Rhyme and Reason (12 page)

“Please don’t quote the poems to me.” She had never imagined her words might come back to haunt her like this.

With a chuckle, she went to the door. “I cannot wait to write about Valeria’s rout in my journal.”

“Miriam, wait!”

Either her sister did not hear her or chose not to listen, for Miriam vanished up the stairs.

With a deep sigh, Emily dropped back onto the chair. She glowered at the flowers set in front of the fire screen by the hearth. How could this become more of a shocking mull? Not that she could upbraid Miriam for being an air-dreamer about a man! After all, her sister had not been the one to let a reputed rogue steal a kiss from her in a quiet corner of her bosom-bow’s house. If Graham Simpkins had bumbled along only a moment later … She hid her face in her hands. What a witless block she was!

“Emily!”

She leaped to her feet at her sister’s cry. She was halfway up the stairs by the time she realized the sound had been happy.

“What is it?” Emily asked as she topped the stairs to find her sister rocking from one foot to the other with excitement.

“Let me show you!” She threw open Emily’s bedchamber door and rushed in. Sitting on the chaise longue, she cried, “Hurry! You shall want to see this. I know you shall.”

Emily glanced at the bills piled atop her writing table and wondered if her sister had any idea how she had been avoiding this room and that stack. Turning her back on them, she sat facing her sister.

“What is it?” she asked quietly. “If Papa heard you screaming like that, he—”

“Would think I had seen a mouse.” She giggled. “I think you will agree this is much, much better.” In her wobbly alto, she sang, “Look what arrived for you just a few minutes ago!” She held out a folded sheet.

“For me?”

“It was unsealed, Emily, so I peeked.”

When Emily took the page, she smiled. She recognized its cream color. The letter must be from Mr. Homsby. Mayhap the bookseller had come to his senses. She almost laughed aloud at the preposterous idea, but, she reminded herself, there was a first time for everything … like Damon kissing a woman and meaning the passion on his lips.

Her heart thumped against her breast. Oh, how she longed to be back in his arms for those few stolen seconds when nothing had mattered but the caress of his fingers and mouth!

Are you mad
? If rumors were to be believed, Demon Wentworth—how she despised that name!—had been as faithless as Georgie, Georgie, Pudding and Pie, kissing all the girls and leaving them to cry.

“Look at it!” urged Miriam.

Emily nodded. Mayhap this was an invitation to come to the shop to discuss the royalties she was due. The money would not be coming too soon, for Bollings had whispered this morning that Papa had returned in a testy mood after an unfortunate evening at the card table. With those debts in addition to what he already owed Lord Lichton, any payment from the quarto would be welcome.

Her hopes died as she read:

You are invited to a special poetry reading by Marquis de la Cour, the French Byron, at the shop of Homsby, Bookseller Old Bond Street on Thursday evening next at exactly 8. We are honored to share the marquis’s talent with London
.

Miriam twirled about. “We must go, Emily! Think of it. I shall get to see him again.”

“I am not sure that is such a good idea.”

“Why not? Dear me, I must be certain my very best gown is ready.” Miriam bussed Emily on the cheek and grinned. “You will send the
respondez-vous, s’il vous plait
without delay, won’t you?” She did not wait for an answer as she hurried out, whirling about like a child with a beloved toy.

Emily stared at the invitation. She had counted on Homsby to be an ally. She pressed the invitation to her breast. She did not know whom she could trust now, because the greatest out-and-outer had become hers the moment she graciously greeted the false marquis. She was part of his deception. She feared where it might lead, because she had no idea how it might end.

Emily stared at the front of Mr. Homsby’s bookshop. The thickly mullioned windows were stacked with books of all types, but her gaze settled on the blue books that held her poems.

The poetry that impostor was trying to claim as his own!

The bell over the door rang as she entered the cluttered shadows. The shop was empty. She called a greeting, then her hands clenched as she saw the sway of the curtain. Mr. Homsby must be trying to avoid her.

“Mr. Homsby!” she called, wondering what she would do if he refused to appear.

She clenched her hands by her sides when a gawky man emerged from the back room. Jaspar, Mr. Homsby’s assistant, was intolerable on the best of days, which today certainly was not. He did not hide that any woman, especially Miss Emily Talcott, should count herself fortunate to have the chance to share his company. The last time she had encountered him, he had tried to corner her by one of the bookshelves. Her sharp words to Mr. Homsby had kept his assistant away.

Until today.

“My dear Miss Talcott,” Jaspar crowed in his deep voice that would have been pleasant if not forthcoming from such an unpleasant fellow. “I am so very, very delighted to see you.”

“Where is Mr. Homsby?”

He stretched across the counter to grasp her hand. “Busy. That is lucky for us.”

She snatched her hand away. “Busy planning the poetry reading?”

“Are you attending?” He edged around the counter and caught her hand again. “My dear Miss Talcott, can I implore you to sit beside me during the reading so I might bask in your beauty along with the poetry?”

“Release me at once!”

“My dear Miss Talcott—”

Wrestling her hand out of his grip, she scowled when she realized he had her glove.

He held it to his lips and whispered, “I shall treasure this gift from you always.”

“I want to speak to Mr. Homsby.”

“I told you, my dear. He is busy.”

Emily glanced at the curtain. When she saw the fabric move again, she pushed past Jaspar and went around the counter.

“You shouldn’t go there!” Jaspar cried.

“And you shouldn’t purloin a lady’s glove.” Ignoring his horrified expression as she plucked her glove out of his hand, she added in the same stern tone, “Mr. Homsby, hiding from your customers bodes poorly for your reputation as an honest businessman.”

When the gray-haired man peeked out, Emily found the bookseller’s trepidation annoying. After all, he had been audacious enough to have an invitation to the reading by the marquis delivered to her house.

“Miss Talcott!” With a smile she knew was false, he surged forward to greet her. He motioned for Jaspar to return to the back room, which usually would have been a relief, but today her exasperation was focused on the quarto.

“Send him out of the store,” Emily said quietly.

“We are very busy, Miss Talcott.”

“I wish to speak to you alone.”

Mr. Homsby’s face became a sickish shade of gray, and she knew he understood the threat she need not speak. “Wait here.” He called quick orders to Jaspar.

Only when Emily heard the back door close did she place the folded page on the counter. “I thought I would reply to your invitation in person. Imagine
my
astonishment when I learned Marquis de la Cour would be reading his poetry here.”

“Miss Talcott, I—”

“Spare me from your bounces! How dare you send these invitations? You know that man cannot be Marquis de la Cour.”

“Everyone believes he is.”

“I do not believe that. Nor do you.”

“After his triumph at Lady Fanning’s soirée last night, the whole of London does.”

Her eyes narrowed as she saw his smile. “You know of that? Did you send him there? Is this masquerade your idea?”

He raised his hands. “You wound me, Miss Talcott. I had no idea who he was when he came in yesterday. He expressed an interest in the book, and I mentioned, as any wise shopkeeper would do, that he should make his purchase without delay. I suspected many customers would want the book in the wake of the reading Lady Fanning was hosting.”

“So that allowed him to know where to make his surprise entrance into the élite.” She sighed. “No doubt he returned to regale you with how he was the toast of the evening.”

“The marquis is delighted with his welcome.”

“The marquis is no marquis. If I were to—”

“Think a moment!” he urged, leaning his hands on the counter. “He will enhance sales to such a degree that, even with you giving him half of your royalties—”

“Half? I never agreed to such a cockle-brained scheme.”

“It was my idea.” He swallowed roughly, the uneasiness returning to his face. “He was hinting there must be a good reason the real marquis had not come to London. If he were to announce now he is a fraud, it surely would be harmful to sales.”

She struggled to maintain her composure. “Mr. Homsby, you must inform that man posthaste that your contract with him is invalid, for I did not consent to it.”

His gray mustache drooped to match his frown, but she saw little regret in his eyes. Mr. Homsby was certain to profit handsomely from this arrangement. “I cannot cancel the reading when the invitations have already been sent. If you wish to make an announcement at that time—”

“I shall let you know.”

She saw his amazement at her cool answer and guessed he had expected her to demur. She had no idea what she would do at the reading, but she would not confide that to a man who already had betrayed her in order to fill his pockets.

Emily opened the door. She gasped as she stared at the man standing on the other side. The fake Marquis de la Cour brushed past her as if she were of the least interest. Her exasperation became anger.

“
Mon seigneur, comment allez-vous aujourd’hui
?” she called to his back.

He whirled, his self-satisfied smile vanishing. Something flashed through his eyes, but was gone before she could guess what it was. He surged back to her and reached for her hand.

Emily kept her fingers clasped around her bag and her chin high. Past the impostor, she could see Mr. Homsby’s face grow greasy with sweat.

The charlatan marquis gushed, “Do not tell me your name, mademoiselle, for I know it well. You are Emily Talcott, who read so beautifully of my poems, while I had the
plaisir
of speaking with your charming sister, the
très belle Mademoiselle Miriam
.”

“Here in England,” she replied in her primmest French, “one does not speak so informally of a young woman whom one has just made the acquaintance of.”

His swarthy eyes twinkled as he drew off his beaver and tossed it on the counter. “Your French is delightful, Mademoiselle Talcott, but I beg you again to allow me to practice my English.”

“You seem much its master.”

He pressed one hand over his pristine white waistcoat. “I hope one day to be. Can I believe you have come to this
librairie
to purchase one of my books?”

“No.”

“Then allow me.” He reached over into the window and lifted out one of the slim blue volumes. Pressing it into her hand, he said, “Please accept this as a gift from me.
Avec ma gratitude, mademoiselle
.”

“No thank you.” She set the book back into the window display. “Mr. Homsby, I believe it is time we spoke of—”

The door burst open into her back, propelling her into the marquis. Jaspar rushed into the shop as she extricated herself from the marquis’s embrace. Stepping away from the marquis as he grinned at her as if she were no better than a cyprian, she waved aside Jaspar’s hands which seemed to number at least a dozen.

“I am fine,” she assured them. It was another lie. Her stomach ached, and her head throbbed, and she wished she never had discovered that words could rhyme.

“Are you certain?” asked the marquis.

“Yes. Good day.” Emily grasped the door and threw it open again.

“Miss Talcott! Don’t go!” Jaspar called.

She ignored him as she stepped out into the dim sunshine. Hearing a soft groan behind her, she glanced over her shoulder. Jaspar was clutching onto the door, a fearful expression widening his eyes. A hand settled on her arm.

With a gasp, she pulled away. She stared at the strange man, who was grinning broadly. Dismay cramped her stomach as she saw two other men standing between her and her carriage. Another slipped behind her to shove Jaspar back into the shop.

The man by the bookshop door smiled. “Good afternoon, pretty lady. Have you come to talk with us?” He took her hand and raised it to his lips. “Will you entertain us in other ways?”

Emily recoiled. The man had the manners of a sow’s baby, although he and his companions were dressed in the varmentish style of the frippery set. Bond Street Loungers! How could she have been so witless? She should have taken note of the time.

With cool disdain, she answered, “I have neither the time for nor the interest in a conversation with you.”

“But you talk so pretty, pretty lady.”

When she turned toward the carriage, her coachee, Simon, started to climb down from the box. The young man froze when one of the men shouted, “Stay where you are, lame-hand.”

“See here—”

The Bond Street Loungers growled.

Emily glanced along the street, but the gaudily dressed young men were the only ones abroad.

A man tugged at the feather on her bonnet. “Strange color for a bird,” he said as his cronies chuckled. “Never have seen a lavender bird.”

“Excuse me.” She tried to step away, but the men refused to move aside.

Fear clawed at her. These nick-ninnies were intent on causing her trouble. Seeing the glint of malevolent amusement in the men’s eyes, she feared they would not let her escape.

Chapter Nine

“Ah, here you are, darling! I pray you are not angry at me for being late.”

Emily whirled as she heard a familiar voice. Damon! She longed to throw herself into his arms, which were sure to protect her from these boors. As she took a step toward him, a Bond Street Lounger intercepted her again. She edged back, not wanting to let this cad touch her.

“Do tell me you will forgive me, darling,” Damon said as he walked toward her. Only the slightest narrowing of his eyes warned that his good humor was only a pose. “Tell me now before my heart breaks.”