Chapter 1 #2
Verbena controlled her face into a pleasant, blank mask.
It was extremely forward of Newham to ask if she had any suitors, but some people did not have the gift of subtlety.
She elected to ignore the rudeness; the baron might have an unattached nephew or cousin, and perhaps his impertinent question was only in service of making a match.
“I have fostered many excellent friendships”—another lie; most of these people were awful bores—“but I am not entertaining a suit at the moment, if that is what you mean.”
Not for lack of trying. Her family’s dire financial situation and her subsequent nonexistent dowry made it difficult to attract a proposal.
“Capital, capital.” In addition to his hat, the baron’s shave also needed tending. Whoever had done the job had left several bristles where his chin should be. “I wonder, then, if you might entertain a proposal of my own.”
“And what is that, my lord?” asked Verbena. While she still held out hope for an unattached nephew in the wings, the hairs on the back of her neck prickled in warning. She glanced about to see if anyone could overhear, but all the other guests were still absorbed in the game.
“I think we could come to quite a beneficial arrangement,” the baron murmured, more to Verbena’s décolletage rather than her entire person.
Verbena felt a flush of anger overtake her.
It straightened her spine and sharpened her mind.
Already her thoughts were in motion, not in a distressed whirl, but in the focused way a cobra might stalk a mouse.
Despite his wealth and title, Newham was not immune to the whispers of the ton.
She had heard tidbits here and there of his private dealings; it was not difficult for her to piece them together to create a vivid tapestry.
He thought her fit for nothing more than a clandestine romp? She would prove him wrong.
“Lord Newham,” she said with ice in her tone, “I am certain I misheard you. Surely a man of your stature could not say what I erroneously believe you said.”
“Now, don’t be coy.” His upper lip twitched with mirth as he leaned in closer. Verbena leaned away, gripping her parasol handle. “I would be very kind to you, yes, very kind. Two pounds a month, perhaps, and the use of some rooms where we might meet thrice a week or so.”
Verbena reminded herself that beating a baron with a parasol in the middle of a picnic was not the polite thing to do. Not to mention, the parasol would hardly inflict the desired amount of damage. Her true weapon was information, and she possessed that in droves.
She forced a smile to her lips.
“My lord, I would rather perish,” she said cheerfully.
“Three pounds, then. Not a bad deal for a girl who can’t procure the affections of a husband,” Newham drawled.
She drew herself up to her full height. “This is not a negotiation, sir. My quibble is not with the price; it is with your person, which is abhorrent to me.”
The horror of spending time in the baron’s private company aside, Verbena knew what happened to women who agreed to similar arrangements.
She could hardly escape such knowledge, as devoted as she was to reading the news of the day, from the most opaque political dealings to the tawdriest tales of the criminal underworld—and, yes, stories of girls in untenable situations.
High-class or low, they tended to be tossed out on the street on the man’s fickle whim—usually with child, always with a black mark on their reputation.
Better for women skilled in those arts to be their own masters and ply their expert trade on their own terms, in her view.
But of course, that was not what men like the baron sought.
Lord Newham’s amused smirk fell into a scowl.
“Think it over carefully before you rebuff me,” he hissed.
“By now, all of London knows your dire situation. You’re lucky to have caught my interest at all.
Do you imagine Lady Croydon might extend future invitations to you if I told her that you’ve already offered yourself to me? ”
“Do you imagine Lady Croydon will believe that once I tell her how you allow your brothers to lay with your wife?”
That shut his foul mouth. His lips pursed, his cheeks flaming a ludicrous red.
“I noticed,” Verbena said, all innocence, “that Admiral Newham was in town about nine months before your last child was born, was he not? And your youngest brother—was he not seen escorting Lady Newham in the park several months ago? I excel at arithmetic, you know.” She fixed her steely gaze on the baron.
“Society will forgive a man his vices. They will even encourage them. But they will never respect a cuckold, and a willing one at that.”
It was entirely possible he and Lady Newham had resorted to using the brothers to produce an heir if Lord Newham was unable to produce one himself, but the reason behind the arrangement was none of Verbena’s concern.
It was the result that would cause a scandal.
Was it unfair for her to use such a thing against him?
Perhaps, but it was equally unfair of him to threaten her as he had.
Cobras, when taunted, attack. A creature cannot be faulted for doing what is in its nature.
Newham quivered with rage. His hands balled into fists at his sides. Verbena noted all this coolly.
“Strike me in view of everyone,” she said, “and see which of us receives their sympathy. Who knows? You might even win me a husband.”
“Vixen,” Newham said under his breath. “Witch.”
Verbena cleared her throat, speaking loudly enough that the other guests might hear her. “Farewell, baron. A pity you must leave the festivities so early. Give my love to your wife.”
Puffing like an overworked cart horse, Lord Newham could only sketch the shallowest of bows before storming off across the lawn. Verbena watched him disappear over a hill with a sort of grim satisfaction.
She meant to rejoin the game, but as she turned to inspect the state of play, she was arrested by a cloud of perfume draped in taffeta.
“Miss Montrose,” said the cloud, “what was all that about?”
The cloud took the shape of Miss Diedre Hollyhock, a lovely if unrelenting girl destined to be an old maid at twenty-six.
Despite being perfectly pleasant, if no great beauty, she had never married.
She served as a harsh reminder to all the younger women of their circle that if they didn’t find husbands, they would be consigned to a lifetime of spinsterhood.
Despite this state of affairs, Miss Hollyhock was a jolly presence at parties, always eager to collect bits of gossip.
One could see from the glint in her eyes that she meant to dig some out of Verbena.
“All about what, Miss Hollyhock?” Verbena parried.
“Lord Newham left rather abruptly, I noticed,” Miss Hollyhock said. “Your conversation was not the cause of any distress, was it?”
“Oh, nothing of the kind.” Verbena laughed. “Idle chitchat. We remarked upon the weather, mostly.”
While Verbena enjoyed Miss Hollyhock’s company, she was not what one might call a bosom friend.
Confidantes were a risk that Verbena did not dare take.
From the moment she’d made her debut, Verbena had been acutely aware of how quickly a so-called trusted friend could reveal herself a turncoat if it meant even the most meager increase in her own standing.
She remembered with a pang her dearest childhood friend, Winifred Stassel, who had once betrayed her before a pivotal ball.
Miss Hollyhock eyed Verbena closely. “Perhaps you might recall what His Lordship said in more detail later. Oh!” Her gaze went to something over Verbena’s shoulder that caused her eyes to widen. “We’ll speak later. I must return to the game.”
“I’ll accompany—” Verbena began to say, but Miss Hollyhock fled faster than she could utter a response. How odd.
Verbena turned, curious as to what had made Miss Hollyhock rush away, and was confronted with the unwelcome sight of an extremely tall, thin viscount with a smattering of white hair on his head. He was standing much too close to her.
“Lord Merven,” she said with all the politeness she could muster.
While she normally considered all conversation vital to her aims, Verbena had great difficulty understanding how this man’s could be anything but useless.
Lord Merven talked of nothing but his hobby of cataloging snails; he was well-known for haranguing a captive audience on the subject.
Snails were, of course, one of god’s creations, and Verbena had no quarrel with them, but she had more important things to do than learn about viscous shell dwellers.
Lady Croydon’s picnic was one of the last opportunities to circulate for the season, after all. A few more outings, perhaps a ball, and it would all be over.
“Miss Montrose, have you ever heard of the left-hand spiraled snail?” Lord Merven asked in lieu of a greeting. He clasped his hands behind his back with the air of a philosopher settling in for a long lecture.
Verbena made a sound of regret. “My lord, excuse me, I really must—”
She picked up her skirts, but Lord Merven began speaking again in his steady, dull monotone.
“Lefties, we call them in my circle,” he said. “Exceedingly rare. Find a good lefty and I assure you, the London Society of Mollusks will be in an uproar. Well, what do you suppose I found amongst my letters just this week?”
Verbena resigned herself to her fate. There was no escaping Merven and his snails. If she broke away while he was still conversing, her rudeness would no doubt tarnish her already not-so-sterling reputation. The man was a viscount, after all. Snails notwithstanding.
“I couldn’t begin to guess,” she said miserably.