Rhyme and Reason

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  That Emily agreed was what he had anticipated, for she seemed unable to deny her sister’s wishes, but he had not thought she would say nothing else during the short ride to Berkeley Square. Not that the carriage was quiet. Miriam prattled, nonstop, about how well de la Cour had read before his adoring audience.

  Damon had heard little, for he had had the good fortune to be at the back of the shop where he could peruse a book on water gardens. What he had heard convinced him the only thing more irritating than de la Cour’s poetry was enduring the sound of the Frenchman reading those poems in English. Mayhap it would not have been so atrocious if the marquis had read in French, but his faltering ruined the cadence.

  As he handed Emily out of the carriage in front of the townhouse that was bright with lamps, he said, “If you wish to take our leave at any time, you need only to say so.”

  Emily shoved aside the blue devils that had been taunting her. “Thank you, Damon.” She sighed as Miriam hurried up the steps to the front door with Kilmartin in tow. “I am very worried about her.”

  “I had thought your sister to have better sense than to come under de la Cour’s spell.”

  “She is just pretending,” she said as they followed her sister at more decorous pace.

  “Pretending?” He paused on the step. “About what?”

  “Her calf love for the marquis.” She lowered her voice. “She wants to make Mr. Simpkins jealous.”

  “Graham Simpkins?” He snorted. “Why?”

  “She has had a tendre for him since the Season began.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Emily gave the footman in his perfect black livery a smile as he took Damon’s hat. She ignored the prick of envy when she wished Johnson would be even half as skilled. “She has spoken of little else.”

  “But are you sure about that now?”

  She followed his glance up the stairs to where Miriam was standing in the reception line on the marquis’s left. Her sister had her arm through his and was gazing at him with all the fervor of infatuation.

  “Is she such a good actress?” Damon continued. “Or is she succumbing to de la Cour’s froggish charm?”

  Chapter Eleven

  Emily hoped Damon was wrong. Miriam had pined for Graham Simpkins for so long. Surely she could not turn her back on him simply because a false marquis was turning her head with bon mots.

  But Miriam did not know the man was an impostor!

  “Miriam,” Emily said, drawing her sister away from the marquis, who was exulting in his legions of admirers pouring through the door and up the stairs.

  “What is it? André asked me to remain by his side in case he needed help understanding someone’s English.”

  “I think he can manage quite well on his own.” She flinched as she heard the French phrases he sprinkled more liberally through his conversation when he seemed intent on impressing a person. He need waste them on her no more. She suspected he was as much a Frenchman as he was a marquis. If only she could think of a way to denounce him without divulging the truth …

  “He is superb, isn’t he?” Miriam’s face took on a dreamy expression that added to the tightness in Emily’s stomach.

  “Miriam, you know so little about him.”

  “You keep repeating that.” She fluttered her eyelashes when the marquis blew a kiss in her direction. “I have never been this happy.”

  Damon’s chuckle silenced Emily’s retort as he held out a glass of wine. “I thought you might enjoy something to wash away the disagreeable taste of de la Cour’s poetry. He—Look out!”

  A man, his head down, his hands locked behind his back, almost bumped into Emily, but halted when Damon put out his hands. The dark-haired man looked up, and Emily was startled to meet Mr. Simpkins’s wide eyes. Next to her, Miriam stiffened.

  “Why don’t you keep your eyes on where you are going, Simpkins?” Damon demanded. “You have an intolerable habit of running folks down.”

  “Forgive me.” He squinted at Emily and said, “Excuse me, Miss Talcott.”

  Emily waited for her sister to speak, but Miriam stared at him, not uttering a sound. Exasperation gnawed at Emily.

  Mr. Simpkins took a step back. “Good evening, Miss Talcott, my lord, Miss Talcott.” He bobbed at each of them and rushed away.

  “Terse fellow,” Damon said under his breath.

  Emily turned to her sister. “Miriam, I—”

  “Say nothing,” Miriam whispered. “Anything you say will just persuade me more of how I have been a clod-pate to wish that Mr. Simpkins would speak to me. He must think me a gawney for being unable to speak even a word to him.”

  “He said little more than you,” Damon said. “He may be shy, too.”

  “Shy?” Miriam cried. “He seeks out Valeria on every occasion. He must be bored with my silliness.”

  “You can never win his heart if you flee,” Emily said. “However, if you wish, we can leave now.”

  “That would be a shame, for then I would not have the chance to ask you to stand up with me, Miriam,” came the marquis’s voice.

  “Stand up with you?” Miriam gasped, her smile returning.

  “That is the proper phrase, is it not?” He motioned toward the dance floor. “Will you dance with me?”

  “Oh, yes!”

  “Miriam?” Emily put her hand on her sister’s arm and fought the yearning to throw her arms around her sister to keep her from walking out onto the dance floor with the fake marquis.

  As the marquis looked at her with a slight smile, she feared once more that he knew the truth she hid. Again she reminded herself he could not guess she was Marquis de la Cour. If he had, he would not be seeking out her sister.

  “Yes?” Miriam asked.

  Faintly, she said, “Enjoy the music.”

  As did everyone else in the room, she watched her sister walk away on the marquis’s arm. Even Mr. Simpkins, who was standing, as ever, next to Valeria, had frozen with his glass of wine halfway to his mouth. No one moved but the marquis and Miriam, who laughed at some sally Emily could not hear.

  She blinked as a waistcoat blocked her view. Raising her eyes, she met Damon’s amused ones.

  “She is an excellent actress,” Damon said quietly. “I doff my chapeau to her on her conquest of our frog poet.”

  “Cut line!”

  “Emily!” he called, but she did not slow or look back as she walked across the ballroom.

  Miriam floated through the evening, for the marquis seldom left her side. Nor did Emily, who noted the expressions of envy in other female eyes as they watched her sister. She noticed as well that her sister did not waste a glance in Mr. Simpkins’s direction. Emily’s single attempt to mention that was brushed aside as unimportant, and she wondered how Miriam’s heart could be so fickle.

  Wandering out into Lady Murrow’s garden, Emily sighed. She would find no comfort in this sterile place. She despised its attempt to ape a natural landscape, for the miniature hills and clumps of trees were out of place in Town.

  Shadows chased the lamplight along the path of crushed seashells and into the shrubs. The odors from the river drifted toward her, but she paid them no mind. Hearing light voices and a feminine giggle in an arbor near the gate leading to the stables, she turned in the opposite direction. She did not begrudge anyone happiness, but it seemed ironic anyone could be so happy when she was so miserable.

  A stone bench was still warm with the day’s heat. Emily sank to it and leaned her elbows on her knees as she stared at the pattern her toe traced in the stones. What was she going to do? If she spoke the truth about who had written the poems, Miriam would never make the good marriage necessary to save the household from penury. If she was not honest, that bounder might seduce her sister into believing his lies and giving him her heart. That would be just as disastrous.

  “I thought I might find you here in this sorry excuse for a garden.”

  “Damon!” she whispered, looking up to see his enticing silhouette ag
ainst the lamps sprinkled through the garden.

  “May I?” he asked, pointing at the bench.

  Emily nodded. “Of course.”

  “You are right to be worried.”

  She smiled, glad he did not lather her with useless assurances.

  Her smile disappeared when he went on, “I suspected de la Cour would seek out a willing victim for his charm, although I had guessed your sister to be wiser than this.”

  “A few dances do not make a match.”

  “You sound like one of the dowagers, Emily, but you cannot bamboozle me. You are worried.”

  “I know too little about that man.”

  He folded his arms over his chest and flashed her a challenging grin. “You are not the only one curious about our Frenchy friend. I cornered Homsby in his shop tonight and put a few questions to him. I was determined to learn more about our infamous Marquis de la Cour.”

  Emily was sure the world had tipped on its side, for her head was suddenly light. Mr. Homsby would not have told Damon the truth, would he?

  Calm yourself. Homsby would want the truth revealed no more than she did. The Polite World would never again patronize his shop if they learned he had hoaxed them.

  Taking a deep breath, she asked, “And what did you learn?”

  “That de la Cour is a French poet who has gained a ridiculously large following here in Town. That is it. Are you disappointed? Did you hope to discover that the marquis is keeping a secret from the élite de l’élite? A wife kept in a dungeon in a castle on the Loire perchance? Or perhaps a mistress living in grandeur in that same chateau?” His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “Could it be you hoped the quarto was privy to something even more detrimental to de la Cour’s reputation?”

  “Enough!” She started to open her fan, then placed it in her lap again. The motion would not keep Damon from guessing her thoughts. “I wish to keep Miriam from breaking her heart anew.”

  “Odd.”

  “What is odd?”

  He smiled. “I never thought to hear you speak such jobbernowl words.”

  “What is jobbernowl about wanting to protect my sister?”

  “Not that. I commend you for your sisterly affection, but she is old enough to find her own way.”

  Emily glanced back at the ballroom just as her sister and de la Cour danced past. Her sister’s face glowed with happiness. When the marquis bent forward, Miriam smiled at whatever he said.

  Loosening her clenched hands, for her fingers had been pressed so tightly to her palms that she could feel the prick of her fingernails through her gloves, Emily fought despair. Damon’s broader hand eased over hers, and she gasped as a pulse of delight coursed along her arm. So easily she could imagine these fingers tending a fragile seedling in the gardens Damon enjoyed visiting, but she was finding it harder and harder to envision them arrogantly holding a handful of cards. Her gaze slipped up his black fustian sleeve to the high collar edging his square jaw. Higher, until it met his.

  “Let us speak of other things,” he said in a low voice that urged her closer.

  She resisted, for she found her mind drifting from his hands to how easy it would be to place her head on his shoulder. “Yes, let us.”

  “Of our trip to Wentworth Hall? Have you given my invitation some thought?”

  “Yes.”

  When he smiled, she realized her swift answer was revealing too much.

  “Or we could speak of how your eyes change color like the sky with every different mood,” he murmured as he slipped his arm along the back of the bench. His hand curved around her shoulder, tilting her toward him.

  “Damon, I think—”

  “Do not think. Just feel.” His palm cupped her chin, his fingers splaying across her cheek. “Just feel this.”

  His mouth captured hers as his arms enfolded her to him. Straining for breath, she gasped when he traced her lips with moist flames. His kiss deepened when her fingers slid beneath his collar to find the soft hairs at his nape.

  When he raised his mouth from hers, she wanted more. More of the danger and more of the rapture. She traced the curve of his lips with her fingertip. He smiled, and she was sure something luscious was melting within her, sending its sweetness to her very toes.

  “Better?” he murmured.

  “Yes.”

  “Good, for I came to tell you I must take my leave. I forgot another obligation I have tonight.”

  “Now? I thought you were going to take Miriam and me home.” Emily lowered her eyes. “I am being presumptuous. I should have realized we were keeping you from the card table.”

  He laced his fingers through hers. “Emily—”

  “Emily!” echoed an outraged voice.

  She pulled away to stare at her father who was walking toward them. His face was as stern as his voice.

  Rising, she swallowed roughly. “Good evening, Papa. I did not know you were attending Lady Murrow’s supper.”

  “Obviously not.” His furious footsteps threatened to crush the stones in the path to dust. “Where is Kilmartin?”

  “Inside with Miriam.” She was so aware of Damon sitting in silence while her father scolded her as he had when she was a child.

  Papa scowled. “I thought it was understood that you were to serve as watch-dog for your sister, and that Kilmartin was to play duenna for you, if necessary.”

  “Papa—”

  “Come with me. Right now!”

  Emily was too ashamed to meet Damon’s eyes as she whispered, “Excuse me.”

  “I think not,” Damon answered as quietly. Turning to her father, he said, “Talcott, you are creating a spectacle.”

  “Me?” Papa’s frown rutted his forehead. “You are here alone with my daughter in the garden.”

  “We are in the garden, but hardly alone. I suspect you shall find a half dozen others among Lady Murrow’s sad collection of bushes.”

  Papa turned to her, the frustration on his face filtering into his voice. “I am waiting for an explanation, Emily, why you have risked your sister’s reputation and yours like this.”

  Chapter Twelve

  When Emily faltered before her father’s wrath, Damon answered, “Talcott, the explanation should be mine, because I sought her out.”

  “I thought even you were more of a gentleman than this.”

  “You are misconstruing my intent.”

  “It seems clear when I see you sitting so close to my daughter as you whisper together in this bower.”

  “I sought her out so I might speak to her of an invitation.”

  “An invitation? What type of invitation are you offering my daughter?”

  Damon silenced his rage. This was no time to lose his composure. Talcott’s cavalier behavior was vexing, but he was more irritated at Emily. She did not retort like the intelligent woman she was. As lief she submitted to her father without a thought for her own desires or Damon’s, for he found it difficult to think of anything but feasting on her lips again.

  “The invitation is for you and your family to join me on a visit to Wentworth Hall,” he answered, satisfied with his calm tone. “I need to return there for several days at the end of the week, and I plan to invite a few friends. I thought Emily and her sister along with the other ladies joining us would enjoy a visit to a local fair while we men lure Lady Luck’s smile upon us.”

  Talcott’s frown eased into a sly smile. “A fascinating idea, I must say. Who else would be joining us?”

  As he listed the gamesters who would be willing to travel as far as Wentworth Hall to study the history of four kings with Demon Wentworth, he watched Talcott. The man was fairly salivating to begin the play. This, all in all, he had to own with a smile was easier than he had expected.

  When he looked at Emily, he was astonished to see anger glittering in her eyes that sparked like faceted sapphires. She was furious. Why? She should be grateful, for he had spared her from her father’s dressing-down.

  “It could be entertaini
ng,” Talcott said as he rubbed his chin.

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  Talcott smiled. “Mayhap I have misjudged you, Wentworth. We accept your gracious invitation.” To Emily, he added, “You may prepare the household for the visit.”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  Annoyed further by her servility, Damon asked, “I trust that, now that we have cleared the air, I may continue to speak with your daughter about this.”

  “Of course, but inside.” He gave his daughter a quick kiss on the cheek and said, “While you handle the arrangements with Wentworth, ma chérie, I will find your sister. I hear she has made the conquest of a marquis tonight.”

  Talcott strode away, whistling a tune whose words would have brought a blush to his daughter’s face.

  Offering his arm to Emily, Damon waited until her father was out of earshot before asking, “Why are you giving me a scowl that would curse a witch? I had thought you wanted to join me on the journey.”

  Unhappiness threaded her forehead, and his fingers longed to soothe the lines away. “If we are friends, as you assert, Damon, I beg a favor of you.” As he started to answer, she raised her hand and said in a broken voice, “Please listen before you say something you may regret. I would ask that you take this vow only if you propose to keep it.”

  “I make no promises lightly,” he said, then swore as his terse response brought tears into her lustrous eyes.

  “Please do not play cards with my father during our visit to Wentworth Hall.”

  “Why?”

  She raised her chin, and he admired her gentle courage. “Just tell me that you will agree to this small favor.”

  “Or you will refuse to come with me?”

  She closed her eyes and shook her head. “Papa wishes to go.”

  “So, dutiful daughter that you are, you will agree.” When she did not answer, he relented. “Very well, Emily, I vow to you that I shall not play cards with your father either at Wentworth Hall or during our journey to and from it. I vow that, if you will explain something to me.”