The Matchmaker's Lonely Heart Read online

  Cover art © whitemay/Getty Images; duncan1890/Getty Images

  Book design © Shadow Mountain

  Art direction: Richard Erickson

  Design: Heather G. Ward

  © 2021 Nancy Campbell Allen

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher, Shadow Mountain®, at [email protected]. The views expressed herein are the responsibility of the author and do not necessarily represent the position of Shadow Mountain.

  All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Proper Romance is a registered trademark.

  Visit us at shadowmountain.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Allen, Nancy Campbell, 1969– author.

  Title: The matchmaker’s lonely heart / Nancy Campbell Allen.

  Other titles: Proper romance.

  Description: [Salt Lake City] : Shadow Mountain, [2021] | Series: Proper romance | Summary: “Amelie Hampton is a hopeless romantic who offers relationship advice to individuals who place ‘lonely hearts’ ads in The Marriage Gazette. She is swept up in mystery, intrigue, and romance when a handsome detective requests her help to catch a killer who may be using the newspaper to find his next victim”—Provided by publisher.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2021009367 | ISBN 9781629729275 (trade paperback) | eISBN 9781649330284 (eBook)

  Subjects: LCSH: Dating services—Fiction. | Nineteenth century, setting. | London (England), setting. | LCGFT: Novels. | Romance fiction. | Detective and mystery fiction. | Thrillers (Fiction)

  Classification: LCC PS3551.L39644 M38 2021 | DDC 813/.54—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021009367

  Printed in the United States of America

  Lake Book Manufacturing, Melrose Park, IL

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Other Proper Romances

  by Nancy Campbell Allen

  My Fair Gentleman

  The Secret of the India Orchid

  Beauty and the Clockwork Beast

  Kiss of the Spindle

  The Lady in the Coppergate Tower

  Brass Carriages and Glass Hearts

  To all of us who survived, struggled,

  and perhaps lost loved ones in 2020

  and beyond, my love and affection.

  Somehow, the earth keeps turning,

  and the sun comes up again.

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Acknowledgments

  Discussion Questions

  About the Author

  My Dear Miss Franklin,

  I can only imagine the despondency you must feel at your mother’s insistence that you entertain Mr. B’s suit. Of course you may continue writing to me for advice or commiseration! You and I know of your desire to marry for love, but your mother is clearly of the elder generation who prefer to err on the side of practicality. Perhaps you might consider a blunt approach, as the elderly often require direct speaking, whether due to hearing loss or lack of compassion brought on by age, one can only speculate. . .

  —Letter from Miss A. Hampton,

  The Marriage Gazette

  Amelie Hampton blinked in surprise as her normally unflappable aunt called her to task over a mistake that, frankly, Amelie didn’t believe was a mistake at all. Poor judgment, at most.

  “Amelie,” Sally Hampton said, placing her palms down on the rich mahogany desk in her office. “I am aware of the value you place on a marriage based on love and romance. I will also admit that you have an uncanny ability to match personality traits of our clients and your record of success is impressive.”

  Amelie opened her mouth to speak, but Sally held up her hand. “However, today’s afternoon post delivered the third letter I have received from an irate mother who insists her daughter’s head has been filled with ‘stuff and nonsense’ by a staff member named ‘Emily.’ As we do not have an EMily, but only an AHmelie, I must presume she is referencing you.”

  Sally’s raised brows met the straight black line of her fashionably cut fringe. Her green eyes fixed Amelie securely to the chair opposite the desk. Sally Hampton had built a business around The Marriage Gazette, the floundering publication she’d acquired and then turned into a respectable social entity.

  Amelie chewed her lip, feeling both defensive and mortified, before blurting, “I am sorry, Sally, but Miss Franklin is despondent—her mother insists Mr. Brocklehurst would be a good husband for her, but the man is odious and twice her age. I merely suggested she carefully consider her own feelings on the matter, as it will be she, and not her mother, who finds herself wed to the man. All other advice in my letter to her was conventional.” She shifted in her chair. “Mostly.”

  Sally’s expression did not change, but she finally released a small sigh and sat in the handsome leather chair she’d purchased a year before on a shopping trip to Morocco. “Dearest, I could not agree more with you, but we must tread carefully with our subscribers, lest the Gazette’s reputation fall into worse straits than it was when I found it.”

  She picked up a piece of paper that had been folded into an envelope. She scanned the paper and then tossed it back down, finally cupping her chin in her hand.

  “Amelie, I appreciate your zeal and your honest approach to life. You have always spoken your mind, and I love you for it. You must, however, learn the art of finesse. A sense of polite manipulation, if you will, wherein you carefully choose your words and then craft your advice to young women in such a way that your message folds seamlessly into the practical wisdom our subscribers expect from us.”

  Amelie’s heart sank. Aunt Sally was smooth and polished. Even hailing from the Notorious Branch of the Hampton family, she could charm her way into the most exclusive events of the Season. Amelie was not smooth and polished, and as she hadn’t obtained such traits by the advanced age of one-and-twenty, she doubted there was any hope of doing so in the future.

  “This is why Deborah and Sophia both were married by the time they were my age,” she said. “They have finesse in their bones, whereas I have all the charm of that troll.” She nodded at the small Norwegian figurine on Sally’s desk.

  Sally’s expression remained flat. “Self-pity is not your natural gift, of that I assure you. Now, chin up. You have a good brain, and you can learn. Aside from that, this troll has enormous amounts of character. As for your sisters—well, never mind.”

  Amelie’s lips twitched, and she rubbed a finger under her nose to hide the smi
le. Deborah and Sophia were products of their father’s first marriage and were considerably older than Amelie and Stephen. She had always fallen in her elder sisters’ shadows, and her brother, Stephen, one year her junior, was insufferably obnoxious. Their parents had died when Amelie was young, leaving Stephen legally under Deborah’s care, and Amelie with Aunt Sally. Amelie had been well aware at the time that she was the luckier of the two, and her conviction had only grown stronger through the years.

  Sally’s expression gentled. “If I did not believe in your ability to do well here, I’d not have hired you. You have successfully matched more couples than the rest of us combined.”

  Amelie’s heart lifted fractionally. “You’ll allow me to continue answering correspondence? And writing essays?”

  “Of course. I trust you will understand what I expect from this point forward?”

  “Yes, Sally. Thank you. I shall be the soul of practicality.”

  The corner of Sally’s mouth lifted in a wry smile. “Not too much, I hope. I should hate to see that spark dimmed.”

  A soft knock interrupted them, and at Sally’s command, the door cracked open. Charlotte and Evangeline, Amelie’s cousins and fellow Gazette employees, poked their heads through.

  “Go on, then,” Sally said and waved at Amelie. “The three of you have desks to tidy before we close.”

  Amelie jumped up and made a dash for the door before remembering she must Walk with Decorum. She slowed marginally, but when she reached the door, she turned back, her long, blue skirt swirling around her ankles. “Thank you again, Sally. Shall we see you at Bloomsbury this weekend?”

  “I have business requiring my attention here in Town, but perhaps we’ll go to Gunthers for ices when I am finished. With the weather changing, we shan’t want cold treats much longer.” Sally eyed the three young women with something suspiciously like affection before she straightened and waved them off again. “Go, or I shall never finish this pile of paperwork.”

  Amelie grinned and exited the office with her cousins, whose curiosity was palpable, and softly closed the office door behind her.

  Two souls joined in love and devoted to one another’s happiness must be the very embodiment of life’s splendid gifts.

  —From “Essays on Eternal Bliss” by Miss A. Hampton,

  The Marriage Gazette

  Detective Michael Baker stood on the bank of the Thames and looked out over the dark water. Fog hung thick in patches, and an unseasonably cold summer wind blew. He turned his collar up against the cold and stifled a yawn, wistfully thinking of the warm bed he’d left when the constables had banged on his door.

  “What do we know of the victim?” His breath fogged around his mouth before dissipating into the cold air.

  “Precious little,” one constable said. “No information on her ’cept a locket that says ‘To my darling Marie.’”

  Michael nodded. From the looks of it, the body hadn’t been in the water long. Her face was white, almost blue, and a large gash across her forehead stood out in stark relief. Her sightless eyes were deep green, he noted, even through the thick film that often signified death, and he surmised her wet, tangled hair was dark blonde. He put her age at the early twenties.

  Voices to his right heralded the arrival of the coroner from St. Vincent’s Mortuary. Dr. Neville was stooped and aged, but he impatiently shook off the pair of constables who were escorting him, leaning instead on a sturdy walking cane that was his signature accessory.

  Michael nodded at the doctor, and the constables moved out of his way.

  Dr. Neville knelt at the victim’s head and, with a light hand, lifted her eyelids, turned her head to the left and the right, and sighed.

  “I’ll check for missing persons reports at the station,” Michael said. “Perhaps someone has already reported her absence.”

  Dr. Neville grunted his agreement and lifted her left hand. “A wedding band. There’s a husband somewhere.”

  “Do you suppose the head wound is the cause of death?”

  The doctor lifted a shoulder and then shoved to his feet with his cane. “Can’t know for certain. We’ll be wanting an inquest, in any case. If we cannot ascertain her identity, we’ll notify the papers of a public viewing following the autopsy. Someone will know her.”

  Public curiosity in the ghoulish often became an ungainly spectacle, which Michael hoped to avoid.

  Detective Nathaniel Winston, Michael’s new police partner, approached. “Do we need a sketch?” Winston asked when he reached the scene.

  “Not certain. Could be an accident or suicide,” Michael told him.

  Another gust of wind blew across the water, bringing with it a chill that cut through Michael’s coat. “Let’s do a sketch,” he said to Winston. “You’re fast, and we don’t want to later regret not having one. She did not die here, so we are not looking at the scene of her death. Not worth bringing out a photographer; we’ll settle for that later at the morgue.”

  Winston took a book and pencil from his pocket and flipped through it, instructing a constable who held a lantern to bring it closer. “Dr. Neville,” he said as he began drawing, “pleasure to see you this evening.”

  Dr. Neville snorted. “This morning, you mean. This is what happens when one comes to rely on an underling. He is ‘indisposed’ at the moment.”

  “Ah,” Michael said, “I did wonder why you attended this time.”

  The older man scowled, his thick, white eyebrows nearly touching. “It means my instincts were correct from the beginning. Never rely on the dependability of an assistant—even if he is family.”

  It was well known among those gathered that Neville’s grandson left something to be desired as a professional.

  Michael hid a smile and moved to Winston’s side. He looked over his partner’s shoulder and was again impressed with the man’s talent. Winston had captured the scene well and quickly, adding detail and depth with a few expert strokes of his pen.

  “She washed ashore?” Winston asked as he continued drawing.

  “She surfaced, and a gentleman walking along the promenade notified us. Constable Gundersen pulled her in.” Michael nodded to the constable who stood wrapped in a blanket, drinking a hot beverage. “We’ll attend the good doctor’s inspection at the morgue in a few hours.”

  Winston beckoned the constable with the lantern to follow him and moved to the other side, looking closely at the scene and continuing to sketch.

  While he did so, Michael leaned down close to the young woman’s head and examined her face, wishing her ghost still tarried close enough to offer clues. He almost smiled. His sister, Clarissa, believed in ghosts, but he did not. She would likely laugh at his current train of thought. He swallowed and frowned, realizing that the victim was probably near Clarissa’s age.

  The dead young woman had a family somewhere. Where was the husband? Her clothing bore evidence of her status as one of the respected upper middle class. Her skin was smooth, and a closer examination of her hands showed a woman who probably did little more than the most basic of household chores, perhaps after the maid had left for the day.

  Michael understood all too well the difficulties of a life in Town when the fates had not been kind. There was no more justice in finding a fallen woman dead than one who lived a respectable life; tragedy was tragedy, and he did not differentiate. He did not, however, appreciate an unsolved puzzle, and the woman on the ground was definitely that.

  Why on earth had she been in the Thames?

  “I believe I’m finished,” Winston said. “Shall I see you in a few hours at the Yard?”

  “I’m headed there now to look through the missing persons reports. I doubt I’ll get much sleep if I go home. Perhaps I’ll have something for us to go on when you arrive.”

  Winston nodded and tore out the paper from his sketchbook. He handed it to Michael, adding, �
�Better put this in the new file, then.”

  “I shall send word when I begin the examination,” Dr. Neville told them.

  Michael nodded and glanced down again at the victim as two constables prepared her for transport to the morgue.

  Winston frowned. “Pity we do not even have a name.”

  “The locket inscription reads ‘Marie,’” Michael said as the men covered the woman’s face with a sheet. “Someone will be missing her.”

  When minutes spent apart seem like hours, when even a moment’s separation is akin to the worst kind of torture, one may take comfort in the fact that she has found true love.

  —From “Essays on Eternal Bliss” by Miss A. Hampton,

  The Marriage Gazette

  Hours after they pulled the body from the river, Michael donned a fresh shirt he kept hanging in his office at Scotland Yard’s Criminal Investigation Division. He finished cleaning himself up as constables arrived to relieve the night shift in the outer office, where desks were lined in two rows. His thoughts were heavy, and he was tired, but good-natured bantering and sounds of the building awakening were a welcome reminder that life moved ever forward.

  He glanced at the second desk across his office and for a moment, he imagined Stanley sitting there. Stanley had been his childhood best friend, and they had joined the Metropolitan Police force together as soon as they were of an age.

  Stanley, who’d been Michael’s partner in the CID.

  Stanley, who’d married Michael’s sister, Clarissa.

  Stanley, who’d been killed six months ago in the line of duty.

  The loss still stung, would always sting. He knew it would lessen with time, but he felt his friend’s death as keenly as when his own father had passed when Michael was a young child. The loss of his mother ten years ago had been a painful blow, and he still thought of her daily. But losing Stanley had been like losing a part of himself. They had grown into life together, guarded each other through thick and thin, and there was nobody else on earth with whom he’d have trusted his sister’s well-being and heart.

  But he was gone, and Clarissa was now a young widow with a newborn daughter. Their younger brother, Alexander, was a grown young adult with the mind of a child, and Michael had always known he would bear responsibility for Alexander for the rest of his life. He had never begrudged it.