Rhyme and Reason

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  “I did nothing but what was required of a pleasant hostess,” she answered. Not giving either her sister or Kilmartin a chance to go on about what was now over, she asked, “Is Papa up yet?”

  “I can check with Bollings,” the abigail replied, a definite tinge of dismay remaining in her voice.

  “Let me,” Miriam said as she bounced to her feet. “Here. Emily, you forgot this downstairs.”

  She took the slim volume of poetry and forced a smile. “Thank you.”

  Her smile vanished as soon as the door closed behind Miriam. Tapping her fingers against the book’s cover, she fumed. Mr. Homsby had assured her this would not be available for several weeks. She had hoped that would give her sister time to make a fine match before Marquis de la Cour became the focus of conversation again. How could Mr. Homsby be selling a book without telling its author?

  “If you wish to read, Miss Emily, I can pull the curtains back,” Kilmartin said.

  “Thank you, but no.” She guessed her abigail wanted to talk about this afternoon’s caller as she put Emily’s best gown on the bed in preparation for the evening.

  She opened the book and began to read, in spite of her words to the contrary. As always, she delighted in seeing her hard-won words in pretty print. How dare Lord Wentworth mock these poems! It was not Byron, but … She sighed. It was the best she could do.

  She admired the title page. This was the third book supposedly penned by the marquis, but she had not become accustomed to seeing someone else’s name on her poems.

  Drivel, came Lord Wentworth’s voice from her memory.

  She would like to see him do better. Not that he needed to, for any man who had gained his reputation as a gamester must be full of juice. The viscount would not need to create an alter ego who could write books of love poems to keep his household from having to leave the key under the door in shame. Her father depended on her, as did Miriam. This was the only way she could provide for her sister the security Emily once had taken for granted.

  You could get married yourself. Emily gave that thought no credence. Save for the odious Mr. Colley, no suitors came calling for her. It was well known and accepted by everyone, save Mr. Colley, that Emily’s only interest in marriage was for her sister. Once Miriam was settled happily, then …

  Emily smiled as she leaned her chin on her hand again. Then she would leave London and do the research for the book that held her heart. She would visit all the grand old gardens of Europe and the exciting new ones in America, and she would pen a book that would be as informative and entertaining as anything Mr. Cobbett might write.

  And she probably would continue to write these little volumes for as long as there was interest. Papa showed no signs of giving up the card table, and she was sure his luck would seldom be as good as it had been against Lord Wentworth.

  Lord Wentworth! She wished she could banish him from her head, yet she found herself recalling their comfortable conversation in her garden. What a surprise that he had an interest in something other than cards.

  The door opened, and Miriam entered. “Papa is still abed.”

  “Thank you,” Emily said, grateful for the interruption.

  In a flurry of blue cambric and bright ribbons, Miriam dropped onto the padded bench in the bay window overlooking the street. “Do you think he will call here often?” Her voice quivering with awe left no doubt who he was.

  Emily rose and placed the book on a shelf by her bed. Her fingers lingered lovingly on the three books she had written. Forcing a smile, she faced her sister. “Do not make yourself all about in the head. Lord Wentworth called to return Papa’s hat which was left in the viscount’s carriage last night.”

  “Papa was at his house?”

  “Miriam, it is not our place to select Papa’s companions.”

  “’Twas not Papa’s companionship he wished today. It was yours.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “This is most unsettling. How could Papa spend time with that man?”

  Emily was tempted to give voice to the truth teasing the tip of her tongue. If Lord Wentworth were as charming at the card table as he had been in the garden, she could understand why anyone would seek out his company.

  Instead she glanced at Kilmartin, knowing her abigail was aware, by this time, of the state Papa had been in last night. When she saw the gray-haired woman’s lips were pursed with disapproval, Emily said, “I shall call when I’m ready to dress for Lady Bealer’s rout.”

  “Miss Emily—”

  “I shall leave time to prepare,” she said as if that were the only concern. Certainly her sister would believe that, for Emily often had to scurry to be ready when writing stole her attention from the time.

  Kilmartin wore a worried expression as she left. Emily understood that all too well, too, for she could not keep from fretting at the discovery Mr. Homsby was selling her latest book without informing her. Yet, if the book were her main concern, why did her thoughts return to the handsome viscount and his uncommon delight in her roses? He was an enigma, and Emily disliked enigmas. She lived with secrets every day and needed no more.

  Sitting in her favorite white wicker chair, she put her hand on her sister’s arm. “You are fussing over nothing.”

  Miriam’s blue eyes were dim with anxiety. “You must speak to Papa. He should stay away from Demon Wentworth.”

  “Miriam!”

  “Demon Wentworth is what the ton calls him, friend and foe alike.”

  “So I have heard.” She rose and went to the bookcase. Taking down the book again, she said, “However, what they do or say need not influence our actions. Lord Wentworth was a gentleman of first respectability by bringing Papa home and returning his hat, especially after Papa bested him at the card table.”

  Miriam’s eyes widened. “Papa won? What a coup! Papa shall dine out for months on the retelling of that story.”

  “Miriam! Why are you showing such a want for sense today?”

  “What is wrong with you?” her sister returned. “To be with that man in the garden alone—” She pressed her hands to her abruptly pale face. “Oh, my dear Emily, what if it becomes known that you were alone with him?”

  Emily was tempted to say her prayers backward, but, in an even tone, of which she was proud, she answered, “Do not be silly. Lord Wentworth was simply returning Papa’s hat.”

  Miriam nodded in reluctant agreement. “That is true.”

  “I have never turned anyone from our door.”

  “No one like him certainly!”

  Silently agreeing, Emily paged through the book. Her eyes were caught by the line Lord Wentworth had read. The words in his deep, warm voice had taken on an ardor she had despaired of attaining. Then he had mocked them. She closed the book with a snap and shoved it back onto the shelf.

  “Emily, you shall ruin it.”

  “If I do, I can get another copy.” Blast that man for deriding her hard work! She had strained her imagination to create these poems. Never again did she want to think about lovers on a moonlit night … or a moonless one.

  “Do not be so certain.”

  She looked at her sister. “What do you mean?”

  “There are not many copies left.” Miriam chuckled. “When Miss Dreyer heard the marquis’s new book was for sale, I do believe she was ready to fly out of Madame’s in little but her smallclothes.”

  Emily smiled. The excitement was good news, for that suggested excellent sales. Yet none of this explained why Mr. Homsby had failed to let her know of its publication. He always had alerted her, and she hoped this change did not bode others.

  The afternoon was almost over before Emily was called to her father’s room. She rapped on the door.

  A muffled shout ordered her to enter. She pushed aside the door and smiled. The high bed was covered with discarded clothes. Dresser drawers were open, the contents spilling onto the floor. Both chairs were topped by hastily folded coats, and a pair of boots sat in the very center of the Oriental rug.

&
nbsp; As always, her gaze went to the only painting in the room. The small portrait had been created by an artist with no skill, but somehow it captured the glow on the woman’s face. Or it might be nothing other than Emily’s memory giving it life, for she recalled little of her mother, who had died when Emily was very young. So often she had come to look at this painting. Emily saw her own straight black hair and her eyes, which like Mama’s were slightly tilted, although she had inherited their blue color from Papa. The painting had blurred the high cheekbones she shared with her mother’s family.

  As Emily picked her way through the messy chamber, her father shouted to his valet, “Where is my black waistcoat, Bollings? It always brings me luck.”

  “Mr. Talcott, you sent it to the tailor after you discovered a rip beneath the left arm,” replied the valet.

  Emily offered Bollings a sympathetic smile as she asked, “Papa, you wanted to talk to me?”

  Charles Talcott peeked around the dressing room door. With a broad smile, he motioned for her to sit.

  Papa was still uncommonly handsome, although silver was woven through his hair that was as light as Miriam’s. The passage of years had not slowed his step or his wit. Since Miriam’s coming-out, Emily had seen how her father could charm any lady—be she young or a dowager. Charles Talcott loved life and all its pleasures, and, for years, life had been benevolent to him and his family.

  Then five years ago his second wife had died. Before her death, Papa seldom had gone out. Now he was so infrequently home. Emily wondered if he always had wished to be out, or did he leave every evening for a game of chance because the very sight of Miriam reminded him of his lost love for her mother Marlene? She could not guess, and she refused to ask, not wanting to resurrect the grief he vowed was buried with her stepmother.

  Papa tossed another shirt onto the bed and ignored the pained expression on his valet’s face. Stopping in front of the glass between the two windows, he began tying his cravat.

  When he cursed and undid the mess he had made, Emily rose. “Would you like some help with that, Papa?”

  “What would I do without you? Your stepmother always tended to this for me, and I swear I shall never learn a young sprig’s tricks. You shall make some lucky buck a fine wife.” He smiled as she finished tying his cravat. “You have a pensive expression, ma chérie. What is bothering you?”

  “Why don’t you tell me why you wanted to talk with me?” She sat again. “Or was it for nothing but doing your cravat?”

  He collected his boots and dropped into a chair. “I wish to know how your evening passed.”

  “Miriam danced often.”

  “With one man?”

  “With several.”

  “Good.” He pushed on the boot, then stood to force his heel into it. “I thought she would find her first Season enjoyable.” Reaching past her, he picked up a folded newspaper. “However, it appears you were much the center of attention yourself, ma chérie.”

  Emily tossed the newspaper back onto the bed. “Papa, that is prattle. I spent most of last evening trying to convince Mr. Colley that others would savor his company more than I.”

  He laughed. “If all is going so well, why do you look so uneasy?”

  “Because of Lord Wentworth.”

  His lips straightened into a taut smile. Turning away to look in the glass, he pulled on his coat.

  She tensed. She had not expected the mere mention of the viscount’s name to bring the same cold reaction from Papa as it had from Miriam.

  “Did you encounter him at Miss Prine’s coming-out?” Papa asked. “Not that I would expect such a rakehell to be interested in that tame fare.”

  “Lord Wentworth brought you home.”

  For a long minute, she was unsure if he would answer. Then he faced her. For once, his face revealed his years. “The companions I choose for myself are not the same ones I would choose for you and Miriam.”

  “Miriam is scared of him.”

  “Good.”

  “But, Papa, what happened last night?” She stood slowly. “You are no brandy-face, yet you couldn’t stand alone, and you left your hat in the viscount’s carriage.”

  He frowned. “So that is where it went to. I must speak to Wentworth about it on the next occasion we meet.”

  “No need. He returned it.”

  “He is calling here?”

  Emily was startled, for she never had heard such acrimony from Papa. “Why won’t you tell me what happened last night?”

  “Because it’s not for your fragile ears.” When she gasped, his smile returned, and he patted her shoulder. “Do not look shocked, ma chérie. I did no more than spend the evening in the company of friends while I punished my pockets with losses at the card table.” Rubbing his forehead, he added, “And in the company of too much fine brandy.”

  “Losses? But, Papa, the viscount said you were the victor.”

  He sat on the bed, then, grimacing, motioned for Bollings to clear it. The short man flashed Emily a wry smile. Nothing would change Charles Talcott. She suspected he found a solace at the card table that neither she nor Miriam could provide. Especially Miriam, for so many people spoke of how she was the image of her mother. As Emily was of her mother, but no one in Town knew that, for Papa kept the only portrait of her in this room.

  “He was being a gentleman, ma chérie.” Standing, he wiggled one foot, then the other, to be sure his toes were securely inside the boots. “Even a man like Wentworth knows the correct way to treat a lady. I trust you will give him his congé if he attempts to speak to you or your sister.”

  “But, why? He has—”

  “Called upon you and your sister for the final time.” He faced her, a sudden frown on his lips. “You and Miriam shall not receive him here.”

  “Yes, Papa,” she whispered, although she knew it mattered little if she obeyed Papa or not. Lord Wentworth was not a man to be put off by a polite rebuff. She suspected he would be an uncomfortable part of their lives longer than either she or Papa wished.

  The tinny bell echoed through the small shop. Because the mullioned windows were shaded by stacks of books, the interior was dusky and cramped. Emily needed little light, for she had patronized this bookshop many times. Taking a deep breath of the dusty, warm smell from the books stacked on the shelves—each volume waiting for an eager reader—she walked to the low counter. She looked about, not seeing anyone nor expecting to, for Mr. Homsby tore himself from his reading in the back room only when necessary.

  She took a moment to survey the selection of books, careful not to let her pink muslin skirt brush them. Mr. Homsby had no interest in cleaning his shop, and his customers seemed indifferent to the dust, for he had, in Emily’s opinion, the best bookshop along Old Bond Street. She tilted her bonnet, because she could not see past the bow of brightly striped pink and gold that matched the ribbon laced beneath her bodice.

  Pulling off her gloves, she selected a volume. It was an edition of Byron’s poetry she had never seen. As she paged through it, she became lost in the sensual flow of words. She sighed as she placed it back on the shelf. How much simpler her life would be if she had been blessed with such a gift for words! She wondered if the great poet had to struggle for each phrase as she did, tossing out more than she kept. Yet it was her ridiculous poetry—or the poetry of Marquis de la Cour, she must be careful to recall—that had brought her here.

  “Mr. Homsby?” she called.

  The red velvet curtain behind the counter parted. Mr. Homsby, who had the misfortune to resemble an overfed squirrel with his bushy, gray mustache and tiny eyes behind his gold-rimmed glasses, peered out. A smile puffed out his full cheeks as he scurried to the counter and leaned his pudgy hands on its cluttered top.

  “Miss Talcott! This is, indeed, a pleasant surprise. When your sister stopped in last week, I was delighted she bought one of the newly arrived books for you.” He rubbed his fingers against his mustache as he grinned. “I could hardly contain my amusement when she
spoke of how excited you would be to see the marquis’s latest collection.”

  Emily would not let him draw her into a conversation of polite nothings. “Why wasn’t I told the book was available for sale? I could hardly contain my astonishment when Miriam brought it home.”

  He flushed nearly to the color of the drape behind him. “Miss Talcott, I told you the book would be printed by midsummer.”

  “It’s barely the beginning of June. Spring is still with us.”

  “But you must own my words were true, for it’s before midsummer.”

  “I wish you had informed me before you put the book in the window,” she said, not willing to concede completely.

  He raised his hands in a broad shrug. “How could I do that? If I had sent a note, I was unsure who might intercept it.” Pointing past her, he asked, “But can you deny that it looks lovely there?”

  Emily went to the window. Rings holding a strip of paisley fabric rattled as she put her hands on the half-height railing. In spite of herself, she smiled when she saw the books glittering in the sunshine. Mr. Homsby’s publisher had topped himself with this volume, for the gilt letters gave it an appearance worthy of a marquis.

  She sighed. She had been a blind buzzard to start down this path of lies, but she was as sure today as she had been two years ago that her name on the cover would create questions. It was easier to collect her royalties from Mr. Homsby anonymously and slip them into the household accounts to keep her family from ruin. Yet she was growing tired of her double life.

  “It is a pretty book,” Emily said as she faced Mr. Homsby.

  “I shall tell the publisher that.”

  “I would like to tell him that myself.”

  The quarto lost his cheerful expression as his mustache drooped. “Miss Talcott, you know that is impossible. The publisher hired me to find him materials suitable for publication and to sell them. He wishes to have nothing to do with the authors, for he has no time to deal with their concerns.”