another happy Cressmouth resident.
Cynthia bowled through the crowd like a skittle-ball knocking down all ten pins at once.
“Wassail,” she said to the cobbler’s wife. “Please.”
Cynthia handed Gertie Max’s leash in order to wrap both mittens around the warm ceramic mug.
Gertie tilted her head. “Perhaps you’d make a better match with him than I would.”
“What? No! Why would you—” Cynthia took a long gulp of wassail, which was much hotter than she expected it to be, leading to noises not unlike a cat coughing up a hair ball.
Cynthia’s family were the only people who took her seriously.
They trusted her with Gertie, and Gertie’s future.
Cynthia could not let them down.
“Nottingvale and I do not suit,” she said firmly. “He’s looking for someone like you. You happen to be exactly like you. It’s a match made in heaven.”
“All of the other young ladies are just like me, too.”
“But they’re not you,” Cynthia pointed out. “That’s their fatal flaw.”
Gertie wrinkled her pert nose. “That’s something someone who loves me would say.”
Cynthia couldn’t think of an appropriate rebuttal to that logic.
“Make certain no one else is his match first,” Gertie said.
“What?”
“If you can promise me that the duke and I are objectively the best suited of everyone else here, then I...” Gertie picked up Max and cuddled him to her chest. “Then I’ll promise to do whatever you say to win him.”
Cynthia stared at her cousin. “What scale are we using? Imperial? Metric? How am I supposed to objectively ascertain the duke’s compatibility with two dozen other women?”
Gertie lifted a shoulder. “Help him try.”
Of all the…
“You want me to purposely attempt to matchmake the duke to everyone else at the party, in the hopes that I fail, leaving him no choice but to choose you?”
Gertie nodded. “You’re the best matchmaker in England. My sisters are very happy. You’ll only be able to matchmake him to the person who’s meant to be his bride.”
“It better be you,” Cynthia warned. “If he hasn’t made his selection by Twelfth Night, I’m tossing you straight into his lap. If we return home without your betrothal to Nottingvale, your father will force you to marry that dreadful crusty viscount.”
“You won’t let that happen,” Gertie said confidently. “You’ll eliminate all of the others before Twelfth Night, thereby proving to me, Nottingvale, and our respective parents that ours is a perfect match.”
Cynthia narrowed her eyes. “Is this an elaborate trick to stall for time, whilst you spend the next eleven days hiding in your bed with pots of hot chocolate and a burlap sack?”
“Yes.” Gertie nuzzled between Max’s ears. “No reneges.”
“‘No reneges’ was for card games!” Cynthia grasped her cousin’s arms. “You cannot renege, either. There’s no hiding in bed whilst I do this. You have to take part in the planned activities so that Nottingvale has an opportunity to fall in love with you. If you don’t...”
“I know.” The color drained from Gertie’s face and her breath grew uneven. “Father will trade me for a plot of land.”
Chapter 4
The first grand ball to launch Alexander’s annual Christmastide festivities was not off to a roaring start. Or even a lightly melodious start.
He had hired two talented brothers from London to provide musical accompaniment at the pianoforte for the duration of the party, but the gentlemen had been delayed first by snow, and now by a bout of influenza.
The bench at the pianoforte sat empty.
Guests milled about the perimeter of the room, chatting and sipping wine, and casting occasional glances at the freshly buffed and conspicuously unoccupied dance floor.
Alexander turned to ensure the refreshment table was freshly stocked.
Miss Finch stepped into his path with her cousin Lady Gertrude held captive by one arm.
“Is the dancing about to begin?” asked Miss Finch.
“No.” Alexander sighed. “We haven’t a pianist.”
Miss Finch sent a dubious glance about the crowded ballroom. “All of these highly accomplished ladies, and not one of them can play the pianoforte?”
“I’m certain they are all competent musicians,” Alexander said quickly. He had no idea if this was true, but she seemed certain enough for the both of them. “But they are also guests who came here to dance. I cannot ask them to—”
“I’ll do it.” Lady Gertrude jerked her interlocked arm free from her cousin’s.
Miss Finch looked alarmed. “Gertie, no. You’re to have the first—”
But Lady Gertrude was half sprinting, half sliding across the freshly waxed floor. Her fingers were on the ivory keys even before her derrière touched the wooden bench.
The first notes of a popular country dance burst jauntily from the