Lord Day and Lady Night

31. Marvelously Matchmaking Mother

Lord Patrick Day had long been renowned for his linguistic skills. Back in his university days, he had been the star of the debating association, and whenever he made a speech in the House of Lords, it never failed to be met with roaring applause. His talent for rhetoric was legendary. Thus, when he lowered his paper to meet his mother's gaze, he spoke with the eloquence truly befitting a man of his noble lineage.

"Err...what?"

Tarnation! That didn't come out as planned!

He should probably have come up with a better rebuttal.

Why?

Well...he might be a champion debater, but he was not the only formidable one present. His mother, God bless her and all who fell into her clutches, was a most noble, upstanding and devout lady—particularly when it came to the divine command "be fruitful and multiply." She was so determined to get a grandson to plaster on her knee that she'd even had the gall to suggest that he include ladies in his search for a prospective bride who were not able to trace their noble lineage for more than fifteen generations. Ha! The mere thought of it...ludicrous! And yet, she had very nearly succeeded in convincing him. Compared to her mastery in matchmaking, all the match factories in Britain paled into insignificance.

And now, her stern gaze was fixed upon him.

"Here, girl." Marching forward, Her Ladyship Henrietta Valentina Day, Dowager-Duchess of Exeter, dumped her elegant fur coat on the insignificant girl in maid uniform standing beside the sofa, and turned towards her son to get down to the important business. "So, now tell me, who is this mystery woman I've been hearing so much about? Tell me all about her!"

"Ehem..." Lord Patrick Day cleared his throat regally, a delaying tactic that had been perfected throughout many sessions in parliament, and many many motherly confrontations. Cautiously, he sent a glance sideways at the swaying Mt Amyfurr. "Well, err...she...she is..."

"Is she one of the three from your list?"

Oh blast.

Lord Patrick stiffened.

A strange noise, like the rumble of a volcano before the big explosion, came from behind Mt Amyfurr, followed by the pelts shifting and a familiar face emerging the expression of which Lord Patrick did not wish to study too closely. "List? What list?"

"Ehem. Well, about that..."

"Oh, so your staff doesn't know about 'the list'?" The dowager duchess lifted an eyebrow. "How many candidates in the whole of the British Empire are there by now who are considered worthy?"

Patrick mumbled something that was perfectly audible. Perfectly audible! Just maybe not to female ears.

"Pardon, son? What was that?"

"Three," he stated coolly.

"Three! Honestly, Patrick! Only three candidates in the whole of Britain?"

"England," he corrected. "I would never condescend to consider candidates from what they call nobility in the hinterlands of Wales or Scotland."

At the mention of the word "candidates", Mt Amyfurr began to make a slow, threatening tectonic movement towards him. "Candidates?" a hiss reached his ear. "Candidates for what exactly?"

"Really, Patrick? Do you have to be so particular? I'm sure that every well-bred girl would leap at the chance to become the wife of the Lord Patrick Day."

"No doubt they would leap," His Lordship responded frostily. "The question is whether I would step out of the way."

"Why don't you approach one of them and invite them for tea?"