Rhyme and Reason

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  Not wanting to own that she was exactly that, for she could not imagine her father trouncing this glib lord at the board of green cloth, she demurred, “I fear my thoughts are quite unsteady with fatigue.”

  “I would think so at this hour. You prove your devotion to your father by waiting up for him as if he were a young sprig.”

  She was able to smile more easily. “My sister and I arrived home not long ago.”

  “From Miss Prine’s coming-out?”

  “Yes, but how—?”

  He smiled, his eyes crinkling to accent his deep tan. She wondered how he spent much time in the sun if he played cards all night every night. “It was the most heralded event of the evening, if I am to believe her brother who joined us at the table tonight. You must be exhausted from the dancing and conversation.”

  “Mostly from playing the watch-dog. I find launching my sister on the Season more tiring than I had anticipated.”

  “You are launching your sister?” His gaze swept along her again, and she knew she had been want-witted not to think before she spoke. She fought the urge to chide him for being presumptuous. Whispered rumor warned her words would be wasted on this man who set mamas to quivering with trepidation any time he looked at their daughters. “I must be mistaken. I thought you said you were Miss Talcott.”

  “I am.”

  “Then, if I may be so bold, may I say you are doing the young misses enjoying the Season a great service by not competing with them for the Tom-a-doodles who wish to buckle themselves to a bride?” He folded his arms across the front of his pristine waistcoat and smiled.

  “You are as bold as brass, my lord, to speak of such things on our short acquaintance.”

  “I prefer to be honest, and I speak of nothing but what any man with a bit of life in him would notice on a single glance.”

  She started to reply, but turned as approaching footfalls slowed by the door.

  Bollings’s coat always strained across his stomach. Thick, brown hair belied his many years of service to Charles Talcott, but his wrinkled face was lengthened by fatigue and distress. “Mr. Talcott is asleep, Miss Emily,” he said with a wary glance at the viscount.

  “Thank you, Bollings.” When the valet hesitated, she added, “Please let me know when Mr. Talcott wakes on the morrow.”

  He nodded, then backed out of the room. He glanced once more into the room before he hurried along the hall. Emily ignored the small voice that urged her to call him back. Instead, she faced the viscount who was setting himself on his feet.

  “My lord,” she said with the best smile she could affix on her lips, a sorry one she was sure, for every thought was weighed with fatigue, “I thank you again for being sure that my father reached his home and his bed without incident.” Rising, she added, “My family is indebted to you for your kindness.”

  “The debt, as I must remind you, Miss Talcott, remains mine.” He started to reach beneath his coat, but halted with a laugh. “I find it impossible to remit your father’s winning to you.” Clasping his hands behind him, in a motion that tugged at the broad shoulders of his coat, he smiled with the glint of mischief returning to his eyes. “When you are dressed so enticingly in such a flattering shade of silk, Miss Talcott, my mind envisions other scenes in which a man might be placing gold upon a woman’s palm.”

  Emily gasped as his indecorous words created a similar scene in her fertile imagination. Although she had no idea what the inside of a seraglio might look like, she shuddered. How horrifying to think she resembled a natural while she was speaking with a man who had gained a reputation for being as attentive to the ladies, both of quality and not, as he was to cards! Heat seared her cheeks again at that unseemly thought.

  Again happy she did not flush, she answered, “I cannot speak to what you might picture in your mind, my lord.”

  “No?” He brushed a strand of her hair back from her face. “I had thought you a woman of much more imagination, Miss Talcott.”

  “Why?”

  “You did not slap my face for my impertinent words, so I guessed you worldly enough to speak with honesty.”

  “If I were worldly enough to envision what you suggested—”

  He chuckled. “Which you clearly are, if I am a judge of the righteous indignation in your voice. I did not mean to bring you to cuffs with a demure hit, Miss Taloctt. My words were meant as a compliment.” He raised his hands in a pose of surrender when she opened her mouth to retort. “Forgive me, Miss Talcott. When I asked to speak to you here, I meant only to compliment you for being such a devoted daughter and to reassure you that your father has suffered nothing more than too long an acquaintance with a bottle of brandy.”

  “Thank you,” she said, wondering why embarrassment taunted her as if she were the one who had forgotten her manners. “If it discomfits you, my lord, you need have no concerns about me collecting your debts to my father. I shall leave that matter to you and him.”

  “Wise of you.”

  “If you are assured that my father is well …” Emily knew she was being rude, but dawn would be arriving before she could seek her bed.

  The viscount nodded, his dark hair dropping across his forehead. He tossed it aside with an ease that must come from habit. “I am assured of that, and you may assure Mr. Talcott that the accounts between us will be settled to his satisfaction.” When he took her hand and bowed over it, his eyes rose to meet hers.

  She saw amusement in their gray depths, and she gasped when he held her gaze as he pressed his lips to the back of her hand. That breath became a soft sigh when an explosion of delight careened through her again. His finger stroked her palm, sending tingles along her skin. He drew her a half-step closer and bent toward her hand again. Instead of kissing her hand, he looked up at her and winked.

  Shocked, she pulled her hand away. She was completely dicked in the nob to let him treat her like one of his convenients. Raising her chin in her most imperious pose, she said, “I bid you a good evening, my lord.”

  He set his hat back on his head and, smiling, tipped it in her direction. “And I bid you good morning, Miss Talcott.”

  Emily had no chance to answer as he strode from the room. She decided that was a good thing, for she had bumbled everything else she had said in his hearing.

  Chapter Two

  Damon Wentworth whistled a light tune as he climbed into his carriage. His coachee regarded him with bafflement, but Damon did not ease the man’s curiosity at his good spirits at this late hour. Talking about Miss Emily Talcott to his servants would be beneath reproach—even for him.

  Chuckling, he drew the door closed and slapped the roof. As the carriage was driven around the square and toward his own home on Grosvenor Square, he leaned back and smiled. The night had not been a waste of time, after all. He had been afraid it would be when he saw how Charles Talcott played and how often the man tilted the bottle to his glass.

  He closed his eyes, bringing forth the image of Miss Emily Talcott with ease. He had honed the skill of noting the details others might miss, for it served him well when he tried to gauge what others held in their hands as they sat at the board of green cloth. Just now, he had noticed how, while they sat in the parlor, Miss Talcott’s hands had been clasped so tightly her knuckles were white with anxiety. She clearly had expected that her father had lost heavily to him, and that fact disturbed her. The woman was more insightful than most he had met. At the same time, she was an enticing combination of sophisticated ennui and girlish naïveté.

  A smile tipped his lips as he recalled how her black hair had been as silken as her skin and how her blue eyes had sparked with sharp emotion when he had been bold enough to discover that. High cheekbones and an assertive chin would not label her pretty in some minds, but she had a face that suggested there was more to her than the simpering misses who tried to gain his attention when their chaperones were busy elsewhere.

  He chuckled again. Miss Emily Talcott had allowed neither his sullied reputation nor hi
s request to speak to her alone in her parlor to unsettle her. She had not been consumed by a fit of giggles when he caught her gaze. All in all, she was a rare woman of uncommon composure.

  The carriage stopped, and he opened the door. The sunrise glittered off the stones on the front of his town-house and the windows marching in unvarying precision across its front. At the door, his butler stood, his mouth working as he struggled not to yawn.

  Damon did not try to hide his smile. Hillis had served in this household since both he and Damon were young, so Damon knew by the butler’s squared shoulders that Hillis was distressed about something. Not the late hour of Damon’s homecoming, surely for there had been many mornings that had found him at his club still enjoying the company of his fellows and the cards in front of them.

  Something struck his foot as he stepped out of the carriage. With a quick motion, he caught the article before it could fall onto the street. A hat! He tilted it, recognizing the silver band above its conservative brim. Talcott’s hat. The man had been so foxed, he had not noticed it was not on his head.

  Climbing the steps to his front door, Damon said, “Good morning, Hillis. You look as if your night was as sleepless as mine.”

  “Cut short, my lord, by the arrival of a messenger.” He held out a folded sheet of paper. “The lad said you were to read this the instant you arrived here.”

  Taking it, he handed Hillis his hat. “’Twas good I decided not to stop in St. James’s first.”

  “I would have sent it to you posthaste.”

  Again Damon struggled not to smile. Hillis was so blasted correct! Did the butler think Damon could not recall how they had caused mischief throughout this house and Wentworth Hall in their younger days? Now, looking at the butler’s stern demeanor and graying hair, no one would believe Hillis had been the one to suggest they put a frog in the housekeeper’s apron pocket or glue the pages of Damon’s tutor’s chapbook closed. The only one who made heads shake now was Damon Wentworth.

  Reading the short note, he lost all temptation to smile. By the elevens, he had thought those he had hired were competent enough to handle such trivial details. He had hoped to leave London for a few days and see how the work was coming on Wentworth Hall. That would be impossible now.

  “Tell Roche not to put the carriage away,” he said, sighing. “I will need to deal with this immediately.”

  “Without breakfast?” Hillis’s expression suggested only a barbarian would begin the day without a hearty meal to fortify him.

  “If Mrs. Foy has some muffins cooked, please bring me one and a cup of coffee while I change into something suitable for reminding these witless chuckleheads why I pay them their wages.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Hillis cleared his throat. “Your hat, my lord?”

  “I gave you … Oh, this one!” He smiled. “’Tis not mine. It belongs to Charles Talcott.”

  Hillis held out his hand. “I would be glad to have it returned along with your request for your winnings, my lord.”

  “Winnings?” Shaking his head, he said, “Your faith in me is amazing, Hillis.”

  “In your skill with cards, my lord.”

  “I stand corrected.” Chuckling, he gave the hat to his butler. As Hillis turned away, he added, “Wait!”

  “My lord?”

  Damon took Talcott’s hat. “I have not decided when this should be returned to Talcott.”

  “My lord?” This time there was a hint of dismay in the butler’s voice as well as bafflement.

  “There is no need for this to be a completely intolerable day just for me, is there?”

  “I am sorry. I don’t understand.”

  Damon slapped him on the shoulder and laughed. “You will.” He began to whistle again as he climbed the stairs to his private rooms.

  As the clock in the hallway marked midday, Emily came into the breakfast-parlor to discover her sister perched on a chair and enjoying the sunshine as she read the morning paper. A serving lass was bringing fresh biscuits from the kitchen. With a smile, Emily took one of the steaming biscuits and lathered it with the strawberry jam waiting on the sideboard. She poured a cup of cocoa and carried both to the round maple table.

  “Good afternoon, Miriam,” she said.

  She got a mumbled answer in return, which was what she had expected. Miriam intently searched every column of the newspaper for familiar names and never wished to be interrupted. With her golden hair washing down over the shoulders of her white wrapper, she looked as sweet as a cherub in a church window.

  Smiling, Emily sifted through the stack of mail which Johnson had remembered to bring to the breakfast-parlor. Mayhap the man was learning his job after nearly six months of fumbling through it. She scanned the mail, separating it into three stacks, one for her, one for Miriam, and one for Papa. As always, she slipped the ones she knew were demands for payment into her pile, although they were addressed to Charles Talcott.

  “Miriam?”

  “Mmmm?”

  “You might wish to see these.” She handed her sister the trio of what surely were invitations.

  Miriam broke the seal on the top one. “Oh, look, Emily! Lady Stoughton is having a hurricane next week, and she would be delighted if I would attend.” Her blue eyes glittered with excitement. “Of course, you must attend, too.”

  “Of course.”

  “We will go, won’t we, Emily?”

  “If you have accepted no other invitation for that evening.”

  Miriam gasped, “Oh, I couldn’t have! I must go to Lady Stoughton’s party.”

  “But why?” She set her cup of cocoa down, startled by her sister’s vehemence.

  “She is Mr. Simpkins’s cousin.”

  “Graham Simpkins?”

  She nodded, smiling hesitantly.

  Emily’s brow furrowed as she tried to recall when she had seen Miriam talking with Mr. Simpkins. He was a most nondescript man, neither tall nor short, neither broad nor thin. He had inherited his mother’s black hair and his father’s imposing nose. The family, although untitled, was known to be full of juice. Such a match would well provide for Miriam … and for Papa.

  Leaning her chin on her hand, she sighed. As she glanced at the thick pile of letters still sitting in front of her, she hoped a betrothal would come before all money for Miriam’s wedding was depleted to pay for the household expenses that once had come out of Papa’s inheritance. That, like most other money they had had, was long spent, much of it because her father continued to increase his gambling debts.

  “Emily, is something wrong?”

  Her sister’s concern drew her out of her dismals. Quickly, to hide her uneasy thoughts, Emily replied, “Of course not. I was just noticing how rested you look after your late evening.”

  “I woke early and took myself upstairs to sleep in a decent bed.” Miriam laughed her musical laugh. “Why didn’t you wake me when Papa came home?”

  “It was late,” she hedged. If her sister heard of their unexpected caller, Miriam would pester her with a flurry of questions Emily was too tired to answer. So few hours had passed since Lord Wentworth’s departure, and she had found scanty slumber in that time. “You were sleeping sweetly, and I did not have the heart to disturb you.”

  “You are so kind.” She sampled the scrambled eggs before adding, “I trust Papa’s losses were less than a disaster.”

  “What?” Emily was startled by the question, for her sister seldom bothered herself with mundane details like household accounts.

  Miriam laughed again as she reached for the cream. “You look quite pleased with yourself this morning.”

  “I do?” She had thought she would look nothing save fatigued.

  “Yes, and, mornings after Papa has lost at the card table, you ordinarily wear a worried expression which draws your lips as tight as an old tough’s. Or could it be you are so pleased with Mr. Colley’s attentions that you can think of little else?”

  Chuckling, she shook her head. “You minx! I should
have guessed you would notice that less than charming fellow dangling after me.”

  “And why not? You were one of the loveliest ladies attending the party last night. Mr. Colley may not be the best mannered man, but his pockets are very plump.”

  “Miriam! Whatever is wrong with you this morning?”

  She leaned forward, her gold curls falling onto the table, and whispered with an irrepressible grin, “Lord Reiss asked me to stand up with him twice last night.”

  “I saw that.”

  “And did you see that Mr. Simpkins saw us dancing, too?”

  “That I did not see.”

  “You are not as observant as others.”

  “What others?”

  Miriam held up the newspaper. “The ones who write for this.”

  Emily laughed and snatched the paper from her sister’s hands. When she saw the article in the center of the page, her eyes widened. “So even the Morning Post noticed the baron’s attention to you.” She read aloud, “‘Miss Talcott was much the star of the evening. She …’”

  Miriam giggled as Emily’s voice faded into amazed silence. Rising, Miriam stretched so her finger underlined each word as she read, “‘She was seen often in the company of Mr. Bernard Colley, noted barrister of this city.’ It was you they noted. Not me.”

  “Enough!” Because her voice was sharper than she had meant, Emily hurried to add, “Forgive me, Miriam, but I find the gossip tiresome at best. You would think they would know that—as I have never had a coming-out—I am not looking for any attention.”

  “But your feelings do nothing to change Mr. Colley’s.”

  She sighed. “He is being a cabbage-head to dangle after me when I have made it quite clear I have no interest in him.”

  Miriam patted her sister’s shoulder. “My dear Emily, I fear you’re too gentle to make the truth obvious to that gaby. I heard your attempts to rid yourself of him last night, and you must not let your tender heart keep you from speaking the truth.”

  “I shall endeavor to be more forthright.” She put her hand over her sister’s. “Do sit and finish your breakfast.”