Chapter 4
Verbena bustled through London with a smile on her face and a noticeable spring in her step. What a difference a fortnight could make. In that short span of time, she and étienne had successfully established their roles as young lovers embarking on a very proper courtship in keeping with her plan.
Their “chance” meeting in St. James’s had gone well, with étienne loudly exclaiming for the benefit of all passersby that it had been far too long since they’d seen each other, and had she received any word from their mutual friend Lord Eden?
How fortuitous that His Lordship had introduced them all those months ago, he said, and how lovely it was to see her on such an excellent day in the park, and hopefully it wouldn’t be too bold to say he’d only yesterday been thinking of her and their infamous misadventure.
She’d held his well-dressed arm and chatted amiably as they took a turn around the pond, Betsy following at their heels like an anxious crow.
Heads turned in their direction constantly.
Their intimacy had been noticed by no fewer than four peers of the realm and a dozen ladies.
“I like how he speaks to you, miss,” Betsy told her afterward. “Respectful-like. Not like some of your old callers, if you pardon my saying so.”
Verbena was quietly pleased to have the approval of her maid and constant companion.
Even if the marriage was a false one, it meant she was correct in her predictions that étienne would be welcomed into his new role by all manner of people.
And anyway, Betsy’s opinion was more precious to Verbena than most.
Yes, the outing had gone flawlessly, as had the three other public appearances they’d managed since.
Verbena had, of course, ushered everything along with a few well-placed comments in passing to Miss Hollyhock and her ilk.
She simply noted that étienne’s good fortune suited him well, and had they ever seen a man dressed so fashionably? All of which was true.
“You wouldn’t actually entertain a suit from a tailor?” one impertinent lady asked Verbena while they took tea at Miss Hollyhock’s one afternoon.
Verbena pretended to think about it. “I suppose it would depend on the tailor,” she said at last. “A well-mannered one, comfortably situated, who might support a wife and family would be infinitely more attractive than, say, a third son living on fifty pounds a year.” A not-so-subtle reference to the girl’s current beau.
“Times do change, and so too must we. Wouldn’t you agree? ”
The tea, when Verbena sipped it in the ensuing silence, was scalding.
Once it was established that étienne was pursuing her, and that Verbena was amenable, the whispers of the ton made their way right back to her.
Most people, it seemed, approved of the match as entirely sensible, even romantic, given étienne’s humble origins.
A few detractors sneered, thinking Verbena was too calculating in entertaining a newly rich man.
Others expressed faux concern that she would be marrying beneath her station, but there would always be such reactions regardless of her choice in suitor.
As long as the reception was generally favorable, Verbena considered her efforts to be a success.
Her sprightly walk took her to Marylebone for her afternoon appointment. She arrived at a modest home with a lovely crop of ivy just beginning to train up the facade. A smiling maid received her at the door and ushered her into the parlor, where her friend Belinda Chesterfield rose to greet her.
“It is so good to see you,” said Belinda, clasping her close.
“It was good of you to invite me.” Verbena returned her embrace before seating herself on a handsome wingback chair. “You look wonderful. Married life agrees with you.”
It had been nearly a year since Verbena had assisted Belinda in her midnight elopement, and in the intervening months, they had seen more of each other than they ever had during the seasons.
Initially, Verbena had known Belinda only as a sad girl, forever in a state of near mourning, as her sister had mysteriously disappeared years ago.
Now Verbena found Belinda an excellent companion and a good source of unvarnished information.
Both Chesterfields were poets, and less concerned with their noble families than with each other; therefore, Belinda did not represent a threat to Verbena in any way. One might even say they were friends.
Belinda touched a hand to her white mob cap as she sat on the divan opposite. “Thank you. I must become accustomed to entertaining at home, I think. At least for the next few months.” She placed a hand meaningfully on her middle, her cheeks aflame.
“Oh!” Verbena’s hands flew to cover her mouth, then dropped when she realized she could smile freely here. “Congratulations, truly. Does Mr. Chesterfield know?”
“Yes, Horace is already panicking, but first-time fathers are allowed a little panic. I daresay he’ll produce some excellent poetry in the state he’s in,” Belinda said with a laugh. “Men can be so emotional, don’t you find?”
Verbena allowed herself a snort of laughter.
“They’ve not been taught even a modicum of self-control, as far as I can tell.
” Then, remembering her wonderful ruse, she added, “Of course, there is the odd gentleman who might prove himself in that regard.” She didn’t wish to lie to Belinda, but she and étienne had made a pact: they would not tell a soul the truth of their arrangement.
Allowing her friend to form her own conclusions would only help their cause.
After a lifetime in high society, Verbena could make herself blush on command. All she had to do was think of pretty girls bathing in the Mediterranean. She did so now, infusing her cheeks with a pinkish glow.
Belinda hummed. “And how is Monsieur Charbonneau these days?”
Before Verbena could answer, the maid came in with the tea tray, and intimate conversation paused. Verbena took hers black with a little sugar, while Belinda loaded up her own teacup with enough to sustain an army, and plenty of milk besides.
“I’m ravenous,” she confessed once the maid had gone and such sensitive topics could be revisited. “I could honestly polish off this entire tray of cakes and sandwiches on my own.”
“Oh, please do. I won’t mind!” Verbena nudged the tiered stand closer to Belinda. She had her eye on some iced biscuits, but she could practice restraint.
Belinda put a refusing hand in the air. “No, we have more important things to do than eat cake.”
“Well, that sounds dire.” Verbena sipped her tea. “What could possibly be more important than cake? Especially in your condition.”
Belinda placed her cup in its saucer with an ominous click. She looked to the door as if trying to determine whether the maid was listening at the keyhole, then leaned closer to whisper, “Have you read any new poetry recently?”
Verbena paused to think.
You, dear reader, already know the answer: Verbena was much too busy to bother with poetry. Yet she did not wish to offend her hostess, who wrote poems, she’d heard it said, far surpassing those of her husband.
“Not recently, no,” Verbena finally stated.
“I have been most…preoccupied of late.” She let the words work their magic on her friend’s imagination.
With the proper coy inflection, her intentions were obvious.
It was a fine line between truth and lies, but she walked it as best she could.
“I admit I’ve enjoyed Monsieur Charbonneau’s company these past few weeks.
I would not mind enjoying more of it in the future. ”
“That is what I had heard,” said Belinda, “and then I read this.” She produced a small sheaf of paper from behind one of the divan cushions and held it out to Verbena.
Verbena felt a chill go through her. She took hold of the little pamphlet, which was brittle and bound in cheap twine. The front cover declared:
More Poems to Amuse and Delight
by the Poetess Flora Witcombe
“Read the first one,” Belinda told her.
Verbena flicked to the first page and confronted the words. There, in an unassuming and somewhat uneven typeface, was the following poem:
There dwells in Mayfair a maiden fair
Her head as red as flame
Though her coffers are sadly bare,
Filled to bursting is her brain.
Her love, they say, takes such care
His swordspoint sharp agleam
And upon her loveliness will stare
Yet this is but a dream.
For our sakes they seem a pair
Yet when night falls pitch-black
A man might tread upon his stair
Whilst in bed, he waits—on his back.
Verbena rose slowly to her feet. She clutched so hard at the pamphlet that its coarse paper became irretrievably wrinkled at the edges. A fury unlike any she’d ever known—even the one inspired by Lord Newham—overtook her.
She was obviously the unnamed Mayfair woman with no money to her name. The allusion to a sword must have been poetic license in referring to étienne’s needle. Or perhaps his manhood. Not that it mattered.
This was about them, clearly.
Who was this—this poetess? How dare she?
Gossip was Verbena’s purview. This hackneyed writer was putting all of Verbena’s work at risk.
It didn’t matter that what she’d written was true—except perhaps the part about étienne’s preferences in bed; Verbena had no knowledge of that, nor did she want it.
And anyway, they had both agreed: no affairs until after they were married.
She was certain he had no men creeping up to his bedroom in secret.
He was too intelligent for such a misstep.
Regardless! It was poor form for this poetess to air that dirty linen to all of London. Verbena didn’t even know this woman! Why was she trying to ruin Verbena’s prospects in this cruel manner?
If I were a man, Verbena thought grimly, it would be pistols at dawn. No, swords. An insult of this magnitude deserved a slow and painful punishment.