The door opened and Lord Hedington stalked into the room, every line of his body bristling with obvious tension and concern. With his bushy brows, jowly cheeks, oversized ears, and the folds of skin drooping under his protruding eyes, Lord Hedington bore a striking, and remarkably unfortunate, resemblance to a hound. An unfamiliar woman, fashionably garbed in a dark blue gown, remained standing in the open doorway. Her gaze panned the room, as if looking for someone else, then their gazes met. Philip fancied that confusion, and then surprise, flared in her eyes.

“May I assist you, Miss…?”

Color washed over her cheeks, and she performed a quick curtsy. “I am Miss Meredith Chilton-Grizedale, my lord. I am-”

“She’s the matchmaker who arranged for you to marry my daughter,” Lord Hedington said in a tight voice from behind Philip.

Philip stared at her, certain he failed to hide his surprise. Upon hearing his father talk about the formidable Miss Chilton-Grizedale, he’d formed a mental picture of a stern, gray-haired, grandmotherly sort that in no way resembled this young woman standing before him. Pushing his glasses higher on his nose, he noted that she appeared as surprised as he. He was staring, but couldn’t seem to drag his gaze away from her. And for the life of him, he couldn’t understand why. Obviously due to his surprise, for she certainly was not a woman one would ever call beautiful. Her features were too irregular. Too unconventional.

Recalling himself, he offered her a formal bow. “A pleasure to meet you, miss.” After she entered the room, Philip closed the door behind her, then turned toward Lord Hedington. “Has Lady Sarah arrived?”

The duke raised his quizzing glass, thus now resembling a hound with one magnified eye, and peered at Philip. “No,” said Lord Hedington, “and she certainly should have, as she departed for St. Paul’s over an hour ago.” He thrust out his hand. “But she sent this note to you. It just arrived. I demand you open it at once and tell me what the devil is going on.”