Rhyme and Reason (27 page)

“What if she refuses to listen? She would not let me say a word during our trip back to London.” She took his hands. “Papa, come with me. She will heed you.”

He shook his head. “I can’t.”

“But, Papa—”

“No,
ma chérie
. I can’t. Not now.” Taking the slip of paper out of his pocket, he stared at it. He sat heavily in his chair.

Emily stared at him. Papa was a weak man, who avoided his pain and his family’s by living a fast life at the card table. He would not change, no matter how much she wished him to. She put her arms around his shoulders and gave him a hug before leaving to do what she should have done weeks ago.

She rapped on the door to Miriam’s bedchamber. When she heard her sister’s hurried steps inside, she called, “Miriam?”

“A moment.”

When the door opened, she entered her sister’s cluttered room. She was astounded, for Miriam usually kept her clothes within her dressing room.

“I was looking for a special dress to wear.” Miriam’s laugh was strained. “I fear I made quite a mess.”

Sitting on one corner of the bed, Emily said, “Papa and I are worried about you. About you and André.”

“Do not speak to me of André. You know nothing of him.”

“I know that you should have nothing to do with him.”

“Because he is French?”

“Certainly not!”

“Because he is a poet?” Miriam scowled. “I find your jealousy uncommonly petty.”

“Jealousy?” Standing, Emily laughed. “How could I be jealous of
him
?”

Miriam’s eyes became storm dark. “I have seen you scribbling in your journal, and I know you struggle to write poetry. That André has succeeded in getting his glorious poetry published infuriates you, doesn’t it?”

“Of course not. Miriam, you must listen to me.”

She clamped her hands over her ears. “I shall listen to no more.”

“You must. Damon has told me—”

“And you believe anything he tells you? After he lied to you at Wentworth Hall?” Miriam ran to the door. “Who is the greater fool, Emily? You or me?”

Emily had no chance to retort as Miriam whirled out of the room. Not that it mattered, for Emily had no answer.

Emily pushed open the door to Mr. Homsby’s bookshop. When she saw Jaspar, his assistant, dusting the bookshelves, she smiled. This was just what she had hoped for.

“Good morning, Jaspar,” she said, smiling.

His eyes lit up as if fireworks had exploded within them. “Miss Talcott!” He sidled up to her, reaching past her to put the dustcloth on the counter.

“Is Mr. Homsby in?”

“He is busy.”

She struggled to keep her smile from wavering as she leaned back just enough so the ribbons on her gown brushed his arm. “I am glad.”

His eyes widened as he boldly ran his finger along her arm. She tried not to flinch. Everything might depend on this. If Miriam would not heed her and Papa refused to help, Emily knew only one person who might convince her sister to listen to reason. Not Mr. Homsby, for he would gladly lie in church to keep the marquis’s books selling.

“Jaspar,” she murmured, holding his gaze with hers, “I am in terrible trouble. I am not sure what I shall do.” She pulled a handkerchief from her bodice and wiped a feigned tear from her eyes. “I hope I can turn to you.”

“Me?” His gaze rose from her bodice to meet hers.

“I would be ever so grateful.” She put her fingers over his on her arm. “Ever so grateful.”

He gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing wildly. “What can I do, Miss—”

“Emily,” she whispered.

He grinned, but she sensed his nervousness. She must be careful not to overmaster him. “What can I do, Emily?”

“I am afraid events have conspired against me.” She dabbed her eyes again. “I must speak with my publisher without delay.”

“Mr. Homsby would not like that.”

“Nor would he like a swarm of solicitors descending on this shop like a plague of locusts. Oh, dear, Jaspar. I know of nothing else I can do. If my silliness has ruined me, I could live with that. But to ruin my dear Mr. Homsby.” She gasped, pressing her fingers to her lips. “And you! If he is forced to close, what will you do?”

“Close?” He stepped back and wrung his hands. “I need to warn Mr. Homsby.”

She caught his sleeve. “Why worry him? I have no doubts that I can put an end to this without risking this shop, but I must speak with my publisher.”

“Miss—Emily—I—”

“Just give me the address.” She pulled a slip of paper from her reticule and handed it to him. When he hesitated, she added, “Employment is so hard to find now that the war is over and all the soldiers are home.”

Jaspar gulped so loudly she feared Mr. Homsby would hear, but he bent to scribble on the page. Thrusting it at her, he rushed back to his work, clearly wanting to appear industrious if Mr. Homsby had any inkling of the possible trouble ahead.

Emily smiled. All might not be lost, after all. As she closed the door behind her, her smile faltered. She might be able to help her family, but she could not heal her breaking heart. Not alone.

Hearing church bells ring through Old Park Lane, Emily looked out the carriage window. They were slowing before a house whose number matched the one on the slip of paper in her hand.

The building had a simple façade like the others along the narrow street off Piccadilly. If she had not held the address in her hand, she would have guessed it to be a family residence.

When Simon handed her down, the coachee wore a troubled expression that matched the disquiet bubbling inside her. She said nothing. This task was hers alone.

A small brass plaque by the door had been recently polished, for she could see streaks on it. That slight imperfection in the elegant building with its marble sills and Flemish brickwork gave her the courage to reach for the knocker.

The door opened to reveal a shadowed interior and the dour face of a porter. The man, who wore a sedate coat of blue over gray breeches, bowed his head and motioned for her to enter.

She held out her
carte des visites
. “Please inform—” She hesitated, then said, “The author of Marquis de la Cour’s poems wishes to see her publisher.”

The man’s pristinely gloved hand accepted her card. He glanced from it to her. Still without speaking, he turned to climb the stairs.

Emily tightened her hold on her bag as she looked around the foyer. The parquet floor was nearly hidden beneath the bright red and gold of an Oriental rug connecting a trio of potted ferns. Several doors led from the foyer, but all were closed, their mahogany panels refusing to give a hint to what waited behind them. The space was not stuffy, so she guessed they were not often shut. By the curve of the wrought-iron-and-mahogany banister, a tall-case clock ticked, making the only sound other than her furious heartbeat.

Seeing a glass, she edged toward it. Her recalcitrant locks were slipping from her sedate bun. How she wished, just this once, her hair would stay in a wreath of curls as Miriam’s did! Adjusting her bonnet, she pushed the loose strands beneath it. Yellow ribbons crisscrossed her bodice and matched the ruffle at the hem of her skirt. A narrow band of ribbon accented her short, puffed sleeves. She looked her best and knew, with a sigh, that her appearance might be of the least concern when she was calling, uninvited, on the publisher of Marquis de la Cour’s poetry.

She turned when she heard footsteps on the stairs. A young man with thinning brown hair came toward her. Holding out her hand, she said, “I am Emily Talcott. I want to thank you—”

The man’s soft laugh interrupted her. “I am Finch, the secretary, Miss Talcott. If you will follow me, I would be glad to take you in.”

“Thank you.” She laced her fingers through the strings of her reticule, wondering how she could be such a blind buzzard.

Emily followed Finch up the stairs and along a long corridor. As on the ground floor, all the doors were closed. He paused before one halfway toward the rear. He opened it and smiled as he motioned for her to enter. Taking a deep breath, she did.

The room was not large. Books lined one wall behind the glass and walnut doors of a massive bookcase. Across from it, a tall window offered a view of the street, but its sounds were muffled amid the thick rafters tracing a geometric pattern in the high ceiling.

Finch crossed the chamber to a leather chair set in the shadows. He bent toward the chair, and she struggled to breathe. She must make every effort to appear her best before her publisher.

A man came to his feet and faced her. When he stepped out of the shadows, the sunshine caught blue fire in his black hair.

“Damon!” she gasped.

Chapter Nineteen

“Emily, this is a pleasure.” Damon smiled as he came forward to take her hands. Lifting one to his lips, he chuckled. “Or do you prefer I address you as Marquis de la Cour during this call?”

“You are not surprised!”

“No.” He gave her a roguish grin. “But you are.”

“How did you know?”

He went to a sideboard and poured two glasses of wine. Offering her one, he said, “Finch, thank you.”

The secretary nodded. “Of course, my lord.” He left, closing the door behind him.

Too much was now so clear. Damon’s secretive smile when he spoke of the poems, his comments about business in town, his ease in Homsby’s shop, all the books in his office at Wentworth Hall.

“Is publishing books one of your business projects?” she asked.

“Old Gooseberry Press has become one of my favorites.”

“Why that name?”

He chuckled. “You must be astonished. Otherwise, I suspect your quick wit would give you the answer.” Sipping his wine, he smiled. “You saw the tangle of gooseberry bushes at Wentworth Hall.”

“And old gooseberry is another name for a devil.”

“Very good, Emily.”

She smiled, then realized her delight at seeing him again was letting her entice her into forgiving him. Turning away, she fought her longing to beg him to explain why he had broken his promise to her.

Damon led her to a leather settee. “Sit, Emily, before shock sends you toppling onto your face. When you left Wentworth Hall in such a hurry, I was sure you had discovered the small part I have played in the saga of our frog poet.”

“That is not why I left.” She held the glass tightly, for she did not trust her trembling fingers. “You forgot your vow to me.”

“Vow? Not to play cards with your father? I recalled it every minute while you and your family were my guests.”

“I saw you and Papa at the card table.”

Laughing, he plucked the wineglass from her fingers and caught her hands in his. “Emily, I never broke my pledge to you. I vowed not to play cards with your father. I said nothing about sitting at the card table while he and my other guests played.”

She stared at him.

“You never saw cards in my hands, did you?” he asked. “You could not, for I did not touch the flats.”

She leaned her forehead against their clasped hands. Joy erupted within her. “I should have listened to my heart that told me you would not betray me.”

“Your heart?” he asked as softly. “Dare I believe to hope it speaks to you of me often?”

When he tipped her hand over and pressed his mouth to her palm, thoughts of the past disappeared within the enchantment of his touch. He raised his head, and she saw enticing fires in his eyes.

“I was not surprised,” he whispered, “when you shared your suspicions with me that our frog poet was an impostor. Even then, I had my suspicions about you.”

“But why?”

“I saw you flinch each time the marquis’s name was mentioned. Yet I could not doubt your delight in the book your sister brought to you. My curiosity led me to spend more time with you. When I glimpsed the fervor you tried to hide, I found I wanted to learn more of it.”

“Even though I wrote drivel?”

He smiled as his arm slipped around her waist. “Do you expect me to disavow my opinions on that?”

“Yet you brought a copy of the last book for a gift.” She hesitated, then knew she must speak the truth when she was in his arms. “For whom?”

He laughed. “Frasier has long admired the marquis’s work. Do you think the good mayor has changed his mind after meeting our impostor?”

“So you never will like my poetry?”

“I fear you cannot ask so much from me. I would as lief ask something of you.”

“What?”

“This.” His smile was warm against her mouth as his lips found hers.

Her dreams of being in his arms were eclipsed by this intoxicating ecstasy. As he sprinkled spark-hot kisses across her cheeks, his arm tightened around her, pulling her against the hard breadth of his chest. He was a puzzle she would be delighted to spend a lifetime solving.

Emily stiffened. She was cockle-brained to be bewitched by a love that could not be hers.

Damon frowned. “If you do not wish to kiss me, Emily, you need only say so.”

She tried to wish away the tears filling her eyes. “It’s just …” She could not speak the appalling truth he had not discerned. Instead, she quickly she told him the reason she had come to speak to her publisher. “I fear Miriam will do something foolish. You must come with me to Hanover Square. Once Miriam listens to you, she must own she has been bamblusterated.”

“She will give little credence to anything I say,” he said with obvious regret, “for she abhors me.”

“But she must listen!” she said, startling herself as much as she did him. She gripped Damon’s hands. “She must!”

Emily was not pleased to see a familiar carriage in front of her house. As Valeria came down the steps, Damon chuckled.

“She looks like a living fashion-plate,” he said, “and has about as much substance.”

“Valeria is my friend.”

“Really? How odd!”

“We have been bosom-bows for years.”

“I own to being amazed, for I daresay I have never heard her speak of anything but her
modiste
and the latest fashions.” As the footman opened the door, Damon added, “Doesn’t that bore you?”

As Emily stepped from the carriage, she said, “Valeria, do join us for a glass of lemonade.”

Valeria shook her head, bouncing her white tulle bonnet. “I came to see Miriam, but she refused to see me.” She glanced with curiosity at Damon, but said, “She has never failed to receive me before.”