Chapter 10
The following morning, Christopher received a note at breakfast that had been hand delivered by the tailors’ apprentice. Florid writing filled every inch of the page:
My dearest Lord Eden—-
So you finally return to grace London and myself with the perfume of your presence! I am aware of the ball you have mentioned, as well as what every man of quality plans to wear on the evening in question. Your own formal attire, though hastily constructed, shall be a jewel among pebbles, if I may be so bold. Despite your tardiness in placing such an order, I believe the result will delight you. I took the liberty of cutting your coat quite daringly, as I’m sure you will agree anything else would be a waste of your waist. The buttons you may find some quibble with, but I assure you they will be de rigueur within a month’s time in this country; already they have overtaken the continent. I doubt you will find any fault with the breeches. I won’t hear any arguments about them, not that I expect any from a man of taste such as yourself. As for the final trimmings, I leave the decision on fabrics and color to you. Please come to the shop today so that you may approve my excellent suggestions. If you arrive closer to midday, we will likely have more time to ourselves.
Yours in haste,
é
Christopher shook his head and muttered fondly, “Ah, étienne, never change.”
He glanced at one of the serving girls, who was delivering his eggs and kippers on a plate, but she gave no sign of having heard him. She merely plopped the food in front of him and disappeared. Christopher sighed as he picked up his knife and fork. What he wouldn’t give for a simple morning bun and a cup of strong tea, not this weak stuff the temporary staff had brewed for him. Alas, he was not at Eden Abbey and so could not breakfast with Cook and Plinkton as he preferred. He was stuck here with this very competent but not at all familiar staff, and so was forced to eat his eggs in the informal dining room like a normal earl would.
He ate quickly to get it over with.
“Will we be visiting your tailor this morning, my lord?” a voice suddenly said at his elbow.
Christopher choked on a kipper in surprise. Har-ding helpfully poured more tea into his cup so he could wash it down. After Christopher had regained his ability to swallow, he asked, “Where exactly do they teach you servants how to move so silently? It’s not natural. Please, for my sake, try to make a sound once in a while.”
“My apologies, my lord. I will try.” Har-ding nodded at the note sitting next to Christopher’s plate. “I overheard the messenger boy at the door. He told the maid he was from the Brothers Charbonneau. Am I wrong in thinking you will be fitted for your new clothes today?”
“Wonderful deduction as usual,” Christopher muttered around a piece of toast.
“Then I shall change into my livery so I may accompany you,” Har-ding said. He was wearing his normal ensemble of too--much--black at the moment.
Christopher gave him a wild look. He hoped he wasn’t sporting any crumbs on his face from the toast; he wanted to project an air of authority. “Accompany me? Why should you accompany me?”
“I am your valet,” Har-ding said simply. “Is this not one of my duties to assist in your tailoring decisions?”
Christopher tossed the final tiny triangle of toast back onto his plate. A visit to his tailor—-a private visit—-was one of the only joys London had to offer him, and he was not going to give it up, not even to accommodate Har-ding’s work ethic.
“My dear fellow,” Christopher said, “I will go to my tailor alone and that is final.”
Less than an hour later, Christopher was turning his curricle faster than was strictly safe onto Savile Row with Har-ding, damn him, sitting right beside him on the narrow seat.
“Are we at risk of missing your appointment, my lord,” Har- ding asked as they jostled over the cobblestones at breakneck speed, “or are you incapable of driving at a sedate pace?” He held his tricorn hat as well as the wig beneath firmly against his head lest the wind whip them away.
Christopher gave a mirthless harrumph. “You insist on joining me only to insult my driving? Don’t you have other things to do today? Surely you’re not finished with all the unpacking.” He maneuvered the horses—-fast, but not as fast as Orion—-around a plodding team of donkeys attached to a dog cart, narrowly avoiding a screeching cat that bolted across the lane.
“I am, actually,” Har-ding rejoined, “and I believe I am wholly necessary when it comes to your wardrobe.”
Christopher heaved a groan of frustration and brought the curricle to a skidding stop along the curb. He turned to his valet with the reins still tight in his hands. “Har-ding, I have been a patron of the Brothers Charbonneau since I’ve been out of leading strings. I have never once required a chaperone whilst shopping.”
“My lord, it’s my privilege to guide you in choosing new pieces. It has been quite some time since you last visited London, and the fashions—-”
Christopher gave him a withering look. “Do you find my current mode of dress so unfashionable?”
Har-ding’s gaze roamed Christopher’s person at the question. Christopher bore it as well as he could, refusing to blush or stammer at the attention. He wondered what Har-ding might see when he looked at him like that. Probably a strange sort of dandy who insisted on wearing his pale colors when everyone knew jewel tones were all the rage; who had tied his cravat in a pattern he had devised himself after studying the latest examples; and who wore his boots with just a mite more heel than most young men would.
“No, my lord,” Har-ding finally said. “I only meant you may find it useful to have my opinion before making selections.”
“I am perfectly capable of ordering my own clothes.”
“Then at least allow me to make the acquaintance of your tailor, sir,” Har-ding said, “so that if there is some detail I must see to or some last--minute order that must be placed, he will know me as your valet.”
It was a sensible request. Christopher knew from long afternoons spent at the Charbonneaus’ shop that other gentlemen’s manservants practically treated the place as a guild hall. They were constantly flitting in and out, speaking in that truncated way that efficient workers did. “My lord needs four more like the last two,” for example, or “His Grace wants it in velvet after all; can you manage that?” The three brothers who owned the toggery were on a first name basis with practically every valet in town. It would be odd for Har-ding not to be introduced, at the very least.
And Christopher was already pushing the boundaries of odd.
He gave a sniff and tossed Har-ding the reins so he could tie up the horses. “Very well. Have you ever had any dealings with the Charbonneaus for your former employers?”
Har-ding alighted from the curricle and made use of the wrought iron post at the roadside. “No, sir.”
“Well, be forewarned. They are quite French.”
“I had assumed so, given the name.”
Christopher hid his smile. No one could be prepared for just how French the Brothers Charbonneau were, and it was frankly adorable that Har-ding thought he was.
He leapt down from the seat and marched in the direction of the storefronts. “An introduction, Har-ding, but then you must go away and let me be fitted in peace!”
“Another excellent compromise, my lord,” Har-ding said, keeping up with Christopher’s pace easily on his longer legs.
The shop was like most on the Row: a well--kept little storefront with a sign in gold letters swinging above the entrance. Christopher was about to push his way inside, but Har-ding beat him to the door and held it open for him as he entered. Inside, the shop was crammed with bolts of fabric in every hue and texture lining the walls and stacked on tables. Several dress forms held works in progress, pieces of coats and trousers coming together to form exquisite clothing. The scent of clean linen and wool filled the air, and Christopher inhaled deeply. It smelled of home, or as near as he could get in this city.
“étienne?” Christopher called into the reaches of the shop as he removed his hat and gloves. “I got your note.”
A small blur of ruffles and silk rushed in and grabbed Christopher by the hands. “Lord Eden!” étienne kissed him twice on both cheeks before kissing him squarely on the tip of his nose. “It’s been far too long!”
Christopher accepted the greeting with good grace. “Hello, étienne,” he said warmly.
Of the three brothers, étienne Charbonneau was the youngest and the most shameless. He was a delicate man, even smaller than Christopher, with a head full of dark curls and a perpetual glint of laughter in his eyes. When Christopher had first ventured into their shop all those years ago, it had been with great trepidation. Just out of Cambridge, he had gone to nearly a dozen other tailors in London that week only to find that none would suit. They had all been very talented, of course, and more than polite when showing the Earl of Eden the fabrics they kept on hand and the sketches of various styles they offered, but Christopher could not imagine allowing any of them to touch his person in the intimate way a man’s tailor must when procuring his measurements. He’d almost been convinced that he would be forced to wear a potato sack for the rest of his life—-but then he had met étienne, who could rightly be called Christopher’s confidant.
The youngest Charbonneau had been minding the shop on his own that fateful day, when Christopher, younger and much less wise, had crept in to ask tentatively after some new braces. étienne had taken one look at his outmoded coat and held his trusty length of measuring tape aloft.
“You are the Earl of Eden, yes?” he’d said. “Every tailor in the city has tried to fit you for a new wardrobe, but each time you— What is the phrase? Run like rabbits.”
“Well, I—-” Christopher tried to say. “I didn’t quite run.” He picked up one heeled foot. “These shoes scarcely allow it.”
“Come.” étienne had stabbed a finger in the direction of the back dressing rooms, which were hidden behind a length of blue velvet curtain. “You are too good--looking a man to be wearing that.”
“Now, wait a moment!”
Christopher had been bundled into the dressing room before he even knew what was happening.
“I have seen everything,” étienne promised him. “Short, tall, fat, thin: there is no type of man I have not measured.”
“Are you absolutely certain of that?” Christopher muttered.
étienne had leaned in close and placed his hands on Christopher’s cheeks, causing him to gape like a landed fish. “Whatever the source of your anxiety, my lord,” he said, all flighty pretense evaporating, “I assure you, there will be no judgment on my part. I am the very soul of discretion. Your tailor is like your priest.” His eyes darted about the confines of the space. “This room is a confessional. Whatever happens here, the world will never know.”
Somehow, for some reason, he found himself believing étienne. “I see,” Christopher had said, though with his cheeks squished as they were it came out a bit muffled.
étienne dropped his hands. “Now! On which side do you dress?” he asked in a perfunctory manner. “Left or right?”
“Neither,” Christopher said. It was the boldest word he’d ever spoken, and his heart felt as if it would pop out of his throat as he uttered it. “I dress on no side whatsoever.”
étienne did not miss a beat. “Ah, so your lines will be without fault. Excellent. A clean silhouette is truly the ideal. Excuse my reach, my lord.” And he placed his hand high up on Christopher’s thigh, right in the crease where his leg met his trunk. étienne’s tongue poked from his mouth in concentration as he ran the measuring tape down Christopher’s inseam.
Christopher held his breath. He had never fainted in his life, but he thought he might now. Fortunately, étienne was quick and his touch professional. He soon stood back with the tape slung around his neck.
“Your shirt, please, sir.” He gestured to the billowy expanse of snowy linen that Christopher was still wearing.
Christopher regarded him with narrowed eyes. “I am not a violent man,” he said slowly.
étienne’s eyebrows winged upward. “I should hope not, my lord.”
“But if you breathe a word of this to anyone, I will shoot you in the street like a dog.” He paused. “And then shoot your brothers for good measure.”
“Does His Lordship carry a dueling pistol with him today?” étienne asked with a distinct lack of concern.
“Well, no—-”
“Then I think we have nothing to fear. Now come.” étienne plucked Christopher’s shirttails from his trousers.
Christopher stripped his shirt off the rest of the way, revealing the bandages beneath. étienne looked at them for a moment, then shrugged. “I would recommend the thicker linen, my lord.” He grabbed a bolt from its place on the wall and held the tail of the fine fabric to the light. “You see? Quite sturdy. Even if you were to find yourself without a waistcoat for some reason, it would offer you more modesty, I think.”
“Monsieur Charbonneau—-” Christopher began, smiling.
“Please, Monsieur Charbonneau is my eldest brother. Call me étienne, I insist.”
“Very well. étienne.” Christopher held out his arms. “I would very much like to be fitted now.”
That had been many years ago, and many measurements later, étienne was still the only person with whom Christopher felt wholly safe (though even he did not know the entire story of how Christopher had come to be the Earl of Eden).
Christopher now turned to regard Har-ding over his shoulder. The man appeared largely unmoved by the display of continental affection, though Christopher thought he detected a slight raise of his thick brows. French, he mouthed soundlessly, feeling somewhat smug about it. Then, clearing his throat, he turned back to his tailor. Their hands were still clutched between them. “Allow me to introduce my valet, Mr. James Har-ding. He may call on you from time to time as my proxy.”
étienne’s gaze swept up and down Har-ding’s form, lingering on his legs. Christopher gave his fine--boned hands a little squeeze in warning, and those eyes snapped back to him. “A valet? You? Oh, my dear.” He switched from his accented En-glish to rapid--fire French, which Christopher followed as closely as he could given that it was only his second tongue. “I never thought I would see the day. Is he to attend the fitting as well?”
“No, of course not,” Christopher returned in his serviceable French. “This is a temporary arrangement, just for the Season.”
“Do not tell me ‘of course not’ when it is not so clear!” étienne darted another look at Har-ding, who seemed to be taking all this in stride, standing there placidly. “I, for one, would seek to make such an arrangement last as long as possible. Those calves, Christopher.” From his inner coat pocket, he extracted a fan made of delicate lacework and unfurled it to beat the air near his face. “Thank god above for these uniforms, eh?”
“étienne! Stop staring. What would Bernard say?” Bernard was the third son of a family of well--to--do merchants as well as étienne’s lover. The two had a long--standing arrangement, though of course they could only meet in secret, usually under the guise of a fitting.
étienne made a gesture that could only be described as Gallic. “My Bernard would agree with me, of course. We both have eyes.”
Christopher rolled his. “Be that as it may, if you could refrain from being a complete strumpet for just a moment,” he said, still in French, “I would appreciate it. That is my manservant you’re talking about.”
“So territorial.” étienne sighed, darting another scandalous glance at Har-ding’s legs. “Though who could blame you?” The tailor had never tried to hide his own particular persuasion from Christopher, a show of friendship that Christopher greatly appreciated, but in this moment, he did wish the full force of étienne’s thirst for strapping men wasn’t being directed at Har-ding. There were a thousand others he could leer at, after all. A decidedly nasty part of Christopher’s mind pointed out that, as working men, Har-ding and étienne had much more in common than Christopher did with either of them, but he told that voice it could go to hell. This one was out of bounds—-and he conveyed that message to his tailor with a withering glare.
Har-ding gave a polite cough into his fist. “Shall I wait outside, my lord?” he asked. His voice held a frosty note to it.
Christopher had a moment’s panic where he thought perhaps Har-ding could parse their French, but he realized it would be exceedingly rare for a servant to have been exposed to such education, and so he relaxed.
“Yes, why don’t you find a public house and have something to eat?” he suggested. “I’ll be a while with étienne.”
Har-ding gave the tailor a cool look that seemed to indicate his dissatisfaction with his master spending a minute more in his presence, but his face soon returned to its implacable mask. He gave a bow and a murmured “My lord” before departing.
étienne watched him leave with much interest. Once the door had shut, he stuck his elbow into Christopher’s ribs and switched back to En-glish. “It took you ages to get a valet, but if that is the result, perhaps it was worth the wait.”
“You’re incorrigible,” Christopher said, but his judgmental tone was marred by the laughter that bubbled up from within him at his friend’s antics. He gave étienne a playful shove. “Now tell me: Is it ready?”
“Your ensemble for the ball? I must still have your opinion on the colors, Lord Eden.”
“No, not the ensemble—-let’s worry about that last.” His eyes darted around the shop, but he didn’t see any sign of étienne’s brothers. “The other thing.”
“Ah yes!” étienne rushed back into the depths of the shop, and Christopher followed with his heart thrumming. “My brothers are having their midday meal as well, so we won’t be disturbed.”
They passed huge bolts of fabric of every pattern, the stacks reaching the ceiling or leaning along the wall in neat rows. Christopher would have normally allowed himself the pleasure of touching each one and feeling the fine softness of expensive material against his fingertips, but today he had a more pressing goal. He followed on étienne’s heels as they slipped into a tiny, cramped room that served as a private workshop, where étienne could practice his craft away from his older brothers’ prying eyes. Among other practices, of course.
“Here we are,” he said, moving aside some heavy stacks of cloth to reveal a small chest on a high shelf. “Remember, this is just a trial fitting. It may take a few more before I achieve perfection.”
“I’m aware. Now give it here.” Christopher could not hide his eagerness, bouncing in his well--heeled boots.
étienne handed over the garment with quiet reverence, like a mother holding her child out for the vicar at a christening. It was a nondescript piece of cloth, just a plain, pale thing that any casual observer might mistake for a particularly rough and unforgiving chemise. But Christopher unfolded it like it was the most precious silk brocade.
“Oh,” he said in a whisper. “There it is.”
The garment was shaped as a waistcoat might be, except instead of a row of buttons down the front, there was a series of small hook--and--eye closures along the left side, where the panes of cloth met under the armhole. The whole thing was constructed out of canvas, with very little give in the structure. Christopher set it aside atop a pile of silver buttons and immediately began untying his cravat.
“And I will be able to put it on and off it by myself?” he asked with undisguised glee.
étienne bobbed his head. “That is my hope. Let us see, my friend. Come, come.”
He took Christopher’s coat and helped him slip out of his waistcoat and cravat. Once Christopher’s shirt had also been removed, étienne very decently turned his back, feigning some pressing need to fold the shirt in a neat square while Christopher unwound the bandages from his chest. During their long association, Christopher had often bared his body in front of étienne, and he could do so without too much distress, but it was a near thing. étienne, bless his soul, gave Christopher what privacy he could in such trusted moments.
Christopher completed the laborious task of unwrapping his chest and quickly shrugged into the new garment. étienne had a tailor’s ear for the slightest shift in fabric and must have heard the canvas settling into place, for he spun around with a wide grin.
“How does it feel?” he asked.
Christopher’s fingers fumbled with the many closures along his left flank. “Hold on. I have about a thousand of these to do; must there be so many?”
“Unfortunately, for the sake of the structure, it must.” étienne stepped forward and reached for the hook and eye that kept slipping from Christopher’s grip. “May I?”
“I need to be able to do it myself,” Christopher pointed out. “It’s not as if Har-ding will be able to assist me every morning, you know.”
“You will, you will. With practice, my friend. For now, we must check the fit.”
“Oh, all right,” Christopher relented, dropping his hands and allowing étienne’s masterful fingertips to fiddle with the closures. “Good lord, you’re quick.”
“Practice,” étienne repeated. “I cannot tell you how many girdles I have put on and taken off my clients. The theory is much the same.” He finished with the final hook and gave a little cry of triumph. “Let us look at you.” He spun Christopher around to face the opposite wall, where a full--length mirror stood half covered with scarves of sumptuous silk. étienne plucked the scarves away, letting them fall to the floor, and Christopher at last saw himself in the new garment étienne had designed especially for him.
His breath caught. The piece itself was unadorned, no lace or ribbon, exactly as Christopher had requested. The canvas was taut with not an inch of give. It was not what he would call a flattering piece of clothing—-the tight fit meant that some of the more squishy flesh under his arms bulged where the armholes met it—-but it served its purpose wonderfully. Christopher’s chest was completely flattened, and unlike the loads of linen bandages, this binding waistcoat was thin, unlikely to be noticed beneath his layers of togs. Best of all, the discomfort he felt around his middle was greatly reduced. The bandages tended to squeeze at his ribs until they creaked, not to mention the chafing. This garment still produced the welcome tightening sensation across his upper body, but it wasn’t painful.
“How many can you give me?” he blurted out, turning this way and that to admire his much--reduced silhouette in the mirror’s reflection.
“Six or seven, I should think,” said étienne. “It is not the sewing that is the issue, of course; it is quite a simple thing to produce. The problem is finding the time to produce them without my brothers watching me.” He rolled his eyes -toward the ceiling and muttered a quick prayer in French to the Virgin Mary. “Mother, bless and protect the youngest sons, for they have the worst asses as brothers.”
Six or seven. An absolute treasure trove, as far as Christopher was concerned. “Do what you can,” he said. He placed a hand on his flat chest, gaze still on the mirror. “I will pay handsomely, I promise you.”
étienne flitted around him, nudging at this or that part of Christopher’s body, humming at each seam. “I think I can improve the fit, if you would be so kind as to allow me to make some adjustments before I take it back?”
Christopher nodded. “I don’t think I want to take it off just yet anyway,” he said, and watched as his friend produced a needle and thread from mere ether and set to work, pins bristling between his lips.
“With this invention of mine,” étienne said between the pins, “you’ll be able to dance all night if you like! And with no fear of bandages unraveling.”
Christopher was not a complete failure on the dance floor, but he was not exactly looking forward to spinning away for hours in a press of bodies. Still, at least the new undergarment would make the thing slightly more comfortable.
Once the measurements were taken and the binding waistcoat was back in the hands of its creator, Christopher dressed himself anew. He and étienne then made themselves at home atop piles of velvets and silks in the private workshop, judiciously opening a bottle of good wine that étienne kept on hand for just such an afternoon.
“So,” étienne said as he poured for them. “This new valet of yours.” His eyebrows did something that Christopher was fairly sure was obscene.
“He has a name.” Christopher flicked a piece of stray thread from his knee, an unavoidable consequence of sitting in a tailor’s domain. “I’ll have you know Har-ding has proven very capable. Though he balked at first at not being able to dress me, I believe we have settled into something of an understanding. He’s been invaluable these last few days. Oh, and his horsemanship isn’t bad at all!” His head popped up and his eyes shone. “Can you credit it? He’s been accompanying me on my daily rides back at the Abbey.”
“A valet who can ride.” étienne pulled his mouth into a considering pout. “I can imagine. Impressive, no?” He didn’t bother suppressing a devilish giggle.
Christopher grabbed the nearest handful of cotton batting and flung it at his friend’s ridiculous face. “Can you try not to be lecherous for a single moment?” he cried as étienne only laughed harder. “You make it sound so tawdry when it’s anything but.”
étienne gasped in mock offense and held his cup of wine close to his chest. “Are you honestly telling me you do not notice how handsome this Har-ding of yours is? Even if you do not share my love of men, certainly you can appreciate them from afar. Like a painting. Or well--cut coat.”
“Of course I’ve noticed,” Christopher said. “I even had a bit of a, erm, pleasant dream about him last night.”
étienne practically crowed at this. “A nocturnal visit, eh? And you call me a lecher—-you’re the one lusting after your luscious man!”
“Yes, I suppose I am. Though I—-” He ran his fingertips around the rim of the teacup that was serving as his wineglass. Even with étienne, his closest companion, he wasn’t sure if he could be entirely candid on this subject.
étienne leaned forward on one elbow, his eyes wide and delighted. “Yes, my dear Lord Eden?”
A sigh blew through Christopher. If he couldn’t bare his soul to étienne, then to whom would it ever be bared?
“I worry,” Christopher said carefully, “that it makes me less of a man.”
étienne gave a little frown and snuggled farther into his pile of silks. “Do you think I am less of a man for taking Bernard into my bed?” he asked.
“No, of course not,” Christopher was quick to say, “but my case is different.”
“Because of how you are shaped?” étienne asked.
“Precisely.”
étienne drank his wine deeply, his eyes fixed on the cloth--draped ceiling of the little workshop as he contemplated this. Finally, he said, “There are all sorts of men in this world, my dear Christopher. I have seen them in the altogether countless times. Their manhood has nothing to do with their manhood, as far as I can tell.”
Christopher’s face flushed. “étienne!”
“What? I do not name names! I’m merely saying, why should you be held to a higher standard?”
“Point taken,” Christopher said. He paused in taking another sip of wine to watch étienne drain his cup. “So you don’t think it means I’m not a real man if I want—-that? With another man, I mean.”
“Oh, my dear.” étienne scoffed. “ ‘Real men.’ There are no real men, I think. There are only the men who pursue their desires and those who ignore them. And you, Lord Eden, have pursued more than most. Don’t forget that, eh?”
“Thank you, étienne. I shan’t,” Christopher said. He raised his teacup in an impromptu toast. “But I’m still not going to fuck my valet. Delectable as he may be, my energies are better spent on more important things. I have a duty to the earldom, after all.”
“Duty!” étienne groaned. “I am so bored by duty. Can we not get drunk and go swim in the Thames right this moment instead?”
“I’m afraid not.” Christopher swallowed the last of his wine and set the cup on a stack of orders. “I have a reputation to uphold, such as it is.” Not to mention he couldn’t swim.
étienne gave him a look. “Since when do you care for your reputation, Lord Eden?”
“Since I received a letter from my solicitors regarding my father’s will.” He sighed and told étienne the entire story. It lifted some of the burden from his shoulders to share the truth with someone, though he hated thinking of his imminent and unwanted marriage. “So you see,” he said as his tale drew to a close, “I need to find a willing bride, and quickly.”
“I have a suggestion for you, then,” said étienne. He folded his hands behind his head. “Miss Verbena Montrose.”
Christopher waited for more information following this pronouncement, but none seemed forthcoming. “Who is that?” he finally asked.
“Who is—-?” étienne sputtered, sitting upright. “You -really have been away from London for too long. She’s all anyone’s been talking about. Every man who comes into the shop—-” étienne made a puppet with his hand, snapping its mouth open and closed. “Miss Montrose this, Miss Montrose that. So lovely! So charming! Such a wit!”
Christopher frowned. “If she is as popular as all that,” he said, “then I should seek another. Surely she would never accept my proposal if she is entertaining so many legitimate ones.”
“Ah, see, that is the problem,” étienne said. “She has not had any offers yet. Her father lost his money on some business scheme, so no man has dared make a move. She is determined to find a husband, however. If she could only find one who did not care for her nonexistent dowry . . .” étienne trailed off meaningfully.
Christopher groaned. “She’s desperate, you mean.” He didn’t enjoy the idea of taking advantage of the poor girl’s financial need.
“Not desperate; it is too early in the Season for that. But it makes me wonder if, given her ambition, Miss Montrose might be amenable?”
Christopher hummed in thought. It wasn’t the worst idea he’d ever heard. “Do you think she will be at the Leftmores’ ball this Saturday?” he asked.
étienne looked at him with deep pity in his eyes. “My dear, everyone will be at the Leftmores’ ball this Saturday. Well.” He waggled his head. “Everyone who shares your station, I mean.”
“Then I will strike up a conversation with her there, see if she seems the type to—-” Christopher shrugged. “Keep secrets, I suppose.”
“She will likely do that and more if it means becoming Lady Eden,” étienne said with a knowing cock of his brow. “Now, shall I show you your ensemble for the ball?”
Christopher let out an long--suffering sigh. “I suppose you must.”