The Rake's Handbook (2 page)

“Please, I'm not seeking conquests,” she said in a whisper. “You know I have counted the days until this evening. And despite what everyone says, I still fail to understand why mourning requires forced seclusion. Vibrant society and the company of my friends is what I need to survive my loss.”

“Yes, but standing up with Dr. Potts three times. You also danced twice with Mr. Mabbs and twice with Mr. Burton, then you—”

“I've simply enjoyed an hour or two dancing with several of my neighbors. Since you and I have waltzed, you must approve of dancing.”

“Yes, but your repeated dancing may create public expectations.”

“I'm sure nobody but you counted. All of my friends know of my everlasting commitment to William, so no expectations of a future marriage will arise.” Once again after the mention of William's name, unshed tears pooled in her eyes. The liquid transformed her silk gown's iridescent shine into a dancing rainbow. Her husband's loss was one catastrophe, but the isolation expected of first mourning became another blow. For the past year, she felt like a cloistered prisoner in a dark closet, unable to breathe, forced to listen to happy conversation just outside the door. She needed to hear laughter again, not only from her nephew or the housemaids. It sounded silly and unimportant, but laughter and good company banished her grief for a moment. Today that transient reprieve meant everything to her. Recalling the lively conversation with the impertinent stranger, she wiped her tears away and glanced around the room.

She discovered him standing on the opposite side of the floor, lounging against a marble mantelpiece and speaking to a group of gentlemen unknown to her. Dressed predominantly in black, he wore a white stock of small pleats instead of a knotted cravat. The sole embellishments to this otherwise stark attire were garnet waistcoat buttons that caught the candlelight and twinkled from across the room. After this first clear glimpse of him, she dismissed his dark garments as too simple. But upon reflection, she couldn't find a single feature not to her taste. His elegant evening wear was so flawlessly cut and hugged every inch to such perfection, the other gentlemen around him appeared disheveled, like their tailors had been the worse for wine.

The stranger caught her staring and grinned. Then with a straight face—probably feigned—he spread his fingers wide on one hand and nonchalantly held his “leaf” low in front of his trousers. This gesture was followed by a leisurely turn sideways in mock modesty.

“Oh.” She swallowed a chuckle, a most embarrassing sound. She focused on the purple embroidered roses covering her slippers until she regained her composure. When she looked up, she discovered his eyes sported that mischievous gleam again. She tried to frown in proper admonishment but ended up grinning instead.

He flashed a smile of such radiance; it left her breathless.

“We must find this Mr. Thornbury.” Henry patted her hand. “I should warn you that there is another reason to be on your guard. It seems Thornbury's investment group plans to erect a foundry to build small steam engines. The foundry will be constructed on his property, but he will need your property too.” He pressed up the limp ends of his sagging collar tips. “Of course, the subject of a foundry is men's business and should not be discussed in polite company. As your attorney, I insist you inform me at once if Thornbury is seen near your land. Then I can officially warn him off.”

“Why does he need my property?”

“He'll need an established waterway to move his engines to market, so he will have to travel across your land to the river.” He patted her hand to gain her complete attention. “Now for the worst part. Since his foundry will likely obtain its power from a steam engine, the coal soot from the chimney flue might destroy your home.”

She clutched his arm. “Destroy—”

“This is not the time to worry.” He squeezed her hand. “After Thornbury declares his intentions and provides specifics, we will consult the current law and make our objections known.”

Were Henry's comments nothing more serious than an attorney's usual suspicions?
Could
her
home
be
damaged
or
even
destroyed?
William had built their Gothic-style house, Pinnacles, as a wedding gift. Today the house was the remaining tangible evidence of their happy past. Just yesterday she caught herself staring at the mezzotint on the bedroom wall, and recalled William carefully hanging the little picture just so. Now every inch of the house triggered a fond memory, and she vowed never to leave it. If the gossip proved true, she would do anything to fight a large steam engine with its smoky chimney near her home.

“Rum business, foundries,” Henry said, running a hand through his blond hair. “Besides the destruction of Pinnacles, life for the whole neighborhood would change, including people of quality. Whenever a foundry, mill, or soot-belching factory moves into a populated area, the men of rank move away within a year or two. For those who remain, their lands will become worthless.” A scowl marred his handsome face. “I've no inclination to leave my property.”

She pictured her home's cream-colored stones blackened by soot, and words tumbled from her mouth. “When the steam engine at the Stockport colliery hauls coal to the surface, it belches enough sulfur-smelling smoke to dim the sunlight. Sometimes I feel those chimneys must be pipes straight up from Hades. With all that foul air, it would be like living in Manchester. Citizens in that city become ill when they walk down the street.” She bounced her leg in a rapid, unladylike movement.

He watched her for a minute or two. “My dear, after further consideration, I've changed my opinion.” Reaching out to imprison her hand, he pressed her palm on her knee for a brief moment to stop the bounces. “I now believe this man's information about Thornbury's foundry was false, since it was secondhand.”

She silently dismissed his solicitude. Manchester was over twenty miles away. Yet new mills and factories were built in nearby towns every day, spreading outward like black soot-covered roots expanding into the verdant countryside. She clutched his arm. “But if the rumor is true, how can I stop Mr. Thornbury from building his foundry? What if my home began to smell of soot?” She bounced her leg again. “What if the smoke turned my windows black? What if smoke fills my lungs when I stroll in my garden? What—”

“Yes. I am now confident this foundry business is only a rumor. Please ignore my earlier concerns.” A long sigh escaped him. “A gentleman like Mr. Thornbury must be aware of the detrimental effect an iron foundry would have on your house and our small village. As your man of business, I will attend this matter. Don't worry.” He spoke in a conciliatory tone. “You must realize that in company like this public assembly, some men enjoy spreading scandalous misinformation solely for their own amusement.” He patted her hand. “There is only one way to end this reckless speculation. I'll go and inquire after Thornbury now, so we can resolve this rumor.” He rose, tugged on both coat sleeves again, and soon disappeared in the direction of the card room.

Anxiously waiting for Henry's return, she refused all requests for a dance. She even refused her favorite, La Pastourelle, and its lively finale.

A long hour later, as the last midnight chime echoed around the room, she surveyed the assembly. Smoke hung in the air from the guttered candles, and half of the revelers had left for home. The remaining townsfolk conversed in small groups, a few discreetly rubbing their feet after a long night of dancing. She turned to find Henry bearing down in her direction.

He narrowed his eyes in a troubled expression. “I discovered Mr. Thornbury in the supper room.” He held out his arm to escort her. “However, I had no chance to speak with him in private. This foundry nonsense has certainly spread. Some madcap fellow claimed the whole region would be choked with soot-belching chimneys before the year's end.”

“Heavens.”

“Come, come. Mr. Thornbury is ready to leave. Let's have a private word and clear up this flummery now. Hurry.” He clasped her arm and marched forward.

Once they were outside on the assembly steps, the light proved too poor to distinguish anyone clearly. The dark coats of the disordered crowd blended with the black sides of the carriages jostling to retrieve their passengers. The noise of restless horses and coachmen's shouts added to the chaos.

Standing on his toes to survey the crowd, Henry yelled, “There he is.” Releasing her arm, he ran to the left.

Elinor lifted her skirt and hurried after him.

He stopped to point at a large carriage, and she quickly reached his side.

Under the dim lamplight, the impertinent stranger bid farewell to his friends before he entered the vehicle. The carriage lurched forward and soon disappeared into the thick nighttime air.

She gasped. “That's Mr. Thornbury? He's not a vile seducer. He's a kind…flirt!”

Henry seized her hand. “Remember my warning. If you are seen in the company of that scoundrel, your reputation will be at stake. Moreover, if you encounter him without an escort, well, who knows what mischief he is capable of. Under no circumstances should you meet this Thornbury alone.”

Elinor squinted at the dazzling sunlight spilling in from the windows as she entered the breakfast parlor.

“Did you enjoy the assembly last night?” asked Elinor's seventeen-year-old nephew, Berdmore Deane. “From what I saw, you were much admired and stood up with every eligible gentleman in the county.” Berdy failed to hide his knowing smirk. “Any fellows you'd like to tell me about?”

The light shining from behind Berdy's head transformed his blond hair into a corona of gilt curls. This golden vision reminded her of his arrival nine years ago, after her sister's death. Berdy's gamester father had been unwilling to live with a small child in London and delighted to leave the boy in Cheshire. She remembered the young Berdy sitting quietly by the window, his hands clasped in his lap, and his hair lit from behind like today. She chuckled at the comparison of the child half listening to William's calm reassurances back then to the aspiring dandy before her now.

“I am just pleased you had such a wonderful time,” he said, still chewing his bacon. “It was good to see you dancing and happy for a change.”

“Thank you, I think.” She sat in a slow, purposeful manner, then poured herself a cup of black tea. The air soon filled with a smoky, heather-like aroma.

“I am also surprised you received such marked attentions from every unmarried gentleman in the county. You must be flattered.”

“Yes. I was very grateful for their kind attentions.”

“You're too young to hide yourself in this Gothic pile,” he said, waving a fork. “William has been dead for over a year. I worried you might marry Henry, but now with so many gentlemen vying for your favor, you will have your pick of beaus. Of course, the trick will be to find a beau who loves you, and not just your fortune.”

“I am not interested in beaus.” For some reason unknown to her, everyone—even Berdy—believed she would eventually wed. Why didn't they understand William's love filled her heart forever?
She
could
never
marry
a
second
time.

She glanced around at the lovely room decorated in bright yellow. William had thought the color too bold, but he painted it that hue to please her. Now, after a restless night and two cups of strong tea, she faced the uncertainty over the future of her home. Her first instinct was to march over to Blackwell and demand an answer to the foundry rumor, but she owed Henry the chance to inquire about the foundry alone. Mr. Thornbury might reveal more detailed information to a gentleman than he would to an anxious widow like herself.

“If you are not interested in beaus, then what did you think of everyone's dress at the assembly?” He rolled his eyes. “Henry's sleeves were too long, and his collar points became limp after the first dance. For the rest of the evening, his collar flapped like giant bird wings—”

“Yes…wings.” Since patience was not one of her virtues, she devised a plan. If she visited Blackwell's grounds today, she might get lucky and meet one of Mr. Thornbury's employees. Maybe a groom or undergardener could confirm or deny the industry rumor. If that failed, she would call upon Mrs. Thornbury and discreetly inquire about her son's plans.

While Berdy continued to describe every waistcoat at the assembly, she peered out the window to the bright July sky and recalled William had always enjoyed fishing at Blackwell's lake on warm days. Perhaps she could use fishing as an excuse to meet a Blackwell employee, and casually ask about the rumor. “Would you like to go fishing at the lake today? We can ask Cook to pack a picnic.”

Berdy grumbled after finding jam on his yellow-striped waistcoat. “Picnic? Fishing? Dash it all, Elli. Look at me. Where do you expect a fellow to sit?” He surveyed his mint-colored pantaloons for more wayward jam.

She tapped a finger on her teacup. “On the ground, silly, or on a rock.”

“Sit on a rock. That will ruin m' new trousers. Indeed, what if I catch a fish? I might spoil m' third-best waistcoat. A huge risk. Anyhow, I must go to town. I'm expecting a significant delivery from London soon.”

“A delivery? What is it?” Curiosity seized her, but she tried to sound casual and not overly interested.

His jam-covered grin grew. “It's a surprise. A surprise of
great
import.”

She was not going to inquire further. Hopefully, his surprise involved nothing more than a new hat or waistcoat. Any article of dress would be preferable to what she silently called a “Berdy Rash Scheme.” She stood then pushed her chair back into place. “Very well, it's such a beautiful day. I'll go fishing by myself.”

Once upstairs in her bedchamber, she changed into a blue dimity gown and tucked her guinea-gold curls into a tight chignon. She grabbed her gloves and biggest leghorn bonnet, and headed out to fish.

The small lake nestled on the grounds of Mr. Thornbury's estate, and she had acquired permission to fish there anytime she desired. She sighed after her first sight of the serene, secluded fishpond. Dense woods shaded one side, while on the other, large rocks glistened in the full sun. She inhaled deeply; the damp morning air tickled her nose.

Since William's death, she visited the lake often to recapture happy memories. Sometimes a sight—such as a random reflection in the green water—triggered a priceless remembrance of him. Today the calm pool evoked the memory of his tender smile as he proudly watched her bait her line.

Choosing a flat rock half-submerged, she sat and removed her gloves. She hooked the bait she'd brought from home and cast her line. It hit the water with a delightful little plop. Once she wedged her fishing pole against the rock, she opened her novel,
The
Necromancer
, and began to read.
The
hurricane
was
howling, the hailstones beating against the windows, the hoarse croaking of the raven bidding
adieu…

A twig snapped. She looked up to find the impertinent stranger from the previous evening rapidly approach. He strode with determination, like a man confident he possessed rights to everything in his domain. In the morning after the assembly, she had wondered if Henry identified the wrong man in the crowded darkness. But the man's presence here confirmed that Mr. Thornbury was indeed that kind, flirting
smiler
.

His broad thighs, encased in tight riding breeches, then drew her attention, before it naturally moved to his fig-leaf region. Horrified he might catch her looking
there
, she drew her gaze upward until it fixed upon his gold watch fob. This ornament hung down below his waist and, with each stride, mesmerized her with a rhythmic back-and-forth swing.

She gulped awkwardly.

Forcing herself to glance even higher on his person, she found a broad-shouldered man with a lock of near-black hair falling over his brow. He held his hat under his arm, and with a single movement of his hand, he brushed his forelock aside. He had a prominent nose, framed by a jaw shadowed by close-shaven dark whiskers. Smartly dressed in a bottle-green coat and elegant buff-colored waistcoat, this almost-handsome man flourished another one of his radiant smiles.

She glanced back at the swinging watch fob and blushed. No.
Almost
handsome
was incorrect. When he smiled, his whole person transformed into an uncommonly handsome man, indeed. She also harbored no doubts that he was completely aware of the power inherent in his captivating smile.

“Good day, Miss Leaf. Hope I haven't frightened your fish. Since I did not get the chance to formally introduce myself to you last evening, please allow me to—”

“Oh, yes, good day.” His striking good looks caused her sudden embarrassment, which resulted in an overly cheerful wave. “You must be Mr. Thornbury. I've heard so much about you from every…from your mother.”

He stopped at the edge of the rock. “You heard all about me from Mother? I am disappointed. I had hoped my reputation would be
just
.”

She grinned. Was he alluding to the stories of his amorous conquests sweeping the village? Thankfully they were not in public, so she could ignore Henry's warning and speak freely. “I don't know if it is just, but your reputation precedes you. You are a scandalous—oh!”
Where
had
her
manners
flown?
Best not to speak about the rumors or any question about his supposed handbook. She still needed his sympathies and friendship to persuade him not to build his foundry. So she must remain ruthless and keep her mind focused on discovering his business plans. “I apologize. I meant no offense, and Lady Helen never called you scandalous.”

“I sincerely hope not—not from Mother, at least. Although she has called me other names.”

“Your mother described you as a much-loved son and touted your successes in business. Feats I consider admirable in a gentleman. She also mentioned Acts of Parliament and canal construction, or was it turnpikes? Whatever the details, I understand your business endeavors are varied and have served the public well. Since we are neighbors, I hope one day we will be great friends.” Caught again by his steady gaze and all-too-handsome countenance, she took awhile before she realized her babbling. She must collect her wits and ask him about the veracity of the foundry rumor. “Mr. Thorn—”

“You need a man.” He nodded.

“Pardon?”

He pointed to her fishing rod. “A man to help you fish. Ladies require a man to place the worm on the hook, then afterward to unhook the fish.” An expression of sham solemnity crossed his face. “You thought I meant?”

She smiled, took a deep breath, and resolved to keep to her purpose. “I do not need a man, and I can bait my own hook, thank you. Now, I have some questions about your future plans. I'd like to ask you—”

“To take one off the hook?”

“A fish?”

He laughed. “What else? Take some man off your hook?”

“No!” Elinor met his sky-blue eyes, the same color found only on days warm enough to lie in the grass and look heavenward.

“May I join you?” He sat next to her on the rock without waiting for her reply.

Ignoring him was impossible. She felt his body's warmth. Turning to ask him to move to a respectable distance, she found herself face-to-face. A nearness only lovers knew, certainly not strangers.

She froze; her pulse erratic.

He pressed his lips together in a terrible job of hiding his efforts not to laugh. Leisurely crossing his legs, he reached over her lap without touching her, and pulled on her fishing line. “So my new neighbors have been discussing me, have they?”

She smoothed the wrinkles on her blue skirt in an exaggerated movement to innocently push his arm back to his side. “We live in a small village, so your arrival has been anticipated ever since you purchased Blackwell Hall. You were also the subject of conversation at the assembly last night. Of course, you must expect a little tittle-tattle about your famous exploits.”

“You seem to know me well, but I know nothing about you. Mother has not described anyone like you residing in the vicinity.” He turned to examine her briefly, yet quite thoroughly.

Fighting to dampen a blush caused by his perusal—
the
devil
—she straightened her shoulders and focused on the foundry. “Mr. Thornbury, in regard to your property, may I inquire whether or not you plan—”

“To let you steal, er…liberate my fish?”

“Liberate? In my defense, I've a long-standing arrangement with Blackwell's steward. No crime has been committed.” Hoping he wouldn't drag her in front of a magistrate for poaching, she stole a sideways peek to judge his response. “Do you mind if I fish here?”

“No.” He chuckled. “I don't mind if people purloin my pike. However, I plan to make a new rule and confine fish thievery on my estate to lovely ladies only.”

Glancing up at his face, she couldn't help but smile. She liked friendly people with frank speech and open manners. She even enjoyed his teasing banter when they were alone, since she felt free enough to be herself and tease him in return. But he was too close for a stranger of such short acquaintance. Someone might catch them sitting together and start an irresponsible rumor. She searched for a possible path around him, but the routes were blocked either by the lake or his all-too-solid figure. “Please, Mr. Thornbury, if you would remove yourself over to
that
rock.” She pointed to another rock five feet away. “We would both have plenty of room to sit, and you might be more comfortable.”

He rocked his hips and ended up an inch or two closer. “This stone is exceedingly comfortable, soft, and has plenty of room. Tell me, what is the forfeit”—he grinned—“for letting you fish in my lake?”

“Forfeit?” What could he desire from her as a payment? One glance at his knowing smirk and her cheeks heated.
The
most
forward
man
she
had
ever
met.
So the numerous stories were true—a famous London rake. How exciting! She'd never met a real one and suspected all those rumors of rakish seduction were false. Nothing more than masculine boasts meant to impress other gentlemen in taprooms or their clubs. Yet she couldn't stop herself from wondering how far he might go. They were on his property, alone. Surely he wouldn't try to ravish her on a rock, would he? “You, sir, are very forward.” She took a peek at his face. “Someone last evening even called you”—she did her best to suppress a smile and dropped her voice to a whisper—“
a
rake
.”

He lifted a solitary brow. “My dear fish thief, call me anything else, please.” His grin faded. “Especially in front of Mother. How about a charming cove or a bang-up blade?”