A Talent for Trouble

by Jen Turano

  “You’ve been here for months, and I would have said something sooner if I’d realized we were almost at our destination, but I was concentrating more on pulling in breaths of air as you rushed Felicia and me forward.” Agatha rubbed at what was evidently a stitch in her side. “I must inform you that you are sadly deficient in your attempt at charming me out of a gloomy mood. I’m definitely going to be taking my complaints directly to your sister.”

  “You said you were famished,” Grayson countered. “I was simply getting you to your food in a timely fashion.”

  “No you weren’t, but I’m not up for arguing with you on an empty stomach—and while I’m still trying to suck air into my poor depleted lungs.”

  Felicia grinned as Grayson turned them around and marched them back to the entrance of Cherie’s, where a gentleman dressed in formal attire held the door open for them and ushered them into the dimly lit restaurant.

  “This is a charming place,” Grayson said as he looked around, earning a smile from the gentleman who’d opened the door for them. “Tell me, sir, how does the food here compare to what they serve in Paris?”

  “I think you’ll find it compares very well indeed,” the gentleman replied. “You’ve been to Paris?”

  “I spent a bit of time there after I finished my studies at Oxford.”

  “You’re English,” the gentleman said with a nod. “I thought I detected a British accent.” He tilted his head. “Tell me, have you ever met the queen?”

  “I have met the queen. She’s a lovely lady, although a bit intimidating, if you must know.”

  He’d met the queen.

  Every now and again, especially when Grayson wasn’t speaking, she forgot he was a member of the aristocracy, probably because she’d never expected a gentleman of noble birth to be quite so moody, which might—

  Her thoughts were interrupted when a large gentleman with a burly build, formal black attire, and a ruddy complexion hurried forward to greet them.

  “Bonjour,” he said, sweeping into an elaborate bow. “Welcome to Cherie’s. I am Mr. Bonchamp, the owner of this fine establishment.”

  Felicia stepped forward. “Mr. Bonchamp, we’ve met before. Remember? I’m Miss Murdock. My mother and I come here on a frequent basis.”

  Mr. Bonchamp’s mouth dropped open for a brief second before he snapped it shut. “Mademoiselle Murdock, I would never have recognized you. Your face is normally buried beneath one of those . . . chapeaux, but today . . . Ah, I can see you for once.” He took her hand and brought it to his lips. “You are très charmante.”

  Felicia bit back a grin as Mr. Bonchamp proceeded to lavish compliments on her, all of them spoken in a horrendous French accent and delivered in a booming voice.

  “I shall have Andre show you to our best table,” Mr. Bonchamp proclaimed as he let go of Felicia’s hand and snapped his fingers, which had a waiter appearing immediately. “Andre, please seat Miss Murdock and her companions in front of the window.”

  A loud clearing of a throat set her teeth on edge, and she turned to find Grayson scowling once again.

  “What is the matter now?”

  Grayson didn’t bother to respond but directed his words at Andre, who was looking decidedly nervous—probably because he was faced with an obviously annoyed gentleman.

  “I’d prefer a seat in a less conspicuous location, if you please, Andre.”

  Felicia leaned closer to him and lowered her voice. “Are you hiding from someone?”

  “Of course not. I’m trying to protect you.”

  Felicia blinked. “From what?”

  “Those gentlemen over there.”

  Felicia glanced to where Grayson was currently glaring and felt her mouth drop open.

  Four gentlemen sitting at a nearby table all seemed to be craning their necks her way. She glanced behind her, found no one there—not even Agatha, who was already moving across the floor with Andre—and then realized the gentlemen were gawking at her.

  She’d never had gentlemen gawk at her before, but what was she expected to do now?

  Did she acknowledge the gentlemen, wave to them, or perhaps nod her head?

  Maybe a curtsy was in order, but no, that didn’t seem right.

  She settled for sending them a smile, but the smile quickly slid off her face when Grayson took a firm hold of her arm and began to rapidly escort her across the room. “That’ll be quite enough of that,” he growled as he towed her rather forcefully over to a table where Andre was seating Agatha.

  The amiable gentleman everyone believed Grayson to be seemed to be missing once again.

  “There is absolutely no reason for you to haul me to my seat,” Felicia said as she shook her arm out of his hold and smiled at Andre when he held out a chair for her.

  Andre beamed back at her, pushed her chair in, and then extended an elegant bow before he walked away, promising to return shortly to take their orders.

  Grayson tugged out a chair, slouched down into it, and sent her a surly look.

  “Good heavens,” Agatha exclaimed, “what is the matter now?”

  “Felicia has, for some strange reason, taken to flirting.”

  “How delightful,” Agatha proclaimed with a nod in Felicia’s direction. “I didn’t know you were proficient in the art of flirting.”

  Grayson rolled his eyes. “It’s not something you should encourage her to do, Agatha. Ladies can come to rather nasty ends by flirting, especially when that flirting entails come-hither looks.”

  Felicia drew herself up. “I have never sent a come-hither look to anyone in my life.”

  A loud cough pulled Felicia’s attention away from Grayson, and to her horror, it settled on one of the gentlemen who’d been staring at her, a gentleman who was now standing right beside their table and who seemed to be looking directly at her bodice instead of her face.

  “Good day,” the gentleman exclaimed with a bob of his head, even though his focus didn’t waver from her bodice. “My friends and I were wondering if you would care to join us at our table.”

  “Oh . . . my,” Agatha whispered.

  The table suddenly shook, and the next thing Felicia knew, Grayson was on his feet, a vein throbbing rather prominently on his forehead. “She’s with me.”

  It would seem he possessed traits much like a chameleon. One minute he was charming, the next surly, and now . . . hmm . . . dangerous was the only word that came to mind.

  “I say,” the gentleman blustered, “who do you think you are, sir?”

  “I’m the Earl of Sefton, and you would be wise to rethink your intentions.”

  The gentleman eyed Grayson for a brief moment, swallowed, and then turned on his heel and strode quickly out of the café, his friends following him a split second later.

  Grayson waited until the last gentleman exited before he resumed his seat, his brilliant, yet incredibly cold, blue eyes focused on Felicia. “And that, my dear girl, is what happens when one decides to gallop down the road best left untraveled.”

  She must have misheard him, because surely he wouldn’t have called her “dear girl.”

  She stuck her nose in the air, reached for the linen napkin lying on the table in front of her, snapped it open, and placed it over her lap. When she felt she’d gotten her temper somewhat under control, she opened her mouth. “If memory serves me correctly, you’ve been known to do more than your fair share of flirting, and you haven’t come to a bad end yet.”

  “It’s different for gentlemen.”

  She arched a brow. “That’s ridiculous, unless you’re admitting that the ladies you’ve flirted with came to bad ends.”

  “Of course they didn’t.”

  “Then I’m quite certain I’ve just won this argument, even though, again, I wasn’t flirting. It’s hardly my fault those gentlemen took a simple smile as an invitation.”

  Agatha leaned forward. “Need I remind both of you that we’re supposed to be enjoying a nice lunch?” She nodded to Grayson. “It w
as impressive, the way you handled that boorish gentleman, but tell me, do you think it was your title that scared him away, or could it have possibly been the rage that was pouring out of your eyes?”

  Grayson flipped his napkin open and shoved it over his lap. “I was not enraged.”

  “I thought you abandoned your title,” Felicia said slowly.

  “I bring it out upon occasion, if the situation warrants it.”

  “Miss Murdock,” Mr. Bonchamp said, bustling up to their table as quickly as his large frame would allow. “I must extend to you my most sincere apologies. Andre informed me some lout was attempting to proposition you right in the middle of my café.”

  Felicia smiled. “There’s no need to apologize, Mr. Bonchamp. I’m not distressed in the least, but I do fear those gentlemen left in somewhat of a hurry. I’ve just now realized that they most likely didn’t settle their bill.”

  “Don’t concern yourself, ma chère,” Mr. Bonchamp said with a wave of his hand. “I’ve already sent one of my men after them. He will track them down and divest them of their money. May I extend to you a complimentary bottle of wine to distract you from your recent unpleasantness?”

  Grayson’s eyes turned downright menacing. “Miss Murdock doesn’t drink wine.”

  Mr. Bonchamp took one look at him, glanced to Felicia, and then, without a word, bolted as fast as he could away from the table.

  Felicia drew in a steadying breath and, when she was somewhat certain she wasn’t in danger of throwing the silver at Grayson, turned in his direction. “You don’t know me well enough, Mr. Sumner, to make a decision regarding whether or not I enjoy wine with my meals.”

  “From all accounts, Miss Murdock, you are considered a woman above reproach. It hardly seems much of a stretch to come to the conclusion regarding your alcohol consumption, or lack thereof, as the case may be.”

  A woman above reproach.

  That was what her efforts to land Reverend Fraser had gotten her—a reputation of a pious and evidently moral lady who would shock everyone if she so much as thought about consuming a glass of wine at lunch.

  Felicia squared her shoulders. “I’ve had wine on numerous occasions. The church serves it on a regular basis.”

  “Yes, but that would be during communion, a slightly different circumstance than guzzling it with a meal.”

  “I don’t recall proclaiming the urge to guzzle anything.”

  “I wonder if they’re serving salmon today,” Agatha interrupted, her voice unusually loud. “I always adore a well-prepared dish of salmon. If done properly, it practically melts in one’s mouth.”

  Felicia pulled her attention away from Grayson and settled it on Agatha. “Do you find it difficult to believe I would enjoy a glass of wine with my meal?”

  “Hmm . . .”

  Felicia’s mouth dropped open. “You would find it difficult to believe.”

  “Ah . . . well . . . Oh look, it’s Mr. Bonchamp.”

  Felicia looked up, and sure enough, Mr. Bonchamp had returned and was standing right next to the table, looking a touch wary. “Have you come to a decision regarding the wine?”

  She opened her mouth, intent on asking him to bring the bottle, but then blew out a breath as she shook her head. “I thank you for the offer, Mr. Bonchamp, but I don’t actually care for wine, so I think I’ll settle for lemonade.”

  Her temper flared when Grayson had the audacity to grin a little too smugly.

  “On second thought . . .”

  “I’ll have iced tea,” Agatha said, cutting Felicia off midsentence. “What will you have, Grayson?”

  “The same.”

  Mr. Bonchamp nodded and took his leave, promising to send Andre back with their drinks as everyone picked up their menus and disappeared behind them.

  A moment later, Felicia set hers down. “Am I really considered a woman above reproach?”

  Grayson peered at her from over the top of his menu. “I don’t know why you’ve taken issue with that notion. You should feel honored you’ve managed to obtain such a lofty position in life. People respect you because of your strong and abiding faith.”

  “I’m not a nun,” Felicia returned. “Nor do I understand why everyone believes I should act like one. Take Agatha, for example.”

  “Oh, I don’t think there’s any reason to pull me into the conversation,” Agatha said as she buried her entire face behind her menu.

  Felicia pretended she hadn’t heard her friend’s remark. “Agatha is a lady possessed of a deep faith, and yet no one expects her to be perfect. She’s landed in jail . . . twice.”

  Agatha peeked over the menu, lowered it just a touch, and then smiled at Grayson. “Tell us about China.”

  Grayson returned her smile. “I’d much rather discuss you and jail.”

  Agatha’s menu lowered another inch. “I’m sure you would, but alas, I don’t feel up to obliging you. Let’s return to China. I must say I’ve been dying to ask you how you managed to learn that language. From what little I’ve heard spoken here in the city, it seems to be a complicated tongue, one I’m quite certain I wouldn’t be able to master.”

  “I don’t speak Chinese.”

  Agatha’s brow wrinkled. “Eliza told me you lived in China for over five years. Are you saying you never picked up the language?”

  “As you mentioned before, it’s a difficult language to learn.”

  Agatha’s wrinkles increased. “You were married to a Chinese woman. Surely you picked up a smattering of words?”

  “No, not a one,” Grayson said cheerfully, although Felicia thought there was another of those pesky edges to his tone. “I’m just not very clever, and since it would be incredibly rude of you to question me further on the subject when I’ve freely admitted my intellectual deficiencies, perhaps we should move on to something more exciting—like the weather.”

  It hit Felicia then, out of nowhere. China was the reason behind the darkness Felicia knew resided in his very soul.

  She wanted to ask about his wife but found herself hesitating, not really knowing if she truly wanted to know about the woman who’d apparently captured his heart years ago.

  The feeling of annoyance that had immediately run over her at the mere mention of his deceased wife was disturbing. Not wanting to contemplate the matter further, Felicia looked up and let out a small sigh of relief when Andre suddenly appeared out of nowhere and everyone settled into the task of placing their orders.

  Andre had barely left the table before Agatha shifted in her seat right as her eyes went wide. “Oh no, here comes Mrs. Amherst.”

  Felicia felt the distinct urge to duck under the table.

  Mrs. Amherst was one of the biggest gossips in the city. She never had a pleasant word to say about anyone, and she was one of the few people who’d openly questioned Felicia’s wardrobe choices, usually in a loud voice.

  “Good afternoon,” Mrs. Amherst exclaimed as she came to a stop in front of their table. Grayson set aside his napkin and rose to his feet. “Lord Sefton, this is a pleasure. Please, sit down, although I do appreciate your stellar manners.”

  She smiled as Grayson resumed his seat and directed her attention to Agatha. “Miss Watson, lovely to find you doing something normal, such as eating, instead of running wild about the city snooping for stories, and . . .” Her gaze settled on Felicia. “Good heavens, would you look at you, Miss Murdock. Done a bit of shopping lately, have you?”

  Before Felicia could even think of a suitable reply to that bit of snippiness, Mrs. Amherst had pulled a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles out of her bag—much like Mrs. Shaffer had done a short time before—shoved them onto her nose, and leaned forward. Her gaze traveled down and lingered on Felicia’s gown for a long moment before she straightened, whipped the spectacles off, stuffed them back into her reticule, and then nodded, just once.

  “Much better, Miss Murdock. You don’t look hideous in the least today.” She shook her head and sent Felicia a rather pitying look. “
I do hope this new you was done for the right reason and not because you’re trying to change yourself because of that unfortunate business with Reverend Fraser.”

  It was rapidly becoming clear her little secret about being infatuated with Reverend Fraser hadn’t been much of a secret, but . . . Since when had she decided she’d only been infatuated with the gentleman and not head over heels in love?

  “Rest assured, Mrs. Amherst, Miss Murdock has not changed her style because of Reverend Fraser.”

  Felicia drew in a sharp breath at the same moment Agatha did. She exchanged a glance with her friend, realizing in that moment that Grayson’s casual statement made it sound as if she’d changed her style because of him.

  What could he be thinking?

  Word would sweep like wildfire through society the moment Mrs. Amherst left their side.

  Everyone would come under the misimpression she and Grayson were romantically attached.

  Felicia blinked. For some reason, that idea didn’t bother her nearly as much as it should have, but no, she wasn’t thinking clearly.

  “On my word, I had no idea you and Miss Murdock had an understanding,” Mrs. Amherst exclaimed. “May I presume an announcement will be forthcoming soon—perhaps at the Beckett ball?”

  Grayson settled back in his seat, smiling somewhat pleasantly, but his eyes had turned hard. “I wouldn’t presume anything if I were you, Mrs. Amherst.”

  “Hmm” was the only response Mrs. Amherst gave to that, although her eyes did narrow right before she directed her attention to Agatha.

  “Are you going to the Beckett ball, dear?”

  Wariness immediately crossed Agatha’s face. “But of course. I’ve been looking forward to it.”

  “I would have thought you’d be dreading it, seeing as how it’s a going-away ball for Mr. Zayne Beckett.”

  Agatha began to sputter, but Mrs. Amherst ignored her as she shifted her gaze back to Grayson. “I saw your daughter the other day with your sister, Mrs. Hamilton Beckett. What is your daughter’s name again?”

  The vein on Grayson’s forehead began to throb. “Ming.”