Juliet seemed to agree, because she was gaping at her sisters as if they’d all gone mad. “The Countess of Melrose! I have as much chance of becoming a countess as I do a turnip. I don’t even know Lord Melrose, and short of his having a carriage accident outside Hambleden Manor, I daresay I never will.”
Helena deflated. “That is a bit of a stumbling block, isn’t it?”
“Oh, but there isn’t any reason you can’t meet him.” Lady Fosberry made a great show of smoothing her skirts. “Unless, of course, you’re not as certain of your matchmaking schemes as you profess to be.”
Emmeline frowned. “What do you mean?”
“It’s quite simple, really. If you’re as confident as you say you are, then you won’t object to testing your theories, will you? Isn’t that what scientists do?”
Emmeline exchanged a glance with Phee. “Yes, but how are we meant to test such a thing? Present Juliet to Lord Melrose on a silver platter as if she was a teacake, and inform him she’s his future countess?”
Lady Fosberry snorted. “I wouldn’t go that far. No, I’m merely suggesting a tiny wager, that’s all.”
Emmeline didn’t like the sound of that, nor did she trust the shrewd glint in Lady Fosberry’s eyes. “What sort of wager?”
“Why, only this, dearest. You’ll come to London with me when I return tomorrow, and apply your matchmaking schemes to the marriage mart.”
Emmeline’s eyes went wide.
No, surely not. Surely, she couldn’t be serious—
“I’ll go!” Tilly cried, bouncing on her chair with excitement. “Please, may I go, Phee?”
Phee was staring at Lady Fosberry, all the color gone from her cheeks.
“Phee? Mayn’t I—”
“No, Tilly.” Phee’s tone was harsher than usual. “You’re far too young for a London season.”
“Emmeline and Juliet, then.” But Lady Fosberry’s gaze was fixed on Emmeline. “If your theories prove accurate, and Juliet receives an offer from Lord Melrose, I’ll take Euphemia to the Continent with me this winter, and give Tilly a season when the time comes.”
Emmeline’s mouth dropped open. “But that’s…no, my lady. You’re very generous, but we can’t possibly do such a thing.”
It was one thing for them to speculate about ton matches amongst themselves, and quite another to engage in callous, unfeeling wagers about the lives of real people.
Even callous, unfeeling people.
“Well, that is disappointing,” Lady Fosberry said with a sigh. “Is there nothing I can say to persuade you?”
“No.” Emmeline shook her head. “Not a single thing. I’m afraid it’s out of the question, my lady.”
“Pity.” Lady Fosberry plucked a bit of lint from her sleeve. “Did I mention, Emmeline, that my rose garden flourishes? No? I daresay I forgot to tell you that your dear papa gifted me with ever so many cuttings from his rare hybrid roses.”
Emmeline stared at her, speechless.
Why, Lady Fosberry might have been Eve herself, but in place of an apple, she was holding the promise of a deep, red rose in her hand.
Dear God, the woman was positively diabolical.
Lady Fosberry knew how badly Emmeline wanted to save her father’s beloved roses, particularly the “Hambleden Glory,” a truly exceptional specimen he’d named to honor the home he’d loved so well.
She had plans for that rose, plans she hadn’t shared with anyone.
But a season in London? The very idea was appalling.
Emmeline opened her mouth to refuse again, but before she could utter a word, Juliet stunned them all by rising to her feet and declaring, in a tone that discouraged any argument, “I accept your wager, Lady Fosberry. When do we leave for London?”
Chapter
