Rhyme and Reason (6 page)

The red velvet curtain behind the counter parted. Mr. Homsby, who had the misfortune to resemble an overfed squirrel with his bushy, gray mustache and tiny eyes behind his gold-rimmed glasses, peered out. A smile puffed out his full cheeks as he scurried to the counter and leaned his pudgy hands on its cluttered top.

“Miss Talcott! This is, indeed, a pleasant surprise. When your sister stopped in last week, I was delighted she bought one of the newly arrived books for you.” He rubbed his fingers against his mustache as he grinned. “I could hardly contain my amusement when she spoke of how excited you would be to see the marquis’s latest collection.”

Emily would not let him draw her into a conversation of polite nothings. “Why wasn’t I told the book was available for sale? I could hardly contain
my
astonishment when Miriam brought it home.”

He flushed nearly to the color of the drape behind him. “Miss Talcott, I told you the book would be printed by midsummer.”

“It’s barely the beginning of June. Spring is still with us.”

“But you must own my words were true, for it’s before midsummer.”

“I wish you had informed me before you put the book in the window,” she said, not willing to concede completely.

He raised his hands in a broad shrug. “How could I do that? If I had sent a note, I was unsure who might intercept it.” Pointing past her, he asked, “But can you deny that it looks lovely there?”

Emily went to the window. Rings holding a strip of paisley fabric rattled as she put her hands on the half-height railing. In spite of herself, she smiled when she saw the books glittering in the sunshine. Mr. Homsby’s publisher had topped himself with this volume, for the gilt letters gave it an appearance worthy of a marquis.

She sighed. She had been a blind buzzard to start down this path of lies, but she was as sure today as she had been two years ago that her name on the cover would create questions. It was easier to collect her royalties from Mr. Homsby anonymously and slip them into the household accounts to keep her family from ruin. Yet she was growing tired of her double life.

“It is a pretty book,” Emily said as she faced Mr. Homsby.

“I shall tell the publisher that.”

“I would like to tell him that myself.”

The quarto lost his cheerful expression as his mustache drooped. “Miss Talcott, you know that is impossible. The publisher hired me to find him materials suitable for publication and to sell them. He wishes to have nothing to do with the authors, for he has no time to deal with their concerns.”

“But—”

“Miss Talcott, you have been satisfied with your books, haven’t you?”

“Yes, but—”

“And haven’t you been paid on time?”

“I believe I have you to thank for that.”

Swelling up with pride so broadly that she was afraid he would pop his waistcoat buttons, he said, “And I thank you for being such a fine author. That is the second shipment of books this week.”

“You still have not given me a reason why I cannot meet with the publisher. Where can I contact him?”

As the bell over the door rang merrily, Mr. Homsby looked past her. Sure she heard him sigh with relief as a grin lit his face, Emily turned. Her eyes widened as she met Lord Wentworth’s smile.

As before, the viscount had adonized himself. His nankeen trousers and deep-green fustian coat covered a ruffled shirt and simple waistcoat. On his ebony hair, that was dulled by Mr. Homeby’s exuberant curtain, was a top hat with a tilted brim. He carried a walking stick in one hand. When she saw a cicisbeo of the brightest yellow tied to it, she was startled by the affectation she had not suspected he would assume. She chided herself, for she knew no more about the viscount than when they first had met a week ago.

Lord Wentworth came forward, tipping his beaver. “Seeing you here is an unexpected delight, Miss Talcott.”

“Good morning.” She was
not
delighted to see him again, for he had been false about the card games he had shared with Papa. He had betwattled her then, but he would not again. Even Mr. Homsby had the decency not to lie outright.

“My lord,” gushed the bookseller, his smile broadening so far Emily feared it would escape his face, “I have the book you requested waiting.”

“Very good.” Lord Wentworth turned back to Emily before she could take her leave. “You are a most pleasant sight in this shop, Miss Talcott. I believe your snapping eyes light up even its darkest corners.”

Papa had been right. So had Miriam. This man deserved being called
Demon
Wentworth. After spinning tales which, like a goosecap, she had swallowed wholeheartedly, he had the gall to act as if she would be delighted to see him. She wished to leave, but that was impossible when he stood between her and the door. Pushing past him was unthinkable, yet continuing this conversation when Papa had forbidden her to receive Lord Wentworth was as impossible.

“Miss Talcott,” he continued, smiling, “if I may be so bold as to speak the truth, Homsby would be wise to keep such lovely company as you here in his shop to persuade the gentlemen to pause and browse among his books.”

“You are bold, and there is no need to lather me with compliments. I appreciate being told the truth.”

He laughed. “And I may trust you to speak the truth.”

Shame seared her, for she was being anything but truthful when she stood next to her books in the window. But she was not the only one guilty of falsehoods. Lord Wentworth had lied to her about her father’s losses and showed no regret.

“Do you come to look,” he went on, “or do you have a specific volume in mind?” He ran his gloved finger along the spines and selected one. “If I may offer a suggestion, Miss Talcott, I believe you would find this book on roses interesting.”

Emily took it. The book was by Dr. Osborne, who was gaining a fine reputation as an expert on gardening. With a sigh, she replaced it. She did not have money to indulge in the luxury of a book.

“It wasn’t to your liking?” Lord Wentworth asked, warning she must guard every reaction, for his eyes were keen.

“Quite to the contrary.” She hoped her smile would not falter. “Thank you for pointing it out, my lord.”

He nodded and went to the counter. Releasing another sigh, but this one of gratitude that he had not pursued his curiosity further, she glanced at the book on roses. Mayhap she should ask Mr. Homsby to hold it. When her royalties were sufficient to pay for it, he could send it to her.

Emily’s happiness vanished into amazement when she saw what Mr. Homsby was handing to Lord Wentworth. It was
her
book.

As if he sensed her thoughts, which she found a discomfiting idea, Lord Wentworth said, “You need not stare at me like a disgruntled schoolmaster, Miss Talcott.”

“I find it peculiar you should deride the marquis’s poetry upon our last meeting and now purchase a copy.” She should remain silent, but she was frustrated with what might be another of his out-and-outers. How many more tales would he tell her before she had the good sense to—To what? Put him from her life? Ridiculous! He was not a part of her life. She was acting as moony as Miriam each time she thought of Graham Simpkins.

“This book is not for me, but a gift, Miss Talcott.” His smile was dazzling and urged her to believe him.

“Forgive me. I did not mean to stare.”

“But you were, and just like a schoolmaster.” He winked at Mr. Homsby who was listening with ill-concealed interest. “A lad would pay much more attention to his lessons if he had a teacher like Miss Talcott. Don’t you agree, Homsby?”

“Yes, yes, my lord,” the bookseller said so quickly Emily frowned. Mr. Homsby was often obsequious, but this was absurd.

Lord Wentworth set the book on the counter so it could be wrapped. “As I suspect you well know, Miss Talcott, a gift should be selected for the pleasure of the recipient, not for the taste of the giver. I have not changed my opinion of the book or its contents.”

“Honesty at last, I believe.”

Mr. Homsby interjected, “Miss Talcott, I assure you that Lord Wentworth has a reputation for being honest.”

“Thank you for the testimonial,” Lord Wentworth said, “but I am curious why Miss Talcott jests with me on this matter.” His eyes narrowed as he rested his hand on the counter.

She was not bamblusterated by his nonchalance. It was no more than a pose. As she was not certain how long she could maintain her own pretense of serenity when those incredible eyes were focused on her, sending a swift, sweet pulse resonating through her, she said, “I leave you to your gift buying, my lord. Good day to you.” She nodded toward the bookseller. “And to you, Mr. Homsby.”

“You have not answered my question,” Lord Wentworth said as she started for the door.

“I did not hear you ask one.”

He smiled, but it was as cool as Papa’s had been. “That is true. I cannot accuse you of dishonesty, can I?”

Heat coursed up her cheeks. Her gaze was caught by Mr. Homsby’s, but she looked hastily away. What a widgeon she was! She was wanting for sense to chide Lord Wentworth for being deceitful when Mr. Homsby could denounce her.

She must leave without delay. If she remained, either Mr. Homsby or she might reveal the truth. As she reached for the doorknob, a broad hand covered the latch. She looked over her shoulder, every word she had ever known vanishing from her head as she stared up into Lord Wentworth’s gray eyes. Storms she did not want to challenge filled them.

Slowly he drew his hand away, his sleeve brushing her arm in the most chance caress. She knew he had heard her gasp when his smile returned, warm once more as it had been in the garden.

No! She would not give it credence again. He had lied to her about Papa and about … She could not be sure what else, and she did not dare to stay to find out.

“Good day,” she murmured again. She was out the door before he could halt her, although she doubted if Lord Wentworth ever needed force to keep a woman by his side. His charm would garner him a place in any woman’s heart. But not in hers. She could not let that happen, not when her whole family’s future depended on her and the secrets she held in her heart.

Chapter Four

Emily looked out the window of her carriage as it came to an abrupt stop. The carriage rocked, and her coachman’s freckled face appeared in the window.

“What is it, Simon?” she asked, putting down the notebook where she had begun sketching out her next collection of poems. She must not let opportunity pass her by. If this book did as well as Mr. Homsby suggested, she could not delay beginning another.

“Accident, Miss Talcott.” He squinted at the pages she held, and she folded them, placing them on the seat. “Looks like a horse stumbled up ahead.”

“The passengers?”

Before he could answer, she heard a familiar, slightly too high-pitched voice. Simon opened the door and assisted her to the cobbled street. She rushed to the assistance of her bosom-bow.

Lady Valeria Fanning was, in Emily’s opinion, the most beautiful woman in Town, even when she was wringing her hands in distress. With gloriously red hair that curled perfectly about her heart-shaped face, she always dressed with just a hint of the garish. Her bold Kashmir shawl covered a pelisse that was opened to reveal her bright gold silk gown. Tall feathers perched on the top of her muslin poke bonnet and had been dyed to match the fancywork on her stockings. Valeria was not a woman to be ignored, even at the largest assembly.

Beside her stood the man of Miriam’s dreams, although Emily could not fathom why. Graham Simpkins was as bland as Valeria was beautiful. True, his hair seemed like spun ebony in the sunshine, and he possessed a strong silhouette. As usual, he hunched into himself as he watched the thrashing horse in the middle of the street.

“Valeria, are you hurt?” Emily asked, hurrying to her friend’s side.

“I do not believe so.” She nudged Mr. Simpkins with her elbow. “Graham, do recall your manners and say good day to Miss Talcott.”

“Miss Talcott?” He squinted into the sunshine. “Which one?”

“Emily, of course, you silly block.” Valeria pressed her hand to her bodice. “I swear that lame-hand coachman should never be allowed in the box again.”

Drawing her friend away from the center of the street, Emily asked, “Can you find someone to help that poor beast, Simon?”

A voice deeper than her coachee’s answered, “I think they are hoping to tend to that distasteful matter after you ladies have left.”

Emily whirled. Lord Wentworth! Was he following her, determined to continue their truncated conversation?

Again she had the peculiar uneasiness that he could guess her thoughts, for he smiled. “Traffic is in a tangle all along the street, and my curiosity would not be quelled without seeing the cause for myself.” Not giving Emily a chance to answer, he tipped his hat to Valeria. “Good morning, Lady Fanning. And to you, Simpkins.”

“I am so glad to see you,” Valeria moaned, putting her hand on his arm. “Can you help us?”

“Us?” His brows arched.

Mr. Simpkins murmured, “Damn good horse. What a shame.”

“Miss Talcott would certainly offer—” Damon could not keep from smiling as Lady Fanning swooned into his arms. What a to-do! Who would have guessed a simple errand to collect a copy of that book of silly poems would lead to this? Lifting the lady into his arms, he gritted his teeth when her reticule struck his leg and that silly feather tickled his nose.

“Bring her to my carriage, my lord,” Miss Talcott said.

When she put her hand on his arm to guide him, he was not astonished, even though, at the bookshop, she had acted as skittish as a gamester with creditors on his tail. Emily Talcott had proven she would be a rock in a crisis when he had brought her father home.

He nodded and let her lead the way to the simple carriage. Her coachee leaped forward to open the door, then stepped aside.

When he set the senseless woman on the seat, several sheets of paper fluttered about the carriage. Miss Talcott first smoothed Lady Fanning’s dress over her comely ankles, then gathered up the pages which were covered with neat handwriting. Curious as to what she was writing, he bent closer. She folded them closed before he could read a single word. He was treated to a sweet, musky scent he had enjoyed in the bookshop. He did not recognize the cologne, but it was perfect for Emily Talcott.