A Gentleman Says I Do Page 7

  “Why’s that?”

  Trying to explain Sir Phillip’s household to his brother would take more effort than Iverson was willing to expend at the moment. “They were all very protective of the poet.”

  “Well, I can’t say that is a bad thing,” Matson muttered. “That’s what servants are supposed to do for their employers. Tell me more about Miss Crisp. How old is she?”

  “I’d say nineteen, or possibly twenty.”

  “Lovely?” Matson questioned.

  Iverson felt his breathing kick up a notch just thinking about Miss Crisp. “Quite.”

  “So how was it you happened upon her on the street today?”

  “I followed her from her house.”

  Matson gave him a wary look. “You didn’t.”

  “Oh, but I did.”

  “So, tell me this, are you going to try to get back at Sir Phillip by ruining his daughter?”

  “Of course not.” Iverson looked hard at his brother. “You know me better than that.”

  “I thought I did, but Lord Waldo did end up with a black eye. Come to think of it, I don’t think you ever admitted to doing that.”

  “I’ve never had a reason to address it, and I still don’t. Furthermore, I don’t have any intentions of doing anything to harm Miss Crisp or her reputation. I was following her in hopes she would lead me to Sir Phillip. Does that settle everything for you, Brother?”

  Matson sighed heavily. “Of course. I suppose I jumped to conclusions when I heard you were courting Miss Crisp.”

  “Good. I told you I would handle this with Sir Phillip, and I will.”

  “And, speaking of brothers,” Matson said to change the subject, “I’m glad Brent wasn’t here to read A Tale of Three Gentlemen.”

  “I’m sure he will as soon as the mail coach can get the newsprint to him.”

  “Let’s hope he gets only the Times and not The Daily Herald. Or if he gets them both, we’ll hope Gabrielle keeps him so occupied with other things he hasn’t the time to read them.”

  Iverson chuckled. “Now that is quite possible. I do believe he worries more about our parentage than we do. Last I heard, they are still planning to come to London for the Season.”

  “That’s what I heard, too.”

  “Wallace had Cook set a place for you. Are you staying for dinner?”

  Matson seemed to relax. “I might as well, since I’m here. Afterward, we can head over to Harbor Lights or White’s for a hand or two of cards and a game of billiards. It’s been a long time since I’ve won any blunt off you.”

  Iverson smiled. “And it will be a long time before you do, because you’re not as good as I am.”

  “Those are fighting words, Brother, and I’m going to have to prove you wrong on that.”

  They both laughed, and then Iverson said, “You can try.”

  “You know, I just thought of something.”

  “Something worth sharing, I hope,” Iverson teased.

  Matson picked up his glass from the floor and drained it as he walked over to the side table. He poured himself another splash and said, “Have you thought about paying a visit to the owner of The Daily Herald?”

  “It crossed my mind. I can do that, if I have to, but for now, I think the better approach is to keep Sir Phillip from writing anything more. It can’t be published if it isn’t written.”

  “True,” Matson said and added port to Iverson’s glass. “You can also consider making a visit to Bow Street and hiring a runner to find out where the man is holed up.”

  But neither of those would put him in touch with Miss Crisp again, and right now, seeing her was almost as important as finding her father.

  “Hopefully, Sir Phillip will return in the next day or two, so it won’t come to my doing either of those things. In fact, I’m definitely going back to the man’s house tomorrow to see if he has returned.”

  “And no doubt you will see his daughter while you are there.”

  Iverson smiled. “Of course.” He couldn’t wait for her to skewer him once again with her flashing green eyes and sharp words.

  Matson chuckled and shook his head. “Just stay out of trouble.”

  “I intend to.”

  “Now, tell me what’s wrong with your leg. You’re not limping, but I know something is wrong.”

  Iverson slowly shook his head and rubbed his forehead. It was hell being a twin.

  Six

  You may conquer with the sword, but you are conquered by a kiss.

  —Daniel Heinsius

  Catalina felt wonderful.

  She woke to glorious sunshine filling her room. London had its third day in a row of mild temperatures and blue skies. All night she had dreamed about Mr. Brentwood’s Herculean effort to save her yesterday. He left her feeling protected, and that was a heavenly feeling. She would never forget his strong and gentle hands grasping her arms, lifting her to safety, and helping her to stand. She’d never forget the concern she saw in his eyes when she was in danger or the relief on his features when she was out of harm’s way. But more than those, she would remember that he didn’t admonish her for risking her life to save a mongrel.

  After she’d dressed and gone below stairs, Catalina asked for her morning tea and biscuits to be served in the garden so she could enjoy the too-infrequent sunshine. She was in the back parlor gathering up the morning’s newsprint to take outside with her to read when Mrs. Wardyworth called to her from the doorway.

  She turned to her housekeeper and said, “Yes?”

  “Miss Mable Taylor and Miss Agatha Harris are here to see you.”

  Catalina wrinkled her nose in surprise. Mable usually sent a note when she was going to visit. She didn’t like wasting time stopping by someone’s house only to find they weren’t available. She liked people to know she was going to pay a call, so they could respond if it was an inconvenient time. And Catalina really didn’t know Miss Agatha Harris very well at all. She remembered talking to her a few times during last Season, but that was almost a year ago. Agatha always seemed a sweet person and the complete opposite in looks and manner from the bold, blond, and petite Miss Mable Taylor. Agatha was a tall, broad-shouldered, and quiet young lady. Catalina often thought of her as a gentle giant.

  Catalina looked at the clock and saw it was well past noon, so it was perfectly acceptable for them to call on her to see if she was accepting visitors. No doubt they’d heard about the incident in the street yesterday and wanted to make sure she was all right.

  “Show them into the drawing room, Mrs. Wardyworth, and tell them I’ll be right in.”

  Catalina laid down her newsprint and looked at her dress. She had donned a long-sleeved, sprigged morning dress that wasn’t one of her best, but she supposed she looked presentable enough in it, considering she wasn’t expecting anyone. With funds always so tight, it had been more than a couple of years since she’d had any new morning dresses made.

  Placing a smile on her face, she walked into the drawing room, saying, “Good afternoon, ladies. What a pleasant surprise to see you. I’m glad you made yourselves comfortable. Mrs. Wardyworth, please have Nancy prepare tea and tarts for us.”

  As soon as her housekeeper cleared the doorway, both girls jumped up from the settee and started talking at once.

  “Oh, aren’t you simply devastated?” Mable said.

  “Will you ever be able to show your face in Society again?” Agatha asked.

  Mable took hold of Catalina’s hand. “We came as soon as we could to comfort you.”

  Catalina glanced from one lady to the next. They looked so distraught she knew something terrible must have happened to her father.

  “What’s wrong? Has something happened to Papa? What have you heard about him?”

  “Your father?” Mable asked curiously. “How would we know anything about your father?”

  “Oh, dear, no,” Agatha said. “I pray there’s nothing wrong with him. That would be too much to bear on top of this morning’s news.�
�

  A wave of relief washed through Catalina. “Thank goodness for that. You had me frightened.”

  “I don’t think she’s seen it,” Agatha said, looking wide eyed at Mable.

  “I agree.” A sharp gleam appeared in Mable’s eyes. “I’m sorry we have to be the ones to tell you about this, but, well, maybe it will be better if we show it to you.”

  “Show me what? You two are making no sense whatsoever. Tell me what you’re talking about.”

  Mable jerked open her reticule and pulled out a sheet of newsprint and thrust it toward Catalina. “Read this from Lord Truefitt’s column in today’s edition.”

  Catalina tensed. She hadn’t read it. But she had a feeling she knew exactly what the famous gossip columnist had written about. Swallowing her trepidation, she took the paper, looked down at it, and read:

  Roses are red

  Violets are blue

  Look who’s walking

  Shoe to shoe.

  It’s on excellent authority I can be the first to report to you that Miss Catalina Crisp and Mr. Iverson Brentwood were recently seen standing so closely together on a street corner that the toes of their shoes touched, and in the next moment, he was gallantly rescuing her from certain death by a runaway horse and carriage. One has to wonder if the poet’s daughter thinks she can be the one to leg-shackle the Rake of Baltimore? She seems to already have him by his toes!

  —Lord Truefitt, Society’s Daily Column

  “Oh, that’s an absolutely dreadful attempt at poetry!” Catalina said as she handed the newsprint back to Mable.

  “Poetry?” Mable questioned with eyes wide in disbelief. “Your name is linked to the Rake of Baltimore’s in the scandal sheet, and all you can say is the poetry is dreadful?”

  “Well, it is,” Catalina insisted. “I do wish the man had been a little cleverer with his verse.”

  By the shocked expressions on both the ladies’ faces, Catalina knew she didn’t give them the reaction they were expecting. She continued, “But, no, that’s not all I can say about it. I mean, I don’t appreciate Lord Truefitt’s mentioning me in connection with Mr. Brentwood. In fact, I suppose I am quite bothered by it, but if he was going to write poetry, he could have at least made it worth reading.”

  “You don’t sound bothered,” Mable said in an almost accusing tone.

  Catalina looked from one lady to the other. She had never been any good at fibbing. She wasn’t bothered by it, and she supposed she should be. After all, Mr. Brentwood had threatened her father. But how could she be too upset with a man who had risked his own life to save hers?

  “Of course I am,” she said, trying harder to sound affronted and please the ladies. “Besides, everyone knows violets are purple, not blue.”

  Agatha gasped. “You’re still talking about poetry. And violets are violet and not purple at all!”

  “You both are talking about uninteresting poetry and flowers!” Mable exclaimed in an annoyed tone. “Catalina, Lord Truefitt makes it sound as if you were having a tryst or an assignation with the Rake of Baltimore and you got caught when you were almost run down in the street.”

  “Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Mable. I certainly haven’t had a tryst with Mr. Brentwood or anyone else for that matter.”

  “Then perhaps you are allowing him to court you,” Agatha suggested.

  “That must be it, because all you seem to care about is the verse and the color of flowers.”

  Catalina didn’t like feeling as if she had to defend herself to Mable, but she supposed she needed to try again. And use a different tactic.

  “Mr. Brentwood and I just happened to be on the same street at the same time. I was trying to save a dog from being hit by a runaway horse. If I don’t seem as concerned as you think I should be, it’s probably because I’ve never been in a gossip column before. I don’t quite know how to take it or what to make of it. Perhaps I feel if I don’t talk about what Lord Truefitt’s written, it will be as if it wasn’t written.”

  “Everyone knows why he ran out into the street to save you, of course, but why were you standing so closely to him on the boardwalk that your noses touched?” Agatha asked.

  Catalina gasped in outrage. “It didn’t say our noses touched. It said our toes. And not even our toes touched. Lord Truefitt wrote nothing about our noses. No doubt that’s how gossip starts, Agatha.”

  “But you were with him?” Mable asked.

  “No, I wasn’t with him. We met quite by accident, and we were just talking. My aunt was with me, and my shoes never touched Mr. Brentwood’s,” Catalina reiterated again, becoming quite perturbed that she had to explain herself to these two ladies who were supposed to be her friends.

  “Well, you know the only thing Mr. Brentwood does is break innocent ladies’ hearts. My cousin told me all about him in a letter. He ruined more than one young lady in Baltimore and rightly deserves the title that marks him.” She paused and turned to Catalina. “Court him if you like, but remember he’s a confirmed bachelor and not the marrying kind.”

  “Marry?” This was getting more exasperating. “No one has said anything about courting or marriage, Mable.”

  “But of course you were thinking about making a match with him?” Mable said with a sly smile. “Ladies always dream about marrying a rake.”

  Suddenly Catalina knew what this visit was all about. Obviously the girl had set her cap for the handsome Rake of Baltimore and was jealous Catalina’s name was the one linked to his by the gossip.

  Thankfully, Catalina heard teacups rattling and knew Nancy was coming with tea. She would do her best to change the subject and hurry these ladies through their refreshments and out the door.

  ***

  By the time Catalina got rid of the chatty girls, her nerves were frayed, and all she wanted to do was sit in her back garden by herself. She had a comfortable cushioned chair placed in the center of the lawn, where she wouldn’t be shaded by the yew hedge, shrubs, or trees, and made herself cozy. She had thought to read, but when she laid her head back, her eyes closed, and even though she knew her aunt would have a fit of hysteria if she saw her, Catalina lifted her unprotected face to the warm sun.

  She relaxed into the chair and let the heat bathe and soothe her. She didn’t want to think about Lord Truefitt’s gossip, her absent father, the mounting debts, the second installment of the story, or the handsome and intriguing Mr. Brentwood. She wanted only to sit quietly, alone in the garden, and enjoy the sunshine.

  It felt so glorious and relaxing, she soon felt drowsy. She thought she might even take a nap. What a luxury that would be.

  “All that sun will make your skin blotchy.”

  Catalina wrinkled her forehead but didn’t open her eyes. She smiled to herself. That sounded like Mr. Brentwood, but it couldn’t be he. He hadn’t been announced, and there was no way he could get into the garden. She smiled and rolled her shoulders reflexively and sank deeper into the plush cushions of the chair.

  That man was like a bad penny. Always showing up and invading her thoughts. Now she was thinking she heard him talking to her. No matter that he was the hero of her dreams, she wasn’t going to let him disturb her tranquility.

  She laughed softly and said, “Good. If I look red and freckled, maybe you won’t devour me with that charming, intense blue gaze that tries to see inside my soul.”

  “Is that the way you feel when I look at you?”

  “Yes, and it’s quite maddening. You are disturbing my peace. Go away and leave me alone with my quiet and my thoughts.”

  “Are your thoughts about me, Catalina?”

  “Right now, they are.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “That you are a handsome, brutish rogue who has no boundaries.”

  Suddenly, a soft, manly chuckle sounded very near to her ear and very real to her senses. She tensed, and her throat went dry. All at once she had the feeling she wasn’t alone. And she wasn’t dreaming or just thinking she heard Mr. Br
entwood’s voice. Her lashes fluttered up, and against the bright glare of the sun she saw Mr. Brentwood towering over her.

  “Oh,” she exclaimed and jumped to her feet. “What are you doing here? How did you get in the garden?”

  He smiled. “I’m here to see you, of course. Your aunt told me you were in the garden and to come on out, and she would collect a shawl and bonnet from her bedchamber and join us directly.”

  Catalina was mortified she had been talking to him when she thought she was only daydreaming about him. “Why didn’t you let me know you were here?”

  His head quirked to the side, and his brow wrinkled. “I believe I just did. When I spoke to you, you answered.”

  “That’s because I was thinking, I mean dreaming, or something,” she said, desperately trying not to become flustered. “I didn’t know you were actually standing beside me.”

  One side of his mouth lifted in a half grin, and he looked a devilish brute. A handsome, intriguing, and alluring devilish brute who seemed to get the best of her time and time again.

  “So which is it? Were you dreaming about me or thinking about me?”

  A teasing sparkle shone in his eyes. It was maddening, but Catalina was an easy target for his charm. She inhaled deeply and said, “Neither, I’m sure. I must have been napping, so I have no idea what you said or what I answered.”

  “Then I’ll tell you.”

  “Please don’t do that. I’m quite embarrassed enough. Just allow me to thank you one more time for your heroic effort yesterday. If you hadn’t been there—” She paused.

  He gave her an understanding smile, and she appreciated it more than he would ever know. She supposed she was a lot like her father after all. She couldn’t allow even a stray dog to be hurt if there was anything she could do to stop it.

  “If I hadn’t been there, nothing would have happened. You would have gotten in your carriage and been gone long before the Corinthian lost control of his horse. But I didn’t come here for more gratitude from you.”

  She laughed, knowing she sounded a little nervous and not sure why. “Ah, yes, I should have known. You are here because you want to know if my father has returned, and he has not.”