A Gentleman Says I Do

by Amelia Grey

  Iverson picked up the newsprint again and looked at Lord Truefitt’s column. His eyes immediately singled out the part he’d already read several times.

  Roses are red

  Violets are blue

  The Baltimore Rake is whispering

  And Miss Crisp is, too!

  Last evening at Lady Windham’s opulent home, Miss Crisp and Mr. Brentwood were once again seen huddled toe to toe and nose to nose in a dark corner. Hmm. Does anyone know what they were whispering about? If so, do tell, and it will all be printed here.

  —Lord Truefitt, Society’s Daily Column

  He wondered what Miss Crisp was thinking of their latest mention in the gossip sheet. No doubt she was annoyed about the attempt at poetry again. He smiled and threw the newsprint aside, grabbed his collar off the chair, and fastened it around the base of his throat. But as far as he was concerned, he was happy of the mention again. No doubt Sir Phillip would get wind of their supposed courtship sooner rather than later and hurry home to see what it was about.

  Iverson couldn’t remember how long it had been since the taste of a woman lingered on his tongue, enticing him to want to taste her again. He was going to ask her to go for a ride in the park with him this afternoon. Her aunt would approve, he was certain. He didn’t care that she thought she was too busy for such fanciful things. He wanted her to sit by him in a carriage and talk and laugh with him. And he didn’t give a damn what the gossips said about his courting her. Let them all write whatever they wanted.

  But would he be able to convince her to go? And perhaps the bigger test would be if he were able to convince her that what was between him and her father had nothing to do with the two of them.

  Iverson whistled as he picked up his neckcloth, wrapped it underneath his collar three times, and started fashioning a bow with the ends. He chuckled out loud and glanced at the clock on his dressing chest. It was late enough in the day that he could pay Miss Crisp a visit. He wanted to see her green eyes flashing pretend outrage at him when he arrived at her door again. He had as much as told her he’d be back to see if her father returned. He was sure it wouldn’t surprise her to see him. She was probably expecting him, and he didn’t plan on disappointing her.

  The hell of it was, it didn’t even bother him anymore that she was Sir Phillip’s daughter. The poet was the one who wrote that rubbish about Iverson’s family, not his daughter. When the man came back to Town, Iverson would settle things with him. In the meantime, he intended to let Catalina Crisp know he wanted to court her and show the scandal sheets they finally printed something that was actually true.

  Iverson smiled. Had he just thought of her as “Catalina”? He said it aloud, and then said it again a couple more times. He liked the way the name rolled off his tongue. Even her name was warm and sensuous. He chuckled to himself again as he buttoned his muted red waistcoat. Miss Crisp was much too cold sounding, but Catalina heated his blood.

  It shouldn’t take long for his cook to prepare a basket with some bread, cheese, and fig preserves. And since the days were still a little cool, he’d add a bottle of his favorite port, too.

  A few minutes later, Iverson whistled as his long, sure strides took him up the stone walkway to Catalina’s front door. He rapped the door knocker against the brass plate and waited, tempted to strike it a few more times. He held the urge at bay. A few moments later, the door opened.

  Mrs. Wardyworth greeted him with the usual surly expression on her flat, pinched face. For the life of him, he couldn’t understand why someone with such a disagreeable disposition was allowed to answer the door.

  “Good afternoon,” he said in as pleasant a voice as he could muster, considering Mrs. Wardyworth’s expression. He wasn’t going to let her ill temper put a damper on his expectation of taking Catalina for an afternoon ride.

  “He isn’t here,” she said.

  Iverson grunted a half laugh. Clearly Catalina was the only person who had the temperament to employ Mrs. Wardyworth. “Still cheerful as ever, I see,” he said. “But this time you’ll be happy to know I’m not here to see Sir Phillip. I’m here to see Miss Crisp.”

  “She isn’t here, either.”

  Having been down this route with her once before, Iverson knew exactly what to do. “Not a problem. I’ll wait for her return,” he said and brushed past Mrs. Wardyworth much in the same manner as he had several days ago when he first arrived at the door, looking for Sir Phillip. There was just no other way to get past the woman. Wherever she worked before this household, she must have been hired to intimidate the faint of heart.

  “Ye can’t come barging in here,” Mrs. Wardyworth admonished.

  “Of course I can. I just did.”

  He took off his hat and laid it on the table where Catalina had put his things the other day, and started unbuttoning his coat.

  “Ye can’t wait here, I tell ye. I don’t know when she’s coming back.”

  Iverson shrugged out of his coat. “Haven’t we had this conversation, Mrs. Wardyworth?”

  “What’s the matter with ye? Ye know we haven’t had a conversation before, sir. Ye just got here.”

  Iverson sucked in a slow, deep breath. The woman was exasperating.

  He shrugged out of his coat. “Where exactly did Miss Crisp go?”

  “I have no idea and wouldn’t tell ye if I did. She doesn’t check in with me about her social calendar before she leaves the house.”

  “That’s quite understandable. But you do expect her back by this evening, do you not?”

  “Not hardly,” the housekeeper informed him with a matter-of-fact tone. “She took her trunks with her.”

  A niggle of alarm pricked Iverson, and he swallowed hard. “You mean she left Town?”

  Mrs. Wardyworth jerked her hands to her hips. “I suppose she did. I don’t know of any other reasons ye’d pack for overnight travel, do ye?”

  No, there would be no other reason. And she had to be going to see her father.

  Iverson had to hand it to Catalina. She had him believing she didn’t know where Sir Phillip was. A tight-fisted knot formed in Iverson’s chest, slowing his breathing. She’d had him believing a lot of things recently.

  “Mrs. Wardyworth,” Iverson said in a much calmer manner than he was feeling, “I’m certain Miss Crisp didn’t leave without someone in this household knowing where she was going. I’m not leaving this house until I know where she went.”

  “What’s all the commotion?”

  Iverson looked up to see the gangly, big-eyed cook slowly walking toward them.

  Mrs. Wardyworth harrumphed. “This man wants me to tell him where missy went. Like I would even if I knew.”

  “I can tell him,” Nancy said, giving Iverson a wide, friendly smile.

  Iverson let out a sigh of relief.

  “Well, ye better not open yer mouth,” Mrs. Wardyworth exclaimed. “Not if ye want yer job. Ye know missy doesn’t want ye telling anyone her business. Ye best keep quiet about anything ye know.”

  Nancy stopped in front of them and leaned on her cane. Smile in place, she looked straight into Iverson’s eyes, though she spoke to Mrs. Wardyworth. “I don’t think missy would mind Mr. Brentwood knowing. By the dead saints, if you would read the newsprint, you would know he’s courting her. She’s probably hoping he’ll find out where she went, and he’ll follow her, too. Wouldn’t that be romantic?”

  Romance wasn’t exactly what Iverson had in mind when he found Catalina, but he’d keep that bit of information from the servants.

  Iverson gave Nancy a genuine smile. “Thank you, Nancy. I would very much like to know where she went and would appreciate your telling me.”

  “I overheard her tell Adam they were going to The Cooked Goose Inn in Brighton Hollow. I used to work there, and Sir Phillip often stayed there.”

  “I see. That’s good, Nancy. Do you know if she’s going to find her father or how long she plans to stay?”

  “Oh, just for the night, as far as I k
now. And she’s hoping to find her father. He’s been away a long time.”

  It was almost laughable. One moment he was thinking Catalina knew where her father was all along, and the next moment he was thinking maybe she was telling the truth when she said she didn’t know.

  Nancy continued. “She might find him there. Sir Phillip is like a carefree bird. He lands somewhere for a little while, and then he ups and flies away again. He can’t stay put in one place for long at a time.”

  “Tell me, when did Miss Crisp leave today?”

  “Not much past first light,” Mrs. Wardyworth injected for Nancy, apparently feeling left out of the conversation. “I heard missy say they should be there before dark.”

  “They will,” Nancy added. “It’s not that far away. None of us knew they were leaving until late yesterday. I stayed up most of the night, cooking and packing food for them so they wouldn’t have to buy any. Besides, no one can cook as good as I do.”

  “I’m sure you’re right about that,” Iverson said, but a different thought crossed his mind. Maybe Catalina needed Nancy to cook because she didn’t have enough money to adequately make the journey.

  Iverson picked up his hat and coat. “Thank you, Nancy. You’ve been most helpful.” He then looked at the sullen housekeeper, and for the life of him, he didn’t know why, but he added, “You’ve been helpful, too, Mrs. Wardyworth.”

  And then much to his surprise, the woman smiled at him and said, “Thank ye, Mr. Brentwood.”

  Iverson couldn’t help remembering one of the first things Catalina said to him was a few kind words could brighten a person’s day. But he didn’t need to be thinking about all the things that made Catalina special. His list of those things was already way too long. If what the servants said was true, Catalina had several hours of travel time on him. If he wanted to catch up with her, he needed to forgo his coach and valet and take a satchel and his horse. He could go much faster that way and be there shortly after nightfall. But to do that, he had no time to waste.

  And for once, maybe he could be the one to turn the tables on Catalina.

  But the first thing he had to do was find his brother and tell him he was leaving Town. Matson wouldn’t be happy, but it wouldn’t be the first time he’d done something to upset his brother—and now that Iverson had met Catalina, it looked like it wouldn’t be the last. Right now, following her was more important than finding warehouse space that wasn’t owned by Sir Randolph Gibson.

  Iverson didn’t fully understand his feelings for Catalina, and he supposed he didn’t have to. But he did have to find her and make sure she was all right. Later he would think about her father. He hadn’t lost his desire to put a death scare in Sir Phillip about the parody he’d written.

  Twelve

  What will not woman, gentle woman dare; when strong affection stirs her spirit up?

  —Robert Southey

  The journey to The Cooked Goose Inn took much longer than Catalina expected. She hadn’t traveled often in her lifetime, as there was never the need. She was fairly unfamiliar with the process. She remembered taking a long journey with her mother and father when she was about the age of seven or eight, but she hadn’t been past the outskirts of London in years.

  The biggest surprise of the day to her was how often they had to stop and rest the horses. Her aunt and her maid looked forward to the respites from the cramped compartment and would always take the opportunity to get out of the carriage, stretch their legs, and be slow about getting back inside. Aunt Elle was careful not to grumble where Catalina could hear her, but Catalina could tell the hours in the carriage were not to her aunt’s liking.

  Catalina’s father had taken their bigger traveling coach, so she and Auntie had to make do with the landau. The smaller, lightweight conveyance was not built for a long journey over often hazardous roads, but she didn’t have a choice. She didn’t have the money to hire a larger coach. Since Nancy had packed them enough food for at least two days of travel, Catalina hoped all she would have to pay for was one night’s lodging and her father’s expenses. After that was paid, there would be no more money until her father wrote another story or poem.

  All seemed to be going well until they left central London and connected with the main post road. The way became almost treacherous at times, as the carriage seemed to hit one hole after another. When they made their first rest stop, she had talked to Briggs and his young groom, Adam, about the possibility of going around the holes, but they both assured her they had to stay in the hardened ruts in order to keep the landau rolling safely along.

  And if it wasn’t enough to worry about the competence of the carriage, Aunt Elle’s elderly maid, Sylvia, grunted loudly every time they hit a bump. Catalina could have brought along her own maid but knew her aunt would be more comfortable and agreeable having Sylvia to tend to her. At one point when the road was particularly grueling, Catalina wondered if the carriage or her aunt’s maid would make it to the inn. Neither one seemed to be up to the trip.

  Sometime late in the afternoon, Aunt Elle had finally laid her head on her maid’s shoulder and gone to sleep. Thankfully, her maid went to sleep, too. And for once, Catalina was happy her aunt brought along her satchel of tonics. Heaven only knew what was in the little bottles of elixir Aunt Elle sipped during the afternoon, but Catalina suspected they were heavily laced with brandy. But for today, she was glad the mixture kept her aunt happy, and that made the traveling a little easier for everyone.

  Catalina was thankful for the peace and quiet, but quickly discovered she couldn’t read or work on her stitchery in the bumpy carriage, as it made her stomach feel queasy. She’d been forced to simply stare out the window at the passing scenery. When her mind was idle, she thought about Mr. Brentwood. She had tried to occupy her thoughts with other people, other things, but nothing worked. If she believed in such nonsense as curses, she’d think the man had put a spell on her.

  It was dusk by the time the carriage rolled to a stop in front of The Cooked Goose Inn. Catalina didn’t wait for Briggs or Adam to help her down. She shoved the door open the moment the landau stopped, held up the hem of her skirt, and jumped down, leaving the men to deal with her aunt and Sylvia. She had to know if her father was at the inn.

  Catalina hurried inside and found the innkeeper, Mr. Turner, only to discover a few minutes later her father had been there but had left two days ago. The innkeeper had no idea where he went or if he would be coming back. She whispered a silent prayer that he was on his way home. She thought about turning around and heading straight back to London without a minute’s rest but knew that wouldn’t be fair to Adam and Briggs. If her father was on his way home, he would still be there by the time she returned tomorrow evening. Hiding her disappointment, she put a smile on her face and secured a room for Aunt Elle, Sylvia, and herself, as well as accommodations for Briggs and Adam. She promised Mr. Turner she would pay for her father’s lodging when she settled with him in the morning.

  After chatting with the innkeeper about her father and Nancy, Catalina realized how weary she was from the day’s travel. She was looking forward to bed, until she went up to her room and realized how small a space she was to share with Aunt Elle and Sylvia. She grabbed her needlework and told her aunt she was going below stairs for a while to sit by the fire in the ladies’ parlor and give them time to have their dinner and ready themselves for bed.

  The inn wasn’t a large or spacious establishment but accommodating enough for the few patrons she’d seen. The taproom was located on one side of the vestibule and the dining room on the other. She heard a smattering of chatter coming from the taproom as she made it to the bottom of the stairs. She found Mr. Turner and asked if she could spend some time in the ladies’ parlor. He assured her it would be fine and showed her to the room. As was usual for inns, it was down the main corridor and at the back of the inn, away from any raucous or unsavory language that might be coming from the taproom. And unlike the taproom, which had a large opening
with no doors, the ladies’ parlor had a single entranceway with a door giving it privacy.

  The room was empty, but a small fire and a lamp were lit, making the atmosphere welcoming. Mr. Turner built up the fire and brought her in a steaming pot of tea.

  After closing herself inside, she pulled a high-backed rocker in front of the fire and made herself comfortable. She picked up her needlework and began her stitchery. She tried to stay focused on the intricate flower design but found her mind wandering from Mr. Brentwood to her father to wondering what they were going to do for money until her father could sell more of his work. She didn’t know how long she’d been embroidering when she heard the door open. Thinking it was the innkeeper coming in to stoke the fire or ask if she needed anything, she looked up, smiling. But it wasn’t Mr. Turner she saw, it was Iverson Brentwood.

  Her needle fell still in her hands. She was tired and weary from the exhausting coach ride and disappointed she had missed her father, but all the tension she’d felt since she’d started her journey ebbed at the sight of Mr. Brentwood. Catalina experienced the same feelings she’d had when she saw him outside The Daily Herald building a week ago. Joy swelled in her breast, and she had an overpowering urge to get up and run into his strong arms.

  Looking at him dressed so handsomely in his white shirt, fawn-colored riding breeches, and black, shiny, knee-high riding boots, she knew she wasn’t upset with him for following her. She was happy to see him and wanted to have a pleasant conversation with him.

  His gaze stayed locked on hers as he stepped into the room and clicked the door shut behind him.

  “Good evening, Miss Crisp,” he said with amusement lurking in his disarming eyes. “I trust you were expecting me.”

  She returned the smile. “No, actually I wasn’t, though I should have been. I was too busy patting myself on the back because I thought I had gotten away without you knowing I was gone.”

  He walked toward her with an easy, rolling stride that exuded self-confidence, and a little thrill of excitement raced through her.