Page 33 of A Lady's Wager
“Because of that previous acquaintance,” Mr. Firth continued, “he was not being presumptuous to have spoken with her.”
Etta looked back to meet Mr. Firth’s eyes, keeping her head perfectly still. “I have no qualm about their speaking,” she lied.
He held her look…much as she’d stared down his son a few minutes earlier, and his smile tightened, which caused her spine to tighten as well. What was this man about?
“I am glad to hear it. Our connections here in London are limited, thus it is important that we foster a good opinion. I only want to ensure that possibility for my children.”
He still did not move, and she clenched her teeth together for a moment while she waited, then finally said, “Indeed. I wish youa good evening, Mr. Firth.” She stepped around him and did not look back—both out of pride and the preservation of her blasted headpiece.
A footman posted near the door of the ballroom opened it for her, and she breathed a sigh of relief to be free of the room and all the eyes within it. She immediately lifted one hand to her hair now that no one would see—a stiff wind or a too-fast turn would be her downfall. The wig seemed to be losing balance a bit more with every step she took.
“You there,” she called out when she reached the foyer, getting the attention of one of three men in livery standing by the main entrance. The tallest of the three hurried forward. “Please call round the carriage for Mrs. Markshire. My driver is Robert Kent.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, bowing before heading down the opposite hallway. She watched him go and willed that he would hurry. The foyer was blessedly empty just now, but anyone could enter at any time and wonder why she was holding her hair up.
She heard the sound of a footfall and turned enough to find that Mr. Firth had followed her. She attempted to lower her hand, but the wig shifted a quarter inch to the right when she did so, necessitating that she quickly put her hand back. She must look idiotic, but to her preservation, he was a man, and men in general were usually inattentive to details.
“What can I help you with, Mr. Firth?”
“I do not feel that we finished our conversation.”
“I believe that we did,” Etta said, looking past him toward the hallway where the footman had disappeared. A full minute had not yet passed, but her impatience was rising quickly.
“Do you object to my son’s attention toward your niece?”
Her focus moved back to his face.Of course I object!she thought. “Of course I do not have an objection,” she said out loud, because truly, what else could she say?
“Then why did you interrupt them?”
“Did I interrupt them?”
“Yes,” he said with a nod. “You stepped between them, and from what I could see from my side of the room, you were rather severe. I am sorry to press this point, but as I said, we have few connections here in London, therefore each association we do have is precious. I want to resolve whatever concerns you might have so as to shore up this one.”
Etta did not like that her interference had been noticed, and yet she was fulfilling her responsibility to Rachel and Rachel’s family by looking out for the young woman’s interests. Etta lifted her chin to show her confidence, only to feel her wig shift to the left this time. She quickly caught it with her left hand so that she was now standing before this virtual stranger, holding her wig like a basket on her head. Thank goodness for face powder to conceal the heat rising in her cheeks. As a rule, Etta tried not to be rude—there were almost always better ways of making your point that kept everyone’s pride intact. Mr. Firth, however, was proving himself rather thickheaded.
“Mr. Firth,” she said tightly. “I am Miss Johnson’s sponsor here in London as neither of her parents are on hand. It is my responsibility to see that she behaves appropriately and is treated equally so. I saw a man she had not been introduced to dominating her attention, and I did what any good sponsor would do: made his acquaintance and reminded him that there are protocols.”
Mr. Firth’s expression, which had been relatively open before, hardened slightly. “He had not broken any protocol; they have known one another for years and did not need additional introduction.”
“They had been friends as children, Mr. Firth.”
“As people, Mrs. Markshire. Surely the trappings and fripperies of this city do not overpower the humanity of previously acquainted young people.”
She narrowed her eyes, yet she was still holding this blasted wig on her head, which seriously undermined the position of authority she was trying to present. “As children,” she repeated. “Rachel is here to make her match, and I am here to ensure that she makes a good one.”
“Are you saying my son is not a good match?”
Oh, but he was bold. Lucky for her—and Rachel—so was she. No one survived London if they were not bold enough to defend their position and tradition. “Your son cannot be more than twenty years old.”
“Twenty-two.”
She gave a sardonic laugh but could not move her head to show a full reaction. “As though that is a better credit? He is not ready to support a family.”
“Things do not always have to be done one way. He’s a grown man helping run the estate he will inherit one day, and he did not dominate your niece’s attention, he simply said hello. I would not want any of that misinterpreted, which is why—” His eyes traveled from her face, where his attention had been focused, to her hair. “Are you alright?”
“Of course I am alright.” She looked down the hallway again. Where was the footman?
“Is there something wrong with your, um, hair?”
