Rhyme and Reason by Jo Ann Ferguson Read Free Book Online Page A

she never had heard such acrimony from Papa. “Why won’t you tell me what happened last night?”
    “Because it’s not for your fragile ears.” When she gasped, his smile returned, and he patted her shoulder. “Do not look shocked, ma chérie . I did no more than spend the evening in the company of friends while I punished my pockets with losses at the card table.” Rubbing his forehead, he added, “And in the company of too much fine brandy.”
    “Losses? But, Papa, the viscount said you were the victor.”
    He sat on the bed, then, grimacing, motioned for Bollings to clear it. The short man flashed Emily a wry smile. Nothing would change Charles Talcott. She suspected he found a solace at the card table that neither she nor Miriam could provide. Especially Miriam, for so many people spoke of how she was the image of her mother. As Emily was of her mother, but no one in Town knew that, for Papa kept the only portrait of her in this room.
    “He was being a gentleman, ma chérie .” Standing, he wiggled one foot, then the other, to be sure his toes were securely inside the boots. “Even a man like Wentworth knows the correct way to treat a lady. I trust you will give him his congé if he attempts to speak to you or your sister.”
    “But, why? He has—”
    “Called upon you and your sister for the final time.” He faced her, a sudden frown on his lips. “You and Miriam shall not receive him here.”
    “Yes, Papa,” she whispered, although she knew it mattered little if she obeyed Papa or not. Lord Wentworth was not a man to be put off by a polite rebuff. She suspected he would be an uncomfortable part of their lives longer than either she or Papa wished.
    The tinny bell echoed through the small shop. Because the mullioned windows were shaded by stacks of books, the interior was dusky and cramped. Emily needed little light, for she had patronized this bookshop many times. Taking a deep breath of the dusty, warm smell from the books stacked on the shelves—each volume waiting for an eager reader—she walked to the low counter. She looked about, not seeing anyone nor expecting to, for Mr. Homsby tore himself from his reading in the back room only when necessary.
    She took a moment to survey the selection of books, careful not to let her pink muslin skirt brush them. Mr. Homsby had no interest in cleaning his shop, and his customers seemed indifferent to the dust, for he had, in Emily’s opinion, the best bookshop along Old Bond Street. She tilted her bonnet, because she could not see past the bow of brightly striped pink and gold that matched the ribbon laced beneath her bodice.
    Pulling off her gloves, she selected a volume. It was an edition of Byron’s poetry she had never seen. As she paged through it, she became lost in the sensual flow of words. She sighed as she placed it back on the shelf. How much simpler her life would be if she had been blessed with such a gift for words! She wondered if the great poet had to struggle for each phrase as she did, tossing out more than she kept. Yet it was her ridiculous poetry—or the poetry of Marquis de la Cour, she must be careful to recall—that had brought her here.
    “Mr. Homsby?” she called.
    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