the Earl of Rothschild.”
The table fell into silence for a moment as all five women stared at the servant. The others seemed surprised, but Miranda’s heart leapt into her throat. Why was Ethan writing to her mother, who he had made clear he felt nothing but disdain toward on more than one occasion?
Dear God, was he going to expose Miranda for a wanton?
Nausea churned as she watched her mother stagger to her feet and reach out her hand.
“The Earl of Rothschild? To me? Give it here, Adams!”
The butler sighed almost imperceptively and allowed the letter to be snatched from his fingertips before he exited the room. Miranda’s mother threw herself back into her chair and stared at the letter, addressed in Ethan’s large, even scrawl. Lazy handwriting with lazy elegance. But an underlying strength.
Miranda rolled her eyes. Dear God, she was obsessed with the man if she was reading his personality into his handwriting, of all things.
“Why in the world would he be writing us?” her mother muttered as she flipped the letter over and broke the seal. “Wicked, wicked man.”
Penelope laughed. “A wicked , wicked man whose parties you and father attended every single summer.”
Their mother shot a pointed glare in Penelope’s direction. “Your sister is a bad influence on you, for she said exactly the same thing to me! And as I told her, I don’t have to like the man to benefit from his position in society.”
Miranda shut her eyes and stifled a sigh. Her mother had always been such a social climber, trying to find any opportunity to elevate their family’s position. Though she didn’t want Dorthea to uncover the truth, Miranda almost wondered what her mother’s reaction would be if she knew the bargain that had been entered into on her sisters’ behalves.
Would her mother even care that she’d sold herself if it meant a chance at a good marriage for Penelope or Beatrice or Winifred?
Then again, perhaps she didn’t want to know.
“Oh!” her mother gasped as she read the letter.
Miranda’s heart sank as she tried to decipher her mother’s shocked expression.
“Oh, girls! Listen to this!” Her mother got to her feet and began to pace around the room, reading out loud. “‘My dear lady, it has recently come to my attention that I owed your late husband a kindness I was unable to repay before his recent passing. Therefore, I feel it is only right to make reparations to his remaining family. I would like to offer you my assistance, both financially and socially, in providing a Season to your second eldest daughter, Miss Penelope. If this would be agreeable to you,please send word to me here at my estate. Yours, Rothschild.’”
Miranda let the air out of her lungs in a burst as relief shot through her body. He hadn’t revealed their arrangement. Thank God.
The relief was followed close behind by confusion. Why had Ethan already offered to sponsor Penelope?
She was jolted from her musings when the room erupted in feminine squeals and chatter. Her mother let out a whoop more befitting a schoolboy than a lady and her two youngest sisters began talking at once, prattling on about gowns and balls and whether they, too, would find sponsors.
“There now, Miranda,” her mother said with a triumphant glare in her direction. “You may cease your constant haranguing about our financial position. The dear Lord Rothschild will take care of us.”
“A moment ago you were condemning him as wicked,” Miranda said mildly as she set her napkin aside and pushed away from the table. She paced to the large set of streaked windows that looked down over the gardens.
“I said no such thing!” her mother snapped. “And even if he is, what do we care? His money and connections will surely give your sister better luck in her Season than you experienced in yours.”
Miranda clenched her fists and kept her gaze focused firmly outside. Her mother’s hypocrisy was difficult to stomach, but she was in no
The table fell into silence for a moment as all five women stared at the servant. The others seemed surprised, but Miranda’s heart leapt into her throat. Why was Ethan writing to her mother, who he had made clear he felt nothing but disdain toward on more than one occasion?
Dear God, was he going to expose Miranda for a wanton?
Nausea churned as she watched her mother stagger to her feet and reach out her hand.
“The Earl of Rothschild? To me? Give it here, Adams!”
The butler sighed almost imperceptively and allowed the letter to be snatched from his fingertips before he exited the room. Miranda’s mother threw herself back into her chair and stared at the letter, addressed in Ethan’s large, even scrawl. Lazy handwriting with lazy elegance. But an underlying strength.
Miranda rolled her eyes. Dear God, she was obsessed with the man if she was reading his personality into his handwriting, of all things.
“Why in the world would he be writing us?” her mother muttered as she flipped the letter over and broke the seal. “Wicked, wicked man.”
Penelope laughed. “A wicked , wicked man whose parties you and father attended every single summer.”
Their mother shot a pointed glare in Penelope’s direction. “Your sister is a bad influence on you, for she said exactly the same thing to me! And as I told her, I don’t have to like the man to benefit from his position in society.”
Miranda shut her eyes and stifled a sigh. Her mother had always been such a social climber, trying to find any opportunity to elevate their family’s position. Though she didn’t want Dorthea to uncover the truth, Miranda almost wondered what her mother’s reaction would be if she knew the bargain that had been entered into on her sisters’ behalves.
Would her mother even care that she’d sold herself if it meant a chance at a good marriage for Penelope or Beatrice or Winifred?
Then again, perhaps she didn’t want to know.
“Oh!” her mother gasped as she read the letter.
Miranda’s heart sank as she tried to decipher her mother’s shocked expression.
“Oh, girls! Listen to this!” Her mother got to her feet and began to pace around the room, reading out loud. “‘My dear lady, it has recently come to my attention that I owed your late husband a kindness I was unable to repay before his recent passing. Therefore, I feel it is only right to make reparations to his remaining family. I would like to offer you my assistance, both financially and socially, in providing a Season to your second eldest daughter, Miss Penelope. If this would be agreeable to you,please send word to me here at my estate. Yours, Rothschild.’”
Miranda let the air out of her lungs in a burst as relief shot through her body. He hadn’t revealed their arrangement. Thank God.
The relief was followed close behind by confusion. Why had Ethan already offered to sponsor Penelope?
She was jolted from her musings when the room erupted in feminine squeals and chatter. Her mother let out a whoop more befitting a schoolboy than a lady and her two youngest sisters began talking at once, prattling on about gowns and balls and whether they, too, would find sponsors.
“There now, Miranda,” her mother said with a triumphant glare in her direction. “You may cease your constant haranguing about our financial position. The dear Lord Rothschild will take care of us.”
“A moment ago you were condemning him as wicked,” Miranda said mildly as she set her napkin aside and pushed away from the table. She paced to the large set of streaked windows that looked down over the gardens.
“I said no such thing!” her mother snapped. “And even if he is, what do we care? His money and connections will surely give your sister better luck in her Season than you experienced in yours.”
Miranda clenched her fists and kept her gaze focused firmly outside. Her mother’s hypocrisy was difficult to stomach, but she was in no
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