To Catch a Rake (25 page)

Cook sneered. “Of course.”

Mrs. Smith wiggled on her seat. “Mrs. Brown bought the book at Hatchards last Tuesday as a gift for me. From what I understand from her, it has become a bestseller.”

He questioned fate. He questioned sanity. He questioned his future. Whoever these
benevolent
ladies were—and he had a pretty good idea—they had single-handedly ended any chance of his promotion. Keep the line, Brunel had warned. Now he had become the victim, portrayed as the penultimate rake in a book taking London by storm. His anger grew until he transformed into the upright, snarling bear. He climbed the stairs to the vestibule two steps at a time, then grabbed his hat and gloves.

Mrs. Morris followed him. “I don’t know what you are up to, but I can guess. God save that nice lady from the bear.”

“Don’t distress yourself. It will be a bloodless mauling only.” The sound of his threat gave him a temporary sense of satisfaction.

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” She nervously wiped her hands on her apron.

“Humph.” He grabbed each of his black leather gloves and shoved his hands into them in a single, stabbing movement.

“Remember you have an appointment to dine with Mr. Codlington tonight.”

He paused and threw his head back.
Damnation
. The appointment had been forgotten in his raging urge to confront the woman. “Please, send the boy around to cancel the meeting. Have him give James my best, felicitations, et cetera.”

“A note would be better.”

“No. The boy is capable of remembering a simple directive.” He flew through the front door down to the street below in four strides. After pulling down his beaver hat tight on his temples, he inhaled to gather his fortitude and resumed his journey to Swallow Street. Home of just the person to be on the receiving end of the bear’s wrath.

George ran, hitting the pavement hard, eager to confront Mrs. Meta Russell. Ever since her involvement in his affairs, and her ceaseless desire to help him, his life experienced spectacular highs and unbelievable lows. With utmost certainty, he knew she—with or without the help of those clever friends of hers—had penned
The Ladies’ Field Guide to London’s Rakes
. The only question in his mind was the reason behind the publication. Previously, she had assisted him with his career and had even arranged Wellington’s visit. So why did she become a turncoat now?

Regardless of her reasons—and he doubted he ever wanted to hear them—the association between them must come to an end, once and for all. No visits of any kind. No joining her brother to pay a call. No recognition when she visited the pit. His normal habit, when paying a call upon the Broadshams, was to change into clothing more suitable for an esquire or a gentleman speaking to ladies. He glanced down to his rough brown oilskins and deplorable cravat knot. Serves the woman right that he appear in her drawing room dressed in attire normally reserved for working in the tunnel.

Halfway to his destination, he observed three lovely ladies approaching him on the pathway. The first lady caught sight of him at a hundred paces and stopped in her tracks. The other women then stopped too. The group conversed for a minute before giggles erupted.

George hated giggles. Women were not high on his list of favorite things at the moment. They ranked right up there with overflowing privies. None of them could be trusted, because they were all inveterate tittle-tattlers, bags of maudlin sentiment, and silly book writers.

“Oh look, that’s the very man himself,” the first lady said, immediately pulling back her hand when caught pointing at him.

He lengthened his stride, hoping to pass them in seconds.

“Are you certain?” the second lady said.

The first lady furtively nodded.

Ten feet before their paths crossed, he caught a white flash out of the corner of his eye. Upon further examination, it appeared the first lady had dropped her handkerchief on the pavement in front of him. He ground his teeth and swore he had no intention of picking it up. Very likely his chivalry toward the fairer sex may have escaped him permanently. He quickened his step.

A foot away, the second lady dropped her handkerchief right in his path. If he stepped on it, the handkerchief would be ruined, so he had to stop. Glaring downward at the offending cloth, he mumbled a strong swear word under his breath. He inhaled, tipped his hat, and bowed. “Ladies.” He then addressed the third one. “Would you care to drop your handkerchief too? It’s more efficient if I pick all three up at the same time. Besides, I would hate to leave a member of your party out of my gallantries.”

All of the ladies beamed.

The third one shook her head. “I forgot to bring my handkerchief,” she said in a disappointed tone.

He feigned a smile. “My loss.”

They all continued to smile and repeatedly nodded at each other.

He bent over to pick up the two white linen squares. At the very moment his hand grabbed the first one, a flash of silver and a heavy thump sounded as a silver reticule dropped on the pavement in front of his nose.

Seemingly without a handkerchief, the third lady had thrown in her reticule.

A moment of uneasy silence followed. Finally, he straightened and burst out in laughter.

The three women joined him, and they all laughed together.

After regaining his composure, he shook his head and bent over to pick up the small collection of items on the pavement. He then gracefully handed each piece to the correct owner, followed by a deep bow.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Thank you, Miss…”

“Goddess,” she said, looking entirely pleased with herself.

“And I’m Miss Widow,” her companion added.

Her friend nudged her arm. “Miss Widow Maker, dear.”

“Yes, I make widows.”

He chuckled and doffed his hat. “Ladies.” Once on his way again, he heaved a sigh of relief. Thankfully, he acknowledged his anger did not apply to all women—
just one
.

Before he reached Broadsham House, he spent an additional twenty minutes to formulate what he would say, so his anger had returned to its earlier levels. All he had to do was enter, give the woman a big piece of his mind, and leave. That thought gave him a sense of utter satisfaction.

Two minutes later, he stood in the drawing room as Mrs. Russell greeted him cheerfully. “Well, madam, what do you have to say for yourself?”

The wide-eyed, alluring rabbit expression entered her eyes. “Pardon?”

“You and those…those Learned Ladies friends of yours,” he spat out in a near snarl. “Did you set out to ruin me for the fun of it? Or did you plan to put an end to my promotion for some perverse female reason?”

This time she hopped backward, at least one step. “I have no idea of what you are going on about. Please, take a seat and explain yourself.”

An oath escaped his lips. He said it in a low voice, but she winced, so she must have caught it. They sat in opposing chairs. He rummaged in his pocket and pulled out Mrs. Smith’s copy of the field guide. Then he tossed the tome into her lap. “Tell me with a straight face that you had no hand in this.”

She took up the book and opened it. Within seconds of reading a few words, the color drained from her cheeks. “I-I—”

“Let me guess. You and your friends recognized you were up to no good. Your only regret is that I heard about it. Tell me, before I take my leave of you, why? Why did you decide to involve me in a scandal, stop any chance I had at promotion, and ruin my career?”

Her mouth hung open and tears shimmered in the corners of her eyes.

“Try using words, if you please.”

She hung her head and focused on the book in her lap.

“I see,” he said, his tone sharp. “You can’t even look me in the face and give me a decent explanation. Needless to say I regret my association with you, regret trusting you, and regret introducing you to my family. In the future, you will not visit my house under any pretense. You must also warn young Fitzhenry to stay away. At least until the time I can address him without feeling blind rage for his sister.”

Her head whipped up. “I did nothing. I did not even know about the Learned Ladies’ plans to publish such a book. I confess that I heard about it only a day ago. We are having a regular meeting of the members soon, so I plan to ask them how they could do such a thing. You must believe me.”

“I don’t.” He had to gulp air. “It has been obvious, since the day we met, that you like to muddle in other people’s business. You and your messy female emotional flummery.”

“Very well, but you cannot let your hatred for me affect Fitzy. Please, I beg you, for his sake.”

“Right.” He inhaled swiftly. “Tell him to keep to the tunnel site for the time being. Make whatever excuse you deem necessary to keep him from the company of either me or my parents for at least a month.” His firm words pleased him and relief flooded through his veins. He stood, snatched the book from her hands, and headed for the front door.

She followed, still wearing a stricken expression. “I have never read the ladies’ field guide, so I don’t fully understand the problem. Why are you so angry? Are your initials in—”

“Ask those learned friends of yours to explain the passage about the
stud
.”

“Pardon?”

“The authoresses, madam, they know. And a brief hint—it does not refer to horses.”

“Please stay. Let’s discuss this once I have been given a chance to read the book.”

“Our acquaintance is over.” Before he reached the front door, he turned. “There is something I wish to say, but a gentleman never insults a lady.”

Sixteen

Would she ever see George again?

Meta sat in the drawing room, staring at the clock, waiting for her siblings to come down to breakfast. She still struggled with the question that kept her awake all night. Refusing to believe she would never see him again, she couldn’t put a finger on the type of relationship she wanted—friend, lover? But a complete separation from his company forever was unthinkable. She could not deny her desire to see him again. Refusing to analyze exactly why she felt this way, she racked her brain trying to discover a way to help him out of the tight spot she had inadvertently caused.

Beads of perspiration formed on her brow and trickled down her cheek. The large morning fire had done its trick and vanquished the evening’s chill, but now the room felt like standing in the middle of an iron foundry. She moved to open the window facing the street. The fouls smells and various sounds of London coming alive on a new day entered the room.

“What are you doing?” Lily asked, stepping up to stand beside her sister. “Is there someone we know strolling down the street?”

“No,” Meta said, “the room became unbearably hot.”

“Really, it feels fine to me. But then my bedroom was unusually cold last night. I had to add to the fire at three in the morning, or else I would never have gotten to sleep.”

“What were you doing awake at three in the morning?”

Lily froze and cleared her throat. “Just thinking about my future. How my life has taken a terrible turn for the worse.” She paused, her lips pulled into a tight line. Grabbing a damask sofa pillow, she threw it to the sofa’s corner and sat.

Meta had no intention of delving into Lily’s lost hopes and expectations, at least not for another month or two. Until then, her siblings would have to wait. She planned to do everything in her power to restore her relationship with George—if it could be restored. Today she would take the first step of returning their relationship to the closeness they gained in a small inn on a rainy day. She’d pose her questions about the ladies’ field guide during a regular meeting of the Learned Ladies Society. She exhaled a deep sigh, caused by events she could not control.

“Maybe you could speak to James again?” Lily said, the tone of her voice carrying her expectations and her eyes brightening.

Meta met her sister’s eye. “No.”

“But—”

“I recommend the obvious.
You
go and speak with James. Put your fears behind you and suggest a reconciliation. Yes, he may refuse you. But since you refused him after he reconsidered his hasty decision to call off, you have no right to any expectation that he will agree to resume his addresses. In fact, Lily, I do not want to hear another word from you on the subject again.” She fanned her over-warm face with her hand. “For three months, at least, I have done my part to help you. Now it is time for you to do yours.”

Lily looked like she had just seen a ghost.

“Come,” Meta said, “we don’t want to be late for breakfast.” As soon as those words escaped her, they heard Tom bound down the staircase like a racehorse in full gallop. One foot slid as he turned the corner into the drawing room. Then under a full run, he started across the room toward the breakfast parlor.

Meta heard a deep rumble coming from upstairs. The second she looked up to the ceiling, she saw the great chandelier pull away from its plaster roundel and fall.

One long arm of the chandelier clipped Tom in the heels as he dove in an effort to escape.

The chandelier crashed to the floor.

The explosion radiated outward in a shower of debris full of plaster, broken glass, and bits of candles.

She hid her face into the crook of her arm until the danger of flying objects passed. Once she glanced up, a cloud of dust still lingered in the air. “I thought the noises in the ceiling had been looked after?”

Fitzy stood in the doorway, helping Tom to his feet. “Clearly not.”

Lily burst into tears. “Mother’s. Chandelier. She said it would always. Light.” She sobbed uncontrollably. “Up. Our. Lives.”

Susanna gingerly stepped forward to examine the remnants.

“Don’t,” Meta shouted. “Come back. Look at the ceiling above you. More plaster may fall. It’s too dangerous at the moment to even be in this room.”

Susanna hastily glanced up, then walked back to the doorway in a careful, hunched manner.

Lily cried even harder; she covered her eyes.

Meta had no intention of cajoling her sister out of her fit of tears. Let her have a cry. Actually, despite the loss of a sentimental chandelier, Meta was surprised she had no desire to cry. She examined Tom and asked if everyone was all right.