To Catch a Rake (24 page)

“That’s the ticket.” George pumped his fist in a supportive gesture.

Attempting to dampen her irritation, she counted to three. One.

James responded in like and both men briefly pumped a fist.

Two. Three. “If my sister does apologize and ask the question you seek, will you resume your addresses? The question is hypothetical, of course.”

James met her gaze, a steadfast, mulish expression in his eyes. “If I have assuredness that my suit will be accepted, I might consider it. But to tell the truth, Meta, I might not. Do you have knowledge that she will accept me?”

Meta sighed. She should not reveal confidences and say anything more. “Frankly, I do not understand her, since she refused you after you did the right thing and apologized.”

George raised both hands, palms facing them. “Hold on a moment. The man has just been kicked out of his house. Revisit the question again in a month, when cooler heads prevail and everyone has time to think things through.”

Meta clicked her tongue at him. Now she felt like the victim of schoolboys who had joined forces to exclude girls they considered “hysterical.” Her jaw tensed. George’s boots now appeared utterly vulgar. She frowned at him. “It is quite obvious that you have some unwarranted involvement in this matter.”

“Possibly,” George said. “But you were the one who invited me to stick my nose in this situation, remember? In the same breath, you then spoke of my
vile
field guide. Is that not some excuse for my involvement? Besides, I apologized and did everything I could to forward the match.”

She frowned. “And it failed.”

“Not my fault, madam.”

“Who started all of the trouble by writing the book in the first place?”

Fifteen

Straining to hold his breath, George followed Isambard as both men hurried out of the tunnel. At least five of the miners ran behind them. When the group of men reached the fresh air at the tunnel’s entrance, they all violently coughed to clear their throats.

George filled his lungs with sweet, almost clean air. “I never realized the air could become that foul deep inside the tunnel. Today the water smells like you are standing in a privy.”

Isambard nodded. “We must revisit the ventilation drawings. With a stench that bad, the men can only work a few hours, at the most, before the shift will have to be changed. Let’s examine the plans and devise a solution.”

“Hallo,” a feminine voice yelled from the top of the pit. “Mr. Drexel.”

“Oh yes. Hallo, hallo.” More female voices joined the others. “Over here.”

George, like most of the workers in the pit, had become immune to the shouts of unruly Londoners above him. Only this time, it was a seemingly large group of women yelling at him. Some even knew his first name. He glanced up to find at least twenty women huddling in a group. They all took turns pointing at him before breaking out in giggles. The women varied in age and station in life, but they all seemed to wave, smile, and nod at him in unison.

“Looks like you have some admirers,” Isambard said. “Doing something nights with the ladies you shouldn’t?”

“No, of course not,” he said. “I cannot imagine what the fuss is about.”

“I envy your prowess with the opposite sex, but I suggest you do not encourage them to disturb the site. Their shouts may distract the workers. In that case, progress will slow and Father will not be pleased. The blame will fall on your shoulders and rightly so. If it becomes an issue, your promotion may be at stake.”

“Understood, but I have no idea why the ladies have gathered here today in such large numbers.” George squinted up to the rim of the pit to discern the ringleader or discover some woman of his acquaintance in the group, but he did not recognize any of the ladies now waving vigorously. “I don’t understand it. I have never seen any of these women before.” He held his arm high and flicked his hand in a gesture for the ladies to leave immediately. Unfortunately, the attention spurred them on to wave and shout in return.

“Oh! Is that him?”

“It must be.”

“He is much better looking than I imagined.”

Isambard broke out in whoops of laughter.

George ground his teeth and added more vigor to his gesture. “Away with you. Go away. Nothing to see.” This had no effect whatsoever. The ladies continued to wave and giggle. The only recourse he could think of was to hide for the time being. “Let’s examine the drawings in the engine room, away from this racket. Hopefully, they will leave once we are gone.”

“Oh George Drexxxxel,” a lady called out.

“George dearest,” another lady shouted, joining the chorus of ladies calling his name.

Isambard pulled out his Meerschaum pipe. “Once
you
are gone. Now they are shouting your full name quite clearly.”

George frowned at his friend, and together they ran to the engine house. They spent the next hour examining the plans to improve the ventilation. They devised a temporary solution and set the workmen off to address it. When finished, George opened the door with some hesitation, unsure whether or not the ladies remained, ready to pounce. He peered around the door and discovered that his female chorus had vanished. He sighed and boldly stepped through the doorway, like nothing was amiss.

The next day a similar occurrence happened. Only this time, the number of females shouting his name doubled. Since a half dozen men were working in the small engine house, his only recourse was to seek refuge in the tunnel. But his work soon became difficult, because as much as he tried to focus on improving the new ventilation scheme, part of his mind wondered if the ladies were still lining the top of the pit, waiting for him to emerge.

On the third day, he spotted a larger herd of females before he even reached the site. Their number had swelled to at least a hundred, even though it had rained earlier in the day. Grinding his teeth, he returned home to Blackfriars. He then sent a note to Mr. Brunel indicating he would continue his work later that afternoon.

Once he entered the house, Mrs. Morris approached him, gesticulating widely. “Oh, sir, I am so glad you returned. What
am
I to do with the woman?”

He yanked off his work gloves, oilskins, and wide-brimmed cap, then threw them onto the nearest chair.

Mrs. Morris quickly swept them up in her arms. “When I heard you enter, I asked Cook to restrain the thief. Follow me so you can determine what the baggage wants.” She glanced at the bundle in her arms and threw them back on the chair. Then she quickly started down the hall.

George wondered why his father had not taken care of this domestic disturbance. “Where’s Father?”

The housekeeper turned on the steps leading down to the kitchen. “He read to your mother all morning, and he just stepped out to stretch his legs and purchase some flowers for her.”

By now they had reached the large kitchen area on the basement level of the town house. Cook stood holding a large iron spoon like a lethal weapon over the head of an unknown woman of indeterminate age, well dressed, and seated in the rocking chair by the fire. Clearly Cook had no intention of allowing the lady to rise, much less escape.

“What is this all about then?” George stepped forward and gently took Cook’s spoon.

All three women spoke at the same time.

“She—”

“I—”

“Mrs.—”

He held up a hand. “Ladies, please stop. Mrs. Morris, perhaps you can be the first to explain what happened?”

Cook frowned, the stranger tossed her head, while his housekeeper glared at the unknown woman.

“You see, sir,” Mrs. Morris started, “Beth went to your father’s room to clean out the fireplace and discovered this intruder. Sitting on the bed, free as you like—
the nerve
.” Mrs. Morris glared at the woman again. “The housemaid naturally screamed, so I came running.”

The unknown lady smiled at him, without a touch of guilt or contrition marring her lovely features.

“My turn to speak,” Cook announced with a toss of her head. “I heard a racket upstairs and ran up to see what the fuss was about. Sure enough, I sees this woman sitting on the bed like she owned it. She says she is not a thief, but she has not given an explanation for what she was about. I reckon she’s lying, sir. Why else would a lady enter a stranger’s house and sit on the bed as free as you please?”

The unknown lady lifted a single brow in defiance.

George placed the spoon on the table, then examined their prisoner. The woman appeared neither old nor young. Her silk dress indicated she was a lady of some means, so he doubted thievery was her intent. “What is your name, why have you broken into my house, and why were you sitting on my father’s bed?”

The lady grinned. “Seems I got the wrong room then. I was aiming for
your
bed.” She executed a beguiling smile and coy tilt of the head. “For reasons of modesty, my name I shall keep to myself. Please refer to me as…Mrs. Smith. And to answer your last question, I am here on a wager.”

“Pardon?”

“I’m sure she’s lying, sir,” Cook said, reclaiming the iron spoon from the table and waving it in the air. “Shall I call the constable?”

George strode over, recaptured the big spoon, and pulled out a chair for his cook. “Please sit. Let me handle this…
Mrs. Smith
. Ha.” A snicker simmered under his breath. “Are there any valuable items missing from the house, Mrs. Morris?”

“Not that we can tell. The two housemaids searched, but nothing seems amiss. I know for certain she did not enter your mother’s room.”

“Right, that’s a small blessing,” he said. “Now, Mrs. Smith, perhaps you would care to explain this wager. Let me guess.” He grinned. “You have been put up to this by my friend, Lord Boyce Parker. Confess.” The insanity of this charade bore a resemblance to the adolescent jests Boyce made before his recent marriage.

The intruder pulled her shawl tight around her shoulders. “I am not acquainted with Lord Parker.”

“Then why—”

“One of my friends received the field guide as a gift,” the lady explained. “Naturally, she enjoyed it prodigiously. So the next week at our whist party, she read many of the passages aloud.” A rosy hue graced her cheeks. “Oh, I do hope you do not expect me to repeat any of the passages. Certainly, not in front of your servants. It took all of a week for us to determine the real name attached to the initials G—— D——. And since you have been singled out as the…” She glanced at Cook and Mrs. Morris. “Let’s just say I drank too much sherry that afternoon. Well, all of us drank too much actually, since the eight of us consumed six bottles.” She giggled like an infant.

George decided she was likely disguised even now.

“The long and short of it is,” she said, “stronger heads did not prevail and a scheme was hatched. We drew cards and…here I am. Eager to meet
the man himself
.”

Certain his brain spun in his head, George ignored the sense of foreboding overwhelming him. “What man himself?”

This time her smile shone like she had crossed an imaginary finish line. “The gentleman described in the field guide as quote, ‘The stallion not in the studbook.”

“No need to get vulgar, you hussy,” Cook spat out. “I’m going to box your ears right and proper, I am.” She leaped forward two steps before he managed to restrain her.

Mrs. Morris took a determined step toward the lady, looking like she planned to assist with the ear boxing.

George gathered the remainder of his wits. “Stud? Field guide?”

Their intruder looked puzzled for a moment. “Oh, I see the confusion. Stud does refer to a horse, but in this case the field guide is using a metaphor. Probably because you are not listed in Debrett’s, now are you?”

A white fog of rage started to overwhelm his reason. “What in the devil are you talking about?”

Mrs. Morris studied him. In all likelihood recognizing his transformation into the bear, she took over the interrogation. “I have read the field guide and there is no mention of studs—either horses or men—in Mr. Drexel’s book. No mention of any gentlemen, as far as that goes.”

Mrs. Smith tittered.

George remembered how much he deplored female tittering. He itched to grab Cook’s spoon for himself.

“No, not Mr. Drexel’s field guide,” the intruder said, holding out a small tome she pulled from her pocket. “This field guide. It was published about a week ago and has become all the crack, you understand. Well, amusing tittle-tattle and the latest
on dits
are always popular.”

He swept forward and yanked the book from the lady’s hands.

Mrs. Morris glanced at him. “Sir, I don’t understand.”

On the front cover embossed in gold letters was the title,
The Ladies’ Field Guide to London’s Rakes
. George closed his eyes and focused on the elegant design of his newest suspension bridge, until the furious war in his brain subsided. After a deep breath, he opened the book to the title page. At the bottom, he found the traitorous author, or should he say, authoresses, indicted in black ink. Black as their hearts, no doubt. The Benevolent Society for the Prevention of Seduction claimed authorship of this ladies’ field guide of buffoonery. He grasped at any chance of a simple misunderstanding. “Come on, Mrs. Smith, tell me. How much did Lord Parker pay you to do this?”

“Pardon?”

“Lord Boyce Parker. You know, the gentlemen who funded”—he shook the book in Mrs. Smith’s face—“this little farce.” He turned to Mrs. Morris. “I cannot believe Parker went all the way to re-cover with fake boards some random book with this title.” He flipped the pages to somewhere in the middle. “I’m sure it’s some instruction book on boxing, if I know my man.” He flipped rapidly through the book, reading only the chapter titles: “Fancy Sports on the Road,” “Meeting a Swell,” “Overpowering Oratory,” and finally, “Larks and Sprees.” He stopped reading, and the white fog of rage descended again.

Mrs. Morris took the book from his hands and read a few pages.

“You shameless hussy,” she said, turning to Mrs. Smith. “How did you acquire this?”

“My friend, Mrs. Wilkerson.” She giggled. “I mean…Mrs. Brown.”