Chapter 8
Verbena watched étienne’s face furrow into a series of frowns as he glanced over the chapbook. The carriage—étienne had commissioned a most luxurious one, as befit his new status—jolted on the pockmarked road, jostling their shoulders together.
“Much of the meaning escapes me, Miss Montrose,” he said, closing the small pamphlet. Flora Witcombe’s name was splashed on its front along with the title: On His Unexpected (And Secretive) Return. “It is a poem about…another poet?”
Flora’s latest was deftly done, a set of rhyming couplets that alluded to a tragic hero, beloved by many, loathed by more, who had been cast out of the country in a confusing conflagration of scandalous circumstances.
Yet the hero had very recently returned, Flora wrote, under cover of night.
Such a “clever child” (a coy reference to Lord Byron’s most popular work) should be closely watched, the poem said, for his next movements would prove most entertaining.
It was perfect. Verbena found herself in awe of Flora’s skill and wit in a way she rarely experienced.
It made her flush from her cheeks to her throat, the thought of all that intelligence supporting her cause.
She was such an interesting woman, Verbena mused, both in mind and body.
Stately, with a perfect spill of hair and the most exquisite taste in dress.
The most interesting assemblage of nose and mouth and chin, both soft and strong.
Many women in Verbena’s circle were great beauties, but none made the impression Flora did.
How fortuitous that she could call her a friend!
The carriage jolted over a rock, and Verbena was shaken from her fancies.
She focused squarely on the little chapbook, giving it a pleased smile.
Even the most ignorant reader would be able to glean the hidden meaning—if the reader was acquainted with the basic facts of that romantic world of British poets.
étienne, through no fault of his own, was not.
Verbena leaned closer so she could speak into his ear. “It alludes to a poet, yes, a famous one. Isn’t it exciting?”
He regarded her with a wary eye. “More exciting than other sorts of gossip?” he asked. About us, specifically, went unsaid.
Verbena nodded. “He is very famous. Do not let it slip but—” She lowered her voice even more. “It’s Lord Byron.”
étienne merely gave her a blank look.
Verbena stared back. Even she, who never picked up a volume of poetry unless forced, knew of the man. Of course, as he was a baron and the most scandalous one in recent memory, she could not help but know of him. “Childe Harold? Don Juan? No?”
“What are these? Noms de guerre?”
“Well, I suppose in a sense…”
étienne shook his head. “I am not a reader of English poems.” He smiled in his good-natured way. “Why would I when French poetry exists? It is, for all its faults, the superior tongue.”
If Verbena did not know him as well as she did, she might suspect he meant this remark to be bawdier than it was. She laughed. “If you say so, Monsieur Charbonneau.”
A loud throat-clearing came from the seat across the carriage.
Verbena looked over at Miss Hollyhock, who sat primly with her hands in her lap, glaring in their direction.
At her side, Mr. Chesterfield chattered amiably about the weather.
Ah yes, Verbena had nearly forgotten the other members of their little party.
Miss Hollyhock and Belinda’s husband had been invited to share étienne’s carriage not only to act as chaperones, but to provide an audience for their playacting.
They seemed to be succeeding in the latter ambition, at least. Miss Hollyhock looked very cross at Verbena for what she must have perceived as shameless flirtation.
Wasn’t it strange, how chaste friendship could be mistaken so easily for intimacy of another sort?
Verbena plucked the chapbook of Flora’s poetry from étienne’s hand and secreted it away in one of her costume’s many pockets. “A perfect day for some archery,” she said to Miss Hollyhock. “Thank you again for securing our invitations.”
“It was no trouble,” said Miss Hollyhock. She cast an eye over étienne. “Have you done much shooting, monsieur?”
“Non, I have not yet had the pleasure. Today will be my first foray.” étienne smoothed a hand down his elaborately adorned waistcoat. “Already I can tell I will enjoy it. The ensembles alone!”
Verbena had to agree; the whimsical outfits were unmatched.
Her archery dress was a deep emerald with slashes of aquamarine along its puffed shoulders.
The high waist and fitted bodice showed off her figure to great effect.
étienne had constructed his flamboyant costume himself, with soft trousers in a shade of complimentary blue.
He seemed to be enjoying the sartorial aspects of their courtship to the utmost. Verbena hoped he took to the sporting portion of their fakery with the same ardor.
“No need to worry,” she told étienne. “Nobody attends these outings for the sport. The archery itself is an afterthought to the mingling.”
“Here we are!” cried Mr. Chesterfield as the carriage rattled to a halt.
Verbena alighted with a helping hand from étienne.
Surveying the grounds, she found a cleared patch of grass where a handful of other guests were already milling about.
Targets were arranged near the end of the lawn at the prescribed feminine distance of fifty yards.
Servants in black coats stood by with polished longbows and the other accoutrements of the sport, while others bore salvers of drink.
The soft breeze rustled the large white ostrich feather in Verbena’s wide-brimmed hat. She placed a hand atop it to keep it steady in the breeze, watching as Mr. Chesterfield escorted Miss Hollyhock to greet Lady Croydon, who was once more the hostess.
“Now remember what we discussed,” Verbena said to étienne in a whisper. She hooked their arms together. “Keep your head up, look them directly in the eye, and do not be cowed if someone tries to score a point off you. You are a rich man. You belong here, just like any other invited guest.”
“Yes, yes, I remember,” étienne said. His eyes darted about, taking in many of the male members of the party. “Mon dieu, half my clientele must be here today.”
“Do not worry about that. Greet them as you would an equal.” Verbena paused. “Well, perhaps a bit more formally than your…usual equals.”
He groaned. “You really think I can play this role? I have never once feigned love for a woman. I have never needed to!” étienne looked back at his carriage, which was pulling away to make room for new arrivals.
“This was a terrible idea. They will take one look at me and think I am afflicted with the French vice. And they will be perfectly correct. We should leave before—ah!”
Verbena had not wanted to pinch him on the arm, but she was also not about to apologize for it. Someone had to pinch some sense into the man before he ran like a panicked horse.
“Keep your toes in your pumps, monsieur,” she hissed from the corner of her mouth. “Simply follow my lead and it will be simplicity itself. The ton sees what the ton expects to see—and they shall see an eligible young lady making a match with a handsome man of means. Oui?”
“Yes, my dear,” said étienne.
She tugged him toward Lady Croydon, and he went obediently.
The dowager countess welcomed étienne as if he were the most interesting specimen she had seen all season.
Her clear delight in making his acquaintance set the stage for the rest of the archery party, which greeted him with enough politeness to appease their hostess.
Verbena drifted from étienne’s side as he conversed with an older gentleman about their carriages; there were some topics even she could not pretend interest in.
She had only taken a few steps in the direction of the refreshment table when she heard someone call her name.
“Miss Montrose?”
The Scots brogue could only belong to one person.
She turned to find Miles McDonald loping across the grass toward her with easy strides.
“You have no idea how relieved I am to see you,” he said with a broad smile.
The sun glinted off his eyeglasses. “How I managed an invitation, I’ve no idea, and now I’m like a babe in the woods. I don’t know a single soul here.”
“Nonsense! You’ve met Miss Hollyhock, have you not?” Verbena indicated Miss Hollyhock, who was also at the table, nibbling at cheeses.
Mr. McDonald lit up with genuine delight. “I have, yes! At the picnic.”
“Wonderful to see you again,” Miss Hollyhock said as she shook his hand in greeting. “Did you arrive very early?” Her eyes darted about, doubtlessly trying to see if Mr. McDonald had come in a hired hack again, or if he had learned his lesson.
“I arrived exactly on time. When you Londoners say two o’clock, I stupidly think you mean two o’clock. As it turns out, you mean something closer to three or half past.”
He wasn’t wrong. Not only was it fashionable to arrive somewhat later than planned, but it was polite. No hostess was ever ready at the appointed time.
Introductions were needed. Verbena conducted the social dance between the passing Mr. Chesterfield and Mr. McDonald; they apparently knew some of the same people in Glasgow and chatted for a moment about them.
Then Verbena drew étienne forward with a subtle guiding touch to his arm, presenting him to the newcomer.
“And this is my very, very dear friend, Monsieur étienne Charbonneau,” she said. They had agreed to such language as the preface to a formal engagement. It carried enough weight that even the most na?ve country bumpkin could catch their meaning.
Miles McDonald turned from his conversation with Mr. Chesterfield, his grin still on his face. Then he and étienne laid eyes on each other, and Verbena saw that grin slip into something filled with awe.