A Matchmaking Miss Read Free Page B

Irish are a dangerously charming lot."
    "Miss Winkendale's brother was recently posted to Calcutta," Miss Dickson said, sounding breathless as she glanced uncertainly from her friend to Joss. "She has been rather concerned about his welfare, and I was hoping you might be able to reassure her. One hears such terrible things."
    "Your brother is in the army, Miss Winkendale?" Joss asked, recalling he'd heard a new regiment of soldiers was expected.
    "He's with the Company, actually," came the answer, as Miss Winkendale transferred her dark gaze to him. "A junior clerk assigned to Lord Castner."
    Joss repressed a grimace at the thought of the officious man, who was rumored to be a vicious tyrant to anyone unfortunate enough to serve under him. "Ah, the Company has been the making of many a man," he said, deciding it was the most diplomatic thing he could say. "I am sure your brother will do quite well."
    "I am sure he will." A slight smile touched her lips, giving her an almost fey beauty. "You went out to India with the Company, did you not, my lord?"
    "In '97," he agreed, his voice growing cool as he remembered the humiliation of being forced to slave as a customs man on the sweltering docks of Calcutta. He'd later learned that his father could have secured him a safer post, but had refused to pay the hefty bribe that was required.
    The talk then turned to the wonders of India, and obligingly he described the beauty to be found on the mysterious subcontinent. Somewhere during the conversation, Raj and Miss Dickson had wandered off, leaving Joss and Miss Winkendale alone. He'd acquired a glass of champagne along the way, and sipped at it halfheartedly. Trust Lady Burlingham to fob an inferior vintage off on her guests, he thought, wincing at the oddly sweet taste. He'd no sooner set his empty glass to one side than Miss Winkendale pressed another glass on him. Not wishing to hurt her feelings, he took a reluctant sip.
    "Of course, the best time to see India is early in the morning," he said, unaware that he was beginning to slur his words. "The streets are washed with the colors of the rising sun, and the air is so still, so perfect, it is likedrinking the sweetest of wines."
    "You sound as if you love India," Miss Winkendale said. Her voice echoed oddly in his head. "Tell me more."
    "At midday, even in the hottest time of the year, the flowers bloom," Joss answered, swaying slightly. "Near my warehouse there is a garden, and when the window is open the smell of the jasmine floats in the air. Sometimes . . ." His voice trailed off, and he passed a shaking hand over his eyes. "Blast."
    "Is there something wrong, my lord?"
    Joss bit back another, more colorful oath, as he realized he was about to disgrace himself. Since he'd had but two — or was it three? — glasses of champagne, he knew he couldn't be bosky. Which left only one explanation for his current condition. "I beg your pardon, Miss Winkendale," he said, alarmed by the sudden onslaught of weakness, "but if you would kindly fetch my friend, Mr. Fitzsimmons, for me, I should be eternally in your debt. I fear I am not well."
    "Gracious, sir, what is it?"
    "A slight case of malaise," he answered, fighting to stay on his feet. Hell, of all the times for the damned fever to strike, he thought, cursing his weakness. But the oddest thing was, he didn't feel the least bit feverish. Usually the disease had him roasting and freezing by turns.
    "I shall fetch him at once." He felt a firm hand take hold of his arm. "But first allow me to escort you outside. I am sure a breath of fresh air will soon have you feeling more the thing."
    Fresh air sounded at that moment like the sweetest thing he could imagine, and Joss muttered his thanks, scarcely aware of where he was being taken. He felt a cool blast of air on his cheeks, and then he found himself being more or less stuffed into the back of a carriage.
    "No, wait," he protested, attempting to shake off the thick mists that were