The Rake's Handbook (17 page)

Drexel shouted twenty-one and quickly collected the pot. “Deal again, my good man.” He turned to Ross. “Whip said the very thing to me once too. Promised he would handle it, and you know how that episode ended—badly. I almost had to marry that Lydia chit.”

Parker stopped shuffling the cards. “
Almost
—that is the important word to remember here—
almost
.” He resumed shuffling and then dealt the cards. “Despite the little hiccup of the dueling pistol, my scheme would have worked like grease through a duck. Moreover, in the end, my brilliance got that Long Meg married off, yes, yes. Two, do you want to stick or twist?”

Ross asked for a card, and the game resumed in silence.

Parker was evidently scheming, as several exclamations of, “No that won't work,” escaped his lips.

In the middle of the round, Lady Helen entered the room.

The men immediately rose to their feet. Drexel appeared off balance and needed to hold onto the table to stop from falling to the floor.

Lady Helen excused herself for interrupting their play and left the room.

Ross turned to Drexel. “Why can't you stand? Just what are you up to?”

“He is cheating!” Parker shouted.

“On the contrary. Guaranteeing a win, that's all,” Drexel said.

Parker fell onto his knees and crawled under the table. “No, no, he is using his feet. Oh, he is not doing it now, but that is why he fell over.”

“What?” Ross bent to examine Parker under the table.

Parker grabbed the toe of Drexel's shoe, and Drexel tried to shake him off. “It is all the crack,” Parker said. “A fellow points his toes at the various o'clock positions to count cards.”

Drexel managed to free his shoe. “How can you count aces with your feet, now really?”

Parker said, “The trick is to count the aces by placing your right foot on the floor in a different position each time an ace is played. That way you know the probability of an ace remaining in the deck, and your opponent's chance at hitting twenty-one. For the first ace, he probably placed his toes in the nine o'clock position, the second ace at the twelve o'clock position, the…” Parker stared at Drexel's shoe. “No, that won't work. A fellow's ankles could never do the fourth ace—the six o'clock position—unless they're broken. I know, he moved his foot as far left as possible and moved them slightly thereafter. That would do the trick.”

Mr. Allardyce entered the room.

Parker attempted to stand, resulting in a loud bang from under the table as he hit his head.

Ross greeted Mr. Allardyce and invited him to join the game. Mr. Allardyce refused and indicated his family was now ready to leave. He then bade farewell to Parker and Drexel. Ross promised to join him in the drawing room in five minutes to express his gratitude to the family.

Mr. Allardyce nodded stiffly and left the library.

Ross needed to say his good-byes in the drawing room. He had no intention of going outside to bid them farewell. Allardyce had not been reasonable, as he had expected. Charybdis was the price of calling off his engagement without a breach of contract suit, and he couldn't bear to see his filly go.

Parker waved his hand. “Marry this chit, marry that chit, too many ladies to marry, if you ask me.” His eyes bulged, and he slapped his thigh. “That's it! Of course, why did I not think of this simple solution earlier? The Smedley girls.”

Drexel tapped his fingers on his cards. “Not those hoydens.”

Parker ignored him and turned to Ross. “You've heard me speak of them. They're my cousins, wild about theatrics and all that nonsense. They will help us, I am sure. Yes, yes, a bit of playacting is just the ticket.”

“It
is
Bedlam for you.” Ross glared at him. “I refuse.”

By mid-morning Elinor felt a little more optimistic than the previous day, when she had refused Mr. Thornbury's offer of marriage. Putting on her leghorn bonnet with the sky-blue ribbons, she planned to return a novel she had borrowed from a friend, Mrs. Long. Setting out toward the village, she hummed a favorite Scottish song. The day was a chilly one, but the sun shone, and that made all the difference. She passed familiar cottages on the way into town, her arms swinging in rhythm with her favorite tune.

Ahead, one of her friends, Mrs. Applewaite, and her towheaded child dallied in the front garden with identical watering cans. Mrs. Applewaite poured water upon a tall white foxglove, and the toddling child mimicked her mother's action. As Elinor prepared to shout a greeting over the fence, Mrs. Applewaite noticed her presence and hurriedly waved the child into the house. The door shut with a bang, and the clang of the thrown bolt echoed across the yard.

Elinor froze, insensible to every sound or movement around her. She couldn't breathe or step forward. The lace curtains moved, but she could not turn to look fully at them. Her heart stilled on the spot, and the fortitude to continue her journey melted in the chilly wind. She shut her eyes to stop her tears, as her world spun before her. Then she ran home to Pinnacles. Mrs. Long's novel dropped somewhere along the road.

An hour later, she sat at her vanity and examined the effects of washing her face with cold water. The swelling around her eyes had lessened, but her nose remained red.

She closed her eyes. If only William could make her laugh now.

Once no physical sign of her morning's misadventure lingered, she headed to Berdy's room to inquire about the progress of his latest wardrobe inventory. Evidently, his upcoming journey to London required numerous inventories to avoid any fatal wardrobe mistakes. She entered his bedroom and discovered every horizontal surface covered in apparel. Numerous hats lined the top of the bed, while not a single inch of the counterpane's embroidered roses were visible under the sea of shirts.

Berdy stood by the washstand piled high with a dome of white neckcloths. He held out a cravat. “Too soiled? Brummell would not be pleased. What do you think?”

“I think you have too many neckcloths,” she said, pulling on the end of the yellowed cravat.

Berdy's grip remained firm on the other end. “I do not own too many cravats for m' stay in London. Why, Brummell—”

With the soft scratch on the door and entry of the housemaid, Berdy became distracted enough that she gave a swift tug, and the cravat was hers. The housemaid informed her Dr. Potts had called, and waited for her in the drawing room. She tied the long white cravat around her waist and headed down to the drawing room.

Dr. Potts stood with his back to the fire, his hands joined behind him. Despite the lack of his natural smile, he greeted her with warm compliments. Once he caught sight of the cravat around her waist, he grimaced.

She welcomed him and moved to open the damask curtains covering the mullioned windows overlooking the garden.

“I am surprised to see you today,” she said. “Will you examine Berdy's foot again?” She sat on one of the large wing chairs, and motioned for him to take a seat. “His limp is only slight, but I am concerned about his upcoming stay in London. He will want to walk much more than he does now. Do you think this will compromise the healing process?”

“Examine?” Dr. Potts shook his head. “Forgive me. I don't think I understood your question. It is early, and yesterday was a difficult day for me. I have not slept for days. To answer your question, no, I do not believe walking will interrupt the healing process. However, moderation is the key. I recommend you give Deane a strong warning not to overdo it. He should return to his lodgings the minute he feels any pain.” Dr. Potts leaped to his feet and started to pace before the fire.

She was at a loss to understand his obvious turmoil. Perhaps he needed to communicate some delicate information about the health of someone else?

His pacing escalated before he strode to her chair and knelt. “I want you to marry me.” He hesitated and appeared to compose his thoughts. “Forgive me. It has been a long time since I've proposed. Mrs. Colton—that sounds silly—Elinor, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?” He took her palm into his and did not seem to know what to do with it. So he absentmindedly passed it between his hands like a hot coal. “Please.”

Gratitude overwhelmed her; what a wonderful man. He asked her to marry him, not for love obviously, but to save her reputation. He must have heard about her difficulties before rushing over to lend his assistance.

“I am aware of your current situation, and my offer of marriage will protect you from scandal. I promise you will find me a caring, attentive husband. If you agree, we can immediately release Thornbury from his obligations. His time would be better spent dealing with his mother, make no mistake.”

Upon consideration, Dr. Potts would make a suitable spouse for any woman. He lived nearby and had no need for her land or her wealth. Moreover, his motivation appeared to be genuine affection and concern about her welfare.

“We all know Thornbury's intentions toward women are never serious. Considering his reputation, how could they be? The man is as despicable as that handbook of his. I recently obtained a copy from our lending library, for your sake. The boards were cracked and several chapters missing. But I cannot tell you, since you are a lady, how abhorrent and repulsive the handbook is. It's a reflection of the author's shameful nature, without doubt.”

Elinor hid a grin. “Do you remember the titles of the missing chapters?”

He readily answered. “Oh, there are so many depraved titles, but ‘Method to Handle the Frolicsome' and ‘What to Do When There Are Two' were rather crudely torn from book. While ‘Larks and Sprees' and ‘Something's A-Miss,' all remained. So you see, I obtained a pretty good idea about the depraved book as a whole.”

She pursed her lips. “You have a good memory.”

His eyes widened. “I beg your pardon. My dislike of the man got the better of me. I did not mean to offend you.”

“No offense taken.”

“I'm sure such an abominable gentleman will be pleased to be freed of your engagement,” he said, taking her hand firmly between his. “I suppose that didn't sound right. I truly wish for you to marry me. In fact, I planned to ask for your hand in matrimony before this…situation with Thornbury happened. You must believe in my deep affection and regard. Agree to my offer, and I will inform him today about your change in plans. I assume you too have been invited to the entertainments at Blackwell next week. If so, we can announce our betrothal to our friends then.”

“The entertainments have been canceled.” Elinor patted the top of his long, bony fingers. “Thank you, but you misunderstand my current situation. I will not marry Mr. Thornbury—”

“Wonderful!” He jumped to his feet, hesitated, then watched her. “Truly? Just days ago he told me it was as good as settled. What changed his mind? Why, the man is a jilt. How could he call off, leaving you to fend off people's vicious accusations—the censure?” He knelt before her again. “We will marry. I expect us to marry.” He seemed to regret his strident tone. “Forgive me. I ask you again to accept my hand in marriage.”

“No, you mistake me. I was the one who called off, not Mr. Thornbury. It seems I'm the jilt.” She considered her remarkable situation. Within days she had received two offers of marriage. After Ross's proposal, she had spent several hours asking herself if marriage might be the correct action to take, after all. Wedlock need not be a reflection upon her love for William.

Now, after her cut from Mrs. Applewaite, likely the first of many incidents, if she accepted Dr. Potts, all would be set to rights. Her friends could freely associate with her without drawing disapproval upon themselves. Life would continue as before, only Berdy would have a stepfather. Granted, she didn't love the doctor, but he had never used that word either. “Affection” was the word he chose. As older adults, they could be honest with each other, and she truly did like him. She'd been lucky the first time and married for love, but women rarely got that opportunity. Now she would wed for a position in life—a common event for many women. Or rather the
restoration
of her position in life.

He appeared to expect an answer now, so she tried to ease his mind. “Thank you for your offer. But it is all such a shock you see—”

“Of course.” He rose and paced before the hearth again. “I cannot say that I am not disappointed. I had hoped for an immediate reply, but take a few days to consider my proposal. With a little thought, I believe you will understand my offer is the correct action to take. In time, I am confident our union will become a love match.”

She was at a loss for words. Why did all these gentlemen expect marriage to lead to affection or even love? She was fond of Dr. Potts, respected Henry, and was charmed by Ross, but these tender feelings were not love. Her manners must have been faulty, the only possible explanation. Because of her behavior, she anticipated losing three of her allies. Masculine anger or mortification over her refusal might taint their future friendship, leaving the years before her ones of grim isolation. Without the comfort and protection of her closest knights, she truly would live her life alone.

The doctor gathered his kid gloves and tall hat. “Please consider my offer. In a day or two I'll return, and we can discuss our future happiness.”

***

“Elliii.” Berdy's howl rent the early morning silence across Pinnacles.

Elinor paused halfway through her arrangement of a bouquet of roses in the entranceway and looked up to the origin of the rumpus. Today Berdy would leave for London and be separated from her for an unknown length of time, but that was no reason to lower her standards and let him continue to wail. “I wish you'd cease making a racket from upstairs while I'm downstairs.”

Clump. Thud. Clump. Thud. Clump. Thud. Berdy appeared at the top of the stairs wearing one top boot on his left foot, while the right boot swung from his outstretched hand. “I must find champagne—now—this instant. I've no time to lose.”

“Instant champagne? The last time we had champagne was celebrating the completion of Pinnacles. Why do you need spirits at this time of day? Too much claret last night?” Her question ended in a higher tone, a universal motherly enticement to confess.

“It's to polish m' boots. You
must
know fellows need champagne to polish their boots.” Berdy held the champagne-deprived boot out for sympathy.

“How silly. I know no such thing.” She glared at him with her arms crossed over her chest. “Love, champagne is alcohol and sugar. Boots are leather. Why would alcohol and sugar be good for leather? Seems to me champagne would only render them dry and sticky.”

He shook the free boot at her. “Sugar and…rubbish. Nothing to do with that mishmash. It is the effervescence—the life of the champagne. Bubbles. Froth! It brings a shine to your boot no blacking can achieve. Why, I can tell a boot polished by champagne, versus a boot polished without, at twenty paces.”

“I doubt you could do any such thing. You shouldn't believe everything you hear. Someone is pulling your boot. If you'd like, I'll ask Mrs. Richards for some blacking.”

“No, no, not enough time. Ross said he would arrive around six, then off to London. So I don't want to be late.” His torso gesticulated wildly as he hopped into the troublesome right boot.

Several minutes later, after he returned to his room, she heard another wail break the silence. This time it was more of an extended “nooo.” She recognized the cause of that sound—wrinkles in his cravat.

Ross arrived promptly, and Berdy bounded out to greet him, unable to get his salutations and gratitude out fast enough.

Ross smiled, patted Berdy on the back, and both men headed toward the carriage.

This
is
the
moment
she
feared
most.
The moment both Berdy and Ross left Cheshire. And she didn't know when, or if, either of them would return to stay. Panic seized her heart as she stood in the doorway, watching them stride away. Desperation welled up within her, and she yelled Berdy's name far too indecorously for a lady.

Berdy appeared rather sheepish before hobbling over, lifting her an inch or two off the ground, and swinging her around. “Don't be sad. I'll be back soon. I promise.” He kissed her cheek.

When her feet were returned to solid ground, she straightened his collar, even though it rarely needed straightening. “I know, love. If you are in any trouble, write to me immediately. Promise me, please.”

“Of course.” He peeked over his shoulder at the carriage. “I promise to write frequently, but you must be patient. I'll have so much to do in London, a considerable amount of time may pass before I can write.” After another quick kiss on her cheek, Berdy ran to the carriage, jumped in, and began to wave his arm out the window.

If she could have commanded speech, she would have told him to write anyway, no matter how busy he was, but she could not. Her throat closed, and tears swelled around her eyes. The carriage failed to leave. Yet Berdy continued to wave, and as long as she was able, she waved back too.

Finally, after Berdy's box had been properly stowed, Ross strolled into view from the other side of the carriage, bowed, and intoned a formal “madam.”

“Ross,” she said. The sound of his forename startled both of them into silence for a moment. “Thank you for inviting Berdy to accompany you into Town. I'm forever grateful for your attentions to him.”

With an abbreviated bow—and a possible “humph”—he strode forward until he was looking down upon her imperiously.