A Gentleman Says I Do

by Amelia Grey

  It had been a couple of days since she talked to Mr. Frederick, and she worried about the wisdom of continuing to wait for her father to return. Somehow she had to keep The Daily Herald from printing the rest of her father’s story. Perhaps she should visit Mr. Frederick and plead her case again. She wanted to keep Mr. Brentwood from even knowing it had been written. She should never have finished it, but at the time, she had no idea how much trouble it would cause her or how it would make Mr. Brentwood feel to read it. This was her fault, and she must get the rest of the story back. Time for doing that was running out.

  She kept telling herself there was a reason her father had been gone close to two weeks now. No doubt he’d found a quiet place that inspired him to brilliance, and he couldn’t force himself to leave. Perhaps he was working on a long poem that would rival Lord Byron’s Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. But whatever the reason, if her father wouldn’t come home, it was time for her to go looking for him. She couldn’t wait any longer.

  Briggs brought the carriage to a stop in front of them.

  After Catalina had settled on the cushion opposite her aunt, she said, “Auntie, I’ve decided I must find Papa.”

  Aunt Elle laughed as the landau started rolling. “Where did this idea come from?”

  There was no way Catalina could tell her aunt why. And there was no use in beating herself up anymore for finishing A Tale of Three Gentlemen. At the time, she had no choice.

  “He needs to come home and help me,” Catalina whispered into the darkness of the cold carriage.

  “Nonsense, I can help you. What do you need?”

  “Oh, I wish you could. I’ve made such a mess of things.”

  “What things, dearest?” her aunt said, a slight slur beginning to affect some of her words. “I don’t understand what you are talking about, but if you’ll tell me what to do, I’ll do it.”

  Catalina could see Aunt Elle was ready for sleep. They hadn’t left the party a moment too soon. “I know you would, but this isn’t anything you can help with. I need Papa. He’s been gone so long now. I’m beginning to wonder if something might be wrong.”

  “And something might be right. He’ll be home when he’s ready. No one can hurry Phillip.”

  “Auntie”—Catalina paused and leaned toward her aunt—“I’m not sure I can wait any longer. I need his help now.”

  “But how can he help you when you don’t know where he is?”

  “Maybe we can find him if we put our heads together. Now, think. Has he ever mentioned to you where he goes when he takes his leave?”

  In the darkness of the carriage, Catalina could barely see her aunt’s brows scrunch together as if she were in deep thought. “No. I’m sure I would remember. I have never questioned Phillip about his plans when he travels.”

  “Neither have I, but I can see where I should have. That information would be most useful right now.”

  “But he probably doesn’t even go to the same place every time he goes away.”

  “That’s quite possible.” Catalina shook her head with worry. “I can’t continue to let time pass and not do anything to find him.”

  “Why are you so desperate to find Phillip? You’ve never wanted to find him before.”

  Catalina had an overwhelming urge to tell her aunt everything. She wanted to confide in her how she had finished the story for her father, about Mr. Brentwood’s anger over its publication and his threats against her father if more was written. She wanted to pour out her heart and tell how Mr. Brentwood made her feel when he looked at her, when he’d kissed her and made her feel the desires of a woman. She wanted to fling herself into her aunt’s arms, lay her head against her chest, and feel loved and protected.

  For once, Catalina wanted to be soothed with a hug, a brush of a kind hand, and to hear someone tell her there was no need to worry, everything was going to be all right. But just at her breaking point, when she felt herself moving toward her aunt for solace, Aunt Elle opened her drawstring reticule and pulled out her silver flask.

  Catalina swallowed hard. A shiver shook her. She forced the weak feeling away and settled back against the cushion. She would have to settle for the rocking of the carriage to ease her troubled mind.

  It was odd that just a few days ago Catalina sat in her own home and accused Mr. Brentwood of being desperate to find her father. The tables had turned, and now she was the one frantic for his return.

  Catalina sighed and rested her head against the cushion and let the rocking carriage and darkness envelope her.

  “Are you all right, dearest?”

  “Yes, of course, Auntie,” she fibbed.

  Aunt Elle moved to the seat beside her and took hold of Catalina’s gloved hand, but the time for her to bring comfort had passed.

  “I know you feel you need your papa, but you can’t go flying off like an injured bird, looking for him.”

  A rueful chuckle escaped past Catalina’s lips. Aunt Elle was more intuitive than Catalina thought. She had indeed felt like a wounded bird for a moment or two.

  “Now, there’s no need for you to fret because Phillip has been gone longer than usual. I’m sure he’s on his way back home. He might even be there by the time we return.”

  Catalina smiled. “I do like your optimism, Auntie.”

  “Dearest, you are your father’s rock, and you are a guardian angel to me and all the servants, too. If not for you and your skills in taking care of everything, who knows where any of us would be—probably in the poorhouse and your father in debtors’ prison.”

  “Auntie!” Catalina raised her head and exclaimed.

  “Well, it’s true. Thankfully, you took after your mother’s side of the family and not after me or your ‘eyes to the sky’ father.”

  Catalina laughed again. “That’s ‘head in the clouds,’ Auntie.”

  “Well, whatever it is, you can’t be as blithe as he is and go chasing after him. Give him another day or two. He’ll be back. I’m sure of it. And in the meantime, you’ll take care of us just like you always have.”

  Catalina lightly squeezed her aunt’s fingers. “Yes, Auntie, I will take care of everyone. That is why I must find Papa.”

  “But how?”

  “First, I’ll search Papa’s desk in his book room and look for correspondence where someone might have invited him to come for a visit, or possibly a note or journal where he wrote the name of an inn or an estate where he planned to stay.”

  “That does sounds like a reasonable way to begin your search,” Aunt Elle said. “But what if he doesn’t want to be found?”

  “I must do it anyway.”

  “All right, dearest, if your mind is made up and I can’t talk you out of it. Do what you must.”

  “Thank you, Auntie. If I don’t find where he is staying written down, I will question Mrs. Wardyworth, Nancy, and all the other servants if need be. Perhaps they know where Papa likes to spend his time. I already know Papa saw Briggs walking along the road from Bath to London. Maybe I can establish that there is one particular house or an inn where he stays most often along that route. I can go there looking for him.”

  “Since I can’t talk you out of it, tell me what I can do to help.”

  “Your part will come when you have to go with me to find him.”

  “Of course, you know I will. You don’t think I’d let you travel anywhere without me, do you? When I traveled with Mr. Gottfried, he always said, ‘Eloisa, don’t tell me no. Pack your trunks, and let’s go. We’ll make an adventure out of it.’ And you know what, dearest, we always did.”

  “You and I shall do the same,” Catalina said, feeling heartened.

  “Of course we will. I’ll look forward to it.”

  “Thank you, Aunt Elle.”

  Catalina turned away from her aunt to look at the lighted lamp on the carriage outside the small door window. It was easy for her aunt to say just wait for him to return. Her aunt didn’t know how Catalina was feeling.

  Mr. Frederick
could give the okay to start printing the copies any day now. Her best guess was she had at most a week or two, but maybe only four, maybe five days for her father to return in time to stop The Daily Herald from causing him a basketful of trouble from dangerous Mr. Brentwood.

  ***

  It was much later that night when Iverson found himself sitting in White’s gaming room with the best damn hand of cards he’d had in weeks, and he was trying hard to keep his mind on the game and off the temptingly delectable Miss Crisp. It was proving difficult. The reason was he felt differently about Miss Crisp than he had any other woman. He felt differently when he had kissed her, and she made him feel special when she looked at him.

  That troubled him.

  He’d talked and danced with several young ladies, trying to forget about the ever-charming and indomitable Miss Crisp after she left Lady Windham’s party. He might as well have saved the breath it took him to dance. Not one young lady came close to intriguing him as much as Miss Crisp.

  Miss Babs Whitehouse was lively and voluptuous. He had no doubt her kisses would be saucy, but he had no desire to taste her lips after she told him she enjoyed the quite clever story that had been written about him and his brother in The Daily Herald. Miss Helen Matthews had the countenance of an angel, but the thought of being wrapped in her arms left him cold after she had asked him if it were true that twins could feel each other’s pain. And the young and immensely wealthy widow, Mrs. Ronald Anderson, had him almost running for the doorway when she eagerly asked him to call on her tomorrow afternoon at precisely three o’clock. There was something about the look in her eyes that told him if he accepted her invitation, he’d find himself leg-shackled before he left.

  It was Iverson’s turn, so he played his hand. He didn’t blink an eye or move a muscle when a few minutes later, he was dealt the card he needed to win the game, though inside he was feeling good. He casually let himself glance at the huge pile of money in the center of the table. The win would be sweet.

  Movement in the doorway of the card room caught Iverson’s attention. He looked up to see Matson leaning against the door frame. Iverson knew immediately something was wrong. Matson’s foul expression said, “I need to see you now.”

  But Iverson wasn’t walking away from this hand. Matson’s problem could wait. Iverson looked back at his cards and then one by one, his gaze drifted over the four men seated at the table with him. What he was holding could beat them all.

  A cough came from the doorway. Iverson looked at his brother again. A wrinkle of concern marred Matson’s forehead, and tightness showed around his mouth. He jerked his head to the right, indicating for Iverson to follow him immediately.

  Not this time, Brother, Iverson thought. Matson was just going to have to wait. One of the men at the table folded, and the one beside him upped the bet generously. Iverson remained calm, matched and raised the bet again. Another man folded and then another matched the bet and called for a show of hands. Iverson looked up at Matson and smiled before laying down his winning hand.

  After congratulations from the other players, Iverson walked up to Matson and said, “Sorry, Brother, but I couldn’t walk away and leave more than a hundred pounds on the table.”

  Matson clapped him on the back. “I wouldn’t want you to. Come on. We can’t discuss what I have to say in the corridor. Let’s get a drink. After that win, you’re buying.”

  Iverson followed Matson into the taproom. He glanced at the large clock on the wall and knew why the place was almost empty. It was near daybreak. They passed a server, and Matson held up two fingers and said, “Ale.”

  They walked over to an empty table in the corner of the room and sat down. “There is no one close enough to overhear us, so tell me what is so important.”

  Matson crossed his arms, laid them on the table, and leaned toward Iverson. “Sir Randolph Gibson owns the company we’re leasing our warehouse space from.”

  Iverson’s demeanor remained as stoic as it had been in the card game. “How do you know?”

  “Lord Waldo told me.”

  The hair on the back of Iverson’s neck rose. “And how does that fop know this?”

  “How he knows I have no idea. He was deep into his cups, but I believe he knew what he was talking about.”

  “What exactly did he say?”

  “That his brother, the Duke of Rockcliffe; Gabrielle’s father, the Duke of Windergreen; and Sir Randolph Gibson own or control most all of the land and buildings in the area. And he knows Sir Randolph owns the company we’re leasing from. He said he was quite surprised when he learned about who we were leasing from.”

  “I’ll bet he was,” Iverson growled. “Hell and damnation. I wonder how many other people know this.”

  “There’s no way of knowing, but I’m certain Sir Randolph knew we were the ones seeking the lease.”

  “How could he not?” Iverson added, trying his best to control his anger and outrage as well as Miss Crisp controlled hers. He didn’t know how she did it. It was damned hard.

  They both remained quiet while the server placed two tankards of ale in front of them and then left.

  “I don’t know about you, but I don’t have any desire to be connected to Sir Randolph in any way.”

  “Neither do I,” Iverson agreed.

  “Perhaps we should have moved back to Baltimore when Brent told us our mother had an affair with Sir Randolph and we were quite possibly the result.”

  “Quite possibly?” Iverson laughed ruefully. “Tell me, is that newly grown strip of fine beard because you no longer want to look like me?”

  Matson made a fist and let it lightly hit the table. “Damnation, Iverson, I still don’t want to believe it.”

  “Our mother admitted it to Brent. He wouldn’t lie to us about that. But whether or not you believe it makes no difference to me. Handle it however it suits you. But know this: as far as I’m concerned, Judson Brentwood was our father, and no amount of gossip or resemblance to another man will change that. He will always be our only father. And remember this, too: Brentwoods don’t run from anything.”

  Matson picked up the tankard and took a long drink before saying, “I know, but sometimes…”

  “Sometimes what?” Iverson asked.

  “Damnation, Iverson, sometimes the gossip and the looks get difficult to take. I think it would have been easier if we’d stayed in America and never come back to London.”

  Knowing he would never have met Miss Crisp if they had never come to London, Iverson said to his brother, “Easier, yes. But since when have we had it easy, Brother?”

  Matson let out a breathy chuckle. “Not since our viscount father shipped us off to Baltimore and forced us to develop a business.”

  “And this isn’t easy, either, but we’ll handle it.”

  “Remember when we used to think Papa sent us away so we wouldn’t be jealous of Brent’s title—as if we would?”

  “I’m sure there are some brothers who are, but I could care less about a damned title. It doesn’t make a man a man. Papa gave us a job to do—build a company—and we worked damned hard every day to do it. And we did. That’s all that mattered then, and that’s all that matters now.”

  “And I don’t intend to be beholden to Sir Randolph for anything, including warehouse space.”

  “I don’t either,” Iverson agreed. “Now that Brent is married to the Duke of Windergreen’s daughter, the man should have no problem leasing some of his vacant space to us. We’ll go see him.”

  “That’s what I was thinking. Our ships are bound to be here soon. We need to get this settled before they arrive.”

  “Agreed. We’ll go see Lady Gabrielle’s father tomorrow afternoon.”

  Iverson picked up his tankard and took a sip. Also, he would think of a reason to visit Miss Crisp. But he wouldn’t share that bit of information with his brother.

  “Tell me,” Matson said, “what do you suppose Sir Randolph thinks about the story Sir Phillip wrote?�
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  “He doesn’t like it any better than we do.”

  Matson grunted a half laugh. “You really think that?”

  “I know it. He was coming to see Sir Phillip as I was leaving Miss Crisp today, and we had a chat.”

  “A chat?” Matson’s brows rose. “That’s quite interesting. Perhaps he simply wanted to congratulate Sir Phillip on the story.”

  “I doubt that, Matson.”

  “I don’t,” he said grumpily. “We know nothing about the man. What did he have to say?”

  “He’s not much of a talker, but it was clear he wasn’t happy about the story. He was there to take Sir Phillip to task over it, as well. He asked me to let him know if I found out where Sir Phillip is, and I agreed. He said he’d do the same if he discovered his whereabouts.”

  Matson cocked his head to the side. “And you believed him?”

  “At this point, I have no reason to doubt him.”

  “The story certainly doesn’t make him look as bad as it does our mother,” Matson said with an edge to his voice.

  “No, but remember he’s here to endure the blasted gossip, as are we, and we can only thank God our mother isn’t.”

  “True, but I can’t say I feel at all sorry for the man.”

  “Neither do I, but I recall Brent telling us, when he had talked to Sir Randolph after we first came to London, he seemed very protective of our mother, and that’s the way he appeared today.”

  Matson grunted again.

  “As long as he stays away from us, as he has in the past few months, I have no quarrel with the man.”

  Matson took a long drink from his tankard. “Well, I do. He had an affair with our mother, and as you said, he’s obviously our father. That bothers me.”

  Iverson pushed his tankard away. “It’s best we don’t think about that.”

  “You and Brent can be civil to Sir Randolph if you want, but I don’t intend to.”