The Rake's Handbook (10 page)

“Right. You're called The Whip in your dreams,” Drexel said. “Most people still call you—”

“Even your slow wits must realize that horrid nickname is forgotten.” Parker leaned over the center of the table to conspiratorially address the entire group of men. “Mentioned my
real
nickname, The Whip, to the widow Crew the other day. Boy did her eyes get big. Methinks she's interested, yes sireee,
interested
. So I sang her an old favorite from the Coal Hole, sealed the deal.” Parker stood, swayed, and began to recite an introduction. “This tune is called ‘Roger Rakes a Bower on Top of Thigh Lane.' I'll just sing the chorus.”

“No!” Ross grinned.

With guffaws and choking laughter, each man raised his hand in a unified gesture to stop.

Parker dropped his jaw. “You're missing quite a song.”

Deane appeared excited, fidgeting in his chair. “Will I get a nickname someday? Who gives you nicknames?”

“The handbook earned us the nicknames,” Parker said. “Don't know the fellow who came up with them, though. We first heard our new names mentioned at Tattersalls. Yes, yes, so pen a book, my lad. Maybe I'll publish it.” Parker turned to Ross. “Meaning to ask you fellows. The handbook has been out for almost two years now. Profits are beginning to slow. How about a second edition? You know, package it up in a fancy cover, maybe just this side of proper. Sell hundreds in a month. What do you say?”

“No,” Drexel said. “Lately, that handbook has become nothing but trouble. Your additional profits could never be enough to fully fund my engineering projects. Now I need to impress respectable gentlemen when I seek investors, so a questionable book in my past hinders that ability. I imagine it's the same for Two here. He needs honorable, upstanding connections to invest in his canals and such. We both want that book well in our past and forgotten.”

“But—” Parker said.

“Wait a minute,” Drexel said. “You have successfully hid the existence of the handbook from your father for two years? I expected you to be hanged in the public square or at least transported by now.”

Parker winked. “The Pater never leaves his club, handy that.”

“Let's play the card game Drexel requested earlier in the day,” Ross said, eager to change the subject. Like Parker, he had kept the publication of the handbook from his mother, not wanting to upset her. So as far as he was concerned, the subject of another edition was permanently closed. Eventually, the handbook's profits would fade altogether, but by then, he expected to use the profits from the new foundry to make her happy. He motioned toward the library, and the other men followed. Except for Dr. Potts, who took his leave and mentioned his intent to join the ladies. After an unsteady stroll across the hall, Ross recognized he was not in a suitable condition to be seen by either his mother or Mrs. Colton, so he regretted his inability to rescue the widow from the tedium of his mother's behavior.

Drexel dealt the cards with amazing dexterity, smug indifference written across his face.

Ross tried to remember what game they were playing. With his back to the fire and the nearest lamp having a red shade, a reddish light tinted all of his cards. Consequently, he could not easily determine the face count of the red cards.
Hell's fire.
He could barely see any of the cards because of the chimney's acrid smoke filling the room, but it really didn't matter. He was a trifle too disguised to play well.

“Right. I cannot wait for tomorrow's sport,” Drexel began, appearing less affected by the brandy than the other three.

It didn't take long before Deane suffered a brandy-induced sleeping disease, and his head rolled back as far as it could go. Just when Ross thought his neck would snap, the young man woke. “We were…cussing?”

“Cussing?” Parker said. “No, no, we were dis-
cussing
tomorrow's sport.” He passed the bottle of brandy to Drexel.

“Sport as in widow, Mrs. Colton?” Drexel asked, the firelight dancing in the center of his eyes.

Ross restrained himself from challenging Drexel to fisticuffs. Holding his finger up to his lips, he nodded in the direction of the lad. “Shh. Not that sport.” He wagged his finger back and forth in front of his nose, making himself dizzy. “Shooting. Guns.
That
sport.”

“A man does like to shoot his gun,” Drexel said.

After second of silence, laughter erupted.

“Yus, yus, a man sure finds relief shooting a bird,” Parker added, grinning.

Everyone chuckled, except for Deane, who appeared momentarily confused.

“And he likes to shoot all fetching birds,” Parker continued. “Pack his powder vigorously, gather up his balls, go off with a bang, what?” He held out both hands. “See, I
am
a poet. That Byron fellow can't beat my romanticism.”

“An original poet, too,” Ross said, trying once more to blink away the red fog obscuring the cards in his hand. His attempt to focus was interrupted when Parker fell off his chair onto the rug. Parker's rolling laughter mixed with irreverent song indicated that his friend was not in immediate difficulties. A relief, since he wouldn't have to attempt a risky move—like rising from his chair—in order to set the situation to rights.

Suddenly, Mrs. Colton invaded the library. Standing behind Deane, she glanced at Parker on the floor, her lips pinched, and her expression grave. She grabbed Deane's arm. “You need to rest your limb. Time to go upstairs.”

Deane looked up at her with his eyes closed. “Shelli, greeslings.” He waved his hand, which promptly fell to the table with a thud.

“Mr. Thornbury, he's just seventeen,” she said, keeping her gaze on the top of Deane's drooping head.

“Old enough to be out of leading strings.” Ross's bitter retort came as a surprise, even to himself. His angry words left a rotten-egg taste in his mouth, due to some justice in her accusation. He tried hard to appear sober, apologized for the excess brandy, and attempted to stand, but changed his mind and remained seated. The fewer movements he made the better. He nodded in what he hoped appeared like a gracious farewell, instead of trying any tricky movement like a respectable bow.

Deane also moved to stand but failed.

Mrs. Colton remedied the situation by heaving Deane up. “Sorry, gentlemen. Thank—thank you.” With Deane transferred to the shoulder of a footman, she led them out of the room.

“Yes, yes, he's in shrouble,” Parker said, crawling back to his chair. “Foxed in front of Mater. Don't think we'll see him at the smack of yawn…crack of dawn.”

“No, the widow Colton will probably interfere with our sport,” Drexel said, slapping his cards against one another. “Maybe we should make the widow our sport. What do you say?”

“You're gonna shoot the widow?” Parker exclaimed.

“No shooting window—widow—Mrs. Colton,” Ross said.

“Let's wager who will give her a green gown first?” Drexel pondered. “Rolling in hay counts as well as grass.”

For some reason, Ross felt like punching everyone. “Leave the minnow—widow alone. No rolling in the green grass, hay, or any other female rolling. Listen. I need your help to change the minnow's mind.”

“Right, a kiss will do it,” Drexel said. “Widows will do anything for a kiss. Grant leases, whatever. Never failed in my experience. That's it. Let's wager which one of us will kiss the lovely widow first. Parker, you in?”

“Yus, yus, kiss the widow,” Parker agreed, leaning toward Ross. “So glad we are not shooting widows. Remember the fly bet? Great bet. Great bet.”

“Rules are on the lips,” Drexel said, “no hand nonsense. Two, you in?”

“No,” Ross exclaimed. “Bloody awful plan. Besides, intended here, remember? Plan to kiss—intended.”
Hell's fire, what was her name?
Her father was his friend too. “Tomorrow plan to kiss intended woman.”

“Just us lucky lads then, Whip. What's the prize?”

Parker struggled to remain on his chair, much less make a decision. “Same bet, same bet, what?”

“Agreed, last to kiss the widow pays a round for all at the local establishment,” Drexel said, jumping to his feet in a motion to run out and kiss Mrs. Colton.

Ross fervently hoped she had returned home by this time.

“Agreed,” Parker echoed, catching Drexel's hand for a robust shake, which consequently upset his balance. Parker's head hit the table first before he slithered down onto the rug. “I mus' kiss widow first.”

“Mr. Thornbury, what is your opinion on ruffled sleeves?” Lucy Allardyce asked Ross as they paused on an isolated garden path. It was the afternoon of Blackwell's first garden party, and the fine weather had brought out the entire neighborhood. She repeated, “Ruffled sleeves?”

“Yes,” Ross said, busy watching Lucy's ample bodice rise and fall with each barely audible breath. Like other gentlemen, he noticed bodices—Mrs. Colton's came to mind—but he had not seen her among his guests for the last twenty minutes. Maybe she too had escaped the noisy crowd gathered on the rear lawn to wander Blackwell's grounds. However, since he had reached an agreement with Allardyce over the marriage settlement, Lucy would soon become his wife. Now if he truly had reformed into a proper gentleman, he must try to appreciate only his wife's bodice.

Lucy held out her left arm and tugged on her red muslin sleeve. “I expected you to rightly insist upon me wearing ruffled sleeves when we are married.”

The word
married
drew Ross's full attention, since it was the one word likely to penetrate the mental fog created by discreet bodice-watching. “I'm sorry; you caught me admiring nature's symmetry. Why in the dev—why would I insist upon ruffled sleeves?”

Lucy's scowl caused wrinkles on the top of her freckled nose. “These days, it's a serious error if your puffed sleeves are not appropriately ruffled for your wedding costume. Of course, one has to decide between furbelow, flounced, or ruched sleeves—such a difference. Which do you prefer?”

If Ross wanted to be a good husband, he must learn how to discuss womanly subjects like sleeves. It occurred to him that in her seventeen-year-old world, ruffled sleeves might be as important as sun and planet gears. Simple fairness dictated that if he must be aware of ruffles, she should be aware of gears. But he was not married yet, so he'd practice his matrimonial skills by first attending to her sleeve concerns. “Who could fail to like them all?” He cleared his throat in the sound universally acknowledged to be the male pronouncement of the final word upon the subject. “Without doubt, I prefer
flounced
.”

Her brow contracted. “Really? I would have thought…ruched.”

Ross inhaled sharply. “Yes, ruched is what I meant. I often admire ruched sleeves.” He heard a soft snicker, looked around, and saw only a hedge of tall yews. By all appearances, they were quite alone, but his uneasiness that they were perhaps watched created an urge to return to the others soon. “Right then, sleeves it is.” He offered Lucy his arm.

“Ah, but your mother told me she likes
flounced
ruffled sleeves,” Lucy said, ignoring his outstretched arm.

Picking up her hand, Ross placed it on his forearm. He then started back toward his other guests. “That is only on Tuesdays. For important occasions, she requests the…the other sleeves.”

“Since she is to be my mother-in-law, I should please her and pick flounced.” Lucy stopped on the path.

“Good plan.”

“But I cannot. Taste demands ruched sleeves or…corded tuck?”

Ross halted and peered upward for a brief second. Now after his first chance to have a long talk with Lucy alone, he contemplated the possible difficulties in achieving a happy marriage. Since Lucy was to be his future “My Lady” wife, he had wondered whether or not their temperaments would be sympathetic, or if they shared the same interests, like poetry.

Lucy alternately fluffed each sleeve.

He also considered Lucy's feelings and whether she'd come to love him. Without answers to his questions, he decided to rely upon the old adage. He'd wait to know her better before he made a pronouncement upon their suitability. Ross saw no reason why their union should not be a success. And romantic love? Doubtful, more likely impossible; he lacked that capacity. Giving her a tender smile, he said, “I'm stunned by your sartorial sagacity. Now I fully understand the crucial role of taste in your
final
choice of ruched.” This time he was positive he heard a noise, followed by rapid footsteps on the gravel path. “Tell me, Miss Allardyce, I'm fond of poetry, are you? Any of Donne's works, for example?”

“No, I don't like the latest poetry by Donne.”

“He hasn't
done
anything lately.”

Lucy scowled. “Is he dead then?”

“See, I'm right.” Ross gave her hand a pat and began to stroll.

“Mr. Thornbury, I have one more question to ask you, besides my wedding costume, but equally as important.”

Ross stopped and glanced toward the house, steeling himself for her question.

“He-he, are you not going to ask me?” She beamed.

“I'm sure I could not give your question the justice it deserves.”

She patted his arm, pleased with his response.

He stared at her hand.

“I recently overheard several of the ladies talking. Sounded amusing, so I moved closer. I was very careful that Mrs. Harbottle did not see me, as she reminds me of Nurse, who—”

“What did the ladies say?” He glanced upward. “Compliments on that very pretty gown you are wearing?”

“They said,” she began to whisper, “that you wrote a handbook about—about gentlemen and women—you know, together. And I gather the relations described were”—her voice lowered even more—“not con-nu-bial.”

Ross inhaled deeply.

“When we are married, you must read me your book, of course. I want to learn all about—you know.” She eagerly smiled. The effect lacked even a whiff of maidenly modesty.

He stared at her in stupefying horror, the thought of reading his book to a woman of her expertise utterly farcical.

“Well?”

Up ahead, two gentlemen strode up the garden path toward them. Mr. Mabbs owned a cattle farm and large cheese factory, while Mr. Burton was the master of a nearby cotton mill. Both men resided close to the border of the Blackwell estate. “Ah, there you are my good fellow,” Mabbs shouted.

Ross provided the introductions to Miss Allardyce.

After his bow, Mabbs straightened his garish brown hat. “We have come to discuss business, but I see you have more charming company. Perhaps later, the three of us can discuss the river's use? Lady Helen does not appear to know anything about your plans on the subject.”

Ross stared at the man. He must keep any opposition over the foundry away from his mother. “Gentlemen, I will join you in a few minutes, after I leave Miss Allardyce here in her father's care. I'm confident we can then come to terms.”

***

Elinor ran down the gravel path, clutching her side while trying to postpone an outburst of laughter. Upon hearing voices approach, she had hidden in the tall yews. Mr. Thornbury's deep masculine voice intoning “sartorial sagacity” over his bride's decision to wear ruched sleeves on her wedding costume sounded so silly, she held her breath to avoid discovery. Once she was far from the garden, she laughed in whoops. His rampant drollery softened her current negative feelings toward him. Negative because he still planned to build his foundry.

When she stopped laughing, she discovered herself on the gravel path that began the short walking circuit. The previous owner of Blackwell had built numerous ornamental bridges and new ruins for the enjoyment of his friends and family. Unfortunately, he died soon after, and the estate was sold to pay his debts.

She headed toward a delightful wooden bridge she remembered from a previous visit. The bright red bridge straddled a small stream that flowed into a distant mere. She ran to the highest part of the bridge and peered into the rapidly moving water. Bubbles created by the churning stream hid any identifiable fish, so she gazed across the emerald valley to the distant hills in the direction of her home.

Would a new foundry change this landscape forever? Would the undulating green fields before her now one day frame a soot-covered valley? Mr. Thornbury impressed her as a man who admired machinery and viewed factories as examples of man's progress. Moreover, during the supper party, he had emphasized that a new foundry created many employment opportunities, and families could earn a better living working in his foundry than as tenant farmers.

By her own experience, working with the poor of William's church, she had seen children suffer from hunger when their parents could not find work in the fields or mills. Even though her home meant everything to her, she began to harbor doubts as to denying Mr. Thornbury his lease. The choice between Pinnacles' stones blackened by soot or knowingly allowing children to go hungry, or even die, didn't seem like much of a choice. Perhaps she should discuss this point with Mr. Thornbury and get his opinion. Of course, if she eventually agreed to his foundry, she must insist no children were employed.

Thank heavens the sun shone today, something rare in this part of the country. Elinor peered again at the gurgling stream below. She took a long, deep breath. Contemplation of puffy clouds reflected in meandering streams appealed to her more than difficult decisions regarding steam engines. Still, she could not ignore the issue forever, so she resolved to have a rational deliberation of these thoughts with Mr. Thornbury today. Perhaps she might have a word in private when she thanked him for his attentions to Berdy.

Elinor's musings ended when she heard a shout.

“Yes, yes, Mrs. Colton,” Lord Boyce Parker yelled, advancing with long strides. “I see you too plan to enjoy this fine day. Spot any fish?” He bounded up, bowed, and leaned over the railing beside her. His casual bottle-green coat and buckskin breeches revealed his expectations to spend the sunny day outdoors.

“Your lordship, good afternoon. Do you plan to fish or take in the circuit?” They leaned over the railing in unison to stare at the water.

“Um, fish, I think.” He grinned. “Actually, I have been looking for you. I say, is that a tench?” He pointed to the left edge of the stream.

She peered left into the rushing water.

Lord Parker grumbled. “No, sorry, over there.” He pointed to a half-submerged boulder on the right.

She turned right to focus on the water close to the rock.

He briefly looked back toward the house before chuckling. “No, I believe the devil's over there by those rushes.” He pointed to her left again, his arm crossing over hers.

When Elinor turned left to follow his gaze, he swiftly kissed her on the cheek with a loud
smack
. She jumped back; surprise rendered her speechless.

Lord Parker beamed. “I won. Oh, I mean I guess we missed the fellow.” He returned to survey the stream, eagerly searching for his elusive tench.

“Sir!” Mr. Thornbury yelled. “Stop this nonsense, understand?”

Charging up the path were Mr. Thornbury and Mr. Drexel. Mr. Thornbury's thunderous countenance was contrasted by Mr. Drexel's wry grin. Without waiting for an answer, Mr. Thornbury confronted Lord Parker. “Apologize, sir,” he said with restrained force.

She looked at Mr. Thornbury and sharply inhaled.

His chest broadened in response.

With the shock of Lord Parker's kiss abating, she felt relieved that someone, at least, had enough sense to demand an apology. Mr. Thornbury's fierce request made her giddy, and she refused to think about why.

“Apologies, ma'am,” Lord Parker said, followed by the briefest of bows. “Couldn't help m'self, sunny day and all.”

Men!
That was the second “sunny day” excuse for improper behavior Elinor had received. What was wrong with the gentlemen of today if mere sunshine turned them into bussing half-wits? “Your lordship, I insist you behave like a gentleman, please.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Lord Parker replied in a tone without a drop of contrition. “Drexel, m' lad, guess I won.” A remarkably wide grin lingered upon his boyish face.

“Pardon?” she asked, now aware of some secret the men shared that she had no part in. Uncertain and uneasy, she longed to escape and return home. With any luck, this incident would soon be forgotten, and the men decent enough to check their tongues. Otherwise, Lord Parker's indiscreet behavior might give rise to rumors she had become a “fast” widow.

“Don't count, Whip, and you know why,” Mr. Drexel said, followed by a swift pat on his cheek.

Mr. Thornbury glared at Lord Parker, then held out his arm. “Mrs. Colton, may I escort you back to the house?”

Mr. Drexel and Lord Parker exchanged knowing smiles.

Eager to be free of all gentlemen today, she took Mr. Thornbury's offered arm, and together they began walking. Peeking up at his stern face, she noticed he failed to meet her eye. This formality surprised her. Today she was beyond understanding all gentlemen, but somehow she felt like she had been judged. “What was that all about?”

Mr. Thornbury said nothing at first and then,“You could have avoided that scene.”

“Avoid? How? Jump in the stream?”

“You didn't have to stand there so he could kiss you,” he said in clipped tones.

“Yes, I always stand ten feet away when I engage in conversation. And it's not as though you're innocent of similar behavior. You especially seem to enjoy acting the role of a professional seducer. In my opinion, the three of you gentlemen must have aspic under your hats.”

Mr. Thornbury paused, grinned, and caught her indignant stare. “There is some truth in that.” He no longer appeared angry, and a crinkle grew on his forehead, probably reflecting deep thought.

After a few minutes of silence, she hoped he had taken no offense from her comment. For Berdy's sake, she tried to lighten the mood between them. “I met your intended, Miss Allardyce. She is lovely, and I expect your marriage will be a success.”

“We'll be well dressed.”

“Pardon?”

“Success for Miss Allardyce means her husband's gift of a few new gowns—”

“She's young, remember.”