Downtime by Tamara Allen Page A

down. “A spring ceremony, of course.”
     
    “Yes.” Ezra finished his coffee. From the look on his face, I think he might’ve been better off with a shot of whiskey. “You will attend, I hope.”
     
    “I adore weddings,” Sidney said. “Everyone is so much more attractive. And I must meet Charlotte. Is she ravishing?”
     
    Ezra’s gaze went beseechingly to Jem, who burst into a hearty laugh. “Don’t worry, my dear fellow. I will keep Sidney on a short tether. I’ve chloroform in case he gets out of hand.”
     
    Sidney leaned sideways toward Jem and asked in a husky voice, “Will you carry me out then, cradled in your arms?”
     
    “And encourage your vile behavior? I think not.”
     
    “Beast.” Sidney swung around toward me. “Shall I woo you away from Ezra, dear Morgan? I should like to see America with all its rough, boisterous manners.”
     
    “Sidney, for God’s sake.” Jem sat back in his seat, stretching long legs in front of him. “America would lock you away just as quick.”
     
    “Then America is just as heartless. What have we done to warrant it, I ask you?”
     
    The question appeared to be directed to me. I wasn’t ready to be Sid’s new best friend. “More sinned against than sinning, huh?”
     
    His eyes fairly glittered. “I certainly hope not, dear boy.”
     
    Jem’s lips twitched and Ezra slid a little farther down in the chair as Sid prattled on. “Do give Ezra the new Reflector, Jem. Ezra, have you had a chance to read his book?”
     
    “You’re a writer?” I asked. He must have been a minor one. I’d never heard of him.
     
    “Poet,” Sidney informed me with a pride I found kind of touching. “Genius. He shall go down through the ages with the likes of Shelley and Keats.”
     
    “Yeah?” I wasn’t a big fan of poetry but I didn’t remember the name Montague rubbing shoulders with Shelley or Keats.
     
    “Speaking of poets,” Sidney went on, “your darling landlord, Ezra. How is he?”
     
    It was my turn to nearly choke on the coffee. “Derry writes poetry?”
     
    “Positively wretched with emotions,” Sidney said, taking the last sandwich.
     
    “I rather like Derry’s poetry,” Ezra said.
     
    “It’s highly sentimental,” Jem said, smile touched with condescension. “Mostly wistful yearnings for the Ireland he left behind. Although I did like the one published in that little rag. What was it? ‘My Ailis’. Very heartfelt.”
     
    “Heartfelt,” Ezra said quietly, “by the most decent heart in Christendom.”
     
    Ready to defend Derry, I was glad to hear Ezra do it. Sidney fidgeted in his seat, nibbling on the sandwich. Jem gazed across at us without pretense. “Heartfelt, indeed. You must come to dinner Tuesday, Ezra. Now that you have been welcomed back into society’s good graces.”
     
    “Certainly before you come to regret it.” Sidney swallowed the rest of the sandwich and washed it down with several gulps of coffee. “We’d best run, Jem dear. The seats will be taken and we will have to sit in the damp grass.”
     
    “Bring Morgan along with you, if you like,” Jem said as if Sidney hadn’t spoken. He looked me over more openly, with a look I knew well. He was handsome, yeah, but I wasn’t too sure that I liked him. Piercing blue eyes and a strong jaw compensated for only so much. I gave him my noncommittal smile and shrug.
     
    “Thanks for the invite. I’ll probably be long gone by then. But, hey, if you’re ever in New York, feel free to look me up.”
     
    Sidney beamed. “What charming slang. I do wish you’d stay longer. I’d no idea Americans could be so interesting.”
     
    Jem Montague stood up, towering over the table, and extended a hand to me. “A genuine pleasure, sir.” He put on his hat and nodded farewell to Ezra. “Do send me an invitation, dear boy.”
     
    “Jem.” Ezra seemed oddly subdued. “ I’ll see you at the club.”
     
    “Don’t be too sure,” Sidney began, and broke