Rhyme and Reason (3 page)

“Cut short, my lord, by the arrival of a messenger.” He held out a folded sheet of paper. “The lad said you were to read this the instant you arrived here.”

Taking it, he handed Hillis his hat. “’Twas good I decided not to stop in St. James’s first.”

“I would have sent it to you posthaste.”

Again Damon struggled not to smile. Hillis was so blasted correct! Did the butler think Damon could not recall how they had caused mischief throughout this house and Wentworth Hall in their younger days? Now, looking at the butler’s stern demeanor and graying hair, no one would believe Hillis had been the one to suggest they put a frog in the housekeeper’s apron pocket or glue the pages of Damon’s tutor’s chapbook closed. The only one who made heads shake now was Damon Wentworth.

Reading the short note, he lost all temptation to smile. By the elevens, he had thought those he had hired were competent enough to handle such trivial details. He had hoped to leave London for a few days and see how the work was coming on Wentworth Hall. That would be impossible now.

“Tell Roche not to put the carriage away,” he said, sighing. “I will need to deal with this immediately.”

“Without breakfast?” Hillis’s expression suggested only a barbarian would begin the day without a hearty meal to fortify him.

“If Mrs. Foy has some muffins cooked, please bring me one and a cup of coffee while I change into something suitable for reminding these witless chuckleheads why I pay them their wages.”

“Yes, my lord.” Hillis cleared his throat. “Your hat, my lord?”

“I gave you … Oh, this one!” He smiled. “’Tis not mine. It belongs to Charles Talcott.”

Hillis held out his hand. “I would be glad to have it returned along with your request for your winnings, my lord.”

“Winnings?” Shaking his head, he said, “Your faith in me is amazing, Hillis.”

“In your skill with cards, my lord.”

“I stand corrected.” Chuckling, he gave the hat to his butler. As Hillis turned away, he added, “Wait!”

“My lord?”

Damon took Talcott’s hat. “I have not decided when this should be returned to Talcott.”

“My lord?” This time there was a hint of dismay in the butler’s voice as well as bafflement.

“There is no need for this to be a completely intolerable day just for me, is there?”

“I am sorry. I don’t understand.”

Damon slapped him on the shoulder and laughed. “You will.” He began to whistle again as he climbed the stairs to his private rooms.

As the clock in the hallway marked midday, Emily came into the breakfast-parlor to discover her sister perched on a chair and enjoying the sunshine as she read the morning paper. A serving lass was bringing fresh biscuits from the kitchen. With a smile, Emily took one of the steaming biscuits and lathered it with the strawberry jam waiting on the sideboard. She poured a cup of cocoa and carried both to the round maple table.

“Good afternoon, Miriam,” she said.

She got a mumbled answer in return, which was what she had expected. Miriam intently searched every column of the newspaper for familiar names and never wished to be interrupted. With her golden hair washing down over the shoulders of her white wrapper, she looked as sweet as a cherub in a church window.

Smiling, Emily sifted through the stack of mail which Johnson had remembered to bring to the breakfast-parlor. Mayhap the man was learning his job after nearly six months of fumbling through it. She scanned the mail, separating it into three stacks, one for her, one for Miriam, and one for Papa. As always, she slipped the ones she knew were demands for payment into her pile, although they were addressed to Charles Talcott.

“Miriam?”

“Mmmm?”

“You might wish to see these.” She handed her sister the trio of what surely were invitations.

Miriam broke the seal on the top one. “Oh, look, Emily! Lady Stoughton is having a hurricane next week, and she would be delighted if I would attend.” Her blue eyes glittered with excitement. “Of course, you must attend, too.”

“Of course.”

“We will go, won’t we, Emily?”

“If you have accepted no other invitation for that evening.”

Miriam gasped, “Oh, I couldn’t have! I must go to Lady Stoughton’s party.”

“But why?” She set her cup of cocoa down, startled by her sister’s vehemence.

“She is Mr. Simpkins’s cousin.”

“Graham Simpkins?”

She nodded, smiling hesitantly.

Emily’s brow furrowed as she tried to recall when she had seen Miriam talking with Mr. Simpkins. He was a most nondescript man, neither tall nor short, neither broad nor thin. He had inherited his mother’s black hair and his father’s imposing nose. The family, although untitled, was known to be full of juice. Such a match would well provide for Miriam … and for Papa.

Leaning her chin on her hand, she sighed. As she glanced at the thick pile of letters still sitting in front of her, she hoped a betrothal would come before all money for Miriam’s wedding was depleted to pay for the household expenses that once had come out of Papa’s inheritance. That, like most other money they had had, was long spent, much of it because her father continued to increase his gambling debts.

“Emily, is something wrong?”

Her sister’s concern drew her out of her dismals. Quickly, to hide her uneasy thoughts, Emily replied, “Of course not. I was just noticing how rested you look after your late evening.”

“I woke early and took myself upstairs to sleep in a decent bed.” Miriam laughed her musical laugh. “Why didn’t you wake me when Papa came home?”

“It was late,” she hedged. If her sister heard of their unexpected caller, Miriam would pester her with a flurry of questions Emily was too tired to answer. So few hours had passed since Lord Wentworth’s departure, and she had found scanty slumber in that time. “You were sleeping sweetly, and I did not have the heart to disturb you.”

“You are so kind.” She sampled the scrambled eggs before adding, “I trust Papa’s losses were less than a disaster.”

“What?” Emily was startled by the question, for her sister seldom bothered herself with mundane details like household accounts.

Miriam laughed again as she reached for the cream. “You look quite pleased with yourself this morning.”

“I do?” She had thought she would look nothing save fatigued.

“Yes, and, mornings after Papa has lost at the card table, you ordinarily wear a worried expression which draws your lips as tight as an old tough’s. Or could it be you are so pleased with Mr. Colley’s attentions that you can think of little else?”

Chuckling, she shook her head. “You minx! I should have guessed you would notice that less than charming fellow dangling after me.”

“And why not? You were one of the loveliest ladies attending the party last night. Mr. Colley may not be the best mannered man, but his pockets are very plump.”

“Miriam! Whatever is wrong with you this morning?”

She leaned forward, her gold curls falling onto the table, and whispered with an irrepressible grin, “Lord Reiss asked me to stand up with him twice last night.”

“I saw that.”

“And did you see that Mr. Simpkins saw us dancing, too?”

“That I did not see.”

“You are not as observant as others.”

“What others?”

Miriam held up the newspaper. “The ones who write for this.”

Emily laughed and snatched the paper from her sister’s hands. When she saw the article in the center of the page, her eyes widened. “So even the
Morning Post
noticed the baron’s attention to you.” She read aloud, “‘Miss Talcott was much the star of the evening. She …’”

Miriam giggled as Emily’s voice faded into amazed silence. Rising, Miriam stretched so her finger underlined each word as she read, “‘She was seen often in the company of Mr. Bernard Colley, noted barrister of this city.’ It was you they noted. Not me.”

“Enough!” Because her voice was sharper than she had meant, Emily hurried to add, “Forgive me, Miriam, but I find the gossip tiresome at best. You would think they would know that—as I have never had a coming-out—I am not looking for any attention.”

“But your feelings do nothing to change Mr. Colley’s.”

She sighed. “He is being a cabbage-head to dangle after me when I have made it quite clear I have no interest in him.”

Miriam patted her sister’s shoulder. “My dear Emily, I fear you’re too gentle to make the truth obvious to that gaby. I heard your attempts to rid yourself of him last night, and you must not let your tender heart keep you from speaking the truth.”

“I shall endeavor to be more forthright.” She put her hand over her sister’s. “Do sit and finish your breakfast.”

“No time.” She plucked her mail from the table. “I told Madame I would be at her shop before noon, and it is already past that. You know how she gets on the high ropes when anyone is very late.” Although she gave an emoted sigh, she could not keep from giggling. Then her smile vanished. “Mayhap this will be the gown to persuade Mr. Simpkins to do more than watch me dance with other men.”

Emily wished she could ease her sister’s sorrow, but Miriam might be wishing for something that would never happen. Not once in the weeks since Miriam’s coming-out had Graham Simpkins asked her to stand up with him. Emily could not recall him saying more than a score of words to Miriam.

Knowing Miriam would detest pity, Emily said only, “While you are out, will you stop by the milliner’s and see if my blue bonnet has been repaired?” As an afterthought, she added, as she did each time her sister went to the
couturière’s
shop on New Bond Street, “Be sure you are home before the Bond Street Loungers appear.”

“Of course. I know how jobbernowl it is for any young lady to stroll along Old or New Bond streets during the afternoon when the Bond Street Loungers are about.” Sighing, she said, “I do wish they would stop their skimble-skamble parading up and down the street.”

“How else could they show off their dandy-set clothes?”

“Or create a scene?”

“Just take care.”

“I will.” Waving, Miriam hurried out, her light voice, as she greeted Johnson, drifting back into the breakfast-parlor.

Emily picked up the newspaper and turned to the front page. There was no need to chastise her sister for being loud when their father was still abed. Papa would not wake until late into the afternoon, and then Emily was determined to get answers to the questions taunting her: Why had Papa been want-witted enough to play cards with Lord Wentworth? And how could he have possibly won?

When the front doorbell was twisted, the sibilant sound resonated through the house. Emily paused on the stairs, her gardening gloves in her hand and her straw bonnet pushed back so it hung from her neck by its red grosgrain ribbons. She glanced at the clock in the upper hall. It was nearly three. Where had the time gone? This was the hour for calls, and she still was dressed in an old gown that was stained with dirt and grass from working in the garden. Once the unfashionably long dress had been her best, but time and the rage had relegated it to the garden.

She rushed up the stairs so she could change into her favorite pale gold tea gown. Its puff sleeves and stiff skirt that revealed the openwork on her stockings were appropriate for receiving callers.

“Miss Emily?”

Her hand clenched on the bannister. If Johnson had the wit of a goose, he would know better than to call her when she had not a chance to change.

“Lord Wentworth, Miss Emily,” he continued in a pompous tone.

Emily was about to urge Johnson to take the viscount into the parlor while she made her escape, but, as she turned, she stared at Lord Wentworth’s smile. He stood directly behind the butler. His gaze slipped along her, and she resisted the temptation to apologize for her beau-nasty dress.

“This is an unexpected pleasure, my lord,” she said.

“I had hoped you would think so.” He took off his hat and handed it to Johnson.

Her dismay deepened. Lord Wentworth was perfectly attired for the call. The gold buttons of his single-breasted, dark-green coat were undone to reveal his embroidered waistcoat and a ruffled shirt topped by his casually tied cravat. With his cream-colored trousers strapped beneath his low boots, he possessed an elegance that made her more aware of her dishevelment.

“If you would be so good as to wait in the parlor, I will—”

“There is no need for you to scurry off to change on my account, Miss Talcott.” He climbed the stairs until his eyes were even with hers. “You look as if you have spent the day in a more productive manner than I have.”

“Yes. I mean …” She took a steadying breath. If only his eyes did not twinkle with that hint of devilment, words might come with more ease. His smile suggested he was a naughty lad, but she had heard enough of this viscount to know better.

As Johnson returned to his post in the foyer, Emily led the way up the stairs to the parlor. Again, as in the early hours of this morning, she sensed Lord Wentworth’s gaze on her. Its feverish caress urged her to face him.

And what then
? she asked herself.
Will you stand toe-to-toe with him and demand that he stop looking at you? Do not be absurd! Just find out his business and put a quick end to this call
.

When they entered the parlor, she noted he held his right hand behind his back. She had no time to wonder about what he held, for he said, “Forgive the intrusion, Miss Talcott.”

“’Tis no intrusion. Johnson should have told you that I always am at home on Thursday afternoons.”

His smile broadened. “He enlightened me, but, as we have only the slimmest and shortest of acquaintances, I consider myself ill-mannered to arrive uninvited.”

“I should ask
you
to forgive
me
, my lord.” Untying the ribbons on her bonnet, she said, “I took advantage of this splendid day to work in my garden, and I fear the time slipped away.”

“I would very much like to see your garden.”

“You would?” She put her fingers to her lips, then lowered them quickly. The childish motion was unsuitable for a woman of five-and-twenty years. “I had not guessed you would be interested in roses.”