A Lady for All Seasons

Chapter 1

It was a damp and dreary afternoon near the end of the London season in the year the regent had become King.

After six months of rule, even the densest members of the ton were finally referring to His Majesty correctly on the first try.

All of London—and, indeed, the empire—found itself at a turning point, but as is usual in such circumstances, hardly anyone understood what was happening in the moment.

Some people had more pressing matters to consider.

For example, all the social machinations and maneuverings of a midsummer picnic.

Verbena Montrose surveyed the scene. The hostess had outdone herself.

On a patch of flat grass, footmen had erected canopies to provide protection from the intermittent drizzle, and low tables were being laid with cold roast chicken and platters of minuscule foodstuffs.

Turkish rugs were unfurled and goose-down pillows arranged so those who wished could recline.

Some distance away, beneath their own canopy, a string quartet was tuning their instruments.

Everywhere one looked, glasses of cold lemonade and champagne were being offered on silver salvers by liveried servants in powdered wigs.

To Verbena, this was all on par with watching armies prepare for an onslaught.

A social event such as this may not involve the same amount of bloodshed, but in her mind, it was war all the same.

When one was searching for a husband as she was, there was no sense in pretending society was anything else.

“Everyone! Shall we play a game before we eat?” their hostess called over the faint murmur of the gathering crowd.

Verbena turned to regard the handsome woman of middle age. Her mind supplied all the relevant facts without hesitation: the dowager countess, Lady Croydon. Recently out of mourning. Very rich, and very eager to return to society.

The lady sipped at her glass of wine and gestured to a knot of young bucks. “Find something we can use as a blindfold,” she directed.

While the men tried to locate an extra cravat that someone swore had been brought for just this purpose, Verbena exchanged amiable greetings with her mutual acquaintances.

There was an earl whose daughter was rumored to have run off to Spain to become a nun; a lady who had almost certainly poisoned her first husband so she might marry her second; the twins who had a gambling habit and laudanum addiction, respectively; and three Howe sisters who, Verbena knew for a fact, were all in love with the same man, who in turn was in love with a butcher’s daughter from Kent.

Verbena knew these things because she had made it her business to know.

The trick was to take in all conversation, no matter how boring, and piece it together with all the other conversations she had absorbed.

Whereas others might see pointless chatter, with all the bits and baubles combined, she was able to form a complete picture.

It was during one of these interminable chats, where Verbena was politely listening to one guest talk about the weather (unseasonably cool), that she heard the eldest Howe sister mention “a most unnatural death.”

Her ears attuned to this instantly, being a student of the macabre and well-versed in broadside stories of murderous intrigue. It was an interest that Verbena often hid in polite company, unladylike as it was, so the opportunity to hear some tawdry tidbit was a welcome one.

“That is the title?” the conversation partner asked.

“Yes, Flora Witcombe’s latest,” Miss Howe insisted, “is the most amusing collection of poems yet. By far my favorite, even better than her first!”

Poetry. Bah. Verbena would gain more by listening to someone speak about the weather. At least then, the speaker might divulge some future plans that could be stymied or helped along by rain or sun. If the murder was a mere metaphor, what was the point?

“Aha!” Lady Croydon waved the white strip of silk someone had finally procured.

“Now we may begin.” She looked over her guests, her eyes alighting upon Verbena.

Not for the first time, Verbena cursed her bright red hair, which often made her stand out in a crowd.

She tried to tuck the fashionably errant wisps back under her bonnet, but it was too late.

“Shall you be ‘it’ in our first round of blindman’s bluff, Miss Montrose? ” their hostess asked.

“It would bring me great pleasure,” Verbena lied. She shut her parasol and leaned it against a nearby tree, as many of the other ladies had already done.

“Careful, dear,” warned Lady Croydon as she fastened the silk around Verbena’s head. “In a game like this, who knows where one’s hands will alight?” Several gentlemen chuckled.

Verbena was very glad for the blindfold. It allowed her to roll her eyes without being seen.

“Over here, Miss Montrose!” A high-pitched voice dissolved into giggles, joined by the titters of a dozen other guests.

Verbena could hear clumsy feet scampering in the opposite direction quite clearly, but she feigned confusion with a pleasant smile.

It was important to be a good sport, no matter how much one would rather be elsewhere.

“Dear me,” she murmured, arms outstretched. “I’m hopeless at this! How am I supposed to catch anyone?”

Someone to the left whispered something Verbena could not quite make out, but the recipient of the remark snickered cruelly.

Verbena’s head whipped in that direction.

If someone had something to say about her, she very much wished to know who had said it.

She made for the perpetrator, marching quickly and changing course as she heard dainty shoes shuffling along the grass.

“Ah, no!” cried her prey.

Verbena knew well the sound of skirts being lifted in preparation for running. When one had played as many rounds of blindman’s bluff at picnics as she had, it was impossible not to.

She struck with assured deftness, catching hold of a soft arm. “Now I’ve got you.” Verbena lifted her blindfold in triumph.

Her captive was Miss Landsbury, second daughter of the Cheshire Landsburys.

A middling family of no real consequence.

Her cheeks were aflame, and not, Verbena suspected, from their playful exertions.

The girl knew she had been caught gossiping, and she had no choice but to weather Verbena’s hard stare.

“Good showing, Miss Montrose,” she said, attempting to reclaim her dignity by standing taller. “You give yourself too little credit. You make a wonderful ‘it’ after all.”

“The trick is to listen and stay as quiet as possible,” Verbena said. She gave Miss Landsbury’s arm a shake to drive home her meaning. “A bit of advice I hope will serve you well, now that you are…‘it.’ ” She held the blindfold aloft on the crook of one finger.

Miss Landsbury took it with a sullen sneer that did her no favors. Verbena noticed Lady Croydon whisper something to one of the twins while holding out her glass for a servant to refill. Society could not countenance a slip in a lady’s feminine facade.

Verbena’s smile widened. Silly girls with no head for strategy should not play for such high stakes against a more experienced player.

Still, the encounter disturbed Verbena. She thought it over as she collected her parasol in case the rain began again.

There was little doubt in her mind that Miss Landsbury had made some remark about Verbena’s recent difficulties in finding a husband.

That she felt free to do so without repercussion was troubling.

In truth, word of her father’s financial state had spread despite Verbena’s efforts to stem the tide.

A household could not release a flock of footmen and three chambermaids from employment while neglecting to hire replacements without some comment.

Even second daughters from Cheshire now knew Mr. Lewis Montrose had been bilked out of his fortune by scoundrels and charlatans.

His creditors were being held at bay with promises of some future windfall, which was to say, Verbena’s future marriage.

If Verbena ever managed to find a suitable husband, of course.

“Ah, Miss Montrose!”

Verbena shook herself from her dour thoughts as a gentleman approached from across the lawn. It was Lord Newham, a pale man of forty-some years with a distinct lack of chin. He possessed a wife twenty years his junior and a hat in dire need of brushing.

“My lord.” Verbena dropped a curtsy. “Do you wish to join our game?” She gestured to the blindfolded Miss Landsbury, who was currently headed directly for an elm.

“No, no,” said the baron. “I was hoping to have a word with you.”

Verbena could hardly refuse the polite request, surrounded as she was by curious eyes. “Of course.”

Parasol raised above her head, she allowed the baron to escort her some distance away so they could speak privately, although Verbena did keep an eye on the game. After all, one couldn’t miss the chance to watch Miss Landsbury walk face-first into a tree with an undignified yelp.

The baron appeared distracted, though not by Miss Landsbury’s folly. He looked at the sky, the ground, the flower beds—everywhere but Verbena. “Lovely day,” he said as if by rote.

“Yes, isn’t it perfect?” This was a lie, of course, but one the English collectively indulged in anytime they found themselves at a party in the open air.

Verbena hoped the damp grass would not seep through her soft shoes; her feet were already quite chilled.

“And how fares Lady Newham?” The baron’s wife was heavy with their third child, or so people said.

She was not present at the picnic, so the rumor seemed likely.

“Oh, she…” The baron trailed off, waving a hand through the air as if his wife’s health was of no consequence. “But what of you? Have you formed any attachments this season?”