McAlistair's Fortune (Providence #3)
Jamie McGuire
One
Miss Evie Cole had long ago come to the conclusion that, contrary to popular opinion, ignorance was not bliss.
There were, after all, a great many miserable fools in the world.
Furthermore, she was a perfectly happy young woman, and no one who knew her well would ever accuse her of ignorance. She was always in the know.
She made absolutely certain of it.
Just as she was making certain of it now, crouched outside the thick burl wood doors to the Haldon Hall library, her weight shifted to her stronger leg and one dark brown eye peering through the keyhole. Probably she should feel a bit guilty at eavesdropping on a private conversation. But having found herself the subject of that conversation, she experienced not so much guilt as fascination, amusement, and no small amount of annoyance at having stumbled across the scene too late to ascertain all the details.
What she understood well enough, however, was that her aunt, the dowager Lady Thurston, and two family friends, Mr. William Fletcher and Mrs. Mary Summers, were currently sequestered on the other side of those lovely old doors, arguing over how best to go about finding the stubborn Evie Cole a husband.
It was nearly as amusing as it was insulting. Nearly.
Mr. Fletcher, seated on the small settee in the center of the room, leaned forward and spoke with some excitement. “What better way to win a lady’s heart than to rescue her from certain danger? I can have a threatening letter drawn up and sent to Evie from London next week. Have her young man here the following day to protect her. It’s fast, simple, and effective.”
Clearly impressed with neither Mr. Fletcher’s scheme nor his enthusiasm, Lady Thurston added a deliberate dollop of milk to a cup of tea and calmly handed it to Mrs. Summers. “It will never work, William.”
He settled his stout frame back against the cushions. “Have you a better plan?”
“The plan, though I do not approve of it, is not the problem.” She poured her own cup. “The problem is the objective itself—it simply cannot be done.”
“You cannot make someone fall in love,” Mrs. Summers pointed out, straightening her rail-thin shoulders.
“Least of all those two,” Lady Thurston added. “I am not at all certain they’re well suited. What’s more, Evie has categorically refused to marry.”
“I refuse to accept that.” Mr. Fletcher ran a hand through what remained of his hair. “I made a promise to a man on his deathbed.”
Mrs. Summers sent him a pitying glance. “You were tricked into a promise by a man who would—were he still alive—be the first to admonish you for taking this matchmaking business quite so seriously. The late Duke of Rock-eforte was a reasonable sort, despite his penchant for jests. I very much doubt he expected you to succeed in marrying off five children.”
“You weren’t so dismissive when it was your Sophie we set out to match. Nor you,” he added, turning to Lady Thurston, “when it was Whit and Mirabelle.”
“Yes, but that was Sophie, Whit, and Mirabelle,” Lady Thurston returned evenly. “Not Evie.”
“Nevertheless, the promise was made, and I intend to keep it.” Mr. Fletcher held out against the ensuing silence for a solid thirty seconds—an impressive show of fortitude to Evie’s mind. She’d been subjected to that knowing silence from the inestimable Lady Thurston. It was daunting.
“I intend to at least try,” Mr. Fletcher finally added.
Lady Thurston gave a delicate shrug of her shoulders. “If you feel you must.”
“I do. I’ll begin by—”
Evie would never be entirely certain of how, exactly, Mr. Fletcher intended to begin, because the sound of laughter and approaching footsteps necessitated her immediate retreat to the small parlor across the hall. It was doubtful that the intruding staff would tattle, but it was best to not take chances.
No matter, she’d been privy to the most important bits of the conversation, or at least enough of them to be quite confident that she was, once again, very much in the know.
As Evie slipped out the side door of the parlor, Lady Thurston and Mrs. Summers patiently listened as William Fletcher finished outlining his plan, again.
Lady Thurston smoothed the pale green silk of her gown. A diminutive woman with a soft voice and round, rosy cheeks, she was sometimes taken, by those who didn’t know her well, for a kindly sort who perhaps needed a bit of looking after.
A mistaken impression invariably short-lived.
“Your plan is certainly…detailed,” she allowed when William finished. “Unfortunately, it is also poorly conceived. Such a scheme would only serve to frighten Evie. I will not allow it. And I will not agree to using her work with mistreated women as the source of your faux threat. It touches too close to the truth.”