To Catch a Rake (2 page)

The other lady quickly glanced at her companion.

Her friend patted her knee and gave him an affirmative nod.

Regardless of the lady’s nod, most of them rarely believed that.

“But, sir, all of our friends gather so much pleasure from the assumption that you just altered real names,” the older lady said.

The prettier lady turned to her friend. “Yes, trying to match his initials with real people is a very amusing game. But do you know, I’m not sure what satire is. Is it—?”

“I know my friend Mrs. Wittle—Mrs. Smith—is confused, but even though you say the names are fictional, surely they must be based on real females. Correct, Mr. Drexel?”

“Loosely based, madam, more exaggeration than fact.” For some reason—he attributed it to the mysterious, unfathomable female mind—most women chose to believe that the initials in the field guide represented
real
people. Thankfully, none of the ladies sought satisfaction or felt ill-used, although one widow had brazenly volunteered to be “tested” for the next edition.

Time to deliver his well-practiced speech to quicken their departure. “At this moment, you’re unsatisfied with the placement of your perceived initials in the book
The Rake’s Handbook: Including Field Guide
. With some effort, you have learned that I penned the field guide. With my address in hand, you
tracked me down
like a hound on the scent. So you are here to request a favor—for reasons you wish to remain private.” He gave them both a respectful, deep bow.

They tittered.

“Right. Your presence here is to request that your initials be moved to the heading describing a higher, or rather, more notorious category of lady. It goes without saying that you realize this cannot be done immediately. However, you would be deeply appreciative if I make the change before the next edition is printed.” He inhaled deeply and wistfully glanced at his drainage plans resting on the enormous desk by the bay window. “As a result of my granting your request, I will enjoy your utmost gratitude for years and years to come.”

This time both ladies giggled loudly.

“I see you have been solicited before,” said the older female wearing an indelicate, inappropriate grin rarely seen on a lady of quality. “Just how many ladies have made a similar request?”

“Including you, twenty-two.”

“Oh.” The other lady widened her eyes before dropping her gaze to the fine mesh reticule resting on her lap.

With a great deal of effort, he stifled a growl. “Now, ladies, if you will excuse me, I have work to finish.” He grabbed two paper cards from a stack on the mantel. “Please write your initials on these cards—your privacy will be assured—and the appropriate heading you desire in the next edition of the field guide.” He handed each lady a white card and pencil.

The two women exchanged glances, and the older lady nodded several times. They wrote their initials as instructed and handed him the cards.

“Thank you.” He read their requests. “Wise choice.”

Both ladies beamed.

“Now leave.”

“But, sir,” the older one said, wearing an indelicate leer. “Can you tell us the details? Will our initials be included in the next edition?”

The other lady whispered to her friend. “Do you really think we can trust someone like him to do our bidding?”

Her companion nodded. “Granted he is a”—she moved to whisper in her friend’s ear—“scoundrel.” Her voice returned to normal. “But even they must have a code of justice.”

He ground his teeth. Misjudged in his own parlor; it was time to release the bear. He strode directly up to them and growled, “My housekeeper will show you out.”

As if on cue, his housekeeper opened the parlor door, and both ladies fled the room.

“Ah, Mrs. Morris, please show these ladies to the door,” he said with regained gallantry. Without waiting for a reply, he spun and returned to his drawing on his desk.

Seconds later he heard the front door close.

Mrs. Morris came into the room to retrieve the cards thrown haphazardly on the desk. “Oh, sir, I hate to give expectations that another edition will be published. It seems such a deception. Can’t you rule it out forever?”

He gazed out of the large window at the ladies scurrying down the street. “You’re a female, Mrs. Morris. Why do you think these women risk scandal to appear on my doorstep?”

She sighed. “When we get older, attention from gentlemen can be a lovely experience.” Following a pause, she added, “Regardless of age, every female harbors a secret wish to find love.”

“Love? What’s the use?” He gathered up the wooden figurines. “But to answer your question, the decision to publish again is not mine. My friend Lord Parker’s brother owns the rights. He controls whether or not a second edition will be printed. He even hinted he might add new names, so we owe these ladies’ company to that piece of promotional gossip, the scoundrel.” George had requested Lord Parker to plead with his brother to stop the publication. All he could do now was wait for an answer. If his friend proved successful, then this regrettable example of his youthful transgressions would be entirely forgotten.

“I’ve been keeping these ladies’ initials, just in case they are needed.” She headed for the door and paused. “You might let these interviews last awhile longer.”

He failed to reply.

She ignored his reticence. “If you spend more time in conversation with these ladies, you might discover a suitable wife. After all, most of these woman are likely available. A respectable marriage would go a long way to lessen any tittle-tattle arising from that book.”

“Mrs. Morris”—he looked up—“I’m shocked. You have never suggested a leg shackle for me before.” He waved his hand. “I thought you believed in romantic love and all of that faradiddle.”

She blushed. “Of course I do, but I know you better. Others have had their hearts broken at sixteen, and they all recover. I’ve seen many ladies in your life, yet you have never fallen in love. So I realize you’re a hopeless case when it comes to romantic love. It’s just that when you are as old as your parents, I don’t want you to find yourself alone in life without a partner to share it with.”

George glanced upward. In the bedroom above him, his father was reading a book to his mother or, more likely, just holding her hand. After her stroke, Michael Drexel had refused to spend any significant time away from his wife’s side.

As a result, George had taken on the responsibilities of completing many of his father’s contracts. On certain projects, when he had been overwhelmed by problems or needed his questions answered, he had asked his father for assistance or to join him at a construction site. But Michael refused to leave his wife’s side. The reason always consisted of some incoherent mumble about feelings. Not spousal duty, or his mother’s request, or any other reason that might rightly keep his father at home, but a reason George failed to understand—love.

What is the use of love, if it leaves you with nothing more than holding hands?

He had tendered a simple request for a father to assist his son. Was that too much to ask?

Mrs. Morris must have read his mind, because she narrowed her eyes. “Mr. Drexel would not want to be anywhere else in the world, except beside the woman he loves. Perhaps someday you will understand that.”

“I’ll protect their rights and privacy to my last breath. Nor have I ever even hinted my need for Father’s assistance in front of Mother. But I refuse to engage in unseemly, emotional balderdash.” He lifted his chin. “I’m an Englishman, after all. For the sake of our family’s future, I only ask for his presence and advice now and then. Otherwise, if my new drainage system is unsuccessful, I may not be promoted to resident engineer. Then I’d lose my best opportunity for advancement and chance to escape the notoriety generated from the publication of that damnable field guide.” He sighed and dropped the wooden figures. “Please add these ladies to your list. I recommend the younger one”—he moved close to read the card—“the Mrs. A** W*****”—he smiled—“boot dear Ann up to the category of lady she desires. As for the other lady”—he chuckled and shook his head—“let’s be generous and give her the category she desires too: Ruling Goddess. Ambitious that.”

* * *

“Please open the door, dear,” Meta Russell said, evaluating the two ways to break into her sister’s room. She could knock the door down or climb in through the window. Her sister, Lily, must need her, so something had to be done.

Last evening, Lily had escaped to her room in a fit of tears. At the time, Meta had questioned Lily’s fiancé, James Codlington, about the reason behind her sister’s distress. James simply announced the end of Lily and his betrothal, before he hurriedly exited the Broadshams’ town house on Swallow Street.

“Lily, please.” Determined to render assistance, Meta knocked harder than she had yesterday evening. “You cannot spend your life in your room. Please let me in. You obviously need my help.” She placed her ear on the cool wooden door and listened. No sound from the room reached her ears, only the soft breaths of her brother, Fitzhenry, standing directly behind her. “I’ll ask Fitzy to break the door down with a hammer if you do not open it this instant. Please, dearest, let me help you out of this muddle.”

Her sixteen-year-old brother tapped Meta on the back. “Please move aside. Only a bang-up, out-and-out cove can properly handle this situation.”

Meta stepped back. “I don’t see how you can have better luck changing her mind.”

A broad grin crossed his handsome, youthful face shadowed by slight whisker growth at least a year away from needing a regular shave. “I say, Lily, no use glumping. Meta is once again determined to render assistance. If you do not open the door, she’ll make me use a hammer to knock it down. You know what that means. There is every chance my hands will be permanently damaged and it will be all your fault.”

Meta shook her head. “You know I only want what’s best for you and would never knowingly let you damage your hands. Box your ears, maybe.” She reached out in a mock gesture to do so, but he leaned back out of her reach. “So why did you say such an unjust thing?”

“Because last week you asked me to shovel coals. A large lump of coal or the shovel could have fallen upon my hands and ended my artistic career before it even started.”

“That was a temporary necessity, you must admit. You received nothing more than a little coal soot on your hands, and I doubt dirty hands would stop you from becoming a successful artist.” She grinned. “It might even be a necessity for that profession.”

Lily’s muffled voice came from inside the bedroom. “I can hear both of you.” The door swung wide, and the twenty-two-year-old Miss Lily Broadsham stood in the doorway. She wore an old muslin gown covered with embroidered purple diamonds that matched her eyes, which appeared violet in bright light. Considered the prettiest of the three Broadsham sisters, Lily could not claim that title at the moment. Standing erect, her swollen eyes, long black hair in a haphazard plait, and trembling figure indicated she had spent a sleepless night. “If you ruin your hands, Fitzy, that will be the last straw, and I’ll just have to kill myself. There is nothing you can do, any of you. I apologize, Meta, but Polite Society might hear I’ve been jilted and will consider us all to be tainted. Susanna and I will never find a husband who will love and support us.” She sniffed and struggled to hold back tears. “Fitzy will be unable to keep himself on the earnings from his art, so he’ll have to beg a woman with a significant dowry to marry him.” A tear started to fall. “And because of me, you will never find another gentleman to love you again.” She buried her face in her hands.

Meta rushed forward to grab both her sister’s hands. “Nonsense. Even if that happens, society’s gossip is short-lived. As soon as the next bit of news arrives, your broken engagement will be forgotten. Please dearest, all of you will have the future you desire. I promise. And as far as my welfare is concerned, widows are on the shelf, even at twenty-four.” As the eldest sibling, Meta had assumed the responsibility of shepherding her siblings into successful marriages and professions. Besides, once her siblings were settled, she’d be in her dotage. So even though she held dear secret dreams of falling in love and another marriage, her chances of achieving them seemed unlikely. Instead, a life sacrificed for those she loved suited her temperament, and serving her family’s needs constituted the greatest goal of a successful life. She turned to her brother. “Fitzy, you can leave us now. I appreciate your help, but Lily and I are going to engage in female conversation. That means we’ll indulge in talk of romance and most likely cry lots of tears.”

“Eww. Right then.” Wearing a guilty smile, the young man backed down the hall.

Meta leaned back out of the doorway to address Fitzy. “From what I’ve heard lately, it’s all the crack for out-and-out coves and bang-up artists to study their mathematics.”

“Mathematics could never be all the crack. What a hum. Human feelings”—he sighed and tilted his head—“are the medium of the artist, not equations.”

“Then I suggest you study your Renaissance artists again. They used mathematics to mark out the proper perspectives.”

“No, surely not?” he said, his eyes widening.

“Determine for yourself. I left a book on the schoolroom table open to the very chapter you need to read.”

Without a word, he spun and ran down the stairs.

Meta smiled, closed the door, and led Lily to a comfortable window seat almost covered in soft, peach-colored damask pillows. The two sat, and Meta reached for her sister’s hand. “With all this rain, this seat is colder than it usually is. Shall we move closer to the fire?”

“Does it matter?” Lily’s eyes focused on her lap for a full minute. “I’ve changed my mind. I wish to remain on this seat forever, the place where I write my stories. You see, I will never marry now. Instead, I’ll publish novels about jilted heroines suffering cruel fates at the hands of fickle men.”

“But it is chilly, and I don’t want you to become ill.” Meta had returned to the Broadsham family home after the accidental death of her husband. Despite rushing over two hundred miles to be by his side, she did not make it in time.