Talk of the Ton (Free Fellows League 5)

“Good day, Mrs. Becket,” Emily called out.

Much to her annoyance, Montgomery’s gaze followed the retreating widow.

“And how did you find the service?” Emily demanded.

Montgomery dragged his gaze to her again. “The service? Inspiring, as always. Aha, there are your parents, Miss Forsythe. Shall I take you to them?”

There was no graceful way to answer that but to say yes, was there? Disappointed, Emily nodded, put her hand on the arm he offered, and let him lead her to where her mother and father were sitting, acutely aware that her opportunity was slipping away from her with each step. Before it slipped completely away, as they neared her parents, she blurted boldly, “I hope I shall see you at the May Day Ball,” and lifted her gaze to him.

Montgomery glanced down at her. “What a lovely compliment. Thank you.” He looked up to her parents. “Mr. and Mrs. Forsythe, how do you do?” he said, lifting Emily’s hand from his arm.

He exchanged pleasantries with them, wished Emily a good day, and walked on, into the crowd.

Emily watched him go, a little bewildered. She’d had it from her very own brother that if a woman paid particular attention to a man, he would reciprocate that attention. Montgomery didn’t reciprocate. He’d scarcely noticed her at all because he was too intent on Widow Becket. It was disgraceful to a man of his stature.

For the remainder of that luncheon, Emily could not tear her gaze from Montgomery, counting the times he looked for Widow Becket. Eight in all.

That afternoon, when they had returned home from that insufferable affair, Emily plotted her revenge on a woman who had the least right of all the women in London to the admiring looks of one of the most eligible bachelors among the ton, a bachelor who, but for some divine intervention, had suddenly become the only man she’d consider marrying.

Widow Becket should enjoy her flirtation now, Emily thought, because she was determined to bring it to a crashing end.

Chapter Four

Emily Forsythe put her carefully devised plan into existence the very next week, when she offered to accompany her mother to the weekly meeting of the Ladies Auxiliary, where the ladies were planning for the Charity Auction Ball.

Her mother was both very surprised and pleased. “Emily!” she said, squeezing her daughter’s shoulders. “How good of you to think of someone other than yourself!” Emily shrugged sheepishly, accepted the offer to wear her mother’s best bonnet in honor, as she happily put it, of Emily’s first step toward benevolence.

The meeting place was an assembly of rooms connected to the church. Only two ladies were present when Emily and her mother arrived. Emily put aside the basket of apples they had brought.

“My daughter joins us today!” her mother announced proudly, and the two ladies exclaimed gleefully at that. Emily smiled and clasped her hands behind her back as she wandered deeper into the room.

She heard a bit of a clatter and turned toward a door at the opposite end of the room as Widow Becket came through it with a tea service. Her gold-red hair was pulled back and knotted at the nape of her neck, and she wore a heavy canvas apron over her drab brown day gown. “Miss Forsythe!” she called happily as she carried the heavy tea service to the table and set it down. “What a pleasure to have you join us!”

Emily gave her a demure nod.

“My daughter is taking her first steps toward charity,” her mother exclaimed for at least the tenth time that day, and beamed at Emily.

“Well! We are very pleased to have you,” Widow Becket averred, and reached out, touched Emily’s arm.

Emily immediately stiffened; Widow Becket seemed to feel that she did and withdrew her hand, pushed a strand of hair behind her ear, and with a small, self-conscious smile, busied herself with the tea service. “The vicar has sent tea for our meeting this morning,” she announced to them all. “He avows it is the finest tea yet to reach England’s shores.”

The ladies tittered at that; Widow Becket wiped her hands on her apron. “I’ve some biscuits in the oven. I’ll just fetch them—”

“May I help you, Mrs. Becket?” Emily quickly interjected, trying very hard to ignore her mother’s proud smile.

The widow glanced up from the tea service, eyed her suspiciously. But in the next moment, she said, “I should appreciate all the help that is offered.” She flashed another warm smile—one that made Emily shiver. “Come, Miss Forsythe, and I will show you our kitchen.”

Emily put her hand into the widow’s and walked stiffly beside her through the door and down a long row of stairs into the church’s kitchen. Emily had not known before today that the church even had a kitchen, but as Widow Becket explained, upon seeing her look of confusi

on, the very large churches usually had one tucked away to assist in such activities as charities and wedding breakfasts and so forth.

Widow Becket walked to the oven and pulled it open, and with a thick towel, she removed a tin of biscuits and put them on the wooden table that stretched almost the entire length of the kitchen. She returned to the oven and removed a second tin and placed it beside the first. With an iron spatula, she began to remove the biscuits from the tin and put them on the table to cool, and smilingly gestured for Emily to do the same with the first tin.

“Have you ever been to the Malthorpe Orphanage?” Widow Becket asked as they worked.

“No, mu’um.”

“We thought to pay a call after we finish our work here. I think you will find the children delightful.”