Ian explained. “I accept full responsibility.” Ian pulled out his coin purse and unrolled several banknotes and overpaid the man—mostly to shut him up. He did not believe for a minute that the young woman was attempting to steal an entire cart of meat in broad daylight. It was a good thing his father hadn’t cut him off financially yet, because this was a costly little rescue.

The butcher spat on Ian several times with his incessant tendency to speak through his crooked, gritted teeth as he spouted his indignations, and then the man finally released the young lady into Ian’s custody.

Relief soared through Ian. Not once did the startled woman object, although there were plenty of others about them who cursed and complained how the rich controlled the world. They were both right and wrong. Money couldn’t buy everything, but today it had been essential.

He set the young lady on his horse and walked to the end of the street and around the corner, leading his horse by the reins. Then he stopped abruptly and looked up at the woman. All this time, she’d said nothing.

“What’s your name?” Ian asked.

“Edna.”

“Do you work hard?”

She glowered at him as if he’d just insulted her. “I do.”

“Are you prepared to make an honest woman of yourself?”

Her face marginally softened. “Ye’re not going to sell me to the brothels?”

Maybe his mother was right, and he did look mean. “No, I am not going to sell you.”

Her eyes widened, and she smiled with relief. “Thank ye, sir. Oh, thank ye.”

“Well, can I trust you?” It seemed like a silly question to ask a woman who had been caught thieving.

“I am an ’onest woman, I swear it. I used to be a lady’s maid and good one, too, until my parents died of the fever. But ’ard times can turn even the ’onest into the desp’rate.”

That he was well aware of. Every time he ventured out of Mayfair, another sobering image engraved itself into his mind. “Do you realize you would have hung for the amount of meat Mr. Allen accused you of stealing?” The criminal law of England had a harsh system, and hanging was the consequence for far too many crimes—hence the infamous nickname “the Bloody Code.”

“I had to do it, sir.” Edna’s face crumpled. “I would ’ave died without it. Me and my sisters.”

There was a whole family of them, was there? Did they all look as hungry and war-torn from surviving life on the streets as this one? He ran his hand down the smooth leather reins of his horse and gave a nod. “The job is yours, then. As my servant.” He would have his housekeeper decide the best place for her and her sisters. He was fortunate to have control of his staff at his townhome and hunting box, because his father would probably see this as another of his many weaknesses. He pointed a stern finger at Edna. “If I so much as see you pocket a spoon, you’re out of luck. I can be generous, but I won’t be a fool.”

Her eyes widened further, disbelief etched onto her every feature. “Bless you, sir.”

He waved off her thanks and led his horse to a stall selling meat pies and bought some for her and her family. She ate hungrily, thanking him profusely.

Instead of pride in his heroic effort, he felt undeserving of her gratitude. She was one of many who needed help. How many innocents had lost their lives at the Old Bailey only blocks away? At least today, Justice, whom Ian generally respected, hadn’t taken Edna. The Bloody Code had enough people swinging in the gallows; it had no need to take the life of a young woman doing everything to save her family.

But what was one person to hundreds of others who would not be so fortunate? Most weren’t murderers or hard criminals. They were starving people who deserved a prison sentence or deportation for their petty crimes before the loss of their life. One humbling glance at Edna and his soul twisted inside him. Maybe it was his longing to take control of something when everything in his life seemed on the brink of falling apart, but never had he wanted to cry out for reform like he did in this moment. He yearned with everything in him to undo centuries of tradition and give England a better system. What little influence he had outside of Parliament, he would wield. Others would be spared too. He would make it his duty.

God help him, Justice would meet his sister, Mercy.