Rhyme and Reason Read online

  “Now that he has taken his leave,” Valeria said with a smile, “we can enjoy ourselves.”

  Emily regarded her with amazement she could not conceal. “Why do you say that? You invited him to this soirée.”

  “I gave no thought to the idea that he actually would attend.” She linked her arm through Emily’s. “Come and read for us. The marquis is going to be delighted with you.”

  Emily looked at the door, but Damon had left. With him was gone the irreverence that had allowed her to laugh away some of her apprehension. What a muddle this was! She had created Marquis de la Cour, but she feared this fantasy had taken on a life of its own and would now consume her.

  Chapter Eight

  Damon tossed the cards onto the table and leaned back in his chair to glower at the parlor hearth. Playing alone was no sport. Nor was it any way to clear his mind of the thoughts that had stalked him since he left Lady Fanning’s house. Tonight should have been amusing. He had hoped to spend some time chatting with Emily Talcott about gardening and, mayhap, to persuade a few of his tie-mates to take their leave early so they might enjoy time at the club.

  Instead, he had let himself be lured into playing the hero for Emily when Lichton proved to be a boor. Then he allowed his own curiosity to seduce him into kissing her. His curiosity or her intriguing eyes and the soft curves which had been so inviting in his arms? Adzooks! He would be the ruin of her reputation and his own if anyone discovered a saucy lass with a green thumb had beguiled him.

  He muttered a stronger curse as he went to look out the window at the street side of the simple parlor. Dawn was touching the eastern sky, but the day was gray. Heavy clouds clung to the earth, promising a morning of rain. The perfect day to spend working in a garden.

  With a yawn, he stretched. He rubbed his chin, which could use a shave. What was wrong with him? He knew what he wanted and how he intended to get it. Nothing had stayed him from that course before Emily Talcott intruded on his thoughts with every breath.

  “Something amiss?”

  Damon turned and smiled at Gerald Cozie, who was as thin as an anatomy. That fact was emphasized by his open waistcoat and collarless shirt. Gerald never bothered with the tenets of the ton, an aspect of his friend’s life Damon envied. Cozie lived in obscure gentility beyond the on dits of the Polite World. An altogether admirable way in Damon’s opinion, and one he wished he could emulate.

  “I did not hear you come in, Gerald,” he said.

  Gerald set a tray on the table by the window where the dim light glittered on his almost bald pate and the glasses perched on the very end of his nose. “You were intent on your cards. Did you win?”

  Damon chuckled without humor. “When one plays oneself, it is not hard to win.”

  “If it were to be bandied about the élite that you sat alone at the card table, it could be the death of your reputation, Demon Wentworth.”

  “You have been reading the papers again.” Sitting on the arm of one of a pair of overstuffed chairs, he laughed. “I thought you had broken yourself of that habit which you considered unbecoming a man of science.”

  “Even scientific journals pall after a while.” Gerald poured two cups of coffee and offered one to Damon. “Also, how otherwise would I keep track of my favorite ex-student?”

  “Pray do not sound like a doting mother.” He sipped on the coffee, letting its strong flavor awaken every nerve.

  “You have been absent from our discussions for the past pair of fortnights.”

  “Business.”

  “Good or bad or simply interesting?”

  Damon smiled. “If you want to know, read the papers.”

  “Not all your business is in the papers.”

  “Thank goodness.”

  Gerald’s smile faded. “So why are you here?”

  Taking another drink, he asked, “Can’t I give an old friend a look-in without having an ulterior motive?”

  “You always had an ulterior motive in the past.”

  “True.”

  Gerald sat at the table and stirred sugar into his coffee. Sipping, he said nothing. The silence grew, but without the burdening tension it would have had at his club if Damon had not answered such a blunt question.

  Making himself comfortable in the old chair, Damon stared at the wall of books. He guessed Gerald had read every battered volume. The scent of leather bindings made the room the most welcoming in London and increased his longing to return to Wentworth Hall and his own book-room.

  “I went to the club earlier,” Damon said quietly.

  “Then you obviously left.”

  He nodded. “All the talk was of Marquis de la Cour. I tired of hearing that block lauded as a master.”

  “Even Shakespeare had his detractors.”

  “Pray do not compare de la Cour and Shakespeare,” he said with an emoted groan.

  Gerald smiled as he refilled his cup with the fragrant coffee. “Do not be elitist. Books of romantic poetry sell well.”

  “True. There will always be a market for those who delight in the maudlin, I suspect.”

  “Not all the marquis’s readers delight in the maudlin. I have read the Frenchman’s poetry.”

  Damon groaned again. “Why did you torture yourself?”

  “I was curious.” He wagged a finger. “Curiosity is a gift for those of us who wish to strengthen our minds with new ideas.”

  “So what did you think?”

  “You want my opinion?”

  “Haven’t I always?” Damon asked as he poured more coffee into his cup. He doubted if Gerald’s thick brew had ever tasted as good as it did this morning. “I value your opinion on any topic.”

  “You mean you suffer me to stick my nose into all your business, both personal and not so personal.” He stretched and plucked a book off the shelf. “I have not read de la Cour’s newest tome, but I read the previous two books. Some of this poetry is actually quite good.”

  “I agree.”

  Gerald raised a single, bushy eyebrow. “You agree?”

  “I will deny I said that most vehemently if you repeat my words to anyone.”

  “Why this façade of distaste for de la Cour? A poet who writes only of love is just what we need to heal the rift left by the war.”

  “I fear you give de la Cour too much credit.”

  Resting his elbow on the table, Gerald said, “Mayhap. Mayhap not. However, either way, that does not explain your call at such an early hour.”

  “I needed a bit of peace and sanity.”

  “So who is this incomparable who has caught your eye? Who is she?”

  “She?”

  Gerald chuckled. “I know you well, old fellow. You argue the triviality of French poetry simply so you can ignore what truly troubles you. As you did not beat up my quarters to enjoy a friendly brangle, I have considered the other reasons you might call.”

  “Did you consider I might enjoy your company?”

  “Yes, but you have always been considerate enough to visit during my waking hours.” His smile grew wide in his narrow face. “I supposed there must be an extraordinary reason for this call, and my supposition led me to consider the most inconsiderable. Damon Wentworth of demon fame has had his heart, an organ many in London have questioned the existence of, touched by a woman.”

  His lips twisted. “Mayhap you should be writing silly poetry. You are developing a gift for imagining the most ludicrous things.”

  “Damon, who is she?”

  With a sigh, he drained his cup. He stood and poured himself yet another serving. As the steam rose to curl in front of his tired eyes, he said, “I never could bamboozle you. I have met a charming woman of rare intelligence.”

  “Who?”

  “By the elevens, Gerald, why are you acting like a matchmaking mother this morning?”

  He smiled and crossed one leg over the other, a motion Damon knew signaled his friend intended to extract every detail from him. “Curious only.”

  “Her n
ame is Emily Talcott.”

  “Charles Talcott’s daughter?” He sat straighter. “Now this is interesting.”

  “How so?”

  “When I was young, I often left my nurse behind and took myself down to the docks where I watched one of the Talcott ships sail for America.” His smile became sad. “I haven’t thought about that for a long, long time. I wonder if they are still sailing.”

  “Talcott never mentions it. Neither has Emily.” Damon sat again. The chair’s soft upholstery urged him to remember Emily’s pliant curves against him. “Damn.”

  Gerald laughed. “Take care, Damon, or someone will note that you wear a moony expression whenever the fair lass crosses your mind.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. This is the wrong time for me to enjoy more than a flirtation.”

  “When will the right time be for more?”

  He shrugged. “I am not certain, but I know now is wrong. I have too many matters demanding my attention. Wentworth Hall alone could keep a dozen men so busy they have no time to think of a flirtation.”

  “No man should be so busy he has no time to think of a flirtation.” Gerald pulled a pipe from a stand on the bookshelf and lit it, raising a cloud.

  “Odd words from a lifelong bachelor.”

  “I was too busy with my studies and research and teaching.”

  “So I am to learn what from that?” Damon laughed. “I have never seen anyone happier with life than you, Gerald. You do as you please when you please without answering to anyone, save yourself.”

  “A fine state for me, but not for you.” He pointed the stem of his pipe at Damon. “You need someone to assist you with the resurrection of Wentworth Hall.”

  “I have Sanders to aid me.”

  “I speak of a wife, not of a gardener.” His smile became an expression of contemplation. “My dear boy, I know it is none of my business, but I do not wish you to end up alone.”

  “I do not wish to end up alone.” Miriam stretched her hand across the settee and gave Emily a smile. “As it is clear Graham Simpkins has no interest in me, what is wrong with me enjoying the company of a man who seems to?”

  Emily counted silently to ten in French and then in English. She had not thought last evening could become worse, but she had underestimated how her poetry seemed to captivate the wrong people. The single poem she had read in French had given the fraudulent marquis a chance to seek out Miriam and engage her in conversation.

  But the evening and the poetry reading were past. Now was not the time for romantic nothing sayings. This was the time for sense.

  Quietly, she said, “Miriam, you know nothing about the marquis.”

  “I know his heart.” Her smile brightened the room that was lost in the shadows of the cloudy day.

  “How can you say that? You met the man for the first time last night.” And, with luck, it shall be the final time you meet him. Surely the impostor would not dare show his face among the Polite World again.

  Miriam picked up the book in her lap. Opening it, she touched the page where the make-believe marquis had autographed the title page. “Emily, how can anyone read these poems and not come to know the heart behind the hand that penned them?”

  “They are simply poems! Anyone could have written them.”

  “Really?” She stood. “I don’t believe that. I can imagine no one, save the marquis, creating them.”

  “Miriam, please, you must listen.” Emily set herself on her feet and grasped her sister’s hands. “There are some things you don’t understand.”

  Miriam kissed her on the cheek. “Dear sister, I know you have been anxious about my infatuation with Mr. Simpkins. I intend to put it behind me, for now I know what it is to have admiration returned. Having tasted the sweetness of wine, why would anyone wish water?”

  “Please don’t quote the poems to me.” She had never imagined her words might come back to haunt her like this.

  With a chuckle, she went to the door. “I cannot wait to write about Valeria’s rout in my journal.”

  “Miriam, wait!”

  Either her sister did not hear her or chose not to listen, for Miriam vanished up the stairs.

  With a deep sigh, Emily dropped back onto the chair. She glowered at the flowers set in front of the fire screen by the hearth. How could this become more of a shocking mull? Not that she could upbraid Miriam for being an air-dreamer about a man! After all, her sister had not been the one to let a reputed rogue steal a kiss from her in a quiet corner of her bosom-bow’s house. If Graham Simpkins had bumbled along only a moment later … She hid her face in her hands. What a witless block she was!

  “Emily!”

  She leaped to her feet at her sister’s cry. She was halfway up the stairs by the time she realized the sound had been happy.

  “What is it?” Emily asked as she topped the stairs to find her sister rocking from one foot to the other with excitement.

  “Let me show you!” She threw open Emily’s bedchamber door and rushed in. Sitting on the chaise longue, she cried, “Hurry! You shall want to see this. I know you shall.”

  Emily glanced at the bills piled atop her writing table and wondered if her sister had any idea how she had been avoiding this room and that stack. Turning her back on them, she sat facing her sister.

  “What is it?” she asked quietly. “If Papa heard you screaming like that, he—”

  “Would think I had seen a mouse.” She giggled. “I think you will agree this is much, much better.” In her wobbly alto, she sang, “Look what arrived for you just a few minutes ago!” She held out a folded sheet.

  “For me?”

  “It was unsealed, Emily, so I peeked.”

  When Emily took the page, she smiled. She recognized its cream color. The letter must be from Mr. Homsby. Mayhap the bookseller had come to his senses. She almost laughed aloud at the preposterous idea, but, she reminded herself, there was a first time for everything … like Damon kissing a woman and meaning the passion on his lips.

  Her heart thumped against her breast. Oh, how she longed to be back in his arms for those few stolen seconds when nothing had mattered but the caress of his fingers and mouth!

  Are you mad? If rumors were to be believed, Demon Wentworth—how she despised that name!—had been as faithless as Georgie, Georgie, Pudding and Pie, kissing all the girls and leaving them to cry.

  “Look at it!” urged Miriam.

  Emily nodded. Mayhap this was an invitation to come to the shop to discuss the royalties she was due. The money would not be coming too soon, for Bollings had whispered this morning that Papa had returned in a testy mood after an unfortunate evening at the card table. With those debts in addition to what he already owed Lord Lichton, any payment from the quarto would be welcome.

  Her hopes died as she read:

  You are invited to a special poetry reading by Marquis de la Cour, the French Byron, at the shop of Homsby, Bookseller Old Bond Street on Thursday evening next at exactly 8. We are honored to share the marquis’s talent with London.

  Miriam twirled about. “We must go, Emily! Think of it. I shall get to see him again.”

  “I am not sure that is such a good idea.”

  “Why not? Dear me, I must be certain my very best gown is ready.” Miriam bussed Emily on the cheek and grinned. “You will send the respondez-vous, s’il vous plait without delay, won’t you?” She did not wait for an answer as she hurried out, whirling about like a child with a beloved toy.

  Emily stared at the invitation. She had counted on Homsby to be an ally. She pressed the invitation to her breast. She did not know whom she could trust now, because the greatest out-and-outer had become hers the moment she graciously greeted the false marquis. She was part of his deception. She feared where it might lead, because she had no idea how it might end.

  Emily stared at the front of Mr. Homsby’s bookshop. The thickly mullioned windows were stacked with books of all types, but her gaze settled on the blue books that held her poems.


  The poetry that impostor was trying to claim as his own!

  The bell over the door rang as she entered the cluttered shadows. The shop was empty. She called a greeting, then her hands clenched as she saw the sway of the curtain. Mr. Homsby must be trying to avoid her.

  “Mr. Homsby!” she called, wondering what she would do if he refused to appear.

  She clenched her hands by her sides when a gawky man emerged from the back room. Jaspar, Mr. Homsby’s assistant, was intolerable on the best of days, which today certainly was not. He did not hide that any woman, especially Miss Emily Talcott, should count herself fortunate to have the chance to share his company. The last time she had encountered him, he had tried to corner her by one of the bookshelves. Her sharp words to Mr. Homsby had kept his assistant away.

  Until today.

  “My dear Miss Talcott,” Jaspar crowed in his deep voice that would have been pleasant if not forthcoming from such an unpleasant fellow. “I am so very, very delighted to see you.”

  “Where is Mr. Homsby?”

  He stretched across the counter to grasp her hand. “Busy. That is lucky for us.”

  She snatched her hand away. “Busy planning the poetry reading?”

  “Are you attending?” He edged around the counter and caught her hand again. “My dear Miss Talcott, can I implore you to sit beside me during the reading so I might bask in your beauty along with the poetry?”

  “Release me at once!”

  “My dear Miss Talcott—”

  Wrestling her hand out of his grip, she scowled when she realized he had her glove.

  He held it to his lips and whispered, “I shall treasure this gift from you always.”

  “I want to speak to Mr. Homsby.”

  “I told you, my dear. He is busy.”

  Emily glanced at the curtain. When she saw the fabric move again, she pushed past Jaspar and went around the counter.

  “You shouldn’t go there!” Jaspar cried.

  “And you shouldn’t purloin a lady’s glove.” Ignoring his horrified expression as she plucked her glove out of his hand, she added in the same stern tone, “Mr. Homsby, hiding from your customers bodes poorly for your reputation as an honest businessman.”