When the gray-haired man peeked out, Emily found the bookseller’s trepidation annoying. After all, he had been audacious enough to have an invitation to the reading by the marquis delivered to her house.
“Miss Talcott!” With a smile she knew was false, he surged forward to greet her. He motioned for Jaspar to return to the back room, which usually would have been a relief, but today her exasperation was focused on the quarto.
“Send him out of the store,” Emily said quietly.
“We are very busy, Miss Talcott.”
“I wish to speak to you alone.”
Mr. Homsby’s face became a sickish shade of gray, and she knew he understood the threat she need not speak. “Wait here.” He called quick orders to Jaspar.
Only when Emily heard the back door close did she place the folded page on the counter. “I thought I would reply to your invitation in person. Imagine my astonishment when I learned Marquis de la Cour would be reading his poetry here.”
“Miss Talcott, I—”
“Spare me from your bounces! How dare you send these invitations? You know that man cannot be Marquis de la Cour.”
“Everyone believes he is.”
“I do not believe that. Nor do you.”
“After his triumph at Lady Fanning’s soirée last night, the whole of London does.”
Her eyes narrowed as she saw his smile. “You know of that? Did you send him there? Is this masquerade your idea?”
He raised his hands. “You wound me, Miss Talcott. I had no idea who he was when he came in yesterday. He expressed an interest in the book, and I mentioned, as any wise shopkeeper would do, that he should make his purchase without delay. I suspected many customers would want the book in the wake of the reading Lady Fanning was hosting.”
“So that allowed him to know where to make his surprise entrance into the élite.” She sighed. “No doubt he returned to regale you with how he was the toast of the evening.”
“The marquis is delighted with his welcome.”
“The marquis is no marquis. If I were to—”
“Think a moment!” he urged, leaning his hands on the counter. “He will enhance sales to such a degree that, even with you giving him half of your royalties—”
“Half? I never agreed to such a cockle-brained scheme.”
“It was my idea.” He swallowed roughly, the uneasiness returning to his face. “He was hinting there must be a good reason the real marquis had not come to London. If he were to announce now he is a fraud, it surely would be harmful to sales.”
She struggled to maintain her composure. “Mr. Homsby, you must inform that man posthaste that your contract with him is invalid, for I did not consent to it.”
His gray mustache drooped to match his frown, but she saw little regret in his eyes. Mr. Homsby was certain to profit handsomely from this arrangement. “I cannot cancel the reading when the invitations have already been sent. If you wish to make an announcement at that time—”
“I shall let you know.”
She saw his amazement at her cool answer and guessed he had expected her to demur. She had no idea what she would do at the reading, but she would not confide that to a man who already had betrayed her in order to fill his pockets.
Emily opened the door. She gasped as she stared at the man standing on the other side. The fake Marquis de la Cour brushed past her as if she were of the least interest. Her exasperation became anger.
“Mon seigneur, comment allez-vous aujourd’hui?” she called to his back.
He whirled, his self-satisfied smile vanishing. Something flashed through his eyes, but was gone before she could guess what it was. He surged back to her and reached for her hand.
Emily kept her fingers clasped around her bag and her chin high. Past the impostor, she could see Mr. Homsby’s face grow greasy with sweat.
The charlatan marquis gushed, “Do not tell me your name, mademoiselle, for I know it well. You are Emily Talcott, who read so beautifully of my poems, while I had the plaisir of speaking with your charming sister, the très belle Mademoiselle Miriam.”
“Here in England,” she replied in her primmest French, “one does not speak so informally of a young woman whom one has just made the acquaintance of.”
His swarthy eyes twinkled as he drew off his beaver and tossed it on the counter. “Your French is delightful, Mademoiselle Talcott, but I beg you again to allow me to practice my English.”
“You seem much its master.”
He pressed one hand over his pristine white waistcoat. “I hope one day to be. Can I believe you have come to this librairie to purchase one of my books?”
“No.”
“Then allow me.” He reached over into the window and lifted out one of the slim blue volumes. Pressing it into her hand, he said, “Please accept this as a gift from me. Avec ma gratitude, mademoiselle.”
“No thank you.” She set the book back into the window display. “Mr. Homsby, I believe it is time we spoke of—”
The door burst open into her back, propelling her into the marquis. Jaspar rushed into the shop as she extricated herself from the marquis’s embrace. Stepping away from the marquis as he grinned at her as if she were no better than a cyprian, she waved aside Jaspar’s hands which seemed to number at least a dozen.
“I am fine,” she assured them. It was another lie. Her stomach ached, and her head throbbed, and she wished she never had discovered that words could rhyme.
“Are you certain?” asked the marquis.
“Yes. Good day.” Emily grasped the door and threw it open again.
“Miss Talcott! Don’t go!” Jaspar called.
She ignored him as she stepped out into the dim sunshine. Hearing a soft groan behind her, she glanced over her shoulder. Jaspar was clutching onto the door, a fearful expression widening his eyes. A hand settled on her arm.
With a gasp, she pulled away. She stared at the strange man, who was grinning broadly. Dismay cramped her stomach as she saw two other men standing between her and her carriage. Another slipped behind her to shove Jaspar back into the shop.
The man by the bookshop door smiled. “Good afternoon, pretty lady. Have you come to talk with us?” He took her hand and raised it to his lips. “Will you entertain us in other ways?”
Emily recoiled. The man had the manners of a sow’s baby, although he and his companions were dressed in the varmentish style of the frippery set. Bond Street Loungers! How could she have been so witless? She should have taken note of the time.
With cool disdain, she answered, “I have neither the time for nor the interest in a conversation with you.”
“But you talk so pretty, pretty lady.”
When she turned toward the carriage, her coachee, Simon, started to climb down from the box. The young man froze when one of the men shouted, “Stay where you are, lame-hand.”
“See here—”
The Bond Street Loungers growled.
Emily glanced along the street, but the gaudily dressed young men were the only ones abroad.
A man tugged at the feather on her bonnet. “Strange color for a bird,” he said as his cronies chuckled. “Never have seen a lavender bird.”
“Excuse me.” She tried to step away, but the men refused to move aside.
Fear clawed at her. These nick-ninnies were intent on causing her trouble. Seeing the glint of malevolent amusement in the men’s eyes, she feared they would not let her escape.
Chapter Nine
“Ah, here you are, darling! I pray you are not angry at me for being late.”
Emily whirled as she heard a familiar voice. Damon! She longed to throw herself into his arms, which were sure to protect her from these boors. As she took a step toward him, a Bond Street Lounger intercepted her again. She edged back, not wanting to let this cad touch her.
“Do tell me you will forgive me, darling,” Damon said as he walked toward her. Only the slightest narrowing of his eyes warned that his good humor was only a pose. �
�Tell me now before my heart breaks.”
“Damon—”
“Tell me now, if you will find it in your heart to forgive me.”
She understood him. To thwart the Loungers at their own game, she must play her part in the masquerade he had devised with a few words. Pasting on a pout, she said, “I thought you had forgotten me.”
“Forget you? Impossible!”
The Loungers edged aside as he walked to her as if he had taken no note of anyone but her.
“My darling,” he gushed, “I would as soon forget to breathe.”
For a moment, she thought the most ill-bred of the Loungers would refuse to move away, but Damon did not slow. She suspected Damon would have trod right over the sad vulgar if the Lounger had not back-pedaled. Taking her hand, he raised it to his lips exactly the same as the Lounger had.
Yet it was not the same, for she was caught by the glow in his eyes which suggested he longed to enfold her to him. The warmth of his lips seared through her glove, threatening to leave her so weak she would have no choice but to fling her arms around him if she wished to remain on her feet. His gaze enthralled her when he lifted his head.
“Damon,” she whispered, delighting in the sensation of his name on her lips but wanting his mouth upon them.
Again his eyes slitted as he looked past her. He squeezed her fingers in a silent order to remember their charade.
“Do not be so late next time,” she said loud enough so every Lounger would hear. “You know how I hate to wait.”
“As I do, darling.” His drawl sent a heated shiver through her as she abruptly wondered where the line was between their masquerade and the truth.
A slow smile tilted his lips, and she tried to guess how he would accept such a scold that was not a jest. Not well, she suspected.
As he raised her hand to his lips again, she drew away before his touch ignited that bewitching fire anew. “Then let us be on our way before we are late again,” she said.
Damon chuckled and said, as if he were noticing the Bond Street Loungers for the first time, “Take care, my friends, not to give your heart to a woman who watches the clock.”
He offered Emily his arm. Putting her fingers on it, she let him lead her to her carriage.
She began, “Thank—”
“Shh,” he warned. Raising his voice, he added, “Go along, my good man. I shall see her home.”
“Miss Talcott?” Simon asked, his eyes wide with dismay.
Against her ear, Damon murmured, “Do not put a pox on this now. If you try to leave alone, they will halt your carriage.”
“But Simon could be hurt if—”
He interrupted her in the same tense whisper, “They have no wish to abuse him. They seek their prey in women who are want-witted enough to be alone here at this hour.”
Emily nodded, taking no umbrage at the demure hit. She deserved a scold. Looking up at the coachee, she said, “Simon, please take the carriage home, and let Miriam and Papa know I will be there in odd-come-shortlies.”
“Yes, Miss Talcott.” The coachman tipped his hat to her, gave the Loungers a scowl that brought a few halfhearted chuckles, then whipped up the horses.
Because Damon said nothing more, Emily remained silent. The Loungers fired some remarks in his direction, but Damon acted as if the boors had vanished from the street. She did the same. It was easy to be courageous now that she was no longer alone. The Loungers wandered away, looking for other quarry for their hard-faced roasts.
She walked by Damon’s side, no faster than an egg-trot, and tried to relax. “Thank you.”
“For rescuing you again?”
“I needed rescuing today.”
He stopped before a handsome white phaeton with red wheels. As he handed her in, he winced as her reticule struck him. “What do you have in there? One of Homsby’s volumes?”
“Just a small notebook.” She could not own the truth that her fear of the Bond Street Loungers discovering the book with the first drafts of several poems frightened her as much as their salacious comments. “Mayhap I should have used it to teach those blocks a lesson or two.”
“Just as well that you did not. They do not appreciate being shown for the dolts that they are.” He took the reins that had been lashed around a lamp post. “Are you unhurt?”
“Save for my dignity.”
“You should know better than to come here now.”
“I know that.”
His voice became less hard when hers quivered. “Surely your errand could have waited.”
Staring at her clasped hands, she shook her head. “It was quite urgent.”
“So urgent that you let yourself be the victim of the Loungers? If I had not come along, they would have insulted you nineteen to the dozen.” He put his hand over her clenched fingers. “Emily, I was sure that you, of all your family, would think before you jumped recklessly into something.”
“I should have thought first, I realize, but I had to get out of there before I strangled that man.”
“Homsby?”
“No. Marquis de la Cour.”
Damon glanced at her, surprise wiping away his irritation at the Bond Street Loungers. “He was at the bookshop?”
“Yes.”
“That is most interesting.”
“If—”
“One moment. Let me get us away from this dray which seems determined to run us down.” Damon drove with the cool confidence of a man undaunted by the crush of the traffic, but he looked at her as he said, “I can understand why you took your leave from de la Cour, but you still have not explained what was so important that you could not delay until an hour when it was safe for you.”
“I wanted to discuss the reading with Mr. Homeby.”
“Reading?”
Reaching into her bag, she pulled out the invitation.
“I recognize it,” Damon said, “for I have its twin waiting on my breakfast table, although I have not opened it. What is it?”
“An invitation to a poetry reading by Marquis de la Cour.”
Emily was taken aback when he let loose a laugh that caused heads to turn in all the vehicles around them.
“To be sure,” he said, “I would hazard Lady Fanning was generous enough to provide our peerless parleyvoo marquis with the names and addresses of her guests who were awed by his magnificence.”
She replaced the invitation in her reticule, resisting the yearning to shred it. “That does not explain why you received one.”
He laughed. “Nor does it explain why you decided to call upon Homsby this afternoon. I cannot believe it is because you cannot wait to hear Marquis de la Cour read his poetry.”
“When I was at his shop last, I forgot to ask Mr. Homsby to hold for me that book on roses you pointed out.” That much was the truth.
“What does that have to do with de la Cour?”
“Nothing.”
“Then what does it have to do with your sister and how she monopolized the frog’s attention last night?”
“How—?”
“On dits are most efficient, darling.”
“Don’t call me that.”
He smiled. “I was just trying to tease you out of the doldrums.”
“You could do that by not repeating poker-talk about my sister.”
“I was speaking of de la Cour, I believe.”
“Miriam likes his poetry. Nothing more.”
“Are you certain?”
“Most certain.” The banger was acidic on her tongue. As they turned onto Picadilly Street, she frowned. “This is not the way to Hanover Square.”
“That is true, although I am uncertain how much else you have told me is.”
“Where are we going?”
“Do you still fear for your reputation with me?”
“Should I?”
“Do you always answer a question with a question?”
“Do you?” she fired back.
“Touché.”
“That is not an a
nswer.” She fought to keep the alarm from her voice. “Damon, where are we going?”
She got her answer when he turned into Green Park and drew back on the reins to slow them to a walk. Other carriages drove past as a fine rain began to fall.
“Damon, we should not be here like this.” Riding with him without a duenna would bring about her ruin as completely as having the Polite World discover she was the true Marquis de la Cour.
“I had thought we might walk about and enjoy the flowers, but the weather is not favorable. This may be for the best. No one is taking note of us as we take the long way back to Hanover Square.”
“How can you say that when people noticed Miriam and the marquis last night?” She put her fingers to her lips. “Oh!”
He chuckled. “I thought that was just poker-talk.”
“Damon, please take me home.”
“I am, so do not fuss.” He smiled and rested his arm along the back of the seat as he steered the phaeton through the mist. “Even if I am not lauded as a hero for saving you from those blind buzzards, my reputation will protect yours. Nobody would imagine the feminine occupant of ‘Demon’ Wentworth’s carriage at this hour could be of quality.”
“You are outrageous!”
His smile broadened. “Outrageous, but honest. Can I believe you might consider being as honest with me?”
“The truth is, I am pleased you chanced along.” Folding her hands in her lap, she smiled. “I hope your gallantry has not kept you from your own errands.”
“It was not critical that I complete my tasks this afternoon.”
Emily bit back her next question. She was curious what business had brought him to Old Bond Street. He might have been on his way to visit Mr. Homsby’s shop, too. To buy another copy of her book?
Do not be absurd! But she could not keep from wondering who had been the recipient of the book he had bought. A book was not a gift a man took to his convenient. Or did he? She knew nothing of such things.
Realizing she must say something, she asked, “Do you often have critical business?”
Rhyme and Reason Page 10
