Chapter 1 #4
“I do hope your friendship with him begins and ends with that masterful introduction. He’s—well, you see—” Miss Hollyhock leaned in as if divulging a secret of the Crown. “He arrived in a hackney.”
Verbena’s heart sank. “Oh?”
Miss Hollyhock scrunched her nose apologetically. “You wouldn’t have noticed, what with Lord Merven monopolizing your attention.”
A certain veneer of wealth was expected in London society.
To appear in a rented hack instead of a proper carriage was a social blunder tantamount to sneezing on the king.
Verbena was lucky to have been offered a seat in the Howe coach to this picnic, as her father had sold the family carriage early in the season.
As an unattached lady, she had the excuse of being escorted, thus avoiding the shameful alternative.
Arriving in a hack meant that Miles McDonald was terribly poor. Worse, he did not know enough to hide that fact.
She watched him at a distance, awkwardly accepting a cup of punch, his thin smile aimed at everyone in the vicinity. The outmoded fashions he wore, his lack of survival instinct, it all added up to one thing: he was not a good prospect.
“I know. It’s such a disappointment.” Miss Hollyhock sighed. “He’s rather handsome, for a Scot. Even with the—” She gestured to her own face, presumably indicating the eyeglasses.
“I suppose.” Looks were not important to Verbena; that was reserved for finances. She could not marry a man who would be unable to support her—or her wretched parents, for that matter. The resulting poverty would be the same as if she remained unattached, so what would be the point?
“They say his parents have both died, leaving him as the sole heir to nothing.” Miss Hollyhock looped her arm in Verbena’s and led her to sit on a pile of pillows, where they could graze among the platters of fresh berries and petit fours.
“Does he really think he will find an English wife when he has nothing to offer her but his looks?”
Verbena grimaced in sympathy for the man even as she selected a miniature strawberry tart. They were in similar boats, it seemed, both searching for a port.
Ah, well. Back to the start, then.
“What is the world coming to? Today it’s an impoverished gentleman Highlander,” Miss Hollyhock continued, “tomorrow it’s a tailor who’s to become a gentleman. It’s all topsy-turvy.”
Verbena had not yet heard of this latter example, but no reason to let Miss Hollyhock know that. “Oh, yes, the tailor. You’re too right. What was that man’s surname? I believe it started with an H?”
“No, no. It’s one of the Charbonneau brothers.
” Miss Hollyhock raised her brows meaningfully.
“People are saying this very day he is taking ownership of the house in Bloomsbury previously owned by Lord Eden. What sort of windfall would account for that, I wonder?” She paused.
“Didn’t a Charbonneau brother figure in one of your amusing misadventures? ”
Verbena once more schooled her face into impassivity.
She now knew the man Miss Hollyhock meant: étienne, her onetime accomplice.
Last season, she’d gone on the ride of her life in a bid to help a duke’s daughter, one Belinda Greene, elope with her secret lover, a man called Chesterfield.
It was a long story, and one she often told at parties—leaving out any of the incriminating details, of course.
As far as the ton was aware, she and étienne had been the guests of Lord Eden, a keen horseman who’d taken them for an innocent midnight jaunt with Verbena’s maid acting as chaperone.
They’d been chased by the enraged duke, who’d mistaken them for the lovers, who were actually escaping via another road.
If Verbena never saw another dueling pistol in her life, it would be too soon.
Mr. and Mrs. Chesterfield were now happily married, and often invited Verbena to tea.
But what had happened to her friend étienne since that fateful night?
A lot, apparently, not all of it mentioned in their irregular correspondence.
Although now that Verbena thought of it, his last missive had said that her next letter to him should be sent to a new address in Bloomsbury.
A fine time for the man to choose modesty!
Did he not know that all details of such news should be furnished to her without delay?
“I believe the man’s name was Charbonneau, though I cannot recall his Christian name,” she managed to say. “I only knew him in passing.” A lie, but a necessary one.
“Well, it’s the youngest one who is being installed in Bloomsbury. My father gets all his togs from their shop,” Miss Hollyhock prattled on. “A little place in Savile Row. Do you know it?”
The wheels in Verbena’s mind clicked at a fair pace.
“Was there not some commotion in Savile Row but a day or two ago? I remember someone mentioning it.” She had filed it away, thinking to ask étienne about it in her next letter to him, but had not yet gotten around to doing so.
Husband hunting was an all-consuming business. Her correspondence had suffered.
“Oh, yes,” Miss Hollyhock said. “Some terrible row with a customer at the very shop. Perhaps the two are connected. Imagine, a gentleman tailor rising above his station, attending the same balls as the men he’s dressed.
How droll! If someone didn’t like the cut of a coat, he’d hear about it at the buffet table. ”
“Yes. Very amusing.” Verbena chewed on her lip. She doubted that was the reason behind the altercation, but Miss Hollyhock was right about one thing. These two facts—étienne’s sudden good fortune and the scene at his shop—could not be a coincidence.
“Or perhaps he is rising above his station in other ways,” Miss Hollyhock remarked, “hence the shouting match in the street. If he has any intelligence, he will try to procure a wife of stature to climb the social ladder. Very likely he has pressed his suit with a woman of the ton. Probably an angry father desired to remind him of his place.”
Verbena bit her tongue. If Miss Hollyhock had spent an evening in a carriage with the man, as Verbena had, she would understand étienne possessed no interest in the fairer sex.
His entire manner was always courteous and proper, yet spoke of something Verbena could only describe as unlike other men—and not just because he was French.
If he had engaged in a public shouting match, it was not over some girl. It was much more likely to have been caused by a love affair of a different kind. Something more Achillean, she’d wager…
Verbena’s breath caught. Oh, dear.
If her instincts were correct, étienne was poised on the knife’s edge of ruin.
She had to get to Bloomsbury this instant. Verbena was no slouch at putting clues together, but it was only a matter of time before someone else arrived at the truth.
She stood abruptly. “I’m feeling terribly faint,” she said to Miss Hollyhock.
“Shall I have someone fetch you a drop of something fortifying? Brandy, perhaps?” Miss Hollyhock asked.
“I think I must get home and lie down.” Already she was walking backward out of the tent. “Do give Lady Croydon my regrets, would you?”
Without waiting for Miss Hollyhock’s agreement, Verbena snapped up her parasol and made her exit from the picnic grounds as quickly as she could without attracting notice.