Chapter 9
“Of all the foolish things you could have done, Forsyth,” William muttered to himself as he hurried away from the archery grounds. “As if she could ever want you—either of you.”
What reason could a creature as exquisite as Verbena Montrose have to cast aside a perfectly lovely suitor in favor of him?
William was, in her eyes, nothing more than a struggling writer from a minor family with little to recommend him.
étienne Charbonneau had a newfound fortune as well as a thriving business, an enviable address, impeccable taste in clothing, wonderful diction (for a Frenchman), an excellent bearing, a jaw most men would commit murder to possess, and, worst of all, a truly pleasant disposition.
William could have hated him if not for that last bit.
William didn’t stand a chance. He never had.
The sound of footsteps rushing to catch up with him gave William’s heart the cruelest modicum of hope. He turned, wishing for Verbena, but received only Miles McDonald, who had his hand clapped to the top of his head to keep his hat in place.
“Listen, Forsyth,” he said, “if you’re leaving, I’m coming with you.”
William despaired. “You really don’t have to do that.
” Mr. McDonald would have been a welcome companion on any other day—he was witty and unpretentious, which was a rare combination at these sorts of gatherings—but William wanted no companionship at all.
“I can find my way home on my own power, I assure you. Already I’m feeling improved. ”
Mr. McDonald waved a hand through the air and took William’s elbow, guiding him along a path that cut through the waiting carriages and landaus.
“It’s not concern for your health that’s moved me.
I simply cannot abide the rest of the archery party for one minute more.
What am I to do, waste a perfectly decent afternoon listening to those boors? ”
“Miss Montrose is not a boor,” William felt compelled to point out. And then, because it would be unfair if he neglected him: “Monsieur Charbonneau as well. They are good company.”
“For each other.” Mr. McDonald let loose a riotous groan. “They are to be engaged soon. Do you know that?”
William felt his heart sink. “I may have heard something to that effect.”
Mr. McDonald merely gave a mirthless laugh. “Which carriage is yours?”
“I came in a hackney.”
“As did I. Damn. Well, no sense in letting these go to waste.” Mr. McDonald tugged at William’s arm, directing him to the most ostentatious carriage of the lot, adorned in gold trim with tasseled velvet curtains in the windows.
The Croydon crest was painted on the door in a riot of yellows and purples.
William’s eyes went wide. “What are you doing?”
“You’ll see. I say, driver! Driver?”
A top-hatted head popped from around the carriage. “Sir?”
Mr. McDonald smiled with all the boyish charm William envied in a gentleman. “My friend Lord Simperly here is feeling poorly,” he said. “Lady Croydon informs me that yours is the fastest carriage in all of London. She was adamant that we make use of it to see His Lordship home safely.”
The driver gave a sharp whistle, and soon a swarm of footmen were ushering them into the cool dark of the carriage interior.
“Lady Croydon will not be pleased when she finds out we’ve stolen her means of transportation,” William hissed.
“It will be back before she even knows it’s gone. If anyone asks, I’ll feign ignorance. I’m new in town, remember?” Mr. McDonald grinned widely, showing off perfect teeth.
No one could argue with teeth like that.
The carriage ride to William’s rooms did not take long.
More’s the pity, he felt. It wasn’t often he entertained, for obvious reasons.
He felt some anxiety over having a visitor to his home, but as much as he wracked his memory, he couldn’t recall a single hairpiece or gown being carelessly left about.
When he showed Mr. McDonald into the sitting room, everything was blessedly in the proper place with the bedroom door firmly shut.
“I have a little sherry,” William offered. He actually had a lot of sherry, and some wine, and some rum, but sherry seemed the most suitable offering for a new acquaintance.
Mr. McDonald removed an embossed silver flask from the depths of his archery costume and waggled it in the air.
“Whisky,” he countered. “And before you make any comments about my countrymen and our supposed addiction to the stuff, remember that I had to gird myself for an afternoon of English twaddle. Any man would need a stiff one.” He unscrewed the cap and offered it up.
“I do not judge you at all.” William took the proffered flask and went to the sideboard to scrounge up a couple of glasses.
“I’m rather jealous of your forethought, to be honest. I should have had a drink or two before showing my face at the archery grounds.
It might have taken some of the sting out of it. ”
Mr. McDonald threw himself on the small yellow divan, his long legs stretching toward the unlit grate. “Miss Montrose,” he said knowingly. “She’s quite a lady.”
William paused his pouring. He looked up sharply at the insouciant lounge of his guest. “Did you also attend today’s festivities in order to see her?” One rival was already plenty; he did not particularly want another.
Mr. McDonald laughed, his eyes crinkling merrily at the corners. “Yes, but not how you think,” he said. “Truly, I have no designs on her. She’s simply the first person in this damned town who’s treated me with any decency. Naturally I was happy to see her again.”
William frowned. “But you are not happy about her imminent engagement. You said so before we absconded with that carriage.” He crossed the room and handed Mr. McDonald a glass of amber liquid. “Why?”
“That would require certain confessions.” Mr. McDonald flicked his gaze up at William, then touched the arm of his spectacles. “Would you mind if I removed these for a moment? They’re apt to give me headaches if I wear them for too long.”
“Of course, make yourself comfortable,” William said, not understanding why his permission was needed. Once Mr. McDonald’s face was bare, he understood a bit better. “Oh. Your eye.”
“Or lack thereof.” Mr. McDonald gestured at the right side of his face normally hidden by the blacked-out lens, where a thick, shiny scar resided. “The result of a childhood affliction. It doesn’t bother me at all. Unless I’m expected to shoot an arrow.”
William thought, then lifted his glass of whisky. “To taking our shots only metaphorically.”
Mr. McDonald looked at him for a moment, then smiled. He raised his glass in return. “That, I’ll drink to.”
William was not a practiced drinker, having only sipped sparingly in public so that he might always keep his head.
Yet the failure he’d endured earlier was so disheartening, and the company of Miles McDonald was so pleasant, that the afternoon stretched into evening.
William replenished their glasses many times over with his reserves, as needed.
Conversation meandered from light topics to a complete rehashing of their families.
They had both lost their parents within the last two years, they discovered, and so had much in common.
The sunlight was fading from the room as Miles slouched on the divan, cradling his glass in one hand.
“étienne Charbonneau,” he said apropos of nothing William could discern.
William groaned, flinging his head against his chairback. The name reminded him of his misfortune at the man’s hands. “Monsieur Charbonneau. Damn him!”
“Yes, damn him,” Miles agreed, sighing.
“He is entirely too decent. And so good-looking on top of it all!”
“Very unfair.”
“Exactly.” William felt strengthened by the fact that his new friend seemed to share his ire. He lolled his head to the side to gaze at Miles. “How can I compete?”
Miles gave him a confused squint. “Compete?”
“For Miss Montrose,” William clarified.
“Ah, yes.” Miles relaxed a bit. “Sorry, I forgot about her.”
“Impossible. Who can forget her?”
“I can, apparently.”
“Well, I cannot. Damn him.”
“Damn who?”
“Charbonneau! Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten him, too?” William waved a drunken finger in his direction.
“Of course not. What I am trying to tell you is—damn this seat,” Miles said as he wriggled on the cushions, trying to lean closer though impeded by inebriation.
“What I am trying to tell you, because you are a good man, as far as I can tell, and because I hear you writers are not scandalized by these sorts of things, knowing your Greek and so forth—”
“My Latin is better.”
“I am trying to confess, if you’d let me.” Miles’s doleful gaze fell to his glass. “Will you let me?”
William instantly sobered. His mind caught up with Miles’s slightly slurred words. Sitting straighter in his chair, he put out his hand, palm down, in a gesture meant to stop a disaster. “You’re drunk,” he said. “We both are. You needn’t—”
“I was sent down to London, at my great-uncle’s urging, to find a wife,” Miles said.
“He lives abroad but his letters were very numerous and very clear. He will not rest until I wed a proper lady.” His misery was a living thing that curled up on the floor in front of the grate.
“Yet my attentions lie elsewhere. You understand?”
William gave his friend—new yet already so trusting, and therefore, he felt, trustworthy—a fond look.
“I do.” He turned his glass in his hand, pondering the golden liquid.
“Monsieur Charbonneau?” he said, lightly enough that they could pretend the mention of the man was unrelated, if Miles lost his nerve.
He lost only his composure. Miles groaned throatily, a hand pressed to his breast. “étienne. Even his name makes my heart prance like a show horse. Have you ever met a man who could, within the span of an hour, arrest your senses so completely?”