“Just leave Miriam alone.” She swallowed the tears burning in the back of her throat. “I will do what you want, if you will leave her alone.”
“You shall do as I wish, and I shall do as I wish.” He tilted the glass in a sardonic toast to her.
“If you do not leave her alone, I shall—”
“What? I need speak only one word in the right ear, and you and your family will be ruined. No amount of gold can buy back your sister’s reputation.”
She almost laughed aloud. If there had been any amount of gold, she would not have embarked on this path to begin with. Blast her father’s love of gambling and her own lack of sense that had led her to this bumble-bath! Even if Papa agreed to stop gambling forever, she knew he owed money to Lord Lichton and to Damon. Damon! Would he help her?
When the fake marquis laughed in victory, Emily backed away from the balcony. First she must hide the book, making certain no one else could find it. Then she would go to Damon. She must share the truth with the only person she could trust. She prayed it was not too late to save her sister now that it was too late to save herself.
Moonlight splashed across the stairs as Emily descended to the first floor where she was to meet Damon. She could imagine ladies of long ago with their taffeta trains stroking each step. So much history this house had seen.
The foyer was empty, but Emily heard voices from the sitting room. Men’s voices. Mayhap Damon would be there.
She heard laughter and the marquis’s nasal accent. Blast it! She must be careful.
Deep voices must have covered the sound of her footsteps, for no one looked in her direction as she came to the wide doorway. Emily’s greeting vanished, unspoken, as horror claimed her once more.
A small table was set in the center of the room. With lamps surrounding it, the glow of moonlight had been banished. A bottle stood in the middle of the table, and a half dozen men sat around it. The shuffling of cards was an undertone to the conversation. A single man sat alone in a corner, holding a book close to his face. Her first hope that it was Damon died when he lowered the book, and she saw it was Graham Simpkins. Then where was Damon?
The scene blistered through the hot tears filling her eyes. Damon had given her his pledge he would not play cards with her father during their visit here. Yet he sat right in front of her at the table and laughed at something Papa said. She heard the clink of coins.
Stepping back into the shadows, she pressed against the wall and silenced her sob of betrayal. What a gawney she had been to heed Demon Wentworth’s pretty tales.
He cared as little for the truth as the marquis did. He had broken his vow to her. Had he lied to her about his love of gardening? Had that been only his way to lure her into his seduction? She closed her eyes as she imagined how easily he had persuaded her to offer him her lips. A quiver rushed along her. She had been willing to give him even more tonight.
To sell her very soul to the devil.
She ran back to the stairs. The echo of laughter chased her, taunting her with too many shattered promises and too many lies. She faltered as she touched the thickly carved newel post and looked toward the window that would reveal the garden which was awash with starlight.
No! She would not trust him again. Damon Wentworth had proven he deserved his nickname, for only a demon’s spawn would entice her into believing his lies even as he planned to break her heart. She would not give him the chance to hurt her again. Without another backward glance, she rushed up the stairs to collect her sister and Kilmartin. They would be on their way back to London before the next hour was rung by the tall-case clock on the landing.
Chapter Eighteen
Emily stared at her bedchamber wall. Hearing Kilmartin bustling in the dressing room, she wrapped her arms around her drawn-up knees. More than a fortnight had passed since she and Miriam had fled Wentworth Hall. Papa had returned to Town the day after them, saying little but that he had lost badly. Although she was curious about how Damon had reacted to her departure, Emily never asked. She knew she had been wrong to leave Wentworth Hall without an explanation, but Damon should have needed none.
She buried her face against her arms. The void in her life loomed large. So frequently, she had found herself thinking of an amusing story she would like to share with him. Then she realized she might never share anything with him but brown talk. Speaking of the weather and the latest prattle of the Polite World would be a cruel reminder of the hours they had spent discussing their love for books and gardening.
Her fingers froze as she set her brush onto the table. She would be welcome at a conversazione at Sir Joseph Banks’s house, but she must deny herself that pleasure. Going there, being among Damon’s colleagues, and being ignored by him would be more than she could bear.
Emily rushed down the stairs at an unladylike pace and into her garden. Yet, even here she could find no peace. Every corner of the tiny space held the memory of Damon’s laugh and his eyes glowing with delight as he admired her roses and her.
“Miss Emily, a gentleman calling for you,” Johnson announced from the doorway.
“Lord Wentworth?” she asked, turning on the bench.
“A gentleman, Miss Emily.”
She swallowed her fury at the butler’s insult. No reason to suffer angry whims when Johnson was repeating only what every gabble-grinder in Town had.
“I shall be with him in a moment, Johnson,” she said quietly. “Please have him wait in the parlor.”
He scurried away, and, with a sigh, she set herself on her feet. Shutting herself off from life would solve nothing. When she entered the foyer, an unwelcome sight awaited her.
“Good day, Lord Lichton,” she said, hoping distaste did not fill her words.
“Good day, Miss Talcott.” He kept his hat away from Johnson who was trying to take it.
The butler backed away when Emily motioned for him to leave.
She was curious why the earl had refused Johnson’s invitation to wait in the parlor, but she asked, “May I know the reason for your call, my lord?”
“You should know by this time, Miss Talcott.” He reached beneath his gray coat and removed a small wallet. Taking out a slip of paper, he handed it to her.
Despair clogged her throat when she read Papa’s meticulous handwriting. Owed to Lord Lichton, £300. Beneath it was his signature and last night’s date. Three hundred pounds! This would impoverish them.
“I do not have this much money in the house,” she said.
“I shall wait.”
“Here? Now?” she choked.
“Charles owes me the money. I need it to pay obligations of my own.”
“I shall have the money sent to your house, my lord.”
For a moment, she thought he would refuse, but he nodded. “Very well. I shall expect it by day’s end.”
Emily blinked as the door closed loudly behind the earl. Looking down at the slip of paper, she crumpled it into a ball. She had been a cabbage-head. No matter how she had tried to save her family, her father’s affaire d’amour with the card table had defeated her. She had tried her best, but it was not good enough. Everything had exploded in her face. The false marquis had arranged with Homsby to take a share of her money. Miriam was throwing her heart away on a man who was bamboozling her. Papa had not altered his ways.
And Damon had betrayed her heart.
She bit her lip as she fought not to release the sob aching in her chest. In her memory’s ear, she could hear Damon chastening her for thinking of her family’s happiness before her own. He had called her a fool, and she was, for she had lost every bit of happiness.
No longer. She climbed the stairs and knocked on her father’s door.
“Emily!” he gasped as he opened the door. He was wearing his dressing gown. With a smile, he motioned for her to sit.
She shook her head. “Papa, I must speak to you of a desperate matter.”
“Desperate?”
She held out Lord Lichton’s note. Papa’s s
mile disappeared.
“Papa, I cannot pay your debts any longer.”
He shoved the note into the pocket of his robe. “Do not worry your head. I shall even my debts to Lichton.”
“But there is no money.”
“I know.”
Emily stared at him. “You know? I thought—”
“That you had cloaked the truth from your father?” He put his hand on the black marble mantel. “I wanted you to hide the truth, Emily, for I never wanted to face the fact that, without your stepmother, I could not manage the family’s business. It has been easier to play the gamester, so much easier that I agreed to go to Wentworth Hall even though I feared for you at the hands of its lord.” He sighed. “I took that risk, because I dared to believe Dame Fortune would turn my way at the card tables there.”
“You need have no concerns about Lord Wentworth and me,” she said coolly, even though the words pierced her like a dagger. “I can take care of myself.”
“That I know.” Turning, he picked up a book from a table. “Did you think I had no idea of the truth?”
“The truth?”
“Of your success as an author.”
Emily stared at him in disbelief. “How …?”
“The turn of a phrase betrayed you.” He smiled. “How proud your mother would have been of you, ma chérie!”
Tears blinded her. “I knew of no other way to—”
“To pay for your father’s weakness at the card table.” He held out the book to her.
She accepted it, discovering it was the first she had published. Holding it close to her chest, she bit her bottom lip to keep it from trembling.
“Ma chérie, “he said, “you are so like your mother. Beautiful and loving and as headstrong as a bear.”
Emily whispered, “But if you knew the truth, how can you watch Miriam with that impostor?”
“Between your efforts and mine, Miriam has never been alone with him.” He rubbed his chin. “Emily, you should have denounced him from the beginning.” When she started to explain, he waved her to silence. “Go tell your sister the truth.”
“What if she refuses to listen? She would not let me say a word during our trip back to London.” She took his hands. “Papa, come with me. She will heed you.”
He shook his head. “I can’t.”
“But, Papa—”
“No, ma chérie. I can’t. Not now.” Taking the slip of paper out of his pocket, he stared at it. He sat heavily in his chair.
Emily stared at him. Papa was a weak man, who avoided his pain and his family’s by living a fast life at the card table. He would not change, no matter how much she wished him to. She put her arms around his shoulders and gave him a hug before leaving to do what she should have done weeks ago.
She rapped on the door to Miriam’s bedchamber. When she heard her sister’s hurried steps inside, she called, “Miriam?”
“A moment.”
When the door opened, she entered her sister’s cluttered room. She was astounded, for Miriam usually kept her clothes within her dressing room.
“I was looking for a special dress to wear.” Miriam’s laugh was strained. “I fear I made quite a mess.”
Sitting on one corner of the bed, Emily said, “Papa and I are worried about you. About you and André.”
“Do not speak to me of André. You know nothing of him.”
“I know that you should have nothing to do with him.”
“Because he is French?”
“Certainly not!”
“Because he is a poet?” Miriam scowled. “I find your jealousy uncommonly petty.”
“Jealousy?” Standing, Emily laughed. “How could I be jealous of him?”
Miriam’s eyes became storm dark. “I have seen you scribbling in your journal, and I know you struggle to write poetry. That André has succeeded in getting his glorious poetry published infuriates you, doesn’t it?”
“Of course not. Miriam, you must listen to me.”
She clamped her hands over her ears. “I shall listen to no more.”
“You must. Damon has told me—”
“And you believe anything he tells you? After he lied to you at Wentworth Hall?” Miriam ran to the door. “Who is the greater fool, Emily? You or me?”
Emily had no chance to retort as Miriam whirled out of the room. Not that it mattered, for Emily had no answer.
Emily pushed open the door to Mr. Homsby’s bookshop. When she saw Jaspar, his assistant, dusting the bookshelves, she smiled. This was just what she had hoped for.
“Good morning, Jaspar,” she said, smiling.
His eyes lit up as if fireworks had exploded within them. “Miss Talcott!” He sidled up to her, reaching past her to put the dustcloth on the counter.
“Is Mr. Homsby in?”
“He is busy.”
She struggled to keep her smile from wavering as she leaned back just enough so the ribbons on her gown brushed his arm. “I am glad.”
His eyes widened as he boldly ran his finger along her arm. She tried not to flinch. Everything might depend on this. If Miriam would not heed her and Papa refused to help, Emily knew only one person who might convince her sister to listen to reason. Not Mr. Homsby, for he would gladly lie in church to keep the marquis’s books selling.
“Jaspar,” she murmured, holding his gaze with hers, “I am in terrible trouble. I am not sure what I shall do.” She pulled a handkerchief from her bodice and wiped a feigned tear from her eyes. “I hope I can turn to you.”
“Me?” His gaze rose from her bodice to meet hers.
“I would be ever so grateful.” She put her fingers over his on her arm. “Ever so grateful.”
He gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing wildly. “What can I do, Miss—”
“Emily,” she whispered.
He grinned, but she sensed his nervousness. She must be careful not to overmaster him. “What can I do, Emily?”
“I am afraid events have conspired against me.” She dabbed her eyes again. “I must speak with my publisher without delay.”
“Mr. Homsby would not like that.”
“Nor would he like a swarm of solicitors descending on this shop like a plague of locusts. Oh, dear, Jaspar. I know of nothing else I can do. If my silliness has ruined me, I could live with that. But to ruin my dear Mr. Homsby.” She gasped, pressing her fingers to her lips. “And you! If he is forced to close, what will you do?”
“Close?” He stepped back and wrung his hands. “I need to warn Mr. Homsby.”
She caught his sleeve. “Why worry him? I have no doubts that I can put an end to this without risking this shop, but I must speak with my publisher.”
“Miss—Emily—I—”
“Just give me the address.” She pulled a slip of paper from her reticule and handed it to him. When he hesitated, she added, “Employment is so hard to find now that the war is over and all the soldiers are home.”
Jaspar gulped so loudly she feared Mr. Homsby would hear, but he bent to scribble on the page. Thrusting it at her, he rushed back to his work, clearly wanting to appear industrious if Mr. Homsby had any inkling of the possible trouble ahead.
Emily smiled. All might not be lost, after all. As she closed the door behind her, her smile faltered. She might be able to help her family, but she could not heal her breaking heart. Not alone.
Hearing church bells ring through Old Park Lane, Emily looked out the carriage window. They were slowing before a house whose number matched the one on the slip of paper in her hand.
The building had a simple façade like the others along the narrow street off Piccadilly. If she had not held the address in her hand, she would have guessed it to be a family residence.
When Simon handed her down, the coachee wore a troubled expression that matched the disquiet bubbling inside her. She said nothing. This task was hers alone.
A small brass plaque by the door had been recently polished, for she could see streaks on it. That slight imperfection i
n the elegant building with its marble sills and Flemish brickwork gave her the courage to reach for the knocker.
The door opened to reveal a shadowed interior and the dour face of a porter. The man, who wore a sedate coat of blue over gray breeches, bowed his head and motioned for her to enter.
She held out her carte des visites. “Please inform—” She hesitated, then said, “The author of Marquis de la Cour’s poems wishes to see her publisher.”
The man’s pristinely gloved hand accepted her card. He glanced from it to her. Still without speaking, he turned to climb the stairs.
Emily tightened her hold on her bag as she looked around the foyer. The parquet floor was nearly hidden beneath the bright red and gold of an Oriental rug connecting a trio of potted ferns. Several doors led from the foyer, but all were closed, their mahogany panels refusing to give a hint to what waited behind them. The space was not stuffy, so she guessed they were not often shut. By the curve of the wrought-iron-and-mahogany banister, a tall-case clock ticked, making the only sound other than her furious heartbeat.
Seeing a glass, she edged toward it. Her recalcitrant locks were slipping from her sedate bun. How she wished, just this once, her hair would stay in a wreath of curls as Miriam’s did! Adjusting her bonnet, she pushed the loose strands beneath it. Yellow ribbons crisscrossed her bodice and matched the ruffle at the hem of her skirt. A narrow band of ribbon accented her short, puffed sleeves. She looked her best and knew, with a sigh, that her appearance might be of the least concern when she was calling, uninvited, on the publisher of Marquis de la Cour’s poetry.
She turned when she heard footsteps on the stairs. A young man with thinning brown hair came toward her. Holding out her hand, she said, “I am Emily Talcott. I want to thank you—”
The man’s soft laugh interrupted her. “I am Finch, the secretary, Miss Talcott. If you will follow me, I would be glad to take you in.”
“Thank you.” She laced her fingers through the strings of her reticule, wondering how she could be such a blind buzzard.
Emily followed Finch up the stairs and along a long corridor. As on the ground floor, all the doors were closed. He paused before one halfway toward the rear. He opened it and smiled as he motioned for her to enter. Taking a deep breath, she did.
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