To Catch a Rake (8 page)

“Apologies, I…” He immediately brushed his hand numerous times on his trouser.

“I came today to request your assistance on another matter.” She glanced at him and discovered a raised eyebrow but no expression that might give her alarm. In fact, he seemed slightly bemused. “You see, the letter you wrote had no effect on James whatsoever. He became skeptical of your intent due to the letter’s brevity and lack of specifics. You were correct in that the note conveyed all that was needed to be said, but for some reason, James decided you could not be trusted.”

He rolled his dark, fathomless eyes.

She recognized that this was an opportune time to appeal to his good will. “I was hoping you would join me, and together we can pay a call upon James. First, your very appearance will show him that you are a gentleman and your word is to be trusted. Then you can explain to him that your book is fiction and that all of London knows this fact. No misunderstanding could ever come about. Once the truth is placed before James by the author himself, he could no longer willfully believe anyone should think those initials were Lily’s. Moreover, a scheme may be hatched between us to ensure the public could never believe the initials were hers. I have great hopes this will come to pass, and James will resume his addresses soon.”

“I disagree.” He slapped his thigh. “My presence will not change his mind. This James should have come around. If he refused, it means he had a reason to call off. Perhaps one you are unaware of?”

They sat silently watching the busy men toiling around them.

How could she change his mind?

She doubted any tactic would work other than the absolute truth. “I don’t pretend to know everything about my sister, but I do know she loves James. I also believe he loves her. I can have no other goal in life than to see my siblings happy in love. It is my greatest dream.”

“Right. You have now reached a subject I know nothing about and refuse to discuss.”

“Your greatest dreams?”

“No, happy in love. Don’t mistake me; I know it exists. My two best friends fell under its spell. But it doesn’t happen to everyone. Your sister and her James may have been emulating their friends of a similar age. It’s a time in life when all of their friends are choosing spouses, I mean. There is a distinct possibility that love had nothing to do with their doomed relationship.”

What a pitiful individual, deprived of understanding.

She needed to forgo the love argument and devise another tactic to persuade him. “I once said that I might plead to the Learned Ladies Society for funds on the tunnel’s behalf. If you join me to call upon James, I promise you at least one new investor for the tunnel.”

He inhaled deeply and stood. Wearing a broad smile, he held out his hand.

She took it eagerly, since perhaps his smile meant he would grant her request. Only once again, her stare fixed on his hand. This time, her thoughts weaved a desire to feel a caress from these very fingers. Then her mind wandered even further, into a dangerous, forbidden territory of intimate masculine touches she had forgotten. She licked her lower lip, lost in imaginings of how his caresses might feel on her neck or her shoulder. She shook her head in hopes of dislodging these reckless desires.

His fingers tightened around hers. “You are obviously not examining the dirt, since I brushed it off. Perhaps you are dreaming about the power of touch?”

She dropped his hand like a hot coal. Why had her mind wandered? What was wrong with her today?

He picked up hers and turned it over. “If not a touch, perhaps a pleasing stroke in just the right place?” His warm forefinger touched her in the center of her palm and then leisurely trailed up the inside of her wrist.

Her cheeks flamed as she searched for an excuse for fantasizing about his hand. “If you must know, I was admiring the strength of the hands that will one day build England’s future.”

Wearing an expression of half pleasure and half guilt, he dropped her hand. “Pardon me.”

She let out her breath; her ruse appeared to work. Her—what must have been blatant—physical attraction she managed to disguise for the moment.

“Thank you for the compliment,” he said, beaming and executing a deep bow. “Come. Let me escort you back to your carriage. I will do as you wish and speak to the man, if you promise to deliver one new investor in the tunnel. If it comes to pass, I would be grateful, as would my superiors. But I prophesy your James’s heart has spoken the last word, and he will still refuse.”

Four

The gray pavement stones glistened from the recent rain as Meta approached the London home of her friend and current president of the Learned Ladies Society, Lady Sarah Stainthorpe. She pulled her hands out of her spencer’s warm fur-lined pocket and knocked on her friend’s door. She then crossed two fingers for good luck.

Meta had always eagerly anticipated the society’s meetings: a group of intelligent women discussing books, discussing their families, planning their latest benevolent works, telling the latest jest or
on dits
, or all of these at the same time.

Today, however, Meta needed to ask her friends for a rather significant favor: new investors for Mr. Marc Brunel’s Thames Tunnel. Without Mr. Drexel’s knowledge, she made discreet inquiries into the cost of shares, hoping her friends could persuade their husbands to make a significant investment or even a helpful donation. If her efforts proved successful, she’d pay her debt of gratitude for Fitzy’s employment and further obligate Mr. Drexel to enthusiastically persuade James to change his mind.

Stepping inside Lady Sarah’s personal drawing room, Meta glanced around at the pretty yellow Chinese papers on the wall. Willowy tree branches with sweet little sparrows flying or sitting on branches decorated the papers. On the blue ceiling, white plaster swags complemented the yellow papers. In the center of the cheery room, numerous gilt wooden chairs formed a large circle around a peach-colored marble table. She exchanged greetings with her friends, and they all took a seat to hear the latest news concerning their varied philanthropic efforts.

Lady Sarah, a tall, young blonde whose personal fortitude was immediately recognized by everyone who met her, stood and described the Society’s recent success in the rescue of London’s destitute governesses. Many of these ladies possessed a higher level of education than most. Yet for various reasons—lack of marriage, old age, or illness—these intelligent women found themselves destitute. The Learned Ladies Society was established to house and feed these governesses so their last years would not be spent on the streets or in the workhouse.

Lady Sarah faced the twenty or so women present that day and began the meeting. “I am pleased to say that we found adequate placement for three governesses this month.”

The ladies politely clapped in unison.

Grizel, a black-haired Scottish lady who lacked all reservations about speaking her mind, said, “Clara, how does this good news affect our current finances? I am worried we may not have enough funds to keep all of our women housed during the winter.”

Clara’s disorderly blonde curls suggested an air of frivolity, but under those curls was a tidy mind especially brilliant with numbers. “I must say, I too have concerns on that score. At our current rate of expenditure, we should save our funds for the time being, until we can guarantee that they will last through the winter with our current number of governesses.”

Almost all of the benevolent ladies nodded or verbally agreed.

“But if we do not rescue them now,” Bethia said, “more poor women may be required to spend the cold winter on the streets.” The oldest lady in the group, her varied life experiences had propagated a tolerant heart.

Grizel countered. “Agreed, but if we’re daft and overspend by saving more women than our funds will allow, then all of our governesses may find themselves in difficulties this winter. Sometimes we must make sacrifices to keep those we’ve already saved.”

This discussion ended when most of the ladies caught a whiff of the Spanish almond cake and China tea seconds before it was brought into the room.

While her friends silently ate cake, Meta gathered her courage before standing to address the ladies. “May I take this moment to speak on a personal matter?” Since giving a speech during such an important event as tea was a rare occurrence, she instantly grabbed everyone’s attention. “Thank you. You see I have a favor to ask all of you. Without going into details, except that it involves the happiness of my beloved sister, Lily, I would like to request your assistance.”

Several ladies resumed eating their cake.

Meta took a deep breath. “Tonight when you speak to your husbands or fathers, I would be so grateful if you could ask them to support the Thames Tunnel project currently under construction by Mr. Marc Brunel.”

Whispers broke out amongst the ladies.

“Next week they will start to dig under the Thames, and everyone is excited about the prospect of England being the first country to dig a tunnel under a navigable river. Can you imagine it, strolling
under
the Thames.”

Several ladies gasped.

“Oh, I’d be too frightened,” one lady said, with a shiver.

“I’m not a mole,” said another.

“I think it’s exciting, wondrous even,” Lady Sarah said, clasping her hands together.

Meta smiled at her friend. “It
is
exciting, very much so.” She turned to address the group. “What I request is that you consider funding this remarkable achievement. Profits are expected when the tunnel opens and reaps the tolls from traffic. You have all seen the congestion around London Bridge, so you understand that investing in shares, or even a helpful donation, could benefit all of London. What I ask is that you bring the necessity of funding the tunnel to your husbands’ or fathers’ notice.” With any luck, she’d achieve at least one promise of support today. She blushed upon theorizing what Mr. Drexel would do when she told him of her success. Whatever his response—shake her hand, waltz her around the room, a tender gesture—the thought excited her.

Lady Sarah spoke first. “I fail to understand what the happiness of your sister has to do with Mr. Brunel’s tunnel.”

Meta feigned a smile. “The situation is a private matter, but I must admit a rather urgent one. So if you would be so kind, please take my word upon the subject.”

Several ladies nodded.

“Of course, Meta, dear,” said Bethia. “You need not say any more upon the subject.”

Clara put down her teacup. “I do agree that something must be done about London Bridge. I myself have been held up by a rabble of not very polite people. Persons of the most disagreeable manners.”

“I thought a tunnel had been tried before and failed,” stated Sybella, the newest member of the group, who was memorable for her rather daring short, tight spiral curls. “The soil is too damp or loose to build a proper tunnel.” Her brows furrowed. “It was several years ago, but I do remember something about it flooding. Can you imagine, the horror of being drowned in a tunnel? Digging under water is clearly a great risk.”

“My dear Meta,” Clara said, “personally, I must refuse your request at this time. Perhaps we all can come to an agreement that more information is needed before we make such a significant request for funds from our fathers. I can speak for myself when I say that my father feels put upon with each shilling I ask for.” She colored slightly. “You must all admit, he has been very generous to our ladies in need.”

Most of the women nodded.

Sybella, her dark red hair catching the light from a tall window, stated, “If we donate to the tunnel, it might cause our loved ones not to donate to our governesses. Our ladies would then be in direct competition for funds.”

Meta shook her head. “The tunnel is different, because it can be a future investment of your capital.” Since her explanations failed to gather her needed support, Meta carefully explained a few of the details of her sister’s situation. She expected an empathetic response centered on Lily and James’s misunderstanding. But to her disappointment, the ladies only wanted to discuss the field guide.

“That man,” Grizel started, then turned to Meta, “is he really a gentleman, my dear? Think of the lack of empathy for womankind a man who could write such a book must possess.”

Unfortunately, almost to a lady, they agreed that Mr. Drexel must be a scoundrel toward women.

Meta sighed. They were right, of course. After all, she did not know him well. The naughty innuendo and flirting came to mind first, but he had helped Fitzy and at least tried to right the situation in regard to James. But his behavior could turn unpredictable and contradictory, like all gentlemen’s. “The book is a work of fiction solely to amuse gentlemen who frequent places like the Coal Hole. Mr. Drexel is an educated gentleman and a dedicated engineer.”

“How did a very proper young man like Mr. Codlington come by the field guide?” Grizel asked.

“Fiction?” asked Bethia. Her gray hair appeared almost white from the strong sun streaming in from the windows. “Are you sure, Meta? I read the book years ago and thought my initials were in it. To think that someone sixty years of age could be considered ‘Eager Out of the Gate.’” She turned to the lady next to her. “Brightened my whole day.”

The lady patted her hand. “I understand, dear.”

“Yes, it’s fiction—truly,” Meta said, “and written for the amusement of gentlemen only. Mr. Drexel wrote the book after his friend Lord Boyce Parker, a London publisher, wagered he could not do it, or could not best another man. I know very little of the details, except that he made a significant profit and it proved to be a bestseller.” She stopped, curious about why the busy, driven man of today could do something so frivolous. “All young men can be fools. I wonder how old he was at the time?”

“A repulsive book like that,” Clara said. “He should’ve known better. Why he must have had the brains of a mooncalf in leading strings to pen such a scandalous book.” As she put her teacup down, it hit the rim of the saucer. Her tea spilled and quickly became a river heading for the lady next to her. “Oh, I do beg your pardon.”