Rhyme and Reason

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  “But—”

  “Miss Talcott, you have been satisfied with your books, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And haven’t you been paid on time?”

  “I believe I have you to thank for that.”

  Swelling up with pride so broadly that she was afraid he would pop his waistcoat buttons, he said, “And I thank you for being such a fine author. That is the second shipment of books this week.”

  “You still have not given me a reason why I cannot meet with the publisher. Where can I contact him?”

  As the bell over the door rang merrily, Mr. Homsby looked past her. Sure she heard him sigh with relief as a grin lit his face, Emily turned. Her eyes widened as she met Lord Wentworth’s smile.

  As before, the viscount had adonized himself. His nankeen trousers and deep-green fustian coat covered a ruffled shirt and simple waistcoat. On his ebony hair, that was dulled by Mr. Homeby’s exuberant curtain, was a top hat with a tilted brim. He carried a walking stick in one hand. When she saw a cicisbeo of the brightest yellow tied to it, she was startled by the affectation she had not suspected he would assume. She chided herself, for she knew no more about the viscount than when they first had met a week ago.

  Lord Wentworth came forward, tipping his beaver. “Seeing you here is an unexpected delight, Miss Talcott.”

  “Good morning.” She was not delighted to see him again, for he had been false about the card games he had shared with Papa. He had betwattled her then, but he would not again. Even Mr. Homsby had the decency not to lie outright.

  “My lord,” gushed the bookseller, his smile broadening so far Emily feared it would escape his face, “I have the book you requested waiting.”

  “Very good.” Lord Wentworth turned back to Emily before she could take her leave. “You are a most pleasant sight in this shop, Miss Talcott. I believe your snapping eyes light up even its darkest corners.”

  Papa had been right. So had Miriam. This man deserved being called Demon Wentworth. After spinning tales which, like a goosecap, she had swallowed wholeheartedly, he had the gall to act as if she would be delighted to see him. She wished to leave, but that was impossible when he stood between her and the door. Pushing past him was unthinkable, yet continuing this conversation when Papa had forbidden her to receive Lord Wentworth was as impossible.

  “Miss Talcott,” he continued, smiling, “if I may be so bold as to speak the truth, Homsby would be wise to keep such lovely company as you here in his shop to persuade the gentlemen to pause and browse among his books.”

  “You are bold, and there is no need to lather me with compliments. I appreciate being told the truth.”

  He laughed. “And I may trust you to speak the truth.”

  Shame seared her, for she was being anything but truthful when she stood next to her books in the window. But she was not the only one guilty of falsehoods. Lord Wentworth had lied to her about her father’s losses and showed no regret.

  “Do you come to look,” he went on, “or do you have a specific volume in mind?” He ran his gloved finger along the spines and selected one. “If I may offer a suggestion, Miss Talcott, I believe you would find this book on roses interesting.”

  Emily took it. The book was by Dr. Osborne, who was gaining a fine reputation as an expert on gardening. With a sigh, she replaced it. She did not have money to indulge in the luxury of a book.

  “It wasn’t to your liking?” Lord Wentworth asked, warning she must guard every reaction, for his eyes were keen.

  “Quite to the contrary.” She hoped her smile would not falter. “Thank you for pointing it out, my lord.”

  He nodded and went to the counter. Releasing another sigh, but this one of gratitude that he had not pursued his curiosity further, she glanced at the book on roses. Mayhap she should ask Mr. Homsby to hold it. When her royalties were sufficient to pay for it, he could send it to her.

  Emily’s happiness vanished into amazement when she saw what Mr. Homsby was handing to Lord Wentworth. It was her book.

  As if he sensed her thoughts, which she found a discomfiting idea, Lord Wentworth said, “You need not stare at me like a disgruntled schoolmaster, Miss Talcott.”

  “I find it peculiar you should deride the marquis’s poetry upon our last meeting and now purchase a copy.” She should remain silent, but she was frustrated with what might be another of his out-and-outers. How many more tales would he tell her before she had the good sense to—To what? Put him from her life? Ridiculous! He was not a part of her life. She was acting as moony as Miriam each time she thought of Graham Simpkins.

  “This book is not for me, but a gift, Miss Talcott.” His smile was dazzling and urged her to believe him.

  “Forgive me. I did not mean to stare.”

  “But you were, and just like a schoolmaster.” He winked at Mr. Homsby who was listening with ill-concealed interest. “A lad would pay much more attention to his lessons if he had a teacher like Miss Talcott. Don’t you agree, Homsby?”

  “Yes, yes, my lord,” the bookseller said so quickly Emily frowned. Mr. Homsby was often obsequious, but this was absurd.

  Lord Wentworth set the book on the counter so it could be wrapped. “As I suspect you well know, Miss Talcott, a gift should be selected for the pleasure of the recipient, not for the taste of the giver. I have not changed my opinion of the book or its contents.”

  “Honesty at last, I believe.”

  Mr. Homsby interjected, “Miss Talcott, I assure you that Lord Wentworth has a reputation for being honest.”

  “Thank you for the testimonial,” Lord Wentworth said, “but I am curious why Miss Talcott jests with me on this matter.” His eyes narrowed as he rested his hand on the counter.

  She was not bamblusterated by his nonchalance. It was no more than a pose. As she was not certain how long she could maintain her own pretense of serenity when those incredible eyes were focused on her, sending a swift, sweet pulse resonating through her, she said, “I leave you to your gift buying, my lord. Good day to you.” She nodded toward the bookseller. “And to you, Mr. Homsby.”

  “You have not answered my question,” Lord Wentworth said as she started for the door.

  “I did not hear you ask one.”

  He smiled, but it was as cool as Papa’s had been. “That is true. I cannot accuse you of dishonesty, can I?”

  Heat coursed up her cheeks. Her gaze was caught by Mr. Homsby’s, but she looked hastily away. What a widgeon she was! She was wanting for sense to chide Lord Wentworth for being deceitful when Mr. Homsby could denounce her.

  She must leave without delay. If she remained, either Mr. Homsby or she might reveal the truth. As she reached for the doorknob, a broad hand covered the latch. She looked over her shoulder, every word she had ever known vanishing from her head as she stared up into Lord Wentworth’s gray eyes. Storms she did not want to challenge filled them.

  Slowly he drew his hand away, his sleeve brushing her arm in the most chance caress. She knew he had heard her gasp when his smile returned, warm once more as it had been in the garden.

  No! She would not give it credence again. He had lied to her about Papa and about … She could not be sure what else, and she did not dare to stay to find out.

  “Good day,” she murmured again. She was out the door before he could halt her, although she doubted if Lord Wentworth ever needed force to keep a woman by his side. His charm would garner him a place in any woman’s heart. But not in hers. She could not let that happen, not when her whole family’s future depended on her and the secrets she held in her heart.

  Chapter Four

  Emily looked out the window of her carriage as it came to an abrupt stop. The carriage rocked, and her coachman’s freckled face appeared in the window.

  “What is it, Simon?” she asked, putting down the notebook where she had begun sketching out her next collection of poems. She must not let opportunity pass her by. If this book did as well as Mr. Homsby suggested, s
he could not delay beginning another.

  “Accident, Miss Talcott.” He squinted at the pages she held, and she folded them, placing them on the seat. “Looks like a horse stumbled up ahead.”

  “The passengers?”

  Before he could answer, she heard a familiar, slightly too high-pitched voice. Simon opened the door and assisted her to the cobbled street. She rushed to the assistance of her bosom-bow.

  Lady Valeria Fanning was, in Emily’s opinion, the most beautiful woman in Town, even when she was wringing her hands in distress. With gloriously red hair that curled perfectly about her heart-shaped face, she always dressed with just a hint of the garish. Her bold Kashmir shawl covered a pelisse that was opened to reveal her bright gold silk gown. Tall feathers perched on the top of her muslin poke bonnet and had been dyed to match the fancywork on her stockings. Valeria was not a woman to be ignored, even at the largest assembly.

  Beside her stood the man of Miriam’s dreams, although Emily could not fathom why. Graham Simpkins was as bland as Valeria was beautiful. True, his hair seemed like spun ebony in the sunshine, and he possessed a strong silhouette. As usual, he hunched into himself as he watched the thrashing horse in the middle of the street.

  “Valeria, are you hurt?” Emily asked, hurrying to her friend’s side.

  “I do not believe so.” She nudged Mr. Simpkins with her elbow. “Graham, do recall your manners and say good day to Miss Talcott.”

  “Miss Talcott?” He squinted into the sunshine. “Which one?”

  “Emily, of course, you silly block.” Valeria pressed her hand to her bodice. “I swear that lame-hand coachman should never be allowed in the box again.”

  Drawing her friend away from the center of the street, Emily asked, “Can you find someone to help that poor beast, Simon?”

  A voice deeper than her coachee’s answered, “I think they are hoping to tend to that distasteful matter after you ladies have left.”

  Emily whirled. Lord Wentworth! Was he following her, determined to continue their truncated conversation?

  Again she had the peculiar uneasiness that he could guess her thoughts, for he smiled. “Traffic is in a tangle all along the street, and my curiosity would not be quelled without seeing the cause for myself.” Not giving Emily a chance to answer, he tipped his hat to Valeria. “Good morning, Lady Fanning. And to you, Simpkins.”

  “I am so glad to see you,” Valeria moaned, putting her hand on his arm. “Can you help us?”

  “Us?” His brows arched.

  Mr. Simpkins murmured, “Damn good horse. What a shame.”

  “Miss Talcott would certainly offer—” Damon could not keep from smiling as Lady Fanning swooned into his arms. What a to-do! Who would have guessed a simple errand to collect a copy of that book of silly poems would lead to this? Lifting the lady into his arms, he gritted his teeth when her reticule struck his leg and that silly feather tickled his nose.

  “Bring her to my carriage, my lord,” Miss Talcott said.

  When she put her hand on his arm to guide him, he was not astonished, even though, at the bookshop, she had acted as skittish as a gamester with creditors on his tail. Emily Talcott had proven she would be a rock in a crisis when he had brought her father home.

  He nodded and let her lead the way to the simple carriage. Her coachee leaped forward to open the door, then stepped aside.

  When he set the senseless woman on the seat, several sheets of paper fluttered about the carriage. Miss Talcott first smoothed Lady Fanning’s dress over her comely ankles, then gathered up the pages which were covered with neat handwriting. Curious as to what she was writing, he bent closer. She folded them closed before he could read a single word. He was treated to a sweet, musky scent he had enjoyed in the bookshop. He did not recognize the cologne, but it was perfect for Emily Talcott.

  He handed her into the carriage and asked, “How does she fare?”

  “She still is bereft of her senses.”

  “Do you think we should set fire to that absurd feather in her bonnet to bring her about?”

  Miss Talcott stared at him in amazement, then began to laugh. Damon rested his hand on the open doorway and enjoyed the sight. Laughing was something she should do more often, for her eyes sparkled like twin candles.

  “I don’t think,” she said in a prim tone that did not match her smile, “such extraordinary measures will be necessary. She seems to be waking.”

  Before Damon could answer, another voice, a most annoying one, in his opinion, asked, “How is Valeria? Alas, I should have picked a more experienced coachman.”

  “That is your carriage, Simpkins?” Damon asked, glancing at the ruined vehicle.

  “It was.”

  He saw Miss Talcott struggling to hide her smile. She should smile, for Graham Simpkins was amusing even at a moment such as this.

  Quietly, Damon ordered, “Do be a good man, Simpkins, and get Lady Fanning’s things. I am sure Miss Talcott would be glad to see Lady Fanning home.”

  “That is my honor,” Simpkins insisted, squinting at Miss Talcott as if he had just taken note of her.

  “And how do you intend to do that? Carry her home in your arms?”

  Simpkins puffed up like a cat ready to spit at a dog. His hands clenched at his sides.

  Damon folded his arms in front of him. He had no interest in providing more of a public spectacle.

  Miss Talcott said, “Hush, the two of you.” Her voice softened. “Valeria, open your eyes slowly.”

  “Dear me,” murmured Lady Fanning, “my head aches. Oh, do let us be on our way.”

  “An excellent idea,” Damon seconded. “The morning is nearly over. It would not be wise of you ladies to remain here past midday when the Loungers are about.”

  Emily nodded. For once, she could agree with Lord Wentworth. She wanted to be gone before Old Bond Street became filled with the bored young men who looked for entertainment with any lady opaque enough to linger.

  “Will you be all right?” asked Lord Wentworth as Mr. Simpkins went back to oversee the removal of his carriage.

  “Yes, thank you.” She drew the door closed. “I know Lady Fanning appreciates your assistance, my lord.”

  “And do you?”

  She had been about to slap the side of the carriage to give Simon the signal to start. As lief, with her hand half raised, she asked, “Pardon me?”

  “I merely wished to be certain you are fine as well.” He reached into the carriage and put his hand on her wrist. With a smile, he said, “You seem calm, for your heartbeat is not racing.”

  “I am fine, thank you.” She pulled her arm away. Again he was plying her with his balms. At his touch, her pulse had jumped like grease on a hot stove.

  “I am glad we concur again.” As he motioned to her coachee, he tipped his hat toward her. “I trust you will have a much more pleasant afternoon, ladies.”

  As soon as the carriage was underway, Valeria leaned forward, her eyes wide. “When did you meet Lord Wentworth?” Color returned to her cheeks. “Do tell me everything, Emily.”

  “There is not everything to tell. He is Papa’s friend.”

  “And yours, too.” Leaning back against the seat, she wafted her hand in front of her face. “Or he would like to be. Be careful, Emily. He is a dangerous man.”

  “Dangerous?”

  “He has been the cause of more heart palpitations within the breasts of young women and their mothers than any one man has a right to be.”

  Emily chuckled. “He has no interest in calling on me.”

  “No?” Valeria patted her hand. “Listen to someone more experienced and wiser than you in the ways of men. A rogue does not look at a woman as Demon Wentworth looks at you unless he has something very definite in mind.” She raised her chin. “And you can be certain it is not an honorable offer of marriage.”

  “I do not want to marry him!”

  “This is all for the good.” Her smile returned. “Now tell me, Emily, what errands b
rought you to Old Bond Street.”

  Emily relaxed. Chatting with Valeria was sure to halt her thoughts about the disturbing viscount and her curiosity about who would be the recipient of her book he had bought.

  Valeria’s house, where she had lived with her late husband, was as gloriously adorned as the lady herself. Lord Fanning had been rich as a nabob, and Valeria had wasted little time spending his money.

  Sitting in a sunny room, Emily admired the freshly painted friezes. Once her father’s house had been as magnificent, but now she found it difficult to pay for maintenance. London fogs and smoke had little sympathy for paint and paper.

  “I do hope your sister can convince Graham to pay more attention to her tonight at the rout.” Valeria smiled as she leaned back on a divan. “I am surprised Miriam has failed to convince him of her interest. After all, she is the pattern-card of loveliness.”

  Emily shrugged and stirred her tea. “Who is to say why Mr. Simpkins ignores her? I assume she shall meet someone else who will intrigue her heart.”

  “And what of you, dear Emily? Now that Mr. Colley is following you about like a love-smitten puppy, there is talk that you might be making an announcement soon.”

  “Quell the talk, if you can. My sole interest in the Season is finding a good husband for Miriam.”

  “And none for yourself?” Valeria gestured broadly. “My dear Albert was as generous before his untimely death as his estate has been since. You should find yourself a man who dotes upon you and gives you your heart’s desire. How lovely you would look in the gown I saw in Madame’s this morning! All ruffles and lace that you, slight thing that you are, can wear better than someone with my unfortunate figure.”

  Emily was accustomed to Valeria’s need to be endlessly complimented on her appearance and taste. She spoke the reassuring words without thinking.

  Valeria lifted a book from under the rosewood table by the divan. Its bright blue cover told Emily it contained her poetry.

  “Have you seen this?” Valeria asked.

  “Miriam purchased me a copy earlier in the week.”

  Her mouth became a moue of displeasure at not being the first to discover the new collection of poetry. She pressed the book to her breast as her high spirits returned. “I do love the marquis’s poetry. How I wish I could meet him!”