Page 5 of The Rules of Matrimony (The Matchmaking Mamas #4)

Reining in his horse, Ian took his first glimpse of the Tylers’ unremarkable brick home. There was nothing significant about the small, simple estate, even down to the plain door. He had nearly passed it by. But it was the third house on the lane, just as Boyles, his investigator, had explained. Since Miss Tyler’s family had been affluent before being forced on the mercy of their relatives, and resided a stone’s throw from London, Boyles been able to locate her in less than three days. He had also reported a brief explanation of her situation, with the promise of more should it be required.

Ian scanned the house front. Inside this typical neoclassical box of a house was a woman who had caused him a great deal of trouble. He needed to resolve this ... this inconvenience straightaway. He had pressing matters to attend to—a plan to satiate his father’s agenda and a plan to execute his latest Rebel project: reforming the Bloody Code.

After dismounting, he searched for someone to hold his animal. No one was about but a woman dressed in a serviceable gray, her hair sticking out at all ends—a maid of all work, no doubt, tending to the garden.

Well, he didn’t care to waste time by taking his horse to the town mews. Only a moment was required to straighten Miss Tyler out and return to London. He swung his leg over his saddle and dismounted, calling out as he did. “Miss?”

The maid turned but did not raise her head. “Would you be so kind as to hold my reins? I have business in this house and will be but a moment.”

“Of course, I would be happy to.” She ducked lower and hurried to him.

Her words and tone were soft and vaguely familiar. Perhaps she had worked as a servant in his townhome before. He dismissed the thought at once. He hadn’t come to study a strange maid but to break a woman’s heart. He couldn’t wait to set this Miss Tyler straight—the upstart who coveted his title and spread lies to attain her wishes.

He muttered a thank-you and marched toward the door.

“If you are here to see Mr. Nelson or his son,” the maid called out, “they are at the pub in town.”

Ian shook his head without turning around. Boyles had mentioned the Tylers lived with the Nelsons, but it was not the Nelsons he sought. “I am here to see Miss Tyler and no one else.” He rapped on the door, and almost immediately, the butler let him in. Perfect. An obliging staff member. He handed over his hat. They might be terrible, dishonest people, but their servants seemed quite decent.

He gave the butler his card and requested an audience with Miss Tyler. A melancholy tune from a pianoforte sang from some distant room. Was his feigned fiancée musical? The funeral march she had selected was the right tune for the occasion.

The butler was leading him to the drawing room when a woman behind him yelled, “Wait!”

He turned to see the maid rush through the front door. “What? Who has my horse?” He valued his mount a great deal.

“A trustworthy boy.” The maid stumbled to a halt, her eyes this time brazenly met his gaze.

He opened his mouth again but recognition cut off all his words, for this was no maid. He hadn’t forgotten those stark brown eyes edged in gold. “You!”

She nodded. “Me.”

“The grass!”

“The grass?”

He pointed at her. “You put a handful in my mouth.”

She gave a small laugh and reached for the paneling on the wall of the vestibule to steady herself. Probably because he was glowering at her. He had a tendency to do that.

“It wasn’t grass, sir. It was mint leaves. Can you not tell the difference?”

So, that was what the sweet-and-cool sensation had been from. “I didn’t keep it in my mouth long enough to dwell on it. And you still shoved it in my mouth.”

“It was for your stomach. I was trying to help you.”

He blinked. How was trying to kill him helpful? Maybe it was the tufts of hair sticking out, but she wasn’t making a good case for herself. “I’m afraid I am at a loss.”

She leaned forward and in a low whisper added, “From the usual sick stomach that accompanies drinking all night.”

He reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Miss, I know my limits. I have never been in such a state. For the record, I was napping.” He sighed. “Never mind, it is not worth the explanation. If you will excuse me, I have business in this house.” This maid—no, she was no maid. This woman before him—was she a neighbor? He hoped her uncle or cousin or whomever it was, was not the cause of her haphazard state. He would spare her a prayer tonight, despite the grass or mint leaves, but that was really all he could offer her. He dipped his head to bid her goodbye.

“But you requested to speak to Miss Tyler.”

She remembered. “Yes ... Do you know her?”

“ I am Miss Tyler.”

He blinked. Then blinked again. “You? You are the Miss Amie Tyler?”

Her brow furrowed with what appeared to be confusion. Why was she confused about her own identity?

“I have never had anyone add an emphasis to my name.” Her tone held a touch of wonder and an equal amount of self-deprecation. “I am simply Miss Amie Tyler. No frills or implication of anything more.”

There it was again. So much innocence. She was not at all who he’d expected to find here. Her humility stunned him.

“Forgive me,” she said, untying her apron, “you must have traveled from somewhere since I have not seen you around town since that day. You must be weary. May I offer you some tea?”

She did not strike him as the kind to make up an engagement of marriage, no matter how strange she was. He could not make sense of it. “Tea would be nice.” They had a lot to converse about and might as well sit down for it.

She wiped her hands on her apron before handing it to the butler. “Mr. Goodman, have the kitchen send up the tea things. We will be in the library since my aunt is napping in the drawing room.”

He found her instructions strange. Not that she approved of napping in a drawing room as opposed to a graveyard but that she did not desire to awaken her aunt, who should be their chaperone. Was Mrs. Nelson as terrible as her husband and son? Is this what prompted Miss Tyler’s ghastly falsehood about their engagement? He carefully thought over his conclusion as they weaved through the house to the small library. It was a square room with one large window, a small fireplace, and a single wall of books. They were not heavy readers by the looks of it.

Miss Tyler ensured the door remained wide open and instructed Ian to sit in one of two chairs by the cold fireplace. A small table with a chessboard sat between them.

She took her own seat with far more grace than he expected and asked, “How can I be of assistance to you, Mr.—Forgive me, I don’t believe I caught your name.”

“No, I have yet to reveal myself. I am Lord Reynolds .” He waited for the moment of recognition.

She smiled cordially. “It’s good to officially make your acquaintance.” Her smile froze on her face. She tilted her head and squinted her eyes. “Did you say Lord ... Reynolds?”

He gave a firm nod.

“This is silly. Remarkably silly. But any relation to the Lord Reynolds on the headstone in our parish’s graveyard?”

He nodded once. “My grandfather.”

Her eyes went as wide as the saucers on the table, and her skin paled. “Oh, fiddlesticks!” That word seemed a favorite of hers. “I thought you were dead.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “I mean, he was dead. He is dead.”

Then, all at once, Ian realized what she had done. “You engaged yourself to a dead man?” He gave a sharp laugh. And then laughed again. How perfectly absurd. But a dead man? Really? Tears stung his eyes. He couldn’t remember anything more humorous.

“Sir?”

He tried to collect himself. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be surprised. Everything about you, Miss Tyler, is wholly unexpected.”

She blew out her breath and crossed her arms over her chest. “I will have you know that I did not engage myself, as you say. My mother did.”

“Your mother?” He sobered. He vaguely recalled, when speaking to the headstone that day, her saying that her mother was making her uncle angry. “So, she is responsible for this mess?”

Miss Tyler put a fingernail between her teeth. “It is a mess, isn’t it? I’ve been sick about it for days. And now you’re alive—or in existence—and it is so much worse. I had no idea, I swear. I would’ve been more insistent with Mama otherwise.”

Ian gave a nod. “But you let her lie, didn’t you?”

“She can be difficult to manage.”

“Must you manage her?”

“I can only attempt to. As you can see, I do not always succeed.” Her hand went to her hair, mussing it further. He could safely assume it was this lie that had caused her appearance to be in such disarray. “I knew the truth would come out soon enough when no suitor came for me, but I hoped to prolong it long enough to find another place for my mother and me to live. Once I am unengaged, we can no longer stay here.”

He rubbed the cleft in his chin. He had thought the engagement was to take advantage of his name but had not imagined her situation or the level of despair that came with it. Instead of the firm tone he’d imagined he would use with her, he kept his voice gentle. “Unfortunately, the charade cannot continue any longer.”

The tea things arrived, and Miss Tyler set the chessboard on the floor, knocking over several pieces in the process. It felt symbolic to the apparent state of her life. He felt sorry for her. But he would speak to her uncle about the misunderstanding or help her find a friend or relative to live with if no forgiveness could be found. He was a Rebel, after all, and pledged to help those in need. He had turned a blind eye to her plight before, but he felt a sort of kinship with Miss Tyler after their two unique meetings.

As soon as the maid left again and the chess pieces were sorted, Amie sat rigidly still. “I’m sorry, your lordship. Of course, we cannot be engaged.”

“I am glad you see things my way.”

“I will tell everyone I made it up. Your reputation will be protected at all costs.”

His reputation was never truly in any harm. It was a hindrance, to be sure, and the circulating rumors would enrage his already furious father, but no real damage had been done. Not to him. It was her reputation that would be slaughtered. Women always suffered in this sort of situation. Society would shun her. She would lose all her chances to ever marry. And her own family would suffer the shame right along with her.

But the truth had to be told.

He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.

She asked him how he took his tea, and he muttered his answer. She fixed him a cup, and they both sipped silently. The liquid burned instead of satisfied.

He was not one to pry, but he found himself asking the question before he could stop himself. “You said you were looking for other living arrangements. Have you other family who could take you in?”

“No,” she said decisively. “No other family will take us. My mother has made sure of that. But I have long desired my independence and have no shame in seeking work.”

“I see.” He lowered his gaze to her hands. Gone was any trace of her time in the garden. Indeed, they appeared too soft to work. She had an air of maturity to her but lacked confidence and the obvious experience. Would she be able to care for her mother and herself? Many would take advantage of her innocence, maybe even abuse her physically. He swallowed. Guilt held him to his seat. Minutes passed, and the tension inside him mounted. He had no reason to linger. They weren’t even speaking any longer. When his cup was drained, he set it aside and forced himself to stand before he said or did something foolish.

“I thank you for the refreshment,” he managed to get out, “but I must return to Town.”

“To London?” she asked.

He nodded, stalling for what more to say, for there was little comfort he could offer at his parting. “If there is any problem—”

“There won’t be,” she said, cutting him off. She clasped her hands in front of her, those perfectly almond-shaped eyes full of sincerity.

Or denial. How could there not be problems?

She lowered her chin. “I never meant to slander your name, and I beg your forgiveness.”

“I do not hold a grudge.” He was surprised he meant it.

She stared at him, her expression full of awe. “I do not deserve it, but I thank you.”

She shouldn’t be thanking him. He wasn’t doing her any favors. He dipped his head anyway.

“I will walk you out,” she insisted.

He motioned for her to leave first. They walked down the corridor side by side. He stole a look at her the same time she glanced at him. This was by far the most awkward meeting of his life. He was ruining her. Or better yet, letting her ruin herself. Either way, he was a cad.

They reached the vestibule at the same time the front door swung open and in stepped two men: one older with a round face and heavy jowls and one younger with a prominent forehead and a flame of bright-yellow hair. Their beady eyes, however, were identical.

“Lord Reynolds?” inquired the older one. “It’s you!” He dipped into a floppy bow just before coming right for Ian and grabbing his hand. He pumped it up and down several times before dropping it. “So, we are acquainted at last. I told my butler to call for me immediately if you ever visited. I am out of breath for my rush home. You must know, I am most unhappy about this arrangement. You should have come to me to request my permission. But as she has no dowry, you must not have been too particular. You are a viscount, or so I’ve heard from some friends.”

More guilt piled on, and the tea swirled in his stomach. But this wasn’t his problem anymore.

“Lord Reynolds,” Miss Tyler said. “May I present my uncle, Mr. Nelson?”

Ian tipped his head just as Mr. Nelson’s son bounded up beside him.

“Father, why are you not putting a stop to this madness?” He grabbed his father’s arm much too roughly, looking angry enough to hit someone. “You know this marriage would be the worst thing for Miss Tyler. For me. If he is not man enough to ask decently, he has no right to marry her.”

Miss Tyler cleared her throat, taking a half step back. Her voice came out far more timid than before. “And this is my cousin, Mr. Robert Nelson.”

Ian needed no explanation. The spoiled cousin who wanted Miss Tyler for himself, as though she were an item to possess and not a person with feelings.

“What happened to your hair?” the cousin asked her, his eyes darting to Ian. “Did he touch you?”

Her hands flew to her head and patted around until she located the misplaced tufts. She squeezed her eyes shut momentarily. “I must’ve snagged it on a branch when I was in the garden.” She did something with the pins in her hair, which smoothed back some of her curls. “Please, do not disparage Lord Reynolds,” Miss Tyler said quickly. She seemed on the verge of tears. “He had no part in this—in any of it.” She seemed to steel herself. “In truth, the whole matter is a mistake. I—”

“I should have asked properly,” Ian said, cutting her off. His heart pounded like an executioner’s drum. The weight of what he was about to say cost him dearly. But it was the right thing to do, and heaven help him, he had to do it. “I take complete blame.”

“What?” Miss Tyler said, her voice small beside him. “No.”

He turned to her. “May I call again tomorrow? I should like to take you on a ride in my curricle.” He gave her a pointed look. “We have a great deal to discuss.”

Her whole coloring was off, but she gave a tremulous nod.

He turned to Mr. Nelson. “Is that acceptable to you?” Ian stood straighter and took on what his friends called his intimidating stance. Ian had used it to the Rebels’ advantage on more than one mission, and it had worked fair enough for the butcher in Town recently.

Mr. Nelson looked from Ian to his son, who shook his head furtively. “I suppose I cannot refuse, but I would like to go over the particulars of the marriage agreement.”

Ian waited for the bile to form in his throat, but surprisingly, his stomach now felt oddly calm. “That can be arranged.”

He turned and bowed to Miss Tyler—his intended . “Until tomorrow.” He strolled from the house, his boots clicking on the tiled floor until they met the gravel path just outside.

What had he done? He scoffed. No one would believe him.

He did not even believe himself.