Chapter 2
Bloomsbury, while not as coveted an address as other parts of the city, was still an enviable locale. Verbena’s father always said that if the neighborhood could only excise its infestation of poets, it would be as tony as Mayfair itself.
Verbena didn’t much mind poets; in fact, she counted two—the Chesterfields—as her close friends, though she personally didn’t indulge in poetry very often.
It simply didn’t interest her. Now, however, as she bustled through the twisting Bloomsbury streets, she could not avoid the genre.
Chapbooks and pamphlets were available on every corner, hawked by grubby boys in battered caps.
“The latest from Peacock!” they cried. “Fresh odes from Shelley! The newest Flora Witcombe!”
Verbena hurried past them all, careful not to so much as glance at their wares. She could see why the erstwhile Lord Eden had favored the place as his city home. Eccentric types often gravitated to such streets.
At last, she turned a corner and spotted the house. It was easy to find in the long row of lookalikes; a dogcart was parked out front, overflowing with crates and bolts of fabric. Workmen were moving trunks into the home with lumbering slowness.
That gave Verbena pause. She had hoped she would be able to speak to étienne in private.
A glance up and down the busy thoroughfare did not immediately show any familiar faces, but that meant nothing.
In a city like London, all it took was one person who might recognize her.
What would the ton say if she, already an unaccompanied lady, was seen calling upon a bachelor?
In matters of life and death, etiquette must be ignored. She would have to go around the back.
The trick to slipping into places where one wasn’t supposed to be, Verbena had recently learned, was to pretend that one belonged there.
It was a skill she’d honed entering parties and soirees to which she had not technically been invited—oversights, surely.
She clutched her parasol in one tight fist and lifted her head high as she walked past the house.
A few of the workmen stopped to tip their hats, and she nodded to them pleasantly.
Just a lone woman, meandering around the block of houses and through the mews. Nothing to see here.
One small hop over a low fence and Verbena was in the back garden.
At least, it would have been a small hop if Verbena were wearing something other than her petticoat and walking gown.
Her slippered foot hovered in the air, nearly catching the wrought iron loops that made up the barrier, but she managed to clear it with only a little flailing.
Once that was done, she stood upright and smoothed her clothing back into order.
No one had seen, thank god. Onward.
The servants’ door was blessedly unlocked, and she let herself inside cautiously.
There was no one in the kitchen; the only sounds were the thump of crates in the front hall and workmen calling to each other.
Verbena did not hear a French accent directing them, so she left her parasol in a corner and crept up the back stairs.
It was not difficult to locate the master’s bedroom. She merely followed the sound of weeping.
The door was open a crack, and through it Verbena spied étienne Charbonneau flung face down on a chaise covered in a white sheet. The man’s slight shoulders were wracked with sobs, and his black curls were in terrible disarray.
Verbena opened the door further and cleared her throat to announce her presence.
“If you are a robber,” étienne said into the cushions, his thick accent muffled, “help yourself to whatever you wish. I only ask that you murder me before you depart so that I may be free of this heartache.”
Verbena smiled fondly. “Very well. Shall I oblige you with a pistol or a knife?”
étienne’s head shot up. His dark eyes were very pretty despite their tears. “Mademoiselle Montrose!” He wiped his face with a handkerchief that seemed to appear from nowhere. “I—I thought you were someone else.”
“I daresay you did.”
étienne stood, looking as welcoming as a host can with red eyes and a shiny nose. He beckoned her forward. “Come in, come in. Apologies for the state of—well, everything. You are my very first houseguest, mademoiselle.”
“Please, call me Verbena.” She entered the bedroom and removed her lemon-colored kid gloves. “In my view, once you’re tossed about a carriage together like a couple of coins in a purse, Christian names will suffice.”
“Of course. Verbena.” étienne clasped her hands in his. “I am delighted to see you.”
“And I must congratulate you on your newfound success.” Verbena squeezed his slim hands in hers. “How wonderful that I am the first to do so. I expect you’ll have droves of callers soon enough.”
“I did not consider that. I will need to buy chairs. Will you not sit?” He gestured to the chaise, where damp spots from his tears still marked the protective cloth.
Verbena sat well away from the wetness, smoothing her skirts as she did so. étienne sat next to her, closer than was proper, but it hardly mattered given his proclivities.
As a woman well-versed in the news of the day, Verbena had heard every sort of rumor under the sun, most of which dealt with the bedroom habits of the well-heeled.
Verbena hadn’t batted an eye at the idea of a man making love to another man since Winifred Stassel had explained the concept to her at age thirteen—all in service to better understand a piece of gossip involving an infamous baron who had since fled to the Continent.
No one among her set was truly shocked by such things, though they might feign to be; sodomy was even somewhat fashionable among a certain set of hedonist artistic types.
The lower classes, of course, could be brought up on charges if anyone cared to make a fuss, but gentlemen were largely exempt from those dangers.
Morals and laws, Verbena reasoned, were mostly for show, a set of rules that applied only to some and only when it was convenient to those with power.
Which is all to say, while she had no qualms about étienne’s nature, it made his situation all the more pressing.
“What a wonderful property you have here,” she said. She cast her assessing gaze along the crown moldings and fine carpets. “Forgive me, but everyone in town is wondering how you could afford it, you know.” Miss Hollyhock was not everyone, but Verbena was confident that more would follow.
“Including yourself?” étienne asked with a smile.
She gave him a playful slap on the arm. “That would be the height of impertinence! I merely wanted to tell you, as a friend, that people are talking.”
“Yes, they do that.” étienne regarded her with his warm eyes. “I do not mind telling you: there was no purchase. It was a gift from our mutual friend, the previous owner.”
“Was it?” She allowed her countenance to show how impressed she was.
“Lord Eden was exceedingly generous.” She had heard that he’d abandoned the Eden estate but not the reason for doing so, though she would wager it might’ve had something to do with an Achillean attachment of his own.
He never had married, as far as she knew.
étienne sighed. “I told Christopher I did not need such a large house of my own, but he insisted. He even furnished me with a tidy sum to cover the expenses such a property incurs, taxes and staff and such.” He ran a hand through his curls, mussing them further.
“Better this than to sell it off to some dour vicomte, he said, whilst he is living abroad. He knew how dearly I wished for a place of my own. My older brothers, I love them, but our rooms above the shop are…a challenge to share.”
“I can imagine,” Verbena said with great diplomacy. “This house affords you so much more space. And freedom.” She let the word hang in the air.
“Yes. So many rooms.” Tears welled at the corners of étienne’s eyes once more. He ducked his head as if he could hide them. “All of them empty, save for myself.”
Verbena placed a sympathetic hand on his arm. “Your brothers did not wish to reside here with you?”
étienne shook his head. “I had planned…” He gave a mirthless laugh. “It does not matter now. All my plans are ruined.” He turned to her with a tight smile. “Please ignore me, Verbena. I am only made maudlin from such a tiring day.”
Verbena hadn’t expected him to confess outright, and she couldn’t blame him. It was not a simple thing, saying aloud what one had so closely guarded for so long. There would be a certain kindness in doing it for him—not to mention expediency.
She put aside delicacy for the moment, saying, “My friend, I can see you have suffered a terrible heartbreak. And I want you to know he is a fool.”
Those dark, damp eyes widened. “He—? I do not understand what you mean.”
“It is obvious that you meant to share this good fortune”—she gestured at the grand room—“with your lover, whoever he is. Yet when you offered it to him, there was an argument. I assume he is wealthy?”
“He comes from a long line of successful merchants, yes,” étienne said.
“Ah. Then he is the kind of man who would kick like a mule at a tailor rising above his station. He let his pride, not his sense, guide his tongue. I imagine he said some dreadful things to you.”
“He did,” étienne croaked. “He was a beast. All those years together, pah! Gone in an instant. But—how did you know about Bernard?”
Bernard. There were three Bernards in Verbena’s recollection. One was currently abroad; one was nearly ninety years of age. étienne’s former lover must then be—well, it did not matter, she reminded herself. Her ability to tease out the truth would do étienne no good.
“My dear étienne.” Verbena placed a hand on his cheek.
“Your shop is patronized by some of the most incorrigible gossips in London—young gentlemen,” she said.
“Rumors of the argument between you and Bernard reached me, though I don’t think his name has come up as of yet.
That works in your favor. Or his, to be more accurate. ”
étienne’s pale visage flamed to match his eyes. “And you are not shocked by this?” he asked. “By the company I keep?”
She gave his cheek a pat, then let her hand fall away. “A man loving another man is hardly worth my notice—although others may not feel similarly,” she said as gently as she could.
étienne stared at the thick Persian carpet beneath their feet. “I see.”
“That is why I came here,” Verbena said. “If I managed to put the pieces together, it’s only a matter of time before even the dullest blades in high society do, too. And dull blades cause the most damage. I do not want to see you come to harm.”
There was also the matter of saving her own skin, but Verbena had the good sense to describe étienne’s problem first before offering him the solution. Perhaps it was self-centered, but really, could anyone blame a girl for wanting to secure her own future?
“I will be ruined,” étienne whispered as he arrived at the intended realization. “My family, my shop, my good name. I will lose it all.”
“Unless.” Verbena stuck a single finger in the air. “We outmaneuver the rumors.”
He gave her a strange look. “What is it you mean?”
This part required all of Verbena’s tact. She cleared her throat and held her head high. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard of my own family’s difficulties?”
étienne wrinkled his nose in apparent embarrassment. “I am sorry, my friend, but in my line of work, it is impossible not to hear the idle chatter of so-called gentlemen.”
“No need to apologize. It saves me the explanation.” An explanation that would be chock-full of choice words regarding her father’s lack of business sense. “Suffice to say, I find myself in an awkward position as well.” She paused. “I require a husband, étienne.”
étienne had the air of a man confused by a rapid change in subject, but was too polite to shift the conversation back to his own worries.
“I am afraid I know of no one suitable, now that Lord Eden has left our shores. There was a fourth son of the Earl of Stockton, but his taste in hats…” He gave a disapproving shake of his head.
Verbena sighed. This was not how she had envisioned this moment as a little girl. In those childish daydreams, she was the one receiving the proposal, for one thing. For another, the imagined man sitting opposite desired her.
Of course, a man who desired her would likely want to possess her like a new cart horse, so maybe this wasn’t all bad. Best to get on with it.
“étienne,” she said, “I mean to marry you.”