“Cross my heart,” Bobby says eagerly. “I’m at your disposal.”
Gwen sighs and tugs Bobby further out of the tent, like they’re trying to lean over the bank to get the best view. “All right. We’re hoping my father might come to her mother’s aid should she need to go into the boathouse and out of the sun.”
Bobby blinks back at her. “That’s all?”
“What?”
“That’s your whole big plan to get Lord Havenfort and Lady Demeroven together?”
“Who said—”
“Albie’s been onto you for ages. Thought it was a good laugh, and then whatever ugly business happened with the Ashmonds and you’ve been downright dreary.”
Gwen feels a flush rising up her neck. Has she been that transparent? And when did Bobby start paying any attention to her goings-on, or her father’s for that matter? And when did he get so tall? She has to look up at her little cousin now and it’s rather infuriating.
“So what’s the strategy—just hope she faints?”
Gwen groans softly into her fan. That sounds so stupid when he says it out loud. “Beth’s been pushing champagne on her.”
“And that’s enough?”
She takes in Bobby’s unimpressed face. “Well, you try wearing all the layers and moving around in a hoop in this heat. It’s no picnic.”
Bobby glances at the picnickers across the river, who are using the day for exactly that, and who look far more comfortable than they are. Gwen shifts, enjoying the light breeze that wafts up from the river and settles beneath her skirts. Would that she could wear linens like Bobby.
She thinks she might look dashing in a suit. Maybe she can get Father to tailor one for her someday. If she and Beth don’t succeed, maybe she could at least get a whole rack of them as consolation presents.
Gwen shakes herself. They’re going to succeed, Bobby’s dubious concern aside.
“And how are you planning on distracting Lord Ashmond long enough for your father to need to step in?”
Gwen wrinkles her nose. “We’re winging that bit.”
“Great. Good strategy. Excellent,” Bobby says.
“Could you be less of a brat, please?” she hisses.
“For two such smart women, this is a dreadful plan.”
Gwen glares back. Her fierce need for this to work is the only thing keeping her going, because their track record is admittedly terrible and their options severely limited. They know it’s a dreadful plan. She doesn’t need Bobby rubbing that in her face on top of everything else.
“How about this—we wait until Montson’s run his first race. They’ll probably win.”
“Wait, I thought the LRC was a given. Have I just blown my money?” Gwen asks, momentarily distracted.
Bobby laughs. “They’ll win the first heat. Montson and Jordan are both out to prove themselves, and they’ll overcompensate on the first go. By the second, they’ll be tired, and right useless by the third heat. The London Rowing Club will win, but, more importantly, Lord Ashmond will be insufferable after the first heat. Gloating.”
“And?”
“And that’s when Albie and I should start an argument with him about Leander. We’ll crowd him, and Lady Demeroven and Miss Demeroven will have to step out, and then in the heat, with the hubbub, she’ll get faint, and as you’re trying to drag your father over to break up our argument, he’ll just... have to catch her.”
Gwen gapes at Bobby. That’s—that’s an excellent plan. Truly. Simple, but crafty. Nuanced in all the right ways.
“When the hell did you grow up?” she demands.
Bobby smirks and nudges her. “We drank a few weeks ago.”
“We’ve drunk for seasons. This—you’ll be a right catch nextseason, you know?” she says honestly, impressed. Chastened too, since his plan is deceptively simple, and they really should have come up with it themselves.
