‘Dearest Smythe. All I said was that you and she are made for one another, being much of the same character,’ he replied, gesturing between Smythe and Maria Marley. ‘What could be wrong with that?’
‘That character which I believe you have been impugning in every club in the city?’ raged Smythe.
‘Look, Smythe, if you must traipse around being Friday-faced—’
Maria Marley had turned as puce as her hair ribbons. ‘SMYTHE!’ she shrieked. ‘You heard him, Smythe! Insulting the two of us. And in front of everyone here present!’
Etta had had enough. She’d never get herself to the bogs if this continued, even if intervening would probably save the idiotically weak and ultimately very drunken Smythe’s life.
Smythe pushed out his chest like a pigeon, raising his gloves as if to strike. ‘Swords or pistols then, Lord Bramley?’
‘Rocks!’ called Etta, holding out her fist. Every eye in the house swivelled towards Etta as her voice rang out. She swayed slightly as she tried again. ‘No, no, not rocks, then? Urgh … Paper!’ She flattened out her hand.
Silence prevailed. Smythe and Maria were visibly stunned, as was their opponent. Smiling, the other man – Lord Bramley – seized his opportunity, stepping forward with his fingers spread.
‘Scissors beats paper, I believe!’
‘Oh, I swear I’m terrible at these things,’ said Etta. ‘Shall we play again? I know we haven’t been formally introduced, but I do usually win.’
Maria Marley just really couldn’t help herself. ‘Probably because people let you win, Mad Hetty Bainbridge.’
‘Probably,’ Etta replied, ‘but I win myself so much pocket money that I really couldn’t care less.’
Chuckles arose from the crowd and Maria snapped out of her rage and visibly shrank back as though slapped.
‘Come, Smythe. These people are beneath our notice.’
‘Or above,’ chimed in Lord Bramley, winning himself an elbow in his ribs from Etta.
‘I don’t know who you are, but I need you alive,’ Etta whispered. ‘The enemy of my enemy, etcetera.’
The gentleman turned to her, smiling cheekily ‘Miss Bainbridge, please do not labour under the impression I could not deal with one such as Smythe.’
‘You must excuse me. The only thing I’m labouring under is the weight of my bladder. Good evening, sir.’
Her new chum choked back laughter and though somewhere in her vicinity, she also heard the distinctive tones of Max Stanhope, the call of the wild was too much: she made her escape and when she returned, he was nowhere to be found.
Chapter 36
1817
Etta didn’t hear from either Max or her new friend Rock Paper Scissors Guns Swords again right away; when she did first hear of them, it was indirectly. But also directly, in so far as the woman who plonked herself down in the chair next to Etta’s at the huge annual party at Lady Dinklage’s house was nothing if not direct.
They’d arrived early and Etta had found a corner to hide in while the room filled up. This had turned out to be an excellent way to tune into the gossip mill, and she was quite dismayed to find out she was right in the middle. After just half an hour sitting behind two middle-aged women, she’d learned all about how she’d brazenly seduced the eligible Lord Stanhope with her Wild Ways. And even the renowned rogue Lord George Bramley seemed to be rather taken by her – they’d been seen laughing together at Lord Grimsby’s ball, hadn’t they?
She’d watchedBridgerton. Of course, there was no Lady Whistledown in her version of 1817. Nobody had said a word to her about these whisperings – not even ClarissaBest – so she’d been completely in the dark. Hearing it now was deeply unpleasant – had Clarissa known and kept her completely ignorant about all of it? Etta couldn’t work out if this decision was merciful or not.
But given they were A Thing, she probably was going to have to make a decision about her future with Max soon – if there was even still a decision open to her.
Thankfully she was interrupted from the gathering storm cloud of her thoughts by the sound of rustling skirts. A rose-scented, delicately-braceleted arm wrapped across the back of Etta’s chair.
‘So, I hear you rescued my brother George from a drunken skewering by Smythe the other night. Ta muchly, I must say,’ the woman said.
Etta looked at her new dark-haired companion with mild surprise. A red-haired woman immediately appeared on her left. ‘Oh, don’t worry about Tessa. She’s always so terribly forward. I’m Melissa, by the way. Melissa Bramley.’
Etta blinked. ‘Nice to meet you, I suppose. You’re welcome …?’
Melissa grinned. ‘Oh, don’t be all uppity. We know we should have made friends with you ages ago, but Dear Clarissa is such a stick-in-the-mud. Besides, everyone said you were mad.’
