Hero, Come Back (Cynster 9.50)

Amanda turned and smiled at him. Thank you. But only too quickly the double doors were closed on this all too female domain, shutting Jemmy off from her.

“Nelson, will you look at all the flowers? They add the right touch, now don’t they?”

Jemmy spun around to find Esme standing in the doorway, a basket in hand and that odd cat of hers poking his head out from under the lid.

“Her Ladyship is in the music room, ma’am,” one of the maids told her.

Esme nodded and started off in that direction, but Jemmy stepped in front of her.

“This match must be called off.”

Esme glanced up at him, made an inelegant snort, and sidestepped around him.

Jemmy wasn’t about to be ignored. “Amanda, er, I mean, Miss Smythe isn’t capable of making a marriage.”

The matchmaker stopped and glanced up at him. As did all the staff in the room.

Esme noticed their interested gazes and caught Jemmy by the arm, steering him out to one of the balconies.

“What is this nonsense?” she demanded as she closed the door behind them.

“As I said, Miss Smythe is incapable of making a match.”

“Why’s that?”

Jemmy glanced away. “Her health prevents it.”

“Meow,” Nelson called out.

“Exactly,” Esme agreed. “She looked well enough yesterday.”

He wasn’t about to lower himself to arguing with a cat, so he stared Esme in the eye and ignored her feline companion. “Her looks are deceptive. I have it from the lady herself that she is dying.” He had promised Amanda that he wouldn’t tell his mother, but he hadn’t said anything about not telling the matchmaker.

But if he thought that Esme would see Amanda’s failing condition as a detriment to marital bliss, Jemmy was wrong. Very wrong.

“Dying, you say? We all are, my dear boy. One way or another.” She turned around to leave, but he caught her arm and stopped her.

“You don’t understand. She’s ill. Truly dying.” Gads, he was loath to say the words, let alone hear them. “Don’t you see, she can’t be matched.”

Esme shrugged. “I see no such thing. Now if you will excuse me, I have—”

Jemmy held firm, unwilling to let her go. “I won’t have Amanda spending her last days with someone she doesn’t love.”

At this, Esme smiled, her face awash in wrinkles, but her blue eyes rang sharp and clear. “She won’t be.”

“But Esme—”

“Shh,” she told him, patting his sleeve and soothing him just as she had when he’d been a young boy and come to her with his troubles. “Don’t fret so much. You’d be amazed at what love can heal.” She pulled her arm free from him and picked up Nelson’s basket. “Now, I’m sure you have things to do, don’t you? I know I’ve a dress to examine.” She shook her head. “Ah, matchmaking used to be so easy, but now it’s all gowns and hair and proper number of waltzes. Bah, I should retire.” She toddled off, her litany of laments meant obviously for Nelson and not Jemmy.

As he watched her go, he grit his teeth. He’d have no help from that quarter, but then he should have known better. But damn them all, he wouldn’t let Amanda be matched without a fight. He stormed out of the room, plans whirling in his mind for a midnight escape.

Which of the horses in the stable were the fastest…where to change their mounts…how to hide his curricle from Mr. Holmes …and the most discreet posting houses along the route.

Demmit, he didn’t even know if he could still drive his curricle. Then he laughed. If he couldn’t, he’d bet his last farthing Amanda could— practical, wonderful minx that she was.

As he left the room, he realized everyone was staring at him as if he’d gone mad. He had, he wanted to tell them. As mad as the king. Instead he grinned for one and all, then continued storming out of the room, with the servants gaping after him.

For who among them had seen the young master without his cane since he’d returned from Spain?