on you joining the next class.’
‘And don’t you want to know your forfeit, the consequences of failure?’
She gave a little deprecating laugh and he knew he had trapped her. Henrietta Thorndike’s overweening confidence would be her undoing. He’d give her two days, a week at most, before she succumbed to temptation. But with the forfeit he had in mind, either way, his ward’s reputation would be safe. ‘I’m going to win, but what do you want, Mr Montemorcy, if I display a woeful lack of self-control?’
Robert forced his voice to be restrained, soothing. ‘If you fail to do this, for the next six months you will have to announce whenever you arrive at a social gathering that you are a habitual matchmaker. You will also give up organising any social event for the period.’
The colour drained from her face. ‘And what will I be doing with myself? I like to keep busy!’
‘You can read my research and learn how the scientific method works and why it is appropriate for the excavation site.’
Lady Thorndike opened and closed her mouth several times. A flash of hurt crossed her features. Robert hardened his heart. Lady Thorndike needed to learn this lesson before she did serious damage to someone’s reputation.
‘Would you like me to wear a sign about my neck as well?’ she asked, arching a brow. ‘Just so that everyone knows? Matchmaking is something that is done with a subtle hand, Mr Montemorcy. If I declare my intention, all my schemes will be ruined.’
‘That is rather the point, Lady Thorndike. You need to allow people to fall in love naturally and to attend social gatherings in the village without fear. Other people should have the opportunity to organise the events. How hard can it be?’
Henri raised her brows again, this time in amused disbelief—clearly Robert Montemorcy had no idea how hard organising social events could be! Suddenly she started to feel much more positive about the outcome of their wager. ‘Would you like me to set this wager to paper, Mr Montemorcy?’
‘If you wish. I’m quite happy to wager my dancing shoes against your declaration.’
‘Make sure you attend the ball with your dancing slippers on.’ Her eyes gleamed with mischief; she clapped her hands. ‘And I shall invite you to my first picnic at the excavation. It will be a treasure hunt to end all treasure hunts.’
‘You will lose, Lady Thorndike. I know you. The first time you see an opportunity you will have to grab it.’
Her deep blue eyes searched his face. ‘Is there any particular reason why you have made this wager?’
Robert caught his upper lip between his teeth and briefly contemplated confiding in Lady Thorndike about his ward and her disastrous experience at the Queen Charlotte’s ball, but decided that Lady Thorndike would be unable to resist offering unhelpful advice or spreading the news in an attempt to be helpful. Sophie had gone through enough without having to face that. No, until her enthusiasm for matchmaking was curbed, Lady Thorndike was positively dangerous and had to be held at arm’s length.
‘Your behaviour recently makes it necessary,’ he said finally.
‘I will not bother to answer that.’ Lady Thorndike lifted her chin in the air, not quite disguising another flash of hurt in her eyes. ‘Melanie has started to cut the cake and if she keeps sawing at it like that, the cake will crumble and nobody will get anything. I promised the vicar’s daughters that they would each have a piece to put under their pillows so that they may dream of their future bridegrooms. Melanie agreed with me that it was a splendid notion.’
‘Do you wish to end the wager already? No shame on either side.’
‘Hah, you think too little of me.’ Her dark blue eyes flashed defiantly. ‘Remember, Mr Montemorcy. Practise your polka. I require a certain standard in my dancing partners.’
Chapter Two
Her wager with Robert Montemorcy was child’s play, Henri reflected, slightly swinging the empty basket as she walked towards the circulating library several days after the wedding. All she had had to do was to become occupied with other things: visiting the various invalids in the parish with jars of calf’s-foot jelly that was made to her mother’s exacting receipt, making lists of things that needed to be accomplished before the ball, as well as events that would have to be held after the ball, deadheading the daffodils in the garden…She hadn’t even had to resort to the dreaded needlework.
Robert Montemorcy was entirely wrong about her. She did have other passions in her life. It was simply that matchmaking was the most interesting. It brought the chance of happiness to so many people.
‘Lady Thorndike, Lady Thorndike!’ Miss Armstrong gave a wave from outside the haberdasher’s. ‘Have you heard?’
Henri composed her features and carefully avoided stepping on a crack in the pavement. ‘Heard what?’
‘Robert Montemorcy is going to be married! We’d all considered him to be your property, so it must come as a great blow.’ Miss Armstrong adopted a falsely contrite face as the silk flowers inside the rim of her poke bonnet trembled with suppressed excitement. ‘I know I shouldn’t be spreading gossip but…I wanted to offer my condolences.’
Henri’s stomach plummeted and she tightened her grip on her basket. ‘Mr Montemorcy has never shown me any special favour, Miss Armstrong.’ Hortense Armstrong was notorious for getting gossip ever so slightly wrong. Robert Montemorcy wouldn’t do that without. without letting her know. Besides, he was far from being her property. They simply enjoyed pleasant conversations. ‘How did you come by this intelligence?’
‘Miss Nevin had it from her maid of all work who is best friends with the doctor’s cook who steps out with the footman at the New Lodge.’
Henri breathed easier. Servants. There would be some truth to the rumour, but it would have been twisted and contorted even before it reached Miss Armstrong. And Montemorcy’s admonition rang in her head. He wanted her to keep out of his private life. Was this the reason? An unknown visitor? An unknown visitor that did enjoy his special favour?
‘Speculation never did anyone any good,’ she choked out.
‘The entire household is in an uproar. The lady in question, a Miss Sophie Ravel, arrived from London with her stepmother yesterday. You never saw the boxes and trunks. Even a pagoda-shaped birdcage with a canary. Like a…well…a pagoda—you know, one of those Chinese, foreign things. Two carts from the station, or so I heard. Miss Ravel was supposed to be the Diamond of the Season, but she has forsaken all for love.’ Miss Armstrong gave a fluttering sigh and Henri found herself wanting to strangle her with a fierceness that was alarming.
‘Two carts do not a marriage make.’
A frown developed between Miss Armstrong’s brows. ‘I’ve never heard that saying before.’
‘Haven’t you?’ Henri smiled, and gave her basket a little swing. ‘I think it is a good one. It is one of my own.’
‘I imagine there will be a huge wedding. It will make the Croziers’ wedding look quite countrified and provincial.’
‘It is intriguing what servants hear…or don’t hear.’
Miss
