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Chapter One

London, 1811

A woman of modest beauty, indendent means, and a tireless passion For marital, er, relations." Emmaline bestowed a radiant smile on her client. "I am sure I will find just the right lady for you, Mr. Burwell."

"Not too headstrong, mind you, Mrs. Stanhope."

Emmaline looked aghast. "Oh, no, sir. Headstrong is not the thing"

"Her passions must be limited to the marriage bed. I want no intemperate shrew."

"Certainly not," Emmaline agreed, lowering her lashes.

"My work is very demanding. I have no desire at the end of the day to put up with a nagging wife. You're certain you are not available?" He stood on the steps, a speculative gleam in his eye.

Emmaline gave a ladylike cough. "I am afraid not," she said, her voice filled with regret. "My heart will always belong to my poor husband, God rest his soul."

"Your husband was lucky to find such a pearl." Mr. Burwell tipped his hat. "I have a feeling that with your help, Mrs. Stanhope, I shall be lucky, too. You have restored my faith in the future. I bid you good day."

Emmaline maintained her confident smile as Mr. Burwell made his way down the walk. It was a lovely spring day, and he gave her a jaunty wave as he walked toward the gate.

"Mind the Mail, sir," she called to him. "The driver never has the courtesy to slow his team. You will wish to cross quickly to avoid dirtying your clothes in his dust."

Mr. Burwell pulled a pocket watch from his waistcoat, which stretched tightly over the ample fullness of his stomach. "Why, 'tis five o'clock. I didn't realize the day was so far advanced."

"Oh, yes," she replied cheerfully. "You can set your watch by the Mail coach. It is neck or nothing with the drivers. I suppose they get a bonus for being on time."

"Well, there is the rent for another month, thank the Lord," muttered a voice at her elbow.

Emmaline turned. "Shhh! He will hear."

"Not with the Mail coming," her aunt Heloise replied tartly. "One of these days I shall have to teach that driver a lesson. He positively ruins my afternoon nap."

"When one lives on the Oxford Pike, one cannot be particular about noise."

"Nor about the company one allows into the house, I suppose." Her aunt's brilliant blue eyes narrowed as she regarded the man stepping into the street. "Just look at him. If his stomach was any larger, he'd not be able to see his shoes. And that scruffy beard-pity the poor woman who marries him! You don't have a prayer of finding someone for him."

"His requirements are rather stringent," Emmaline conceded.

"Like all of 'em. The men want doxies, and the women want dukes. 'Tis a wonder anyone ever weds."

"I never realized that running a matrimonial agency could be so difficult." Emmaline sighed. "I don't know any beautiful, wealthy women with passionate natures."

"Find him a woman who adores the marriage bed and he won't mind about the other."

Emmaline flushed. "Aunt -- "

"One of the Covent Garden chits will take him on, once she sees he's a man of some means. In my day, that set was always on the lookout for the main chance. I don't imagine things have changed very much since."

She gave her aunt a pained look. "Mr. Burwell is not seeking a prostitute."

"Nonsense. All husbands want their wives to be whores in the bedchamber."

Emmaline took a deep breath. "You know, Aunt, I don't believe I thought this plan through sufficiently. Ever since I placed that newspaper notice for Harmonious Matrimony, we've been deluged with men of the worst sort. If we don't get more legitimate clients like Mr. Burwell, we'll have to return to fortune-telling."

"I knew I shouldn't have given my crystal ball to Lucy. Bird in the bush, and all that."

"Hand. Bird in the hand -- "

"Hand, bush-what -- does it matter? It all boils down to money in the end."

Emmaline could not argue with the truth of that statement. "At least with Mr. Burwell's deposit, we will be able to afford Dr. Evans."

"Throwing good money after bad, if you ask me," Aunt Heloise muttered.

"It is only that we've not yet found the right treatment for you."

Aunt Heloise patted Emmaline's shoulder. "It pains me to see you waste your youth on me, dear. You should be going about the business of finding a husband who can give you the life you deserve. In a just world, you would have had a Season. By now, you'd be married to a duke and readying the nursery."

"A duke!" Emmaline laughed. "That sounds like something Father would have said. But daydreams don't pay the rent, as you well know."

"'What dreams may come when we have shuffled off this mortal boil -- er, coil.' Drat. I can never remember the rest." Aunt Heloise frowned. "What I mean to say is that a woman cannot have too many dreams. By the time she reaches my age, she'll need every one of them."

"Then let me dream of a cure for you," Emmaline said gently. "It is my right -- you have just said so."

Aunt Heloise gave a gruff harumph, but her eyes glistened with moisture. Emmaline leaned over and kissed her aunt's cheek. "Come. I will brew us some tea. And you can tell me more of the magnificent Mr. Kemble."