A Gentleman Says "I Do" (14 page)

Catalina lifted her chin and smiled. “Right. We will find him, and he will come home with us.” Just saying that out loud made her feel better. “Now tell me, are you packed?”

Aunt Elle’s face brightened. “Sylvia is doing so as we speak. But I suppose I should go check on her.”

Catalina sighed heavily as her aunt left the room. She opened the red velvet bag and poured the coins out on the desk and counted them. Her shoulders sagged. If she paid the apothecary, they certainly wouldn’t have enough money for their journey, so the man would just have to wait.

She pushed the invoice aside and thumbed through the remaining mail, opening some of it. Most were invitations to parties, as the Season wasn’t much more than a week away. But there was also a debt from her father’s tailor. She had no idea he’d bought new clothing before he left on his journey.

She broke the seal on the last envelope. Her heart sank when she immediately recognized it as another invoice. She started to just toss it aside, but her gaze landed on the words
The
Cooked
Goose
Tavern
and
Inn
. The innkeeper was asking to be paid for her father’s lodging.

“Oh, yes!” she whispered to herself. Her father must be at the inn. She was on the right track.

Obviously, because her father had stayed much longer than he intended, he was out of money.

It would be wonderful if she could travel alone, but that was impossible. There were other ways she could save money. She would not take her own maid and instead, use her aunt’s. That way the three of them could share a room and save a night’s lodging. And she would have Nancy cook enough food for the two days they would be gone, so they wouldn’t have to buy food at the inn. She was sure there were other ways to keep the costs of traveling down.

All she had to do now was talk to Briggs and make sure he had the carriage ready to go at first light—and pray her father was still at The Cooked Goose.

One meets his destiny often in the road he takes to avoid it.

—French Proverb

He couldn’t get her off his mind.

And sometimes that’s exactly what he wanted. He actually enjoyed thinking about Miss Catalina Crisp.

Iverson wiped the last traces of the shaving soap off his face with a cloth and threw it aside. After their first meeting, he’d tried to forget about her, but she just kept threading her way through his thoughts and popping up when he should be thinking about more important matters, such as establishing his ship-building business in London.

But that subject wasn’t nearly as inviting as thinking about Miss Crisp and how much he wanted her in his arms again.

And why shouldn’t he think about her? He was a man. She was beautiful, intelligent, and challenging. She was strong, compassionate, and more sensual than any other woman he could remember. Men were supposed to be attracted to women like her.

“Damnation,” he muttered to himself as he drew his pressed shirt over his head. “Men are supposed to be attracted to all types of women. That is what adds the spice to life.”

And Iverson was, or rather, he used to be.

But he couldn’t deny his own feelings. He’d felt something different inside him when he’d kissed Miss Crisp. A yearning he couldn’t explain had taken hold inside him, and he couldn’t shake it. He hadn’t expected to be knocked off his feet, but he had been. Perhaps when he was a youngster in his teens he’d given a few young girls their first kiss, but certainly not in the last few years. He didn’t know how Miss Crisp made it through her first Season without a stolen kiss, but he was damned glad that experience had been saved for him.

She felt like heaven in his arms, and he was eager to taste her lips once again.

Iverson picked up the newsprint again and looked at Lord Truefitt’s column. His eyes immediately singled out the part he’d already read several times.

Roses
are
red

Violets
are
blue

The
Baltimore
Rake
is
whispering

And
Miss
Crisp
is, too!

Last evening at Lady Windham’s opulent home, Miss Crisp and Mr. Brentwood were once again seen huddled toe to toe and nose to nose in a dark corner. Hmm. Does anyone know what they were whispering about? If so, do tell, and it will all be printed here.

—Lord Truefitt,
Society’s Daily Column

He wondered what Miss Crisp was thinking of their latest mention in the gossip sheet. No doubt she was annoyed about the attempt at poetry again. He smiled and threw the newsprint aside, grabbed his collar off the chair, and fastened it around the base of his throat. But as far as he was concerned, he was happy of the mention again. No doubt Sir Phillip would get wind of their supposed courtship sooner rather than later and hurry home to see what it was about.

Iverson couldn’t remember how long it had been since the taste of a woman lingered on his tongue, enticing him to want to taste her again. He was going to ask her to go for a ride in the park with him this afternoon. Her aunt would approve, he was certain. He didn’t care that she thought she was too busy for such fanciful things. He wanted her to sit by him in a carriage and talk and laugh with him. And he didn’t give a damn what the gossips said about his courting her. Let them all write whatever they wanted.

But would he be able to convince her to go? And perhaps the bigger test would be if he were able to convince her that what was between him and her father had nothing to do with the two of them.

Iverson whistled as he picked up his neckcloth, wrapped it underneath his collar three times, and started fashioning a bow with the ends. He chuckled out loud and glanced at the clock on his dressing chest. It was late enough in the day that he could pay Miss Crisp a visit. He wanted to see her green eyes flashing pretend outrage at him when he arrived at her door again. He had as much as told her he’d be back to see if her father returned. He was sure it wouldn’t surprise her to see him. She was probably expecting him, and he didn’t plan on disappointing her.

The hell of it was, it didn’t even bother him anymore that she was Sir Phillip’s daughter. The poet was the one who wrote that rubbish about Iverson’s family, not his daughter. When the man came back to Town, Iverson would settle things with him. In the meantime, he intended to let Catalina Crisp know he wanted to court her and show the scandal sheets they finally printed something that was actually true.

Iverson smiled. Had he just thought of her as “Catalina”? He said it aloud, and then said it again a couple more times. He liked the way the name rolled off his tongue. Even her name was warm and sensuous. He chuckled to himself again as he buttoned his muted red waistcoat. Miss Crisp was much too cold sounding, but Catalina heated his blood.

It shouldn’t take long for his cook to prepare a basket with some bread, cheese, and fig preserves. And since the days were still a little cool, he’d add a bottle of his favorite port, too.

A few minutes later, Iverson whistled as his long, sure strides took him up the stone walkway to Catalina’s front door. He rapped the door knocker against the brass plate and waited, tempted to strike it a few more times. He held the urge at bay. A few moments later, the door opened.

Mrs. Wardyworth greeted him with the usual surly expression on her flat, pinched face. For the life of him, he couldn’t understand why someone with such a disagreeable disposition was allowed to answer the door.

“Good afternoon,” he said in as pleasant a voice as he could muster, considering Mrs. Wardyworth’s expression. He wasn’t going to let her ill temper put a damper on his expectation of taking Catalina for an afternoon ride.

“He isn’t here,” she said.

Iverson grunted a half laugh. Clearly Catalina was the only person who had the temperament to employ Mrs. Wardyworth. “Still cheerful as ever, I see,” he said. “But this time you’ll be happy to know I’m not here to see Sir Phillip. I’m here to see Miss Crisp.”

“She isn’t here, either.”

Having been down this route with her once before, Iverson knew exactly what to do. “Not a problem. I’ll wait for her return,” he said and brushed past Mrs. Wardyworth much in the same manner as he had several days ago when he first arrived at the door, looking for Sir Phillip. There was just no other way to get past the woman. Wherever she worked before this household, she must have been hired to intimidate the faint of heart.

“Ye can’t come barging in here,” Mrs. Wardyworth admonished.

“Of course I can. I just did.”

He took off his hat and laid it on the table where Catalina had put his things the other day, and started unbuttoning his coat.

“Ye can’t wait here, I tell ye. I don’t know when she’s coming back.”

Iverson shrugged out of his coat. “Haven’t we had this conversation, Mrs. Wardyworth?”

“What’s the matter with ye? Ye know we haven’t had a conversation before, sir. Ye just got here.”

Iverson sucked in a slow, deep breath. The woman was exasperating.

He shrugged out of his coat. “Where exactly did Miss Crisp go?”

“I have no idea and wouldn’t tell ye if I did. She doesn’t check in with me about her social calendar before she leaves the house.”

“That’s quite understandable. But you do expect her back by this evening, do you not?”

“Not hardly,” the housekeeper informed him with a matter-of-fact tone. “She took her trunks with her.”

A niggle of alarm pricked Iverson, and he swallowed hard. “You mean she left Town?”

Mrs. Wardyworth jerked her hands to her hips. “I suppose she did. I don’t know of any other reasons ye’d pack for overnight travel, do ye?”

No, there would be no other reason. And she had to be going to see her father.

Iverson had to hand it to Catalina. She had him believing she didn’t know where Sir Phillip was. A tight-fisted knot formed in Iverson’s chest, slowing his breathing. She’d had him believing a lot of things recently.

“Mrs. Wardyworth,” Iverson said in a much calmer manner than he was feeling, “I’m certain Miss Crisp didn’t leave without someone in this household knowing where she was going. I’m not leaving this house until I know where she went.”

“What’s all the commotion?”

Iverson looked up to see the gangly, big-eyed cook slowly walking toward them.

Mrs. Wardyworth harrumphed. “This man wants me to tell him where missy went. Like I would even if I knew.”

“I can tell him,” Nancy said, giving Iverson a wide, friendly smile.

Iverson let out a sigh of relief.

“Well, ye better not open yer mouth,” Mrs. Wardyworth exclaimed. “Not if ye want yer job. Ye know missy doesn’t want ye telling anyone her business. Ye best keep quiet about anything ye know.”

Nancy stopped in front of them and leaned on her cane. Smile in place, she looked straight into Iverson’s eyes, though she spoke to Mrs. Wardyworth. “I don’t think missy would mind Mr. Brentwood knowing. By the dead saints, if you would read the newsprint, you would know he’s courting her. She’s probably hoping he’ll find out where she went, and he’ll follow her, too. Wouldn’t that be romantic?”

Romance wasn’t exactly what Iverson had in mind when he found Catalina, but he’d keep that bit of information from the servants.

Iverson gave Nancy a genuine smile. “Thank you, Nancy. I would very much like to know where she went and would appreciate your telling me.”

“I overheard her tell Adam they were going to The Cooked Goose Inn in Brighton Hollow. I used to work there, and Sir Phillip often stayed there.”

“I see. That’s good, Nancy. Do you know if she’s going to find her father or how long she plans to stay?”

“Oh, just for the night, as far as I know. And she’s hoping to find her father. He’s been away a long time.”

It was almost laughable. One moment he was thinking Catalina knew where her father was all along, and the next moment he was thinking maybe she was telling the truth when she said she didn’t know.

Nancy continued. “She might find him there. Sir Phillip is like a carefree bird. He lands somewhere for a little while, and then he ups and flies away again. He can’t stay put in one place for long at a time.”

“Tell me, when did Miss Crisp leave today?”

“Not much past first light,” Mrs. Wardyworth injected for Nancy, apparently feeling left out of the conversation. “I heard missy say they should be there before dark.”

“They will,” Nancy added. “It’s not that far away. None of us knew they were leaving until late yesterday. I stayed up most of the night, cooking and packing food for them so they wouldn’t have to buy any. Besides, no one can cook as good as I do.”

“I’m sure you’re right about that,” Iverson said, but a different thought crossed his mind. Maybe Catalina needed Nancy to cook because she didn’t have enough money to adequately make the journey.

Iverson picked up his hat and coat. “Thank you, Nancy. You’ve been most helpful.” He then looked at the sullen housekeeper, and for the life of him, he didn’t know why, but he added, “You’ve been helpful, too, Mrs. Wardyworth.”

And then much to his surprise, the woman smiled at him and said, “Thank ye, Mr. Brentwood.”

Iverson couldn’t help remembering one of the first things Catalina said to him was a few kind words could brighten a person’s day. But he didn’t need to be thinking about all the things that made Catalina special. His list of those things was already way too long. If what the servants said was true, Catalina had several hours of travel time on him. If he wanted to catch up with her, he needed to forgo his coach and valet and take a satchel and his horse. He could go much faster that way and be there shortly after nightfall. But to do that, he had no time to waste.

And for once, maybe he could be the one to turn the tables on Catalina.

But the first thing he had to do was find his brother and tell him he was leaving Town. Matson wouldn’t be happy, but it wouldn’t be the first time he’d done something to upset his brother—and now that Iverson had met Catalina, it looked like it wouldn’t be the last. Right now, following her was more important than finding warehouse space that wasn’t owned by Sir Randolph Gibson.

Iverson didn’t fully understand his feelings for Catalina, and he supposed he didn’t have to. But he did have to find her and make sure she was all right. Later he would think about her father. He hadn’t lost his desire to put a death scare in Sir Phillip about the parody he’d written.