Seeking Philbert Woodbead ( A Madcap Regency Romance ) (The Fairweather Sisters) (13 page)

“Why?”

“Nithercott
did not find your Blob.”

“Woodbead,
not Blob.”

“Blob,” he
repeated firmly, “was not found. And while we are mulling over the meaning of
this artistic mess,” he waved a hand at the painting, “we should also examine
the poems. It may give us a clue as to his whereabouts.”

She nodded
and undid the string from the bundle.

He picked
up the first poem.

“This,” she
said blushing, “was the first poem I ever received from him.”

He cleared
his throat, “This sort of thing is personal. I will understand if you would
rather …”

She shook
her head, “I don’t mind. If not now, you would have read them at a later date.”
She noted his expression and clarified, “He was going to try to get them printed
in
The Monthly Magazine
.”

“I doubt,”
he said skimming the sheet, “that I would have ever read them. Poets and their
work only become known after they are dead, but this,” he poked the sheet,
“will never be printed. Not when he is dead, not after I am dead. Not even
after my great grandchildren are dead. Mark my words, my dear,
The Monthly
Magazine
or any other journal of repute will never print this. Ever.”

“Are you
going to continue insulting Philly because—”

“Is this
the letter which accompanied this poem?” he spoke over her.

She scowled
and nodded.

“My dearest
Celine,” he read, “I have finally managed to pen a love sonnet for you. It came
to me all of a sudden last night like a madman’s fit. Do not be alarmed, my
dear, poets often get these sorts of fits, and the result is always beautiful
words spewed onto crisp white sheets. It came to me, the fit I mean, right
after I dreamt of your lovely face bathed in the grey English light.”

He put the
letter down and eyed her in concern, “I am starting to see where you got the
idea that the hill he painted was a kidney.”

She
snatched the letter from his hand, “I thought we were reading the poems not the
letters. The letters are personal.”

He touched
the sheet with the poem with trembling hands. “I am afraid to read another one
of his works … but I shall be brave. I shall be your knight my distressed
damsel and read this,” he squinted at the title, this ‘Love Song Sonnet’.”

She rolled
her eyes.

He
proceeded to read the poem aloud,

Is that
a man? Is that a moon?

Or is
that a man on a balloon?

I know
you did not expect a love song to start thus,

But I am
just learning how to rhyme, hence here I add the words ‘yellow puss’.

I see
you scrunch up your face in displeasure,

Let me begin
anew, my dear, with a love song for your leisure.

Shall I
speak of your funeral complexion?

Or
perhaps your pink lips or the small brown hairs on your arms on closer
inspection?

I am
sorry, my love, the last line I wrote ran away with me,

Pardon
me, my dear, for I am just learning poetry.

Shall I
liken you to my favourite things?

Pies and
pigs and cooked birds with wings?

Or shall
I compare your willowy form,

To
flowers and trees and insects warm?

I saw
you smile, my love, and this time,

I truly
think I am getting better at creating a rhyme.

The moment
he finished reading it, George Irvin, known in polite society as Lord Elmer and
in impolite society as Lord Wicked, turned a deathly grey.

When he had
recovered somewhat, he stroked his brow with trembling fingers and said, “I
don’t know what to say.”

Celine
fidgeted in her seat, “I know he said it is a love sonnet and a love sonnet
contains fourteen lines, while this has sixteen, but—”

“That is
not all that is wrong with it, my dear.”

“But,” she
continued loudly, “I am certain that between the lines, the poem means
something.”

“What does
it mean?”

”The
meaning is well hidden. Alas, I am not creative enough to untangle it.”

He watched
her trace the untidy black scrawl with the looped l’s and the swirly p’s. After
a moment he said, “The words are engrained in your soul, the meaning remains
elusive.”

“You
understand.” she said brightening.

“I
understand that you are an idiot,” he said flatly. “Here,” he took some poems
and handed them to her, “go and sit in that corner and note down your
observations. I will do the same here with this lot.”

“You cannot
order me about like this.”

“I have to
not only read these poems but also try and understand them. I am willing to
undergo this torture to help you. Surely my surly mood can be excused?”

She meekly
went and did as he had bid.

After an
hour George threw the pencil down. “Right, what have you got?”

Celine
cleared her throat. “He is kind and loves animals. You can see the references to
various animals in the poems titled ‘Hamsters in love’, ‘Oh oyster open thy
shell and do not be shy’, ‘The sad tale of the chicken who was eaten by the
king.’”

“Go on,”
George said looking pained.

“He
appreciates honesty. Hence, the poem titled ‘Tell me the truth’.”

George
covered his face with his hands and moaned. “Celine, we have to look for clues
on how to find him and not analyse his unstable nature through his poems.”

“Well, what
did you write?” she asked crossing her arms.

He silently
handed over the sheet.

Celine read
aloud, “Fellow might be at the zoo, seems to have taken a fancy to porcupines.
Seems to like his drink for no sober man would write a poem titled, ‘The
redhead who kissed me’ and send it to his lover who clearly has a mop of lovely
brown hair. Nor would a sober man write ‘The depressed cat who forgot how to
meow.”

George
remained silent waiting to hear her thoughts.

“He was
learning how to write,” she finally grumbled.

“And he
could not change the redhead to brown haired? The fellow is also insensitive.”

“I thought
we were not analysing his character?”

He rolled
his eyes, “Fine, let us move on. Here is a poem titled ‘A penny for your
thoughts’. This one ‘I wager you ten whole pounds my horse shall win’, and this
‘I wager thee now’. They all point to the fact that Waterbeetle is a gambler.
He can be found at a gaming house.”

“Not
Waterbeetle, Woodbeetle … I mean Woodbead,” Celine corrected. “Now what?”

“Very
simple, I will put the word out and search the main gaming houses in the city
and the gentlemen clubs. Someone must have heard of him or his family. And you
and I will have to come up with an excuse to meet more often during the day.
Perhaps go for walks together and on that pretext explore London inns. Most
likely he will be at the poet’s corner or some such place.”

“I cannot
go travelling around London. I have to take care of Penny. Besides, it is not
seemly. I will be ruined.”

“Shall we
agree from now on to not mention the words seemly and ruined? I understand that
you are a lady, but you are also a lady supposedly in love. You will have to
think of an excuse if you want to continue this undying love story. We will
have to sneak out—”

“I cannot.”

“Don’t you
love the fellow? Won’t you do it for love? I know Amy wouldn’t, but surely Celine
would.”

She glared
at him. This was happening too fast. She had wanted to find Philly but not like
this, whatever this was. It seemed worse than what she had been planning.

She frowned.
But wasn’t this what she had been planning, albeit at a slower pace. Her hands
went to her head and she moaned.

“Is that a
yes?” Lord Elmer asked impatiently.

She looked
up, her eyes dark and wide, “I don’t know ….”

“Then it is
decided. You will meet me tomorrow afternoon at four. We will go explore an inn
or two. Good night.” He left her still scrambling to collect her thoughts. By
the time denial came to her lips he was no longer in the room.

“Are you
awake?”

Celine’s
eyes snapped open.

A man was
in her room hovering over her head.

She opened
her mouth to scream, but a hand clamped down on her mouth.

“It’s me
George. Don’t scream,” he whispered.

“Lord
Elmer? What in the world are you doing here?” Celine spluttered, yanking up the
quilt to cover her nightdress.

“Your
nightdress covers more than your evening dress. Besides, you have nothing to
fear from me. You love Gilbert.”

“Philbert.”

“Yes, him.
And I love Rosy, Daisy, Mary, Liz—”

“Why are
you here?”

He moved
towards the desk and started rummaging around. “I am here for the painting.
Unlike you I don’t have the splotches engrained in my mind. I need to look at
it.”

“Don’t you
ever sleep?”

“I sleep as
little as possible. Sleeping is a waste of time. Too many things to do.”

“Is that the
clock? It is past two in the morning. You cannot come into my room like this.
It is not done and—”

“Right, I
found it. I am leaving now. Sorry for offending your modesty.” He paused near
the entrance, “Tomorrow at four, we will go on our first investigation. Be
ready with an excuse for the duchess.”

And with
that he was gone.

Celine sat
staring into the sudden darkness, blinking in confusion. Was she dreaming? Had
Lord Elmer really come to her room? No, that was impossible. Closing her eyes
she fell asleep.

Next
morning she woke up to find the painting gone. It had not been a dream. Lord
Elmer was an amoral villainous creature, a scoundrel and a blackguard … and she
was off on her very first adventure that evening at four.

Secretly
she was thrilled.

***

Lord Elmer
had been gone since the sun rose that morning. It was half past three in the
afternoon and he still wasn’t back. Celine eyed the door for what felt like the
tenth time. He hadn’t even had the courtesy to leave a note for her. Even his
valet Nithercott was missing.

“Are you
falling in love with him?” Penelope asked dreamily.

“Eh?”
Celine’s head whipped around.

“Your eyes
are trained to the door. I can only guess that you are anticipating Lord
Elmer’s arrival. Tell me, how is your romance progressing?”

“I … It is
nothing of the sort. I mean, I thought he was handsome, but now I think he is
too fickle. He would never settle for a girl like me.”

Penelope’s
eyes brightened. She balanced a tea cup on her protruding belly. “I think I can
help you. Make him fall in love with you.”

“Didn’t you
try your hand at matchmaking with the duke’s sister? I heard it was an utter
disaster.”

“Precisely.
I made so many mistakes that it is not possible that I haven’t learnt from them
and become an expert. I also know more about marriages.” She waggled her
eyebrows, “Do you want to know how babies are made?”

Celine
turned hot. After a moment, she said, “I know the details.”

“You found
the book in father’s library?”

“You too?”

Penelope
nodded looking disappointed. “I suppose Dorothy is too young to know the
details. Would you like to hear them again? Refresh your memory perhaps?”

“No, thank
you, Penny,” Celine said hurriedly.

“I have
forgotten what I was talking about,” Penelope said frowning.

Celine did not
help remind her. The last thing she wanted was her nosy sister playing
matchmaker.

“Ah, how to
make Lord Elmer fall in love with you.”

“Penny,”
Celine said firmly, “It will happen if it is meant to happen. I don’t want to
worry you in your condition.”

“But I want
to repay you somehow,” Penelope sniffed. “You have come all the way from
Finnshire to help me and see to my needs. You forget not so long ago I too had
come to Blackthorne as a young untutored country bumpkin. You are better
prepared than I was, but surely goober, goober.”

“What did
you say?” Celine asked, shoving a finger in her ear and wriggling it around.

“Goober,
goober,” Penelope sobbed. The combination of tears, running nose and a mouth
full of cake had turned her words unintelligible.

Celine
leaped off her seat and ran to her, “Penny, don’t cry. I am alright. The
housekeeper is excellent and so many servants means hardly any work for me. All
I do is order them about, and I am learning as I go along. It will help me when
I marry and have my own home to run.”