The Matchmaker (2 page)

Destiny, now, that was something else entirely.

What had she done?

She folded the newspaper carefully and stared down at the grainy picture while the words she'd read echoed in
her mind. Her solution had seemed best at the time—
the only answer. Whatever the Old One foretold, she
hadn't been able to destroy her own child. Flesh of her
flesh... and flesh of his.

 
Now, haunted by a decision made nearly thirty-two years before, she looked at the picture, the face, and searched for some sign that she had not, after all, made a tragic error. As she looked,
a coldness
seeped into her. No resemblance there, not to her and not to him.
And those eyes.
It was obvious even in the newspaper photo that the eyes were strange and held an eerie flatness like the lifeless eyes of a doll. She didn't recognize the face, and the name was unfamiliar, but everything inside her screamed that she had given birth to this man more than
three decades before.

It was wrong. Wrong. She unfolded the paper again and looked at another picture in another article on the same page. So much was wrong, she realized numbly.

She'd thought he would be protected and kept sepa
rate from the other one, thought she had been able to
preserve them both. But destiny, it seemed, had other
ideas. Destiny, the Old One had told her, could be
altered only with finality. Anything less meant just a temporary detour away from what had to be. She had
tried to break the pattern, and she had failed.

Had fate done that to her, filling an exhausted mind with doubt?
Had it been the pattern trying to reweave itself?

"He has but two possible destinies.
Death—or a life
that will destroy others.
What you carry in your womb
is one true child—and the distorted, empty reflection of him."

"I can't kill my baby," she had whispered.

"You must."

"No! There has to be another way."

"Your lover was not an ordinary man; you know that?"

"I... suspected."

"He had a gift, a gift which he has passed on to his
son, one of the babes you carry. At all costs that gift must be nurtured. Your firstborn must survive; he is your true son. The other is the dark side of your lover's gift, the evil of it. It must be destroyed at birth. If you allow that other one to live, you risk the life of your true son, and all the good he will accomplish. The dark one
will attempt to murder his womb-mate."

"If they're separated?
I can keep them apart—"

"Fate will bring them together no matter what you
do."

She hadn't believed. What woman could have?

"You must help me," she had begged. "Tell me what to
do, how to change the destinies of them both. There has
to be a way."

With no more than a shrug of defeat, the Old One had
told the young woman what she could do. In her voice
was the weary acceptance of tragic mistakes, but her advice was minutely detailed. The two infants would be
separated at birth, each taken to locations far apart and
left in the care of carefully chosen strangers. Messages
were dictated to provide each infant with the most
positive start in life. The young woman was never to
attempt to see her babies, for her mere presence could
provide all that fate required to reconnect the two
lifelines.

Now, staring down at the newspaper, the mother was
very much
afraid
fate had worked to bring the twins
together despite her absence from their lives. She rose, still holding the paper, and went upstairs, climbing all the way to the attic. She picked her way through the jumble of furniture and other items to a distant corner. Atop a sea chest sat a dusty oil lamp with matches nearby
and a long, narrow box.

She lit the lamp and laid the newspaper aside, then opened the box. Inside was a cane made of polished
wood and topped with an ornate gold handle. She
touched it gently, gliding her fingers over the warm
gold.

"They need you," she whispered.

"Someone has his eye on you," Anne Butler murmured
as she stepped closer to Julia Drummond.

Julia looked up from the refreshment table. Her long, graceful fingers quivered for an instant as they reached for another cup. Then she was ladling punch again with her usual composure. "Oh?
Who?"

"Cyrus Fortune." Anne's gray eyes were bright with amusement and speculation. "I didn't realize you knew him."

Julia made certain no one was waiting for punch,
then
looked at Anne. She had been certain during the last half
hour that someone had been staring at her, but she
hadn't allowed herself so much as a glance around the room. "I don't know Mr. Fortune, though, of course, I've heard of him," she said. "I was still in the schoolroom when he left Richmond."

"He's been back more than a month," Anne remarked,
still studying Julia intently. "Take it from me—a month is
long enough."

Two things were clear, Julia decided: Anne was telling
her she had recently enjoyed Cyrus Fortune's infamous talents in the bedroom... and she was warning Julia. Anne Butler was, in most ways, a nice enough woman, but she was an incurable gossip; if she once got it into
her head that there was something between Julia and
Cyrus—or any other man, for that matter—it would be all over Richmond within twenty-four hours.

Julia felt a faint chill of fear that she tried to repress. Her acting abilities had improved over the past two
years, so she was able to smile with the rather haughty scorn she'd perfected as her shield. The stiffly Brand ancestors her father had often made reference to would
have been proud of her.

"Really, Anne, if you know nothing else about me, you must at least know that I never stand in line. Not even at
the market, and certainly not for a man," she said
bluntly. "Aside from which, I consider it my duty to avoid foolish entanglements, at least until I've presented Adrian with an heir."

She relaxed almost imperceptibly when Anne chuckled.

"Yes, I suppose you should at that. Anyway, Adrian's
so charming and attentive that I suppose you've no cause for complaint?"

The question was about as delicate as Anne's questions usually were, but Julia was able to maintain her poise.

"No cause at all," she said with a slight smile.

Anne nodded, obviously detecting no irony,
then
glanced fleetingly across the room. "Well, you'd better
scare up a chastity belt then, because Cyrus has that
look."

"What look?" Julia asked before she could stop herself.

"He's hunting fresh game—and he likes his bedmates
married." She obviously knew that much, since she
herself was married.

Coolly, Julia said, "As I hear it, he also likes his
bedmates willing, which I certainly am not." She smiled
across the table as several people stopped to get punch, then began filling more cups. She didn't look across the crowded room, even though she could still feel eyes on
her. The sensation made her edgy.

Anne laughed again, but kept her voice low so that
they wouldn't be overheard. "My dear, unless Adrian has you bewitched, Cyrus can make you willing. Trust me. Those black eyes of his are absolutely mesmerizing, and
his voice is a quite expert caress. As I said, you'd better find a chastity belt." After giving Julia a very female wink, Anne moved away.

Julia continued to smile at the people who approached
the table, and when they spoke she was able to answer
casually, but her control was strained. If she hadn't
promised weeks earlier to preside over the refreshment table at this charity dance, she would have avoided even
coming here. But Julia had a reputation in Richmond for
being as responsible and capable as she was elegant; having once made a promise, she kept her word if at all possible.

She knew most of the people at the dance, liked a
number of them, and disliked some. If asked, many
there would have said they knew her quite well. They
would have been wrong; what they saw in Julia was only
what she allowed them to see. The role she'd designed
for herself was a convincing one. Barely twenty-one, she
was often taken to be older because of her cool assurance. Other women seemed to trust her instinctively with their secrets, yet few had probed in an attempt to discover hers.
Except, of course, for women like Anne, who wanted to know everyone's secrets.

Older women often told her with approval that she
was the perfect wife for a politician despite her youth. She ran her home with competence, did her husband
credit in public with her style and grace, and lent her name and aid to charities without hesitation.

The perfect wife, Adrian had often said bitingly.

Julia shivered despite the heat of the ballroom,
then
pulled herself together. She lifted her chin, looking
across the room unintentionally for the first time, and
her strained gaze was immediately caught by the black
eyes that had been watching her.

He was a big man; that was obvious even though he was lounging back against the wall. A powerful man,
even though his stance held a lazy air. His shoulders
were very wide, and there was a palpable sense of brute physical strength about him. His thick hair was as black
as his eyes, his handsome face tanned dark gold, and a
diamond signet ring flashed on the elegant hand holding
his glass—not containing punch, Julia noted as he raised
it in a slight salute.

To her.
Julia knew she blushed as she quickly looked away. She was shaken. He had smiled at her, and even across the crowded room she had been conscious of a
peculiar, almost sensual
shock like
nothing she'd ever felt before. Dear God, if anyone had seen that look!
Those black eyes had met hers with the starkly intimate
heat that belonged only in a bedroom.

She busied herself, resolutely avoiding any further
glances across the room and trying not to think about anything, least of all Cyrus Fortune. It was surprisingly,
unnervingly, difficult. She was almost feverish, suddenly
uncomfortable in her clothing, as if it no longer fit, as if
her body found the restriction of cloth unbearable.
When Lissa joined her a few minutes later, the diversion was welcome at first.

"You've been doing this for more than an hour," Lissa said in her soft voice. "Why don't I take over awhile?"

Smiling at her younger sister, the thought in Julia's
mind was the same one that had kept her going for the
past two years. It will be worth it. Whatever I have to do
will be worth it if I can only see Lissa safely
married....

Aloud, she said, "My part at this charity dance is to see to the refreshments; your part is to dance."

Lissa pouted, but her eyes twinkled merrily. "It's so
hot. Honestly, Julia, why couldn't you send me to school
in the North in summer, and bring me home to Richmond in winter? As it is, I'm getting the worst of things year round!"

Dryly, Julia said, "If I recall your letters correctly, you
love the North in winter. Ice skating?"

Laughing, Lissa put an arm around her sister's trim
waist and hugged her. She didn't notice Julia's flinch.
"All right, ice skating is fun and so is dancing, even in the heat of July. But I really would like to rest for a little while, Julia, and I know a rest would be good for you. You look pale today."

"Lissa—"

"No one will notice if you leave. Just slip through that
curtain over there, and you'll be in Mr. Tryon's study. It's nice and cool, and you can rest for a while."

Julia lifted a quizzical eyebrow at her sister. "How do
you know it's cool?"

A mischievous imp laughed in Lissa's green eyes. "Because Mark Tryon thought it would be a good place to kiss me—and he was right."

"Lissa!"

"Oh, Julia, it was just a little kiss. I like Mark."

Looking at her sister narrowly, Julia said slowly, "He
seems to be a nice young man."

"Quoth the graybeard," Lissa responded with tolerant mockery. "He's only a year older than you, in case you've forgotten."

The truth was that Julia had forgotten. Sometimes she
felt very old. "Lissa, your reputation is so important—"

"My reputation is fine. Everyone knows I'm a good
girl, including Mark Tryon. Now, why don't you go and
rest for a few minutes, and I promise to stand here very decorously and ladle punch."

Knowing her sister, Julia was certain she'd be gently
badgered and bullied until she gave in, for Lissa was not
only sweet and loving, but also stubborn. Besides, Julia was tired, and knew that if she didn't take a few minutes to regain her customary calm, she would regret it later.

So she slipped away through the curtained doorway that was half hidden by a large potted fern. Though her
host's study wasn't far from the ballroom, it was thick-
walled. The muted sounds of music and conversation were as welcome as the room's coolness. It was a book-lined room that smelled of old leather-bound volumes and decades of pipe smoke, the carpet worn and the furniture comfortable. Only a small lamp on a table near one of the windows was lighted, and Julia went to
sit in one of the wing chairs flanking it. The window was
wide open to catch whatever breeze was forthcoming on the hot and muggy July night, but only the sounds of
crickets in the garden found their way into the room.