A Gentleman Says "I Do" (13 page)

After congratulations from the other players, Iverson walked up to Matson and said, “Sorry, Brother, but I couldn’t walk away and leave more than a hundred pounds on the table.”

Matson clapped him on the back. “I wouldn’t want you to. Come on. We can’t discuss what I have to say in the corridor. Let’s get a drink. After that win, you’re buying.”

Iverson followed Matson into the taproom. He glanced at the large clock on the wall and knew why the place was almost empty. It was near daybreak. They passed a server, and Matson held up two fingers and said, “Ale.”

They walked over to an empty table in the corner of the room and sat down. “There is no one close enough to overhear us, so tell me what is so important.”

Matson crossed his arms, laid them on the table, and leaned toward Iverson. “Sir Randolph Gibson owns the company we’re leasing our warehouse space from.”

Iverson’s demeanor remained as stoic as it had been in the card game. “How do you know?”

“Lord Waldo told me.”

The hair on the back of Iverson’s neck rose. “And how does that fop know this?”

“How he knows I have no idea. He was deep into his cups, but I believe he knew what he was talking about.”

“What exactly did he say?”

“That his brother, the Duke of Rockcliffe; Gabrielle’s father, the Duke of Windergreen; and Sir Randolph Gibson own or control most all of the land and buildings in the area. And he knows Sir Randolph owns the company we’re leasing from. He said he was quite surprised when he learned about who we were leasing from.”

“I’ll bet he was,” Iverson growled. “Hell and damnation. I wonder how many other people know this.”

“There’s no way of knowing, but I’m certain Sir Randolph knew we were the ones seeking the lease.”

“How could he not?” Iverson added, trying his best to control his anger and outrage as well as Miss Crisp controlled hers. He didn’t know how she did it. It was damned hard.

They both remained quiet while the server placed two tankards of ale in front of them and then left.

“I don’t know about you, but I don’t have any desire to be connected to Sir Randolph in any way.”

“Neither do I,” Iverson agreed.

“Perhaps we should have moved back to Baltimore when Brent told us our mother had an affair with Sir Randolph and we were quite possibly the result.”

“Quite possibly?” Iverson laughed ruefully. “Tell me, is that newly grown strip of fine beard because you no longer want to look like me?”

Matson made a fist and let it lightly hit the table. “Damnation, Iverson, I still don’t want to believe it.”

“Our mother admitted it to Brent. He wouldn’t lie to us about that. But whether or not you believe it makes no difference to me. Handle it however it suits you. But know this: as far as I’m concerned, Judson Brentwood was our father, and no amount of gossip or resemblance to another man will change that. He will always be our only father. And remember this, too: Brentwoods don’t run from anything.”

Matson picked up the tankard and took a long drink before saying, “I know, but sometimes…”

“Sometimes what?” Iverson asked.

“Damnation, Iverson, sometimes the gossip and the looks get difficult to take. I think it would have been easier if we’d stayed in America and never come back to London.”

Knowing he would never have met Miss Crisp if they had never come to London, Iverson said to his brother, “Easier, yes. But since when have we had it easy, Brother?”

Matson let out a breathy chuckle. “Not since our viscount father shipped us off to Baltimore and forced us to develop a business.”

“And this isn’t easy, either, but we’ll handle it.”

“Remember when we used to think Papa sent us away so we wouldn’t be jealous of Brent’s title—as if we would?”

“I’m sure there are some brothers who are, but I could care less about a damned title. It doesn’t make a man a man. Papa gave us a job to do—build a company—and we worked damned hard every day to do it. And we did. That’s all that mattered then, and that’s all that matters now.”

“And I don’t intend to be beholden to Sir Randolph for anything, including warehouse space.”

“I don’t either,” Iverson agreed. “Now that Brent is married to the Duke of Windergreen’s daughter, the man should have no problem leasing some of his vacant space to us. We’ll go see him.”

“That’s what I was thinking. Our ships are bound to be here soon. We need to get this settled before they arrive.”

“Agreed. We’ll go see Lady Gabrielle’s father tomorrow afternoon.”

Iverson picked up his tankard and took a sip. Also, he would think of a reason to visit Miss Crisp. But he wouldn’t share that bit of information with his brother.

“Tell me,” Matson said, “what do you suppose Sir Randolph thinks about the story Sir Phillip wrote?”

“He doesn’t like it any better than we do.”

Matson grunted a half laugh. “You really think that?”

“I know it. He was coming to see Sir Phillip as I was leaving Miss Crisp today, and we had a chat.”

“A chat?” Matson’s brows rose. “That’s quite interesting. Perhaps he simply wanted to congratulate Sir Phillip on the story.”

“I doubt that, Matson.”

“I don’t,” he said grumpily. “We know nothing about the man. What did he have to say?”

“He’s not much of a talker, but it was clear he wasn’t happy about the story. He was there to take Sir Phillip to task over it, as well. He asked me to let him know if I found out where Sir Phillip is, and I agreed. He said he’d do the same if he discovered his whereabouts.”

Matson cocked his head to the side. “And you believed him?”

“At this point, I have no reason to doubt him.”

“The story certainly doesn’t make him look as bad as it does our mother,” Matson said with an edge to his voice.

“No, but remember he’s here to endure the blasted gossip, as are we, and we can only thank God our mother isn’t.”

“True, but I can’t say I feel at all sorry for the man.”

“Neither do I, but I recall Brent telling us, when he had talked to Sir Randolph after we first came to London, he seemed very protective of our mother, and that’s the way he appeared today.”

Matson grunted again.

“As long as he stays away from us, as he has in the past few months, I have no quarrel with the man.”

Matson took a long drink from his tankard. “Well, I do. He had an affair with our mother, and as you said, he’s obviously our father. That bothers me.”

Iverson pushed his tankard away. “It’s best we don’t think about that.”

“You and Brent can be civil to Sir Randolph if you want, but I don’t intend to.”

“That’s up to you, Matson. I don’t believe for a moment the man forced himself on our mother, so I choose to assume she had her reasons for whatever relationship was between them, and I’ll leave it at that. I suggest you do the same.”

Nobody makes a greater mistake than he who did nothing because he could do only a little.

—Edmund Burke

She had one purpose in mind.

And nothing was going to stop her. Catalina had expected to sleep fitfully after her late-night decision to search for her father, but she’d slept soundly, and for much longer than she had wanted. She had awakened with an eagerness to get started on her mission. After a cup of chocolate and a piece of warm toast, she dressed as quickly as she could and went below stairs to her father’s book room. It wasn’t a place she sought often. She considered it his private domain, and she respected that.

When she had to finish one of his stories or poems, she never sought the solitude of his library but would work at the small secretary in the drawing room. The space was much larger than her father’s workplace and therefore had more windows to give the room a lot of light, making it bright and cheerful.

A damp, musty odor assailed her as she entered, even though there wasn’t a speck of dust on anything. Catalina knew it was because the room was small and filled with the clutter of things her father had brought home from his many trips to wherever it was he went. There were various statues, urns, and candlesticks of all sizes stacked against each other. A ghastly looking gargoyle stood guard in one corner. Chairs, footstools, and small tables sat around the room in no particular order. There were piles of books and stacks of magazines and newsprint lining the walls and sitting atop tables and chairs.

No, she could never work in the chaos of her father’s book room.

Because of her father’s carefree and idealistic outlook, he never saw any of the disorder in his life or the havoc it caused the household when he promised to turn in work to be published and then wouldn’t finish it so he could get paid. When he wanted to, he could push everything out of his mind and write beautiful, searing, and breathtaking lines of verse and prose in the midst of it all. He could stir the senses and the emotions in his stories with seeming ease and make a person laugh or cry, depending on the reaction he wanted. Catalina had often wished she could write half as well as her father.

She stood in the middle of the book room and knew that the place to start looking for her father’s whereabouts was his desk. But in order to do that, she needed more light. She walked over to the window, opened the dark brown draperies, and parted the aged and yellowed sheers. She tied all of the fabric away from the panes with brown roping.

Early afternoon sunshine spilled into the darkness, chasing away the shadowy gloom of the room. She felt better instantly. Her father’s desktop was a scattered disarray of papers, quills, ink jars, and books. There was nothing to be done but to sit down and start looking at the papers and notes one by one. She decided she might as well organize them while she was at it. She only hoped something in the correspondence might provide a clue about where her father might be. She didn’t relish opening the desk drawers and searching through his private papers, but at this point, she had no other choice.

An hour passed and then two, but Catalina found nothing that might tell her where her father was staying. She had tried every drawer in her father’s desk. None of them were locked, and they were all filled with sheets of parchment, vellum, and foolscap. On many sheets would be just one line or two lines of poetry she was sure he meant to return to one day and finish.

She didn’t know how long she’d been working when Nancy came in carrying a tray with tea and biscuits on it. She rose from the desk and said, “Here, let me help you with that.” She took the tray from her cook and smiled at her. “How did you know I needed a sip of tea right now?”

Nancy smiled, too. “Mrs. Gottfried said she thought you might like a cup. She asked me to steep some fresh and bring it in to you.”

“Thank you, Nancy. While you are here, I’d like to ask you a few questions before you get back to your work.”

Her big eyes danced with wonder and excitement. “You can ask me anything, missy. You know that.”

“Good. Do you remember where you were when my father asked you to work for us?”

She laughed. “Well, I was in the kitchen, of course.”

Catalina smiled indulgently. “But in whose kitchen were you working?”

“Oh,” she said softly, as if just realizing the subject was of a serious matter. “I was working at The Cooked Goose Tavern and Inn.”

“You were the cook there?” When Nancy nodded, Catalina asked, “Was my father just a guest in the tavern, or was he staying at the inn?”

“He stayed at the inn often, missy. He would even send the owner a letter and let him know when he was coming to The Cooked Goose so I could have roast duckling cooking the day he arrived. Sir Phillip always said nobody can cook duck the way I can.”

Catalina smiled. “And he’s right.”

Now Catalina knew why they had to pay Nancy so much. No doubt he had lured her away from her employer with the promise of higher wages, because she was certainly getting more than their previous cook. And at her father’s insistence, their former cook stayed on to help Nancy with the lifting and carrying of heavy pots from the fire, work that was impossible for her to do because of her limp.

“Would you tell me where the tavern and inn is located?”

“A small village that’s a long day’s ride from here called Brighton Hollow.”

“Wonderful, Nancy, thank you. This will be a big help. Now when you see Mrs. Wardyworth, would you ask her to come in to see me?”

After Nancy left, Catalina wrote down the name of the inn and the village. She then went to her father’s book shelf and looked through the clutter of scattered and stacked books until she found an old and faded map of London and the surrounding townships and villages. Nancy was right. Brighton Hollow didn’t look to be more than a day’s journey away. Hope surged inside her, and she tried to tamp it down. Would it be too much to hope that her father was at the inn right now? She poured herself a cup of tea and sat back down in her father’s chair. She closed her eyes and wondered how many times she was going to daydream again about Mr. Brentwood kissing her.

“Did ye ask to see me, missy?”

Catalina looked up and smiled at her housekeeper. “Yes, Mrs. Wardyworth, please come in.”

The large woman lumbered into the room and said, “Are ye enjoying yer tea, missy? And is that some of Nancy’s sugared tarts I see there?”

“Yes to both. I don’t have an extra cup, but plenty of tarts to share. Would you like one?”

“Don’t mind if I do, if ye’re sure it’s all right.”

“Of course it is.”

The housekeeper took one of the small treats Catalina offered from the china serving bowl.

“Mrs. Wardyworth, would you mind telling me where you were when you met my father and he asked you to come to work for us?”

Her hand stopped midway to her mouth, and fear flashed in Mrs. Wardyworth’s dark brown eyes. “Ye aren’t planning on trying to send me back there, are ye, missy?”

“No, no, of course not. Why would you even think that? You know how much we need you to help manage the house. Believe me, your employment here is safe.”

“She won’t take me, ye know. She said I was too old, too slow, and too grumpy to work for her anymore, she did. Can ye believe that?”

“That was a most unkind thing for her to say.”

“I thought so, too.”

“What was her name? I’d like to know where you worked before you came here.”

Mrs. Wardyworth’s fear was replaced with a cautious wariness Catalina had never seen in the older woman’s eyes before, and that puzzled her.

“I’m not at all sure yer papa would want me telling ye where I was when we met. I think I best leave that information for him to tell.”

Catalina’s curiosity was piqued. Nancy had no qualms about telling where she was when she met her father. Mrs. Wardyworth had always been a little strange, and the woman was acting no differently now.

“Nonsense, Mrs. Wardyworth,” Catalina said. “There is no reason for you to be shy about this. You know my father trusts me to manage our affairs for him when he is away, and when he’s at home, too. I assure you he will not mind your telling me.”

“But this is different, missy.”

“How so?”

The woman remained quiet, and Catalina had to force herself not to become irritated with her.

“Mrs. Wardyworth, I wouldn’t be asking the question if it wasn’t absolutely crucial for me to know.”

The housekeeper put the tart in her mouth, and as she chewed, seemed to think on what Catalina had said. “If he ever asks, I’ll tell him how reluctant I was to give ye the information.”

“If that ever becomes necessary, I will tell him, too.”

“I worked for Madame Shipwith at her bawdy house on the north side of London. I managed the front door for her.”

Bawdy
house!

“The front door?” Catalina almost whispered her words, still trying to assimilate what she’d just heard.

“Yes. Mrs. Shipwith knew she could trust me to check out the gentlemen thoroughly before they were allowed to come in to the drawing room. That’s where they would meet the gels to decide which one they wanted to spend an evening with.”

Catalina swallowed hard. “And you met my father there?”

“Oh, yes. He came often, he did. He always liked to laugh and say Madame Shipwith ran a tight ship. And she did. She wouldn’t allow any disreputable gents in her establishment. No, missy, she managed a respectable place and took only gentlemen of quality and means. And because of that, all the young gels I ever heard about wanted to work for her. But the madame was just as particular about her gels as she was about the gents who wanted to purchase their time.”

Catalina grew stiffer and stiffer the more Mrs. Wardyworth revealed where she had come from. Catalina prayed her face didn’t show just how shocked she was by what the woman was saying. And Catalina had heard enough. She had to excuse the woman before she said more.

“I understand, Mrs. Wardyworth. You’ve answered all my questions, and I thank you.”

The woman slowly rose, leaning heavily on the chair arms to help support her until she was standing straight. “And ye don’t think yer father will be upset with me for telling, do ye?”

“I can assure you my father will never know you said a word to me about this. In fact, we’ll both make a vow right now never to speak of this again. It will be our little secret.”

Mrs. Wardyworth smiled. “My lips are sealed, missy.”

“Mine, too,” Catalina assured her. She picked up the tray and thrust it into Mrs. Wardyworth’s hands. “Would you please ask Nancy to make some more hot tea, and do enjoy another tart before you give the tray back to her?”

Mrs. Wardyworth smiled as she turned away. “Thank ye kindly, missy. Don’t mind if I do have another.”

Catalina made herself busy with papers on the desk until she was sure her housekeeper was out of the room. She then sank into her father’s chair and stared straight in front of her.

A bawdy house, her mind screamed.

What was she to do? Never in a thousand years would she have suspected her father visited such an establishment as that, or that Mrs. Wardyworth had ever worked at a—a house of ill repute!

No, she would not find him there, because she would never go there looking for him. She didn’t even want to think about that. She had to put any thoughts of her father going to a place of such reputation out of her mind.

Forever.

Mrs. Wardyworth was right. That wasn’t the kind of thing a daughter needed to know.

Resting her elbow on the desk and dropping her forehead into the palm of her hand, Catalina sighed. She had found nothing on the desk to indicate where her father was, but since Nancy said he loved to stay at the inn where she’d worked, Catalina believed it was worth the drive over there tomorrow to see if she could find him. Thinking of that journey brought up another matter. How much money would it take to look for her father?

Catalina rose and headed for her desk in the drawing room. She had limited experience traveling and could only estimate how much it would cost for lodging and food. At her secretary she moved aside the day’s mail and opened a secret compartment at the bottom of one of the small drawers. She could look at the red velvet bag and see it wasn’t heavy with coins. Hopefully there was enough for a night’s lodging and a little food.

“Oh, there you are, Catalina,” Aunt Elle said, entering the room. “This came this morning.” She handed a piece of paper to Catalina. “It’s from my apothecary. It appears we never took care of the man last month for my tonics. I don’t know how that happened, dearest, as I know you are quite good with keeping up with everything that must be paid.”

“I’m certain I handled this, Auntie.” Catalina looked at the paper and was astounded by the amount. “Auntie, this isn’t for last month. This is for something you picked up just last week. Did you need this much tonic?”

Aunt Elle’s eyes widened with concern. “Yes, of course I did. You know how distressed I get when I don’t have my medications in a timely fashion.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Catalina quickly said, trying to hide her shock at the amount and not alarm her aunt. “It’s not a problem.” She smiled. “This is nothing for you to worry about. I’ll take care of it.”

“Oh, good,” her aunt said, looking more at ease.

Catalina laid the paper on the desk. Once she found her father and had the trouble of
A
Tale
of
Three
Gentlemen
behind her, Catalina was going to pay her aunt’s apothecary a visit and insist on better prices, or convince him she would see to it her aunt went elsewhere for her tonics.

“You know, dearest, if our pockets are light right now, we can always ask your father to write more poetry and stories, and to write faster, so he can make more money.”

A troubled laugh escaped Catalina’s lips. “It’s not that easy, Auntie. It takes time to write poetry good enough to be paid for it. Besides, we don’t even know where Papa is right now.”

“But you said we’re going to find him, right?”