“What did you wager?” Miss Fernsby-Webb asked before Helena could voice the same curious question.
Miss Webb’s cheeks flushed light pink, and she dropped her arms. “I bet the Duke of Roxburghe that he couldn’t find me a fiancé with a specific set of qualities by the end of the season.”
“And…”
“He did.” Cupping her hand around her mouth, Miss Webb leaned toward them. “However, his proposal cost him ten thousand.”
They fell silent again when Mrs. Hawkins’ footsteps echoed in the corridor. Before she entered the parlor, Helena darted across the room and held out her arms, taking possession of a large, silver punch bowl.
Turning in a slow half-circle, her eyes on the sloshing liquid, Helena prayed she didn’t end up coated in the pungent beverage, whose scent would follow her for days. She took a steadying breath, slid one foot toward the reception table, and paused, then repeated the action with her back foot until she reached the edge of the table and set down the bowl.
Miss Fernsby-Webb exhaled a giggle. “I never doubted your ability, Miss Rowe.”
“I’m grateful one of us didn’t,” she said, echoing Miss Fernsby-Webb’s nervous chuckle as she crossed the room.
“Now,” Miss Fernsby-Webb spun and advanced on her sister. “Why did a proposal to you cost the Duke of Roxburghe ten thousand?”
“That was the sum of the wager between his friends.” Miss Webb scooted around Miss Fernsby-Webb, heading toward a cupboard beside the linen press where Helena arranged cups on a tray.
Her sister grabbed her arm. “How much would he have lost to you?”
“Five.”
“Hundred?”
“Thousand.” Miss Webb shook off her sister. “But he doesn’t have to lose anything. If his friends also become engaged before the end of the season, no man would win the bet.”
“How do you intend to convince four dukes to propose in less than six months?” Miss Fernsby-Webb chased Miss Webb to the walnut cupboard and stopped her from grabbing the tray of cups. “Nora?”
Miss Webb chewed her lower lip. “I was hoping you’d help me.”
“Me?” Poking herself in the chest, Miss Fernsby-Webb took a rather large step backward.
“Both of you, actually.” Miss Webb glanced at Helena, offering a sheepish smile.
Helena shook her head, wishing she, too, could back away from Miss Webb. “I know nothing about matchmaking.”
“It cannot be difficult,” Miss Webb said, lifting the tray of cups. “It’s a favorite pursuit of many mothers.”
“I’ve not heard of any mother matching four daughters in one season.” Miss Fernsby-Webb lifted a second platter of glasses and followed her sister to the refreshment table.
“We aren’t one mother. We are three,” Miss Webb said, setting down her tray.
“And you are the only one engaged,” Miss Fernsby-Webb replied, placing her tray on the opposite side of the silver punch bowl.
“Are you saying you want help finding a husband?”
“No!” Miss Fernsby-Webb’s voice echoed in the parlor; she rouged, then nodded toward Helena. “However, I know someone who could use your services.”
Shutting the cupboard doors with more force than she intended, Helena shook her head. “I’ve already stated I don’t wish to marry.”
As kind as their intentions were, she didn’t need either sister meddling, at least not until she was certain Humphrey wouldn’t learn of her location and demand that she follow through with the marital arrangement her brother had negotiated last year.
Miss Webb inclined her head. “Of course, Miss Rowe, neither of us wish to force you into an unhappy connection.”
Her sister repeated a similar sentiment, adding an apology for her exuberance, then asked Miss Webb, “Do you have a particular duke you’d wish to match first?”
“I don’t.” Miss Webb glanced at the doorway as Mrs. Hawkins entered again, balancing two steaming platters.
