A Talent for Trouble (7 page)

“You agreed to have lunch with us,” Agatha said, barely batting a lash when Felicia let out a grunt.

“I did not.”

Agatha narrowed her eyes. “Well, you did tell Eliza you would do whatever I wanted today, and I want lunch and for you to join us. I'm thinking French cuisine might be in order.”

“I'm just going to go home,” Felicia mumbled.

Agatha's expression turned stubborn. “No you're not. I promised your mother I would spend the day with you, and I'm not one to take my promises lightly. We're having lunch, all three of us, together, and you two will be happy about it and entertain me with amusing stories as we dine.”

Grayson narrowed his eyes. “I never promised to be amusing.”

“You promised to charm me out of my bad mood,” Agatha countered. “Since you're responsible for ruining the perfectly fine mood I was in with your less than pleasant response to my stellar idea regarding the ball, it's now up to you to rectify that situation.” She smiled a rather grim smile. “Or I could just run back to Eliza and tell her how carelessly you discarded her request.”

He'd always known Agatha was annoying, but he hadn't realized how manipulative she was, almost as manipulative as Felicia's mother. He blew out a breath. “I adore French cuisine.” He caught Felicia's eye and lifted a brow.

For a second, he thought she was going to refuse, but then her eyes began to gleam, causing him to blink. “I know a perfectly adorable French restaurant, but it's quite a few blocks up the way. Did you bring your phaeton?”

These ladies were going to be the death of him.

He forced a smile. “My phaeton is at home, having a nice long rest after the horror it suffered yesterday. I brought my carriage today, and it possesses a driver, so your services are not required.”

The gleam in her eye was quickly replaced with disappointment. “But it's such a lovely day, and carriages are enclosed.” She turned to Agatha. “Did you bring an open vehicle today?”

“No, I brought a carriage as well.”

Felicia bit her lip but then brightened. “I'll drive us, then. It might be a tight squeeze, but we'll manage.”

Before Grayson could get a single protest past his lips, Felicia sailed forward, turning her head a second later. “Well, are you coming?”

“I'm not feeling famished at all anymore,” Agatha called after Felicia's retreating back, but either Felicia didn't hear her or was simply ignoring that telling remark, because she didn't pause but continued marching along.

“Just think,” Grayson said as he took Agatha's arm and drew her forward, “we won't have to concern ourselves much longer with your gloomy mood, considering we're both going to be dead soon.”

“Yes, that certainly improves my mood,” Agatha muttered before she lifted her head and suddenly grinned. “Would you look at that?”

Grayson turned his attention to where Agatha was staring and couldn't help but return her grin. Felicia was standing beside what looked to be a pony cart painted bright red with an ancient-looking pony attached to the hitching post, its head lowered and emitting noises that sounded remarkably like snores.

He pulled Agatha to a stop right beside the beast and noticed the troubling fact that Felicia was cooing to the animal and placing kisses on its intricately braided mane.

He had a feeling the braids were Felicia's handiwork.

“As I said before, it'll be a tight squeeze, but you can sit on the seat with me, Agatha, and you, Grayson, can hop in the back.”

Grayson eyed the space Felicia was indicating but was spared the need to respond when Agatha let out a laugh.

“Forgive me, Felicia, but I don't believe your pony is up for the arduous task of pulling all three of us.”

“He's stronger than he appears.”

Grayson frowned. “I think he might be sleeping.”

“Of course he's sleeping. He sleeps all the time, but it'll just take me a second to rouse him, and then we can get on our way.” She patted the pony's head. “Time to wake up now, Thor.”

“His name is Thor?” Grayson couldn't resist asking.

Felicia sent him a scowl. “It is, but don't talk in such a disbelieving tone. You'll hurt his feelings.”

“He's still sleeping.”

“He'll wake up soon.” Felicia patted Thor a little harder than before. But if anything, the pony began to snore louder.
“The poor dear appears to be exhausted.” She bent over and whispered something in Thor's ear, but he didn't open his eyes. Felicia straightened and shrugged. “I might need a little more time, and maybe . . . some oats.” She moved to the cart, pulled out a feed sack, moved to stand in front of Thor, and swung the bag of oats several times in front of his nose. Unfortunately, the pony continued sleeping.

“We could always walk,” Agatha suggested.

Felicia looked as if she wanted to argue, but then threw the oats back into the cart and took Agatha's arm. “Cherie's is just down the street if you really have French cuisine on your mind.”

“Why didn't you suggest that when Agatha first remarked she wanted French?” Grayson asked.

Felicia looked at him for a second and then turned her attention back to Agatha without bothering to give him the courtesy of a response.

How was it that she could be so irritating and yet so fascinating?

He watched as Felicia drew Agatha's arm into her own, steered her back onto the sidewalk, and took off without even checking if he was trailing along after them.

He caught up with them and took Agatha's other arm, feeling the need to put at least a body between him and Felicia as they continued to stroll down the street.

“See, isn't this pleasant?” Agatha asked, fluttering her lashes at him even as Felicia muttered something he probably didn't care to hear under her breath.

“Very pleasant,” he agreed, smiling ever so slightly when Felicia raised her head and scowled back at him.

“Now, none of that,” Agatha admonished. “We're going to enjoy a lovely lunch. In order to do that, the two of you are going to agree to play nicely with each other.”

“He started it.”

Grayson was about to argue but then thought better of it. “You're right. I did start this, and for that, I do apologize.”

“Wonderful,” Agatha exclaimed. “I'm so glad that's settled.”

“Nothing's settled,” Felicia said slowly.

“Of course it is. Grayson will pick you up at eight the night of the ball, everyone will discontinue pitying you, and all will be right with the world. But . . . enough about that dreary subject. I'd rather discuss poor old Thor. Why in the world are you using such an ancient creature? I've seen your brothers out and about, and they ride prime horseflesh.”

Felicia gave a rather sad shake of her head. “If you must know, I've been pestering my father for quite some time for my own means of transportation, but he seems remarkably reluctant to provide me with a real horse—hence the arrival of Thor and his cart a month or so ago.”

Grayson smiled. “A concern for the safety of all the good citizens of New York is probably responsible for his decision.”

Her eyes turned stormy, and she increased her pace, causing Grayson and Agatha to do the same since they were all linked together.

“I have yet to actually run anyone over, although I did take out a hitching post a few weeks back, but in my defense, it was not really my fault. Thor has the propensity to stop when one least expects it, and on that particular occasion, I was not paying close enough attention. When he came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the street, I might have given the very smallest of shrieks, which unfortunately prodded him into motion. He barreled directly into a hitching post, which turned out to be quite the disaster. I was forced to endure a scathing lecture from the owner of said hitching post, and it cost me five dollars before I was able to get away from the man.”

Grayson quirked a brow. “That seems a bit steep for a hitching post.”

“Well, there was the slight matter of the hitching post crashing through the man's front window, but luckily, Thor wasn't injured in the mishap. Since then I've been careful to keep my shrieking to a minimum whenever I take Thor out and about.”

“I know I'll probably regret asking this, but why did you name him Thor?” Grayson asked.

“He's such a decrepit-looking creature that I felt he deserved a noble name.”

Grayson stopped walking, effectively causing the ladies to do the same. “Surely you could have talked your father into providing a less decrepit beast.”

“I couldn't just send him away. If I didn't accept him, I feared he was headed for a bad end.”

Something that felt very much like panic caused Grayson's throat to constrict, and he found it difficult to breathe.

She was an incredible lady—one he, if truth be told, wanted to get to know . . . desperately.

But . . . that would never do. He'd made vows in regard to ladies and relationships, and he needed to remember those vows, no matter the disappointment that was going to cause him.

He prodded the ladies back into motion without speaking a word, diligently ignoring the confused looks both of them were sending his way.

F
elicia was having a difficult time keeping up with Grayson's many moods as well as with the rather rapid pace he was currently setting.

Honestly, it wasn't as if the restaurant was going to disappear if they didn't reach it in the next few minutes, but since they were practically racing down the sidewalk, it seemed as if he feared he would not get lunch.

What had caused him to react so oddly?

One minute she was talking about Thor, and the next, Grayson's eyes had gone rather tender—that tenderness directed toward her—but then, in a mere blink of an eye, he'd gotten grumpy again. And it seemed his grumpiness had resulted from their discussion about her pony.

Thor was pathetic, to be sure, but there was no reason he would cause anyone to sink into a state of depression or, in Grayson's case, a fit of the sulks.

It was rapidly becoming clear the gentleman possessed a complicated, and confusing, nature.

“Grayson, slow down,” Agatha suddenly complained. “You rushed right past Cherie's.”

Grayson came to an abrupt stop, forcing Felicia and Agatha to do the same. “Why didn't you say so? It's not as if I know where we're going. I'm the foreigner, remember?”

“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
tr
è
s 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 was 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 ch
è
re
,” 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?”