Rhyme and Reason

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  The room was not large. Books lined one wall behind the glass and walnut doors of a massive bookcase. Across from it, a tall window offered a view of the street, but its sounds were muffled amid the thick rafters tracing a geometric pattern in the high ceiling.

  Finch crossed the chamber to a leather chair set in the shadows. He bent toward the chair, and she struggled to breathe. She must make every effort to appear her best before her publisher.

  A man came to his feet and faced her. When he stepped out of the shadows, the sunshine caught blue fire in his black hair.

  “Damon!” she gasped.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Emily, this is a pleasure.” Damon smiled as he came forward to take her hands. Lifting one to his lips, he chuckled. “Or do you prefer I address you as Marquis de la Cour during this call?”

  “You are not surprised!”

  “No.” He gave her a roguish grin. “But you are.”

  “How did you know?”

  He went to a sideboard and poured two glasses of wine. Offering her one, he said, “Finch, thank you.”

  The secretary nodded. “Of course, my lord.” He left, closing the door behind him.

  Too much was now so clear. Damon’s secretive smile when he spoke of the poems, his comments about business in town, his ease in Homsby’s shop, all the books in his office at Wentworth Hall.

  “Is publishing books one of your business projects?” she asked.

  “Old Gooseberry Press has become one of my favorites.”

  “Why that name?”

  He chuckled. “You must be astonished. Otherwise, I suspect your quick wit would give you the answer.” Sipping his wine, he smiled. “You saw the tangle of gooseberry bushes at Wentworth Hall.”

  “And old gooseberry is another name for a devil.”

  “Very good, Emily.”

  She smiled, then realized her delight at seeing him again was letting her entice her into forgiving him. Turning away, she fought her longing to beg him to explain why he had broken his promise to her.

  Damon led her to a leather settee. “Sit, Emily, before shock sends you toppling onto your face. When you left Wentworth Hall in such a hurry, I was sure you had discovered the small part I have played in the saga of our frog poet.”

  “That is not why I left.” She held the glass tightly, for she did not trust her trembling fingers. “You forgot your vow to me.”

  “Vow? Not to play cards with your father? I recalled it every minute while you and your family were my guests.”

  “I saw you and Papa at the card table.”

  Laughing, he plucked the wineglass from her fingers and caught her hands in his. “Emily, I never broke my pledge to you. I vowed not to play cards with your father. I said nothing about sitting at the card table while he and my other guests played.”

  She stared at him.

  “You never saw cards in my hands, did you?” he asked. “You could not, for I did not touch the flats.”

  She leaned her forehead against their clasped hands. Joy erupted within her. “I should have listened to my heart that told me you would not betray me.”

  “Your heart?” he asked as softly. “Dare I believe to hope it speaks to you of me often?”

  When he tipped her hand over and pressed his mouth to her palm, thoughts of the past disappeared within the enchantment of his touch. He raised his head, and she saw enticing fires in his eyes.

  “I was not surprised,” he whispered, “when you shared your suspicions with me that our frog poet was an impostor. Even then, I had my suspicions about you.”

  “But why?”

  “I saw you flinch each time the marquis’s name was mentioned. Yet I could not doubt your delight in the book your sister brought to you. My curiosity led me to spend more time with you. When I glimpsed the fervor you tried to hide, I found I wanted to learn more of it.”

  “Even though I wrote drivel?”

  He smiled as his arm slipped around her waist. “Do you expect me to disavow my opinions on that?”

  “Yet you brought a copy of the last book for a gift.” She hesitated, then knew she must speak the truth when she was in his arms. “For whom?”

  He laughed. “Frasier has long admired the marquis’s work. Do you think the good mayor has changed his mind after meeting our impostor?”

  “So you never will like my poetry?”

  “I fear you cannot ask so much from me. I would as lief ask something of you.”

  “What?”

  “This.” His smile was warm against her mouth as his lips found hers.

  Her dreams of being in his arms were eclipsed by this intoxicating ecstasy. As he sprinkled spark-hot kisses across her cheeks, his arm tightened around her, pulling her against the hard breadth of his chest. He was a puzzle she would be delighted to spend a lifetime solving.

  Emily stiffened. She was cockle-brained to be bewitched by a love that could not be hers.

  Damon frowned. “If you do not wish to kiss me, Emily, you need only say so.”

  She tried to wish away the tears filling her eyes. “It’s just …” She could not speak the appalling truth he had not discerned. Instead, she quickly she told him the reason she had come to speak to her publisher. “I fear Miriam will do something foolish. You must come with me to Hanover Square. Once Miriam listens to you, she must own she has been bamblusterated.”

  “She will give little credence to anything I say,” he said with obvious regret, “for she abhors me.”

  “But she must listen!” she said, startling herself as much as she did him. She gripped Damon’s hands. “She must!”

  Emily was not pleased to see a familiar carriage in front of her house. As Valeria came down the steps, Damon chuckled.

  “She looks like a living fashion-plate,” he said, “and has about as much substance.”

  “Valeria is my friend.”

  “Really? How odd!”

  “We have been bosom-bows for years.”

  “I own to being amazed, for I daresay I have never heard her speak of anything but her modiste and the latest fashions.” As the footman opened the door, Damon added, “Doesn’t that bore you?”

  As Emily stepped from the carriage, she said, “Valeria, do join us for a glass of lemonade.”

  Valeria shook her head, bouncing her white tulle bonnet. “I came to see Miriam, but she refused to see me.” She glanced with curiosity at Damon, but said, “She has never failed to receive me before.”

  “She is distressed. We had a brangle earlier.”

  “Is it serious?”

  She shuddered. “Miriam refuses to listen to me.”

  “Speak sense to her before it is too late.”

  Emily had no chance to ask Valeria what she meant, because Valeria hurried to her carriage. Exchanging a baffled look with Damon, Emily went to the door.

  “I stand corrected,” he said as she opened it. “Lady Fanning does concern herself with things other than fashion.”

  She did not answer. Sending Johnson for her sister, Emily invited Damon into the sitting room. She motioned for him to sit, but he remained on his feet as she paced the room from the garden window to the hall door.

  “Give the man a chance to delivery the message,” Damon said with another low chuckle.

  “I am sorry.” She realized she was wringing her hands. “I want Miriam to see her folly.”

  “Folly is the right name for André de la Cour.”

  “I wish you would not call him that.”

  “He has given us no other name yet, Emily. If you would offer me some brandy, I would be most grateful to accept.”

  “I see one thing has not changed. You disdain the ways of the Polite World.”

  “Why should I when you have offered me some of that blasted brandy every time I have called and I have yet to accept as much as a dram?”

  She went to the sideboard. Lifting the top from the brandy, she poured a serving. “Miriam may not come. She took offense with everythi
ng I said earlier.” She looked up at him as she sat. “Damon, she was so hurt by Mr. Simpkins’s attention to Valeria. Now she is determined to prove she cared nothing for him by being seen with the talk of the ton. I fear I shall break her heart anew.”

  He perched on the arm of the chair and brushed his hand against her icy cheek. “Emily, you have come to see how dangerous lies can be. If you wish, I’ll tell her the truth.”

  She shook her head. “No, I shall tell her. It is my duty as her sister.”

  “Duty.” His lips tightened. “You should occasionally think of something else.”

  “But not today. I—”

  When Damon looked past her, she saw Johnson stood in the doorway. He held out a slip of paper. “Miss Miriam asked that you read this before she saw you next.”

  She thanked him and opened the slip of paper.

  Emily, she read,

  I can no longer endure your antipathy toward André. He swears he loves me. He knows my heart longs to belong to another, but he accepts that. Is that what love is, Emily? Accepting fault and loving still? André asked me to marry him while we were at Wentworth Hall. I know I shall find no other who wants me as André does. When next we meet, sister, I shall be Marquise de la Cour.

  Wish me happiness, Emily. We will call upon our return to Town.

  Your loving sister,

  “Miriam,” she whispered.

  Damon swore viciously. “The girl is mad!” He pulled the page from her hand and reread it.

  Emily wrapped her arms around herself, wishing she could do the same to her sister. But Miriam was, by this time, far from Hanover Square on her way to marry an impostor. After all her efforts to protect her sister, Miriam was ruining her reputation by eloping with a rogue.

  “How long since you last saw her?” Damon asked as he balled the letter and tossed it onto the hearth.

  “I last spoke to her about two hours ago.” She sighed. “I should have guessed something was afoot when everything she owned was spread about her room. She must have been packing to leave.”

  “Good!” He strode down the stairs. She followed and paused as he reached for his hat. “They cannot have gotten far in two hours.” His broad hands caressed her shoulders as he kissed her swiftly. “I shall stop them.”

  “I am going with you.”

  “They must be headed for Scotland. That is the only place they can marry so quickly.”

  “But to where in Scotland?”

  “De la Cour knows the way to Wentworth Hall. I suspect they will head north in that direction. Emily, the trip is not an easy one.”

  She smiled. “I know, Damon, but Miriam is my sister. I have failed her by not persuading her to see de la Cour’s deception. I shall not fail her again.”

  The small village on the far side of the Scottish border was peaceful in the early-evening twilight. A few houses clung to the side of a tarn that had become ebony with the night. In the distance, a cow lowed, and the rattle of the sheep bells played a vesper.

  A carriage slowed as it approached a farm boy driving a gaggle of geese toward the water. A gap-toothed grin lightened his face as he pointed along the road toward a cottage set apart from the others in the shadow of the tiny church. He caught the coin tossed to him.

  Damon handed Emily and Kilmartin out in front of the stone cottage with its pair of windows glowing brightly onto the porch that slanted to one side. Emily’s knees wobbled beneath her. They had been riding hard since leaving London. When his arm encircled her waist, she was glad for his offer of solace.

  “Thank you,” she murmured, but pushed herself out of his arms that invited her to linger. “Look! That phaeton cannot belong in this village.”

  He strode past her and peered into the stylish carriage which was filthy, warning it had traveled far. Coming back, he said, “No one in it.”

  “Could it be the one André rented?”

  “We shall know soon enough. Let’s go.”

  As she hurried up onto the small porch, Emily prayed they had reached the end of their journey in time. They had stopped in other villages along the border with no luck. From the window by the door, a light sprayed into the deepening shadows.

  Damon rapped loudly. Wringing her hands, Emily found herself wondering if Johnson had delivered her message to Papa. She did not want Papa to fear for the disappearance of both of his daughters.

  The door opened. A bulky woman with a dusty apron peered out. Her broad face was lit with a smile while she shoved strands of black hair back beneath her kerchief.

  “Be quiet with ye now,” she said in a rich, lowland brogue. “The master’s marrying.”

  “Who?” asked Emily.

  “Those who come asking.”

  Damon cursed under his breath and pushed past the woman. The plump woman called after him, then gasped as Emily followed him into the room, which was crowded with pieces of mismatched furniture around a harpsichord. It was empty.

  “They aren’t here!” she gasped. “Damon, we have to find them.”

  He put his hands on her shoulders. “I know. If—”

  A shout came from behind a door nearly hidden by the harpsichord. Something crashed and broke. Damon ran, tearing open the door. Emily followed and gasped.

  Three people stood by a stone hearth that took up the whole back wall. One man was lying on the floor, clutching his nose, in the midst of shards of a vase. A balding man, who was dressed all in black, was speaking to the man who stood over the downed man.

  Emily ignored the men as she cried, “Miriam!”

  Miriam whirled. “Emily! What are you doing here?”

  “It appears we are not the only ones interested in halting this marriage.” Damon chuckled as he folded his arms over his chest.

  Emily had not thought she could be any more astonished, but when the man, who had clearly knocked the other down, turned, she stared at Graham Simpkins. And the man on the floor was André!

  Mr. Simpkins stamped across the room and stuck his nose almost in Damon’s face. “If you think to keep me from stopping this travesty, Wentworth, you shall see—”

  “No,” Damon said, laughing, “you shall see, Simpkins, if you put on your barnacles.”

  “There is no need for those hideous things.”

  “Put aside your vanity for a moment. It has nearly cost you Miss Talcott’s affection.”

  Emily exchanged an astonished glance with her sister as, mumbling, Mr. Simpkins reached under his coat and drew out a pair of glasses. He set them on the very end of his nose, then pushed them up with irritation.

  “Hate the things,” he muttered, “but I am as blind as an owl at noon without them.”

  Miriam gasped, “Then you were not always ignoring me when you walked past me?”

  He rushed to her and seized her hands. “My dear, Miss Talcott, I had no idea you were looking at me until Valeria told me I was a complete block.”

  “Valeria!” She sniffed, yanking her hands out of his. “My eyes work perfectly well. I see how you stay close to her, hoping for her attention, no doubt.”

  “Miss Talcott!” He caught her fingers again. “Miriam, if I may, please heed me. I stay near Valeria because I can always be certain who she is.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Emily was tempted to echo the words, but Damon’s laugh halted her. He walked across the room and jerked André to his feet.

  Ignoring the fake marquis’s complaints, Damon said, “It is simple. Lady Fanning always wears bright colors to complement her bright hair. Even without his barnacles, Simpkins could not fail to guess who the glorious peacock was among the swans.”

  “Enough of this!” shouted André, grabbing a handkerchief from the man in the black coat and dabbing at his bloody nose. “You are interrupting our wedding. Come here, Miriam.”

  Emily put her hand on her sister’s arm. “You don’t want to marry him, do you?”

  Her lips tightened. “If you have come to try to talk me out of marrying André�
�”

  “I came to talk him out of marrying you, for it is clear you will not listen to me.”

  André laughed, but she saw his apprehension as he looked past her to Damon. He quailed, but declared, “I can think of nothing you might say, Mademoiselle Talcott, to convince me not to marry ma chérie.”

  She opened her bag and poured out a half dozen coins. “Look at the dowry my sister has.”

  He scowled. “What sort of hoaxing is this? That is no more than a guinea!”

  “That and a bit of gully-fluff in my pocket are the only things left of the fortune my father inherited. What he did not spendthrift, he gambled away.” Looking at her sister’s colorless face, she knew she must not falter. “My father led our family’s shipping company into ruin.” When the false marquis opened his mouth to protest, she said, “I have spoken the truth. Will you?”

  “What truth?” asked Miriam, tears glistening in her eyes.

  “Ask this man his name. It cannot be Marquis de la Cour, for that person, if the marquis can be deemed a person, is me.”

  Mr. Simpkins gasped, “Can this be true?”

  Emily nodded. “I started writing the poetry because I needed money to save our family from destitution. To protect the ones I love from their own folly. Too late I have learned they must, as Damon has put it so inelegantly, fry in their own grease. I shall not pay Papa’s debts any longer, and, Miriam, if you wish to wed this man, I shall do nothing to halt you now that you know the truth.”

  “You wrote the poems, Emily?” Miriam choked, her eyes wide. “You are Marquis de la Cour?”

  Damon said as he slid his arm around Emily’s shoulders, “You should be proud of your sister for ignoring the prestige that could have been hers. She withheld the truth, for she feared it would injure you.”

  Miriam turned to André. “Who are you?” she asked in a broken voice.

  He did not answer for the length of two heartbeats, then said, “Andrew Montebank.”

  “At last you have spoken the truth.” Damon laughed. “It would have been better if you had not tried to pretend you were familiar with that café in the Loire, for it does not exist.”