The Rake's Handbook (7 page)

Damn dream. Damn dimple. Damn kiss.

Once outside the stables, he caught the rancid smell of fresh horse dung.

What exactly did Browne mean when he said, “providing for her needs,” or her “dependence upon him as a husband”? If Mrs. Colton possessed a considerable jointure, as his mother had suggested, what were her needs? The only needs that came to his mind were improper ones.

He felt his foot slide and looked down to discover he had stepped into a pile of fresh horse manure.
Hell's fire.
Lifting his shiny black boot free, he cringed at the revolting, sucking sound. He chuckled in acknowledgment of his well-deserved retribution for mentally sullying Mrs. Colton's honor. No doubt his mind was mired in the proverbial muck.

Still, Browne's assertion of providing for her needs puzzled him. Surely Browne—Mr. Proper Gentleman himself—was not suggesting immoral behavior? However, Ross acknowledged he knew very little about her. Perhaps she emulated some of London's widows and enjoyed discreetly luring the local gentlemen with her feminine arts and displays of swelling flesh—it seemed plausible. So for his mother's future happiness, he planned to watch Mrs. Colton carefully. If she betrayed any manners that strayed from those expected of a respectable minister's widow, then he might behave in the same manner and get his lease signed using a proven method. A few words alone, straight from his handbook, all delivered with a touch of charm, should be just the ticket to…
persuade
her.

Thank heavens
. When Elinor arrived at Blackwell four days after the accident, she found Berdy alone, the casement windows open, both curtains blown outside, and his bedcovers in a muddled heap on the floor.

“Elli. I'm glad you have come. There is so much to tell you,” Berdy chirped, twirling his cravat in the air.

Even yesterday, while watching him sleep, she had wondered if morbid matter might be spreading without her knowledge. Today he appeared almost normal, with the exception of a few bruises and a cut on his nose. “Good morning, love.” Rushing to his bedside, she kissed him on the cheek. “How's your foot today?” She covered him with the counterpane and tucked it under every inch of his side.

His brows puckered. “Very poorly, m' leg hurts something awful from m' foot to m' knee. But Ross was here earlier to cheer me up, and we had a serious discussion about life, you know—man to man.”

“Man to man?” Since one man was a reputed rake, the other an innocent lad, she suspected, for her own peace of mind, she better not pursue the subject. “You'll be happy to hear Dr. Potts will be here soon, so he can give us a date for removing you home.”

“Gad, no hurry there. Ross is very supportive. He's such a complete hand. I like the fellow. He's not at all what I expected. You know, an old museum piece.” Berdy leaned over to whisper into her ear. “He wears a banyan with an open shirt around the house in the morning, so I suspect he's rather wicked.”

She patted Berdy's hand and sat next to his bed. “Yes, wicked.”
Heavens.
She couldn't help but imagine Mr. Thornbury in an open shirt. She was not going to think about him in an open shirt or wonder if he, like William, had that seductive little hollow in the throat.
No, she was not going to look at his throat the very minute he walked into the room.
“Considering the number of stories I've heard, he certainly is talked about by other gentlemen. Still, I want you home, under my care.”

“That Ross is a great gun. Knows everything a gentleman should know, from finance to gears. Someday maybe I'll be just like him.” Berdy tapped his forefinger on his cheek, apparently lost in thought. “Maybe I should become a rake? It certainly does impress other men.”

“No!” Elinor jumped out of her small cane chair, knocking it over. “They're shunned by Polite Society. Please, anything but a rake.” She righted the chair, sat, and smoothed out the wrinkles on her apricot-colored skirt.

He continued in a reflective tone. “I plan to meet with Father when we are in London, and I'll ask his opinion on the subject. Maybe I can be half a rake, or at least one not shunned by society. You know, a rake people only whisper about, like Ross. He is the greatest of fellows. I wish you would let him build his foundry. I mean, what's a little soot? A house is just a house. He's a neighbor, and William always said to help your neighbor, right?”

Clearly Berdy considered Mr. Thornbury a friend, so she didn't want to disappoint him by forbidding the association. Instead, she decided to carefully observe their host's behavior, before she considered him a suitable companion for her nephew. “Yes, helping your neighbor is important, but—”

After a swift knock upon the door, Dr. Potts entered the sickroom. “Good morning, Mrs. Colton, Deane. How is the patient today? Much better than yesterday, obviously.” He strolled to the bedside to evaluate Berdy's temperature and pulse.

“I'm glad you're here,” she said. “Berdy claims he wants to become a rake. Please warn him in private later about the personal…what it means to be a rake and why it is unsuitable.” She glanced at Berdy. “Man to man.”

Ignoring the immediacy in her tone, Dr. Potts completed his examination, replaced the white linen bandage, then pulled up a chair. “A rake? Why not? He will have to move to London then, since the City is the best place for a young man to make a name for himself.”

She knew the doctor objected to rakes and libertines; then why didn't he condemn it outright? “Sir, you cannot honestly advise Berdy to become a rake.”

The doctor flushed. “No, Polite Society cannot tolerate such behavior, but don't worry, Deane is not serious. He dresses like a dandy, not a rake. Take that monstrous cravat he invented, for example.”

Berdy instantly sat upward, a wince crossing his features. “It's not monstrous. Rakes must have stunning cravats to impress the ladies. I'll ask Ross. You'll see.”

Dr. Potts ignored Berdy's indignation and addressed her. “I understand Thornbury is intent upon building his foundry. As a medical man, I plan to confront him about the public health hazards.”

She feared her host might be offended over any unpleasantness about his foundry's plans. Then send Berdy home prematurely, his wound not yet properly healed. “Not today, please,” she said. “We can all discuss this foundry at a later date. Mr. Thornbury has gone to a lot of trouble to see to Berdy's care after the accident. I don't want to seem ungrateful for his rescue.”

“Ungrateful?” The doctor scowled. “I suppose that
gesture
he made was mere gratitude then, or should I call the man out today?”

“I heard of a similar incident in regard to you and the widow Taft.” She paused, shocked by her accusation. “I apologize. We can never understand another person's motive for their behavior, can we?”

“My dear Mrs. Colton,” Dr. Potts said, still wearing the scowl. “Mrs. Taft is a relative, nothing more. Now let me handle Thornbury today. I've your best interests at heart. I am also pleased that you have given me the honor of being one of your confidantes. I go so far in saying that in the future I cherish—”

A knock on the door stopped Dr. Potts from completing his sentence.

“Please, not now,” she whispered. The doctor and his daughter regularly dined at Pinnacles, and for the last six months he had dropped several random hints of a possible marriage between them. Perhaps he thought her loyalty to William's love would fade with time, so she might consider marriage. Since that would never happen, in the future she planned to stop the doctor's hints altogether and inform him of the impossibility of a second marriage. For the moment, she just wished he would not speak of the kiss he witnessed or mention a subject that might insult their host. “For my sake, say nothing about the foundry. We owe Mr. Thornbury thanks today.”

“Yes, but don't worry. I will be here to protect you.”

Mr. Thornbury entered the sickroom, greeted his guests, and strolled to the bedside.

Of course—she looked at his throat. Thankfully, a snowy white cravat covered his neck, surrounded by a lovely dark green coat with a velvet collar.

Berdy beamed and twisted around to face him.

“How's the old foot now?” Mr. Thornbury asked.

“Awful.” Berdy drew everyone's attention with an overloud sigh. “Sorry, m' whole leg still throbs something fierce.”

Mr. Thornbury fetched another chair. “I'm afraid you'll have to stay here for at least another week or two. Bad luck that, having to remain still. Anything you'd like, a book?”

“A book,” Berdy exclaimed, glancing in Elinor's direction. “You sound just like Elli. Lately, she's books this and books that—a regular look-it-up lady.”

She gave Mr. Thornbury a wry grin. “I'm not that bad—really. I merely read about puncture…as you suggested.” He winked at her, lifting her spirits. Gratitude swelled in her breast for his charitable attentions to Berdy.

“Ross, I was wondering,” Berdy said, “do rakes need fashionable attire to be successful? You know, must they wear a stunning cravat to impress the ladies?”

Dr. Potts huffed. “What is your experience with the ladies? Cease this foolishness, Deane. Mr. Thornbury and I have serious adult matters to discuss.” He turned his chair, so he could confront Mr. Thornbury directly. “I know Mrs. Colton objects to discussing the foundry today. But I have a responsibility as the town's physician to inform you of its dangers. Our farmers will not be pleased if you poison the water with soot-filled effluent. People like Mr. Mabbs depend upon clean water for their cattle and sheep. Can you build your foundry elsewhere on your estate? A place far from the river and Mrs. Colton's house. Perhaps—”

“Let's discuss this some other time,” she said, giving the doctor a hard stare before rising to slam the window shut.

Mr. Thornbury's gaze followed her to the window and back. “At its current location, the works are far enough upstream that foul water will not be a problem to livestock.”

After a minute of awkward silence, Berdy said, “Ross, surely a fine knot is the uniform of the rake.”

“Berdy, please,” she pleaded.

“I'm sorry to disappoint you, young man, but I am no longer a rake. When young”—Mr. Thornbury glanced at her—“I was…associated with a famous opera singer. Because we were seen together in public, I earned the title Rake. The word is overused, in my opinion, and seems to have several meanings. From behavior that is nothing more than public flirtations to more libertine propensities. So learn from my mistakes. The reputation men make in their youth—whether ill or good—follows them for a lifetime. Being a rake is a bad business all around, and that behavior can have disastrous effects upon your family. Today I get pleasure from my business endeavors. For example, our new foundry will be a success for all of its investors, provide employment, and power England into the future. I'm convinced of that. But I suppose young men will always spend their time thinking about females.”

Berdy squared his shoulders. “I don't think about ladies all of the time. I think about a number of important subjects.” He paused. “Subjects like knots. Success as a man must include how well a fellow ties his neckcloth.”

She made no attempt to dampen his enthusiasm, since he appeared to improve in spirits minute by minute and felt happier discussing knots rather than his leg. She'd save more serious discussions about the lease to a later date.

Mr. Thornbury settled back in his chair and crossed his long legs. “Do ladies notice cravats? I thought they might glance elsewhere first.”

She widened her eyes and refused to reply to his outrageous comment.

“Just a thought,” Mr. Thornbury said, noticing her blush, “from recent personal experience down by the lake.”

“Oh.”
The
nerve
of
the
man.
Her previous glances had been spontaneous and quite normal. Should she laugh or crawl under the bed in mortification?

Berdy slapped the counterpane. “Yes, ladies notice. A man's neckcloth is everything. When I go to London, I'm sure the ladies will be impressed by m' new knot. There's no better way to achieve recognition than sartorial excellence.”

“I see—a new Beau Brummell,” Mr. Thornbury said. “Well, I emulate the German students I encountered on the Grand Tour and often enjoy an open shirt in private.”

“An open shirt,” Dr. Potts exclaimed. “What a shocking lack of propriety. I feel for your poor mother.”

“I'm sure a mother who loves her son would never censure an innocent pleasure,” Elinor said.

Mr. Thornbury inhaled deeply, held her gaze, then grinned.

Berdy continued without pause. “Why don't you take satisfaction in a stunning neckcloth? Have you read
Neckclothalotta
?” Berdy's features brightened. “
Neckclothalotta
illustrates many fine examples of the more challenging knots. For my current favorite, you need a high collar up to the ears and at least seven folds. It's called
The
Liberator
.”

“Sounds restrictive,” Mr. Thornbury said.

Elinor hiccuped and furtively glanced at Dr. Potts. Unfortunately, that gentleman failed to appreciate Mr. Thornbury's humor and seemed to be formulating his next confrontation with their host.

Mr. Thornbury chuckled. “I cannot believe someone wrote a book on neckcloths. It's satire, I hope?”

“Satire?” Berdy furrowed his brow.

Dr. Potts pounded his fist on the arm of his chair. “Honestly, Deane. Mr. Thornbury and I have serious matters to discuss. Now, since you intend to proceed with your foundry, I must inform you every gentleman”—he glanced at Elinor—“womankind too, has a right to the flow of water without alteration.” Dr. Potts's expectant expression appeared to seek her approval for his badly timed speech. “Here in England, my fellow physicians brought about these laws to stop the construction of privies over streams.”

“Dr. Potts.” She nodded in Berdy's direction, a clear hint to end this offensive discussion once and for all.

The doctor ignored her. “Let me finish. I—”

“Do you realize,” Mr. Thornbury said, “the foundry will also be for the public good? At least sixty to a hundred men will be given employment. Many of our poor will find work and no longer have to depend upon the charity of our parish.”

“That is of no consequence,” Dr. Potts stated. “Our poor can find work if they put their minds to it.” He picked up her hand. “Now don't be worried about the cost of prosecution. Mr. Mabbs, I'm sure, will help you share the costs of—”

“I insist you stop this discussion now.” She yanked her hand out of his. “We will speak of the matter at a more appropriate date.” The good doctor, in her opinion, had become too presumptuous.

A tense silence followed.

She and Mr. Thornbury held each other's gaze, like old friends who could communicate their feelings with a mere glance. The empathy expressed in his eyes convinced her that he understood her exasperation created by the doctor's attacks.

“
L'Americaine
,” Berdy said, reclaiming everyone's attention. “It's a favorite knot of mine. A difficult tie to get just right. First, you hold your head up and then scrunch the linen down fold by fold, like this.” Berdy raised his chin and wrapped his soiled cravat around his neck. “You lower your chin thus to achieve each perfect fold.” He concentrated on slowly lowering his head. “Not too fast. Your chin is not a hammer.” He then took a full minute to produce one perfect crease. “The other difficulty is that, with so many folds, it takes an hour to tie.”