Rhyme and Reason (7 page)

He handed her into the carriage and asked, “How does she fare?”

“She still is bereft of her senses.”

“Do you think we should set fire to that absurd feather in her bonnet to bring her about?”

Miss Talcott stared at him in amazement, then began to laugh. Damon rested his hand on the open doorway and enjoyed the sight. Laughing was something she should do more often, for her eyes sparkled like twin candles.

“I don’t think,” she said in a prim tone that did not match her smile, “such extraordinary measures will be necessary. She seems to be waking.”

Before Damon could answer, another voice, a most annoying one, in his opinion, asked, “How is Valeria? Alas, I should have picked a more experienced coachman.”

“That is your carriage, Simpkins?” Damon asked, glancing at the ruined vehicle.

“It was.”

He saw Miss Talcott struggling to hide her smile. She should smile, for Graham Simpkins was amusing even at a moment such as this.

Quietly, Damon ordered, “Do be a good man, Simpkins, and get Lady Fanning’s things. I am sure Miss Talcott would be glad to see Lady Fanning home.”

“That is my honor,” Simpkins insisted, squinting at Miss Talcott as if he had just taken note of her.

“And how do you intend to do that? Carry her home in your arms?”

Simpkins puffed up like a cat ready to spit at a dog. His hands clenched at his sides.

Damon folded his arms in front of him. He had no interest in providing more of a public spectacle.

Miss Talcott said, “Hush, the two of you.” Her voice softened. “Valeria, open your eyes slowly.”

“Dear me,” murmured Lady Fanning, “my head aches. Oh, do let us be on our way.”

“An excellent idea,” Damon seconded. “The morning is nearly over. It would not be wise of you ladies to remain here past midday when the Loungers are about.”

Emily nodded. For once, she could agree with Lord Wentworth. She wanted to be gone before Old Bond Street became filled with the bored young men who looked for entertainment with any lady opaque enough to linger.

“Will you be all right?” asked Lord Wentworth as Mr. Simpkins went back to oversee the removal of his carriage.

“Yes, thank you.” She drew the door closed. “I know Lady Fanning appreciates your assistance, my lord.”

“And do you?”

She had been about to slap the side of the carriage to give Simon the signal to start. As lief, with her hand half raised, she asked, “Pardon me?”

“I merely wished to be certain
you
are fine as well.” He reached into the carriage and put his hand on her wrist. With a smile, he said, “You seem calm, for your heartbeat is not racing.”

“I am fine, thank you.” She pulled her arm away. Again he was plying her with his balms. At his touch, her pulse had jumped like grease on a hot stove.

“I am glad we concur again.” As he motioned to her coachee, he tipped his hat toward her. “I trust you will have a much more pleasant afternoon, ladies.”

As soon as the carriage was underway, Valeria leaned forward, her eyes wide. “When did you meet Lord Wentworth?” Color returned to her cheeks. “Do tell me
everything
, Emily.”

“There is not
everything
to tell. He is Papa’s friend.”

“And yours, too.” Leaning back against the seat, she wafted her hand in front of her face. “Or he would like to be. Be careful, Emily. He is a dangerous man.”

“Dangerous?”

“He has been the cause of more heart palpitations within the breasts of young women and their mothers than any one man has a right to be.”

Emily chuckled. “He has no interest in calling on me.”

“No?” Valeria patted her hand. “Listen to someone more experienced and wiser than you in the ways of men. A rogue does not look at a woman as Demon Wentworth looks at you unless he has something very definite in mind.” She raised her chin. “And you can be certain it is not an honorable offer of marriage.”

“I do not want to marry him!”

“This is all for the good.” Her smile returned. “Now tell me, Emily, what errands brought you to Old Bond Street.”

Emily relaxed. Chatting with Valeria was sure to halt her thoughts about the disturbing viscount and her curiosity about who would be the recipient of her book he had bought.

Valeria’s house, where she had lived with her late husband, was as gloriously adorned as the lady herself. Lord Fanning had been rich as a nabob, and Valeria had wasted little time spending his money.

Sitting in a sunny room, Emily admired the freshly painted friezes. Once her father’s house had been as magnificent, but now she found it difficult to pay for maintenance. London fogs and smoke had little sympathy for paint and paper.

“I do hope your sister can convince Graham to pay more attention to her tonight at the rout.” Valeria smiled as she leaned back on a divan. “I am surprised Miriam has failed to convince him of her interest. After all, she is the pattern-card of loveliness.”

Emily shrugged and stirred her tea. “Who is to say why Mr. Simpkins ignores her? I assume she shall meet someone else who will intrigue her heart.”

“And what of you, dear Emily? Now that Mr. Colley is following you about like a love-smitten puppy, there is talk that you might be making an announcement soon.”

“Quell the talk, if you can. My sole interest in the Season is finding a good husband for Miriam.”

“And none for yourself?” Valeria gestured broadly. “My dear Albert was as generous before his untimely death as his estate has been since. You should find yourself a man who dotes upon you and gives you your heart’s desire. How lovely you would look in the gown I saw in Madame’s this morning! All ruffles and lace that you, slight thing that you are, can wear better than someone with my unfortunate figure.”

Emily was accustomed to Valeria’s need to be endlessly complimented on her appearance and taste. She spoke the reassuring words without thinking.

Valeria lifted a book from under the rosewood table by the divan. Its bright blue cover told Emily it contained her poetry.

“Have you seen this?” Valeria asked.

“Miriam purchased me a copy earlier in the week.”

Her mouth became a moue of displeasure at not being the first to discover the new collection of poetry. She pressed the book to her breast as her high spirits returned. “I do love the marquis’s poetry. How I wish I could meet him!”

Emily smiled. “Who knows? Now that the war is over, it’s possible to travel across the Channel.”

“Yes.” She sat straighter. “Surely he must know how many people adore his poetry, and he will journey to London. Have you ever imagined what he must be like?”

“Not often.”

She let Valeria prattle while she fought not to laugh. She must not let slip that the marquis was neither tall nor well favored with a manly air. Valeria was as enthralled with the mysterious marquis as with his poetry.

Taking a sip of tea, she quelled a shudder. The marquis would never appear in London. That would destroy Miriam’s chances for a first-rate marriage. She sighed. The noose of truth was tightening, but the furor would die down again once something else caught the élite’s attention.

“Yes, I like the marquis’s poetry,” Emily said when her friend paused to take a breath, “but I prefer Byron’s.”

“Bah! Even Byron doesn’t have the romantic magic of this Frenchman.” Valeria’s eyes brightened. “I have just the jolly. I shall host a poetry reading tomorrow evening.” She clapped her hands with pleasure. “What fun it shall be! We will enjoy the marquis’s newest poems and our favorites from Byron. You and Miriam and your dear father will come, won’t you?”

“I’m not sure of Papa’s plans.” Emily tried to devise a reason to refuse. The idea of sitting all evening while others lauded the poetry would be nearly as disturbing as Lord Wentworth’s insults to her work.

She almost gasped as the viscount’s image appeared in her head yet again. Since his call, she had been successful at keeping the handsome man from her thoughts. Her father had remained mute about his encounters with the viscount, and she had not pressed.

“You will come, won’t you?” Valeria asked again.

“Of course.” Emily’s smile grew more sincere as she said with a wryness her friend would not be able to appreciate, “This may prove to be the most unforgettable party you have ever given.”

Chapter Five

Emily needed have no concerns about her sister’s interest in attending the reading. Once Miriam discovered Mr. Simpkins had been invited, she was aglow. Emily could not comprehend her sister’s interest a man who seldom spoke to her. Every morning, Miriam scanned the newspaper, searching for any word of Graham Simpkins. If she found his name connected to another woman’s, she was bereft.

Emily kept her curiosity about Miriam’s heart to herself as they entered the Fanning home. She smiled a greeting to Valeria, who embraced her warmly. Valeria’s gown of brilliant blue would challenge a midsummer sky. With gems glittering on her fingers and pearls laced through her hair, which had a tendency to appear orange in this light, she could be found by any of her guests.

“What a lovely gown!” Valeria said, clearly not noticing how Emily’s hands clenched her fringed shawl. “Is it one of Madame Girouard’s?”

“Yes, I own to being enchanted with the material when I saw it at her shop,” Emily answered, her voice as taut as her fingers. Tonight she would as lief think of the color which was not truly pink nor deep enough to be mauve than the idea that soon people would be reading her poetry aloud.

“No one designs as well as Madame Girouard. I am grateful you introduced me to her.” A frown ruffled her brow. “She’s been asking for you as if you no longer patronized her shop.”

“You know how she loves to prattle.” She did not want to reveal that she had not visited the
couturière
in months. She had no need to worry, for Valeria’s—and Miriam’s—attention was taken by the arrival of Graham Simpkins.

His cravat looked as if he needed help with tying it as much as Papa did. With his gaze affixed firmly on his feet, he edged through the crowd.

Emily whispered, “Miriam, do not stare.”

“But he is so—” Her retort ended in a low moan as Mr. Simpkins paused in front of Valeria and captured their hostess’s hands.

“My dear Valeria,” he said, “I should have guessed you would be the first to celebrate the new poetry by Marquis de la Cour! Allow me.” Offering his arm, he led her into the parlor.

Miriam gave a half-sob.

“Miriam, I am sure he wishes only to—”

“You need not be kind. He acted as if he did not even see me. It is obvious Mr. Simpkins cares as little for me as you do for Mr. Colley.”

“You know Valeria has no interest in him.”

Miriam’s eyes filled with cobalt tears. “She has him hanging on her every look, and she doesn’t want him?” She hurried up the sharply turning stairs to where she could pipe her eyes in a secluded bedroom.

About to follow, Emily halted when she heard, “What a pleasure to see you again so soon, Miss Talcott!”

Emily turned, for she recognized Lord Wentworth’s voice. Why had Valeria invited him? Emily had been certain her friend believed Lord Wentworth was beneath her touch.

She glanced toward the stairs, but Miriam needed time to regain control of her ragged emotions. Before going to her sister, she was determined to obtain an explanation why the viscount had lied to her.

“Good evening, my lord,” Emily answered as Lord Wentworth motioned for her to precede him into the parlor which was brilliantly lit by the crystal chandelier in the center of the expansive ceiling. “I own a tremendous amazement at seeing you here. Could you have had a change of heart about poetry? Does this drivel bring you something other than ennui?”

He handed her a glass of champagne before selecting one for himself. “You misunderstood. I do not find all poetry drivel. Only the poems penned by Marquis de la Cour. His sickish sentimentality epitomizes the reasons the French lost the war. They believed Napoleon’s pap, but hiked off like cowards.”

“You fought in the war?” She could not imagine the viscount, who always dressed in high kick, living the low life of a soldier.

His smile became as sly as a fox prowling a chicken coop. “There were many rôles to be played. Mine was not upon the march with the infantry. Yet I pride myself in having some small part in our victory.”

His cryptic words suggested he might have been a spy. A fair task for him, for not once had Emily guessed the course of his thoughts. Yet she could not envision him far from this breezy life. Irritation filled her. Was he hoaxing her? These could be the same lies he had fed to her with such success.

Emily said, “If you will excuse me.”

“But I won’t.”

“You won’t?” Simply because he was as handsome as a new penny was no reason for him to put aside his manners.

“Miss Talcott,” he continued, “I would appreciate an explanation of why you have treated me, both at the quarto’s shop and again now, with the scanty civility you would offer a knight of the road.”

“Odd that you should expect an answer, when you have been less than honest with me.”

“Again that charge of dishonesty. I recall no lies I have spoken to you.”

“No?” She kept her voice low. “The very first words you spoke to me were fabrications, for your tale of what happened at the card table differs from my father’s version. I ask you, my lord, whom I should believe.”

He set down his glass. Holding out his arm, he gestured toward the French doors leading to a balcony overlooking Valeria’s garden. “I think it would be wise if we discussed this in private.”

“I have nothing to say which would shame me.”

“Nor do I. However, Miss Talcott, your eyes are snapping like two blue-hot embers, and I fear your words shall bring me shame.” Taking her hand, he drew it into his arm.

She wanted to argue with this glib viscount, but again failed words failed her. As his fingers settled over hers on his arm, she was suffused with warmth. Warnings careened through her head. This was the man who made mamas swoon with dismay when he spoke to their daughters. Now she understood why. His silver eyes were hooded with secrets she could not resist trying to expose, even at the risk of involving herself with a rakehell.