Rhyme and Reason (26 page)

He rose as she turned toward her door. “Good evening, Mademoiselle Talcott.” He motioned to a chair next to his. “Do sit with me.”

“It is late, and I told Damon—”

“Our host shall wait for his
rendez-vous
with you.”

She flushed. “Sir, I don’t know how things are done in France, but—”

“You know damn well how things are done in France.”

“You are foxed! I bid you good evening.”

He stepped in front of her and put his hand on the wall to keep her from slipping past him. His brown eyes pierced her as he said, “Not yet, Mademoiselle Talcott. It is time for the truth.”

“Truth,
mon seigneur
?”

A sly smile settled on his lips as he sat and gestured for her to do the same. “I must again comment on your charming accent. I would guess it to be from what was once French Canada. But how can that be, I ask myself? How would a lovely Englishwoman come to be there?”

“My family’s shipping line has sailed the Atlantic for several generations.”

“Generations, exactly.” He laughed as he grasped her hand. Although she tried to pull away, he tugged her down into the chair beside his. He ran his finger along her wrist, leaving disgust in its wake. “Once I began to pose questions to myself, mademoiselle, I found they led to many more.”

“You are drunk!”

He kept her in her chair when she tried to rise, warning he was as strong as Damon. “Am I? Or is there, as it is said,
vérité dans le vin
? Truth within the wine, although I need not translate for you.”

“You are babbling.” Again she tried to stand.

His hand clamped hers to the arm of the chair. “You are trying to evade me, but I have seen the truth. Only a
fou
would not note your unique coloring, your raven-black hair and the warm, rich shade of your skin, and not ask other questions.” When her fingers clenched by her side, he laughed. “However, being a gentleman, I would not ask you before your
bien-aimé
. I suspect you do not want Wentworth to know the truth.”

“We all have things we wish to keep to ourselves.”

“Once more, the truth. But you do not try to hide one thing.” He smiled as he poured more brandy. Taking a deep drink, he said, “You do not wish to see me with your sister.”

“That is true.”

“Why?”

“I owe you no explanation.” She shook off his hand and stood. “I bid you good evening, sir.”

“Could it be,” he asked as she walked past him, “that you do not believe me to be Marquis de la Cour?”

“What?” She widened her eyes as if shocked. “You aren’t Marquis de la Cour? But Miriam believes—”

“You are wasting your protestations of innocence on the wrong man, mademoiselle. You know I cannot be Marquis de la Cour because …” He reached under his chair and drew out her missing notebook. “Because you are.”

She gasped. “That is mine!”

“Exactly.” He rose, holding out the notebook. “I am glad you are not denying it, Mademoiselle Talcott. I had my suspicions, but they were confirmed when I found your work.”

She took the notebook. “Where did you get this? It was among my personal things.”

“So it was.” With the easy smile that had deceived her sister, he asked, “How have you kept the truth from Miriam?”

“How have
you
?” she returned.

“I have learned most people see only what they wish.”

Emily swallowed roughly. “What I wish is no more of this conversation. Good evening.”

To her back, he called, “If you denounce me, you damn yourself.”

She turned. “You aren’t going to tell anyone?”

“Why should I?” He lifted the bottle and splashed more brandy into his glass. “I like this
vie douce
I am living. I have newspapers eager for my comments and beautiful women swooning at my feet. Every door in London will open to me, and I am sure I would be granted an audience with the Prince Regent himself, if I wished.” His smile vanished as he closed the distance between them. “And you shall continue to write your poems
d’amour
, so I might continue to enjoy this life.”

“Just leave Miriam alone.” She swallowed the tears burning in the back of her throat. “I will do what you want, if you will leave her alone.”

“You shall do as I wish, and
I
shall do as I wish.” He tilted the glass in a sardonic toast to her.

“If you do not leave her alone, I shall—”

“What? I need speak only one word in the right ear, and you and your family will be ruined. No amount of gold can buy back your sister’s reputation.”

She almost laughed aloud. If there had been any amount of gold, she would not have embarked on this path to begin with. Blast her father’s love of gambling and her own lack of sense that had led her to this bumble-bath! Even if Papa agreed to stop gambling forever, she knew he owed money to Lord Lichton and to Damon. Damon! Would he help her?

When the fake marquis laughed in victory, Emily backed away from the balcony. First she must hide the book, making certain no one else could find it. Then she would go to Damon. She must share the truth with the only person she could trust. She prayed it was not too late to save her sister now that it was too late to save herself.

Moonlight splashed across the stairs as Emily descended to the first floor where she was to meet Damon. She could imagine ladies of long ago with their taffeta trains stroking each step. So much history this house had seen.

The foyer was empty, but Emily heard voices from the sitting room. Men’s voices. Mayhap Damon would be there.

She heard laughter and the marquis’s nasal accent. Blast it! She must be careful.

Deep voices must have covered the sound of her footsteps, for no one looked in her direction as she came to the wide doorway. Emily’s greeting vanished, unspoken, as horror claimed her once more.

A small table was set in the center of the room. With lamps surrounding it, the glow of moonlight had been banished. A bottle stood in the middle of the table, and a half dozen men sat around it. The shuffling of cards was an undertone to the conversation. A single man sat alone in a corner, holding a book close to his face. Her first hope that it was Damon died when he lowered the book, and she saw it was Graham Simpkins. Then where was Damon?

The scene blistered through the hot tears filling her eyes. Damon had given her his pledge he would not play cards with her father during their visit here. Yet he sat right in front of her at the table and laughed at something Papa said. She heard the clink of coins.

Stepping back into the shadows, she pressed against the wall and silenced her sob of betrayal. What a gawney she had been to heed Demon Wentworth’s pretty tales.

He cared as little for the truth as the marquis did. He had broken his vow to her. Had he lied to her about his love of gardening? Had that been only his way to lure her into his seduction? She closed her eyes as she imagined how easily he had persuaded her to offer him her lips. A quiver rushed along her. She had been willing to give him even more tonight.

To sell her very soul to the devil.

She ran back to the stairs. The echo of laughter chased her, taunting her with too many shattered promises and too many lies. She faltered as she touched the thickly carved newel post and looked toward the window that would reveal the garden which was awash with starlight.

No! She would not trust him again. Damon Wentworth had proven he deserved his nickname, for only a demon’s spawn would entice her into believing his lies even as he planned to break her heart. She would not give him the chance to hurt her again. Without another backward glance, she rushed up the stairs to collect her sister and Kilmartin. They would be on their way back to London before the next hour was rung by the tall-case clock on the landing.

Chapter Eighteen

Emily stared at her bedchamber wall. Hearing Kilmartin bustling in the dressing room, she wrapped her arms around her drawn-up knees. More than a fortnight had passed since she and Miriam had fled Wentworth Hall. Papa had returned to Town the day after them, saying little but that he had lost badly. Although she was curious about how Damon had reacted to her departure, Emily never asked. She knew she had been wrong to leave Wentworth Hall without an explanation, but Damon should have needed none.

She buried her face against her arms. The void in her life loomed large. So frequently, she had found herself thinking of an amusing story she would like to share with him. Then she realized she might never share anything with him but brown talk. Speaking of the weather and the latest prattle of the Polite World would be a cruel reminder of the hours they had spent discussing their love for books and gardening.

Her fingers froze as she set her brush onto the table. She would be welcome at a
conversazione
at Sir Joseph Banks’s house, but she must deny herself that pleasure. Going there, being among Damon’s colleagues, and being ignored by him would be more than she could bear.

Emily rushed down the stairs at an unladylike pace and into her garden. Yet, even here she could find no peace. Every corner of the tiny space held the memory of Damon’s laugh and his eyes glowing with delight as he admired her roses and her.

“Miss Emily, a gentleman calling for you,” Johnson announced from the doorway.

“Lord Wentworth?” she asked, turning on the bench.

“A
gentleman
, Miss Emily.”

She swallowed her fury at the butler’s insult. No reason to suffer angry whims when Johnson was repeating only what every gabble-grinder in Town had.

“I shall be with him in a moment, Johnson,” she said quietly. “Please have him wait in the parlor.”

He scurried away, and, with a sigh, she set herself on her feet. Shutting herself off from life would solve nothing. When she entered the foyer, an unwelcome sight awaited her.

“Good day, Lord Lichton,” she said, hoping distaste did not fill her words.

“Good day, Miss Talcott.” He kept his hat away from Johnson who was trying to take it.

The butler backed away when Emily motioned for him to leave.

She was curious why the earl had refused Johnson’s invitation to wait in the parlor, but she asked, “May I know the reason for your call, my lord?”

“You should know by this time, Miss Talcott.” He reached beneath his gray coat and removed a small wallet. Taking out a slip of paper, he handed it to her.

Despair clogged her throat when she read Papa’s meticulous handwriting.
Owed to Lord Lichton, £300
. Beneath it was his signature and last night’s date. Three hundred pounds! This would impoverish them.

“I do not have this much money in the house,” she said.

“I shall wait.”

“Here? Now?” she choked.

“Charles owes me the money. I need it to pay obligations of my own.”

“I shall have the money sent to your house, my lord.”

For a moment, she thought he would refuse, but he nodded. “Very well. I shall expect it by day’s end.”

Emily blinked as the door closed loudly behind the earl. Looking down at the slip of paper, she crumpled it into a ball. She had been a cabbage-head. No matter how she had tried to save her family, her father’s
affaire d’amour
with the card table had defeated her. She had tried her best, but it was not good enough. Everything had exploded in her face. The false marquis had arranged with Homsby to take a share of her money. Miriam was throwing her heart away on a man who was bamboozling her. Papa had not altered his ways.

And Damon had betrayed her heart.

She bit her lip as she fought not to release the sob aching in her chest. In her memory’s ear, she could hear Damon chastening her for thinking of her family’s happiness before her own. He had called her a fool, and she was, for she had lost every bit of happiness.

No longer
. She climbed the stairs and knocked on her father’s door.

“Emily!” he gasped as he opened the door. He was wearing his dressing gown. With a smile, he motioned for her to sit.

She shook her head. “Papa, I must speak to you of a desperate matter.”

“Desperate?”

She held out Lord Lichton’s note. Papa’s smile disappeared.

“Papa, I cannot pay your debts any longer.”

He shoved the note into the pocket of his robe. “Do not worry your head. I shall even my debts to Lichton.”

“But there is no money.”

“I know.”

Emily stared at him. “You know? I thought—”

“That you had cloaked the truth from your father?” He put his hand on the black marble mantel. “I wanted you to hide the truth, Emily, for I never wanted to face the fact that, without your stepmother, I could not manage the family’s business. It has been easier to play the gamester, so much easier that I agreed to go to Wentworth Hall even though I feared for you at the hands of its lord.” He sighed. “I took that risk, because I dared to believe Dame Fortune would turn my way at the card tables there.”

“You need have no concerns about Lord Wentworth and me,” she said coolly, even though the words pierced her like a dagger. “I can take care of myself.”

“That I know.” Turning, he picked up a book from a table. “Did you think I had no idea of the truth?”

“The truth?”

“Of your success as an author.”

Emily stared at him in disbelief. “How …?”

“The turn of a phrase betrayed you.” He smiled. “How proud your mother would have been of you,
ma chérie!
”

Tears blinded her. “I knew of no other way to—”

“To pay for your father’s weakness at the card table.” He held out the book to her.

She accepted it, discovering it was the first she had published. Holding it close to her chest, she bit her bottom lip to keep it from trembling.

“
Ma chérie
, “he said, “you are so like your mother. Beautiful and loving and as headstrong as a bear.”

Emily whispered, “But if you knew the truth, how can you watch Miriam with that impostor?”

“Between your efforts and mine, Miriam has never been alone with him.” He rubbed his chin. “Emily, you should have denounced him from the beginning.” When she started to explain, he waved her to silence. “Go tell your sister the truth.”