“Good morning.” He nodded to their guests. “Jane, darling, I’m so sorry to interrupt your callers, but I’m going out and I simplymustknow what sort of fabric you’d like me to order or we won’t have time to make you a new gown for Cecily’s rout. You’ve been putting me off all week.”
Jane suppressed a sigh.Not this again.
Some people suffered the trials of the matchmaking mamas of the ton, those tenacious, indefatigable creatures who flitted from oneballroom to the next, ensuring the reproduction of the upper classes with only marginal inbreeding. Jane had no such figure in her life. Instead, she was blessed with a matchmaking uncle. Though he might not have seemed the most likely choice for the role, Uncle Bertie had risen to the challenge of conquering the London season with remarkable enthusiasm. Almost—dare one say it—toomuch enthusiasm.
“Thank you, Uncle, but I really don’t need anything new.” They couldn’t afford anything new, truth be told. But Bertie believed that Jane’s wardrobe expenses should be dictated by his affection rather than his finances. “I was planning to wear that cream gown with the gold flowers on it.”
“Jane.” He stomped one foot so sharply it made her jump. “You’ve worn it twice already. How shall we ever find you a husband if you won’t make an effort to look your best?”
Jane risked a glance at Della, who understood her anguish and was trying valiantly not to laugh.
Uncle Bertie followed her gaze, adopting his most inviting tone as he addressed their guests. “Girls, you’d love to go to the modiste together, wouldn’t you? Talk some sense into my niece. Wouldn’t she look lovely in a new gown?”
“Um.” A look of mild panic flitted across Miss Chatterjee’s face. She obviously hadn’t counted on being thrust into a family squabble when she’d called this morning.
Indeed, Jane had been quite safe from this sort of thing only last year when Cecily was still at home to serve as the center of Bertie’s universe. But now that his own daughter was happily married, he had fixed his sights squarely upon his niece.
She loved Uncle Bertie, but being the sole object of his enthusiasm could be a bit exhausting.
“What is it you girls are doing in here, anyway?” Bertie had finally noticed the chart of all the vingt-et-un hands stretched out on thetable between them. Jane might have shoved it out of view, had she been a bit quicker, but she couldn’t bear to crease the page. She’d worked so hard on it.
“Nothing,” she blurted out. “We were just…”
Oh goodness. What feminine pursuit could this giant list of numbers possibly resemble? Calligraphy practice? Dance steps, perhaps?
“It’s a ranking system for eligible gentlemen,” Della supplied without missing a beat.
How does she come up with these ideas of hers?
Unlike Jane, who never had a fib ready when she needed one, Della’s silver tongue was the solution to (or the cause of) many a scrape.
“Beg pardon?” Uncle Bertie drew his graying brows together in confusion. “How would one rank gentlemen?”
“Yes, Della. Howwouldone rank gentlemen?” What a thing to choose!
“It’s simple, really. You just assign a value for attributes such as income, good manners, temperament, and so forth, and then you add up the total to see if the gentleman in question would be a good match.”
Bertie stared at the paper for so long that Jane began to worry he’d seen through their trick. When he finally spoke, there was a hint of disappointment in his tone. “I know one must consider practicalities, but in my day, young people used to hope for alovematch. Ah, well. I suppose I should be happy you’re taking an interest in your future.” His index finger traced the first column on the page. “Tell me, which gentleman does this one represent? Who’s your best match?”
Oh Lord.
With three seasons behind her already and nothing to show for it but a split sole on her favorite dancing slippers, Jane had all but given up on attracting a husband. Only Bertie’s steadfast faith kept her from voicing her thoughts aloud. He’d been so good to her andEdmund after their parents died; surely she could muster a better effort for his sake. But no matter how Jane tried to follow the path that was expected of her, the task proved impossible.
No one wanted an orphaned lady without any dowry for a wife. Much less one who aspired to run a clandestine gambling club.
Even if she could find a gentleman willing to overlook her poverty, marriage would be nothing but a losing game for her—the sort of risk she couldn’t afford to take. Without any funds to settle on herself or her future children, she would be entirely dependent on her husband. If he mismanaged his fortune or died unexpectedly, she would be left with nothing all over again, a poor relation shuffled from house to house, forever unwanted.
She couldn’t endure that.
Far better to make her own way in life, if Jane could manage it. Once she and Della had earned enough money to prove their club could work, she would explain everything to Bertie and make him understand.
“Er…that’s—that’s Mr. MacPherson,” her friend offered when Jane hesitated too long.
Mr. MacPherson had spoken to Jane for ten minutes after the opera last month, and then danced with her exactly twice the following evening. That had propelled him to the status of her most promising suitor, at least in Uncle Bertie’s estimation.
“How lovely!” His mood brightened once more at this news. The prospect of a match always had this effect, no matter how unlikely. “Ididthink he took a particular interest in—Jane, you’re frowning. We’ve talked about this, darling. You cannot afford to wrinkle your brow at three-and-twenty.”
“I’m not frowning, that’s just my face.” Jane sighed, though she endeavored to turn the corners of her mouth upward instead of down. It cost her some effort, given that she was fairly certainher uncle would be on the subject of her future marriage to Mr. MacPherson for the rest of the day, all thanks to Della. There was no chance they would finish preparing Miss Chatterjee now. “Do you know something, Uncle? I’ve had a change of heart. I believe weshallgo to the shops this morning.”
