Page 32 of A Lady's Wager
“Not so different as they should be when it comes to propriety, my dear. Did you ever have time with just Mr. Firth?”
Rachel did not answer, and Etta took a breath before stopping and turning to face her niece—far enough from the other attendants that she could even dare have this conversation. She gave Rachel a look almost as hard and strong as the look she’d given young Mr. Firth a few moments earlier. “Rachel, is there an agreement between the two of you?” So help her, if Rachel said yes, the girl would be on the next carriage home. Etta was clear with all her charges that if they had an attachment to any man, there was no reason for her to invest the time it took to host them here in London.
Rachel shook her head quickly and her eyes widened enough that Etta believed her.
Etta allowed herself to relax. A bit. “Do you trust me, Rachel?”
“O-Of course I trust you, Auntie.”
“Good, then I will ask you to give Mr. Firth his distance.”
Rachel started.
“Whatever feelings of affection you might have had toward him are part of your childhood and have nothing to do with your future. A solid representation of men who can give you everything you need for a happy and successful life have expressed their interest in you, and if you allow Mr. Firth to capture your attention, you will lose theirs. Do you understand?”
Rachel was silent a few moments. “He is my friend.” The tone was cautious rather than argumentative. Good.
“Not here. In London, unmarried men and young women interact for one reason: to make a match. Mr. Firth is not a good candidate. He is too young to offer security and his holdings are not sufficient to assure us that he would not be after your fortune.”
Rachel swallowed, then dropped her eyes and nodded.
Etta allowed the words to sink in for a few moments, then patted Rachel’s arm. The truth was painful at times, to be sure, but it was still the truth, and Etta would be no host at all if she were not confident enough of the process to keep Rachel on course. “And it is time for us to return home for the night.”
Rachel’s eyes snapped back up, her expression showing that she thought it was her association with Mr. Firth causing the early departure. Etta did not mind that she’d made this assumption, as it could only help impress the importance of the topic. But it was time to make some amends as well and shore up her own connection to her darling niece. They were in this together after all. Rachel’s success would be Etta’s triumph.
Etta leaned in conspiratorially—and very carefully—opening her fan to give further privacy. “I took some pins out of this monstrous wig because they were impaling me, and it is beginning to slip. If we do not leave soon, I am afraid it shall unseat itself entirely.” She quirked a smile and Rachel responded instantly with a smile of her own, good graces restored.
“Do you mean your hair is going to fall off?” Rachel whispered as Etta straightened.
“It just might,” Etta said, moving her head just quick enough to make it slip. Rachel’s hand flew to her mouth, but her eyes were dancing as she tried to hide a smile. “I shall call for the carriage,” Etta said, closing her fan with a snap and delicately pushing her hair back to center. “You may say goodbye to your friends with the excuse that we have an early morning tomorrow, then meet me in the foyer in ten minutes.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Etta squared her shoulders in an exaggerated manner and added crisp elocution to her words. “Very good. According to the ton, I am a dignified woman, and having my wig flayed out upon this ballroom will not support that position.”
“No indeed,” Rachel said with a giggle, then her expression changed to concern. “You will be all right without me?”
“For ten minutes I shall. At minute eleven, I shall begin reducing your pocket money by the minute.”
A smiling Rachel hurried off in the direction of the crowds where her friends were waiting for the next round of dancing to begin. She really was a dear girl.
Etta turned toward the foyer but stopped short due to a man standing directly in her path—Mr. Wynn Firth, in fact. She had to reach up for her wig with both hands to keep it in place but dropped her hands immediately, though the wig felt barely balanced. She schooled her expression so as not to give any hint of her predicament.
“Mr. Firth,” she said in an even tone. “What a pleasure it is to see you in London.”
He inclined his head politely. “Thank you, Mrs. Markshire, I’m glad you have so much pleasure in seeing me.”
She narrowed her eyes slightly, sure she’d missed something in his meaning but unsure what it was. Every other man ofhis age had been covering their thinning pates with wigs for more than a decade, yet his hair was still thick and full. She was close enough to see the silver flecks weaved throughout the dark brown, and though his skin reflected too much time in the sun, the browner tones set his blue eyes off to an even greater contrast.
“You look absolutely stunning tonight,” Mr. Firth continued, giving her a warm smile that only made her more suspicious.
“Thank you, sir. Unfortunately, my niece and I are leaving early, so if you will excuse me, I need to call for my carriage.”
Mr. Firth nodded but did not step out of her way, demonstrating the same mushy manners as his son. Men in general were incredibly irritating sometimes. Well, most of the time, if she were truly honest. She had very little use for them at all and no use for a country gentleman farmer with no real place in noble circles.
“Your niece, Miss Johnson. She is previously acquainted with my son, Reed.”
“So it seems.” She looked past him toward the door that would take her to the foyer.
