The Rake's Handbook (19 page)

Ross rose and stood by the fire.

“You know I'm right,” Parker said, raising his glass.

Peering into the fire, Ross kicked a loose coal near the scuttle. “No. I know nothing of the sort.”

“Listen. You can bring home the mooncalf, parley your neighbors away from the Mater, and rescue the lovely widow. All with just a few minutes of playacting.”

Ross dropped his fist on top of the mantel. “I can do all that without the assistance of the Smedleys.”

“Not rescue the widow,” Parker said, tossing back the last of his sherry. “You said yourself you doubted the townsfolk had actually read the handbook, so they must give it the same veracity one gives gossip—entertaining, but false. We could pass out copies of the handbook at the local market day, but that might be expensive. No, they must see your vile character with their own eyes.”

“Stop.”

“How are you going to change people's minds about the widow? Plead with them?” He lowered his voice to mimic his father's pedantic tone. “‘Please be civil to her, it was all my fault.' Ha! Like to see you try. Yes, yes, I want a front-row seat for that performance. I'm telling you, it will take just one gossiping matron to see you with the girls, and your name will be gleefully sullied all over town.”

“And that helps Mrs. Colton how?”

“Because you are so obviously vile, the widow must have done the right thing by refusing you. Yes, yes, she will become the town's heroine.”

Ross glared at him. If he agreed to Parker's little farce, he hated to think of his mother's reaction if she were told. But his news from Blackwell indicated Lady Helen had retreated to her rooms soon after his departure. So he doubted she would ever hear the news of Parker's playacting. If she did, he could always explain the situation. He'd rather walk on hot coals than explain, but he could if necessary.

Lord Parker raised both hands. “Do you have a better plan?”

***

The five Smedley girls, ages sixteen to twenty-two, climbed into the large carriage for their journey to the town's central square. Their cousin, Lord Boyce Parker, and his friend, Mr. Thornbury, would ride in the curricle behind them. The eldest sister, Miss Hope Smedley, pointed to the exact location where she wished the two youngest sisters to sit. Her orders were obeyed without question, because the girls were not listening to her. The five sisters were all dressed as tarts, and the other four were busy comparing costumes.

Days before, it had taken some time for Lord Parker to gain Mr. Smedley's parental consent for his scheme, even though a lady's honor would be saved. The girls' father, an easygoing country squire, agreed to the outing upon the condition no names would be used, so the sisters would remain anonymous. He also insisted the girls' nurse would accompany them every foot of their journey.

All of the sisters expected their performance to be superior to what they had ever done before, because now they had a real audience. An audience that promised to be more susceptible to fine acting than Uncle John with his listening horn, a sleeping nurse, a disapproving mother, or silly Aunt Sarah.

Once the two conveyances started forward and the girls were alone in their carriage, conversation turned to the performance ahead of them. The girls were to act like harlots, merely by dressing like tarts and strolling in public accompanied by Mr. Thornbury. Then they would join their nurse and return to the posting house. They should reach their home in the next county before nightfall.

Alice yanked up the window to stop the breeze from blowing the feather on her bonnet across her face. “That Mr. Thornbury is a little terse, granted, but a very nice man. I wonder why the unknown lady wants to call off and does not wish to marry him? It must be his age. He is very old, perhaps thirty.”

“I am worried about you,” Elizabeth said pointedly. “I fear you need spectacles.” The artist of the family, no detail escaped her sharp eye.

Jane, the ginger-haired sister, nodded. “Oh, I agree completely.”

The two other young ladies murmured in general agreement.

“I mean, it is not as if he was objectionable in any way.” Elizabeth pointed out. “In fact, he is painfully handsome. Just why does the lady wish to refuse him?”

“She is refusing him,” Jane said, “because like Alice here, she cannot see him.
God's carrots.
Did you see the thighs on that man?”

Four pairs of eyes widened in identical astonishment.

Jane ignored them and continued. “I wish my beau's thighs looked like that in pantaloons. They were so broad—”

“Thighs!” Elizabeth exclaimed, shaking her head. “You must be blind, too. No, it's his buttocks.”

Collective gasps ricocheted throughout the carriage. Furtive glances were exchange from left to right, then right to left. Everyone started to giggle.

The sisters replied in turn. “Oh my word.”

“Don't be vulgar.”

“I'm going to tell.”

“Did you see them?” Elizabeth asked. “How could you ignore those buttocks? I would love to have him sit for my next watercolor.”

Anne, the wisest sister said, “I never stood behind him.”

“I apologize for the vulgarity,” Elizabeth said, leaning forward into the center of the carriage. “But his buttocks were just like butter cakes or those London muffins Cook was trying to replicate. You know, Mogg's muffins, nicely curved and—um—delicious to look at.”

The sisters gasped again before exploding into various types of giggles.

“Muffins?” Jane replied, taking her turn to lean forward. “No, those muffins are soft, and believe me, there was nothing soft about those buttocks.”

The other sisters gasped.

Jane wagged her finger. “Those buttocks were perfectly round and firm. I'll bet they are so hard, a shilling would bounce off them.”

“I agree with Jane,” Anne said stolidly. “His backside cannot be compared to cakes or muffins. It's so-so troublesome. Besides, our cake rings are all fluted.”

Four young ladies burst into identical whoops of laughter.

“No,” Elizabeth joined in, “he has perfect buttocks.” Waving her hand, she sliced a curve through the air. “Prominent, and you know how each cheek can get that little hollow in the side when the gentlemen are particularly fit. Buttocks with a hollow like that might be called fluted.”

“Just like those naughty Greek statues in the British Museum,” Jane said.

“Ladies, please,” Hope pleaded. “You are all being vulgar, and I fear we are not helping Boyce.”

The girls sat for a minute in guilty silence.

Jane whispered to Elizabeth, “Why are you making such a funny face?”

Elizabeth grinned. “Since I am acquainted with all of the available beaus within forty miles, and I am the second sister to be out, I believe I will set my cap for Mr. Thornbury. He really does have a lovely smile, does he not? Besides, he is the finest specimen of our acquaintance. Wealthy, kind, doing what he did to save some lady—although the nature of the matter escapes me. So I plan to do everything in my power to
reel
him in.”

“Oh, yes,” Anne said, “a wise decision. I'll help you reel him in. I suggest we invite him to supper.”

Each sister replied in turn. “I will invite him to play whist.”

“I will invite him to stroll in the garden.”

“I will invite him to ride Father's hunter.”

“But he is still old,” Alice stated, struggling to make her bonnet's feather stand upright. “And next year he'll be even older.”

“See, I was right,” Elizabeth said. “She needs spectacles.”

“No, she needs a brain,” Anne said.

Jane held up a finger to her lips. “Shh, Mr. Thornbury's coming. God's carrots. If one day he becomes my brother-in-law, I will always think of him first as the muffin man.”

Strolling down the flagstone pavement in front of the local marketplace, Elinor stilled.
Heavens.
She had forgotten about the bazaar held on the last Saturday of the month. All she set out to accomplish this morning was to visit one of William's closest friends, the Reverend Hill. Now she found herself in front of sixty women strolling past tables within a cavernous marketplace. They all turned in unison to stare at her, as if orchestrated by some unseen conductor. Her mind raced.
Should
she
run
or
hide?

The formidable dowager, Mrs. Harbottle, turned to face the ladies in the marketplace, her gray curls bouncing with her quick movements. “Can you believe she means to attend the bazaar today? I mean, now really.”

“Shh.” The sound echoed amongst small groups of women.

Elinor backed up against a wide stone column and shuffled halfway around to face the town square, so she would be hidden from their view. Surely after a few minutes, her presence would be forgotten, and she could walk past the ladies without being seen. She held her breath, waiting.

***

Ross opened the carriage door to allow the Smedley sisters to alight. It took longer than expected, because a feather became stuck in a door hinge. Parker stood behind him, grinning widely—
the
devil
. If only this daft plan were over this minute, Ross could start drinking himself to the blue devils. But first, all he had to do was convince the townspeople that the tittle-tattle spewed by his neighbors was true—he was a rake.

He acknowledged to himself that there was some justice to this farce. Elinor would be absolved of any indiscretion, and the blame would be shifted to him. Besides, as the saying goes,
nosce
te
ipsum
, know thyself. This “charade” would truly be the last nail in the coffin of his failed “proper gentleman” masquerade.

As he paused to speculate whether Elinor's suitors could guarantee her happiness, his attention was regained by five expectant smiles. “Ladies, I'm grateful for your assistance in this matter.”

Standing before him, five sisters stood dressed according to their individual ideas of what a tart would wear. The outfits varied from the low-bodice country maiden, complete with a milk bucket, to the washerwoman with a hiked-up skirt tucked into a broad black belt. One short young lady wore an old ball gown, which Ross decided had more to do with her lack of a suitable frock than to her belief that harlots dressed like members of the
ton
. All of them had apparently dipped into the same face powder, because ten cheeks sporting identical red dots framed five broad grins.

A tall girl with long features to match, Miss Alice sneezed after a feather fell on her nose. She batted the feather back into place.

Miss Hope, not a day over twenty-two, took charge. “Mr. Thornbury, we are all delighted to help someone who is a friend of our dear cousin Boyce.”

“He is our favorite cousin,” Alice added.

Miss Hope frowned at her sister before she spoke again. “While the exact nature of your assistance is unclear, I believe it had something to do with releasing a lady from a premature betrothal without scandal attaching to the lady.”

Miss Elizabeth gave her opinion. “You are obviously a very nice man, aren't you, Mr. Thornbury? I am sure you did not want to marry this old harridan anyway, correct?”

Ross grimaced at Parker. “If you say so, Miss Elizabeth. Parker, you are a fortunate man to have such lovely relations. All of these young ladies are remarkable.”

Miss Elizabeth beamed.

“Now, ladies,” Ross said, “here is my plan. Upon my signal, all you have to do is slowly stroll by the town hall. There is a bazaar being held today, and several distinguished ladies will be present. After a pass or two in front of the hall, this charade should be over. I will join you and Parker at the posting house, where our carriages have been readied for our return journey. I do not know the details Parker has told you, but we are doing this as a service to a lady, and each sister will receive a new bonnet for her assistance. Any questions?”

The five sisters clapped in approval. Then the dairymaid asked, “Should we—I mean—what should we
do
?”

Ross tried to think of something the young ladies could do that would keep them in the courtyard for several minutes, but his mind blanked. If only one matron saw them, it would be enough for gossip to quickly spread. “I will pretend to be reading a book aloud, and you all can pretend to be listening.”

“I think she means,” the washerwoman said, “we would all like to
act
…like tarts.”

Ross impatiently brushed his forelock off his brow. His thoughts ran wild, trying to imagine what respectable young ladies knew about acting like harlots, but he forced himself to stop. Instead, he faced the certainty that this was the last moment he possessed some control. The last stop before the edge of the cliff. The last chance to finally use his brain to end this scheme. But without an alternative plan to assist Elinor, he must march forward and take his chances. “Point taken. Perhaps a small—very small—amount of acting might be in order.”

Four of the women sported mischievous grins, looking like horses ready to bolt into action.

Miss Hope gave them all a disapproving stare. “Now, girls, remember we are respectable young ladies. Actresses, yes, but ladies first.” She lectured in the universal tone used by elder siblings to instruct the younger ones. Then she pointed to each sister in turn. “Elizabeth, you play the indifferent tart, Jane, you play the silly tart, and I'll play their keeper. Alice and Elizabeth, you can have a subtle fight over our hero's attentions.” She nodded at him. “Ready, girls? Remember, great acting involves using your eyes and moving your arms. Oh, and don't do anything untoward.”

All of the girls nodded in agreement, but Ross noticed the twinkle in their eyes did not fade.

Miss Elizabeth giggled. “I have always wanted to be an actress. This is much more realistic than acting in front of nurse.”

“Er…right,” Ross said, acknowledging his private doubts that Parker's cousins could convince anyone they were London harlots.

“Isn't this exciting?” Miss Anne looked at each of her sisters in turn for an affirmative response.

Ross and the five ladies started to stroll, one sister clinging to each arm, and the others strolled in front of him. For some unknown reason, the girls blinked at everyone they passed on the pavement.

Ross glanced ahead of them as they approach the town square and saw Elinor leaning full against a stone column. Upon his first glimpse of her after so many months, his heartbeat stopped. Her altered looks were not lost upon him, as he noticed she was thinner by at least a stone. The plump, laughing lady of the lake now appeared thin and ashen. Even the excessive formality of her sapphire gown, instead of the light-colored gowns she wore at the parties held at Blackwell, announced a newfound seriousness. Trying to hide his panic caused by her unexpected presence, he needed to think of some explanation or casual way out of this muddle.
Think, man, think.
With his mind in a whirl, and at a loss for a solution, he stopped strolling. He must appear like a bacon-brained half-wit, standing there staring at her with his jaw dropped, so he feigned reading a book to the washerwoman. His heartbeat became so loud, he could not hear his own words.

The four other sisters stopped too. Only they did not attend him. Instead, as if choreographed by an unseen hand, they bent at the waist in unison and pretended to adjust their stockings.

Gasps were heard from the direction of the bazaar.

Elinor took several steps forward, as if she were to greet him, then stopped in place, her mouth open and her face scarlet.

He stepped toward her, but the tall Miss Hope blocked his exit and began to trail her index finger down the side of his cheek.
Hell's fire.
Now he wholly regretted this tomfool plan. With a mock smile planted on his face, he imprisoned the tall lady's hand against his chest before she could “act” again, but her other hand wandered up and down his arm. Next the shortest Miss Smedley, wearing an overdramatic scowl, strode over and snatched his free hand before holding it to her breast.

The first lady giggled.

He glared at the sky.

The milk bucket dropped.

Elinor's body trembled slightly, enough for him to notice. She then lowered her head to focus on her clutched hands. Whatever sounds or movement were made by the five girls, Elinor's head remained lowered and her gaze unmoving.

He broke free and reached her in three long steps. “Please, let me explain.”

“No,” Elinor almost shouted. “I don't want to interrupt your…business. Good day.” She shuffled backward and appeared to be in some distress. “Good day,” she repeated as she started to run in the direction of the church.

With penitent humility, he yearned to fall at her feet and beg her forgiveness. Forgiveness for causing her public embarrassment. Scoop her up in his arms to cradle her softly. Soothe her wretchedness with a silly rhyme or tease out one of her fetching smiles until she gave him a wide-eyed gasp followed by a single “oh.” An exclamation that had always coaxed the dimple to play in the corner of her mouth.

If he wouldn't look like such a sodding idiot, he'd kiss the hem of her gown and allow her the satisfaction of kicking him to the opposite side of the square. No, he'd grant her leave to kick him to the other side of England. She needed to marry Browne or Potts or some gentleman who would guarantee her happiness.

He herded the sisters together, and they all retreated to the posting house.

***

Elinor did not get far before several ladies at the bazaar stepped in front of her. Her body stilled, but her senses remained on guard. She held her breath.

Mrs. Harbottle, who in the past had been her severest critic, gave her a single righteous nod.

Mrs. Applewaite moved forward and gave her a quick hug. “My dear Elinor, I always knew that man was a scoundrel. He is even worse than that earl who ran off with the opera dancer.”

“Dear Mrs. Applewaite,” Mrs. Long said, “that event never happened and truly was just gossip.”

“But no one saw him again.” Mrs. Applewaite shook her head. “And he had a large estate to run.”

Mrs. Long pulled on her glove. “That's because his ship sank.”

“Well.” Mrs. Applewaite crossed her arms. “Even so, he still was a scoundrel.”

“Ladies,” Mrs. Harbottle pronounced. “Those who believed that Mr. Thornbury's vile handbook was nothing but gossip, I told you it was true, but you did not believe me. It is painfully obvious that every time that man smiles, scoundrel is written all over his face.”

“Indeed,” Mrs. Long remarked, running over to embrace her next. “Our little neighborhood is not safe with such a creature like Mr. Thornbury in our midst. First that foundry business and now this—this—behavior. You have my full support now that you have called off, dear. No woman in her right mind should marry such—a villain.” Surprisingly, all of the ladies nodded in agreement.

Soon a small crowd of ladies gathered around Elinor. Simultaneous conversations erupted, in which she heard Ross repeatedly called a rake, a villain, and several other words, including blackguard, miscreant, libertine, reprobate, rapscallion, and rogue. As she surveyed her indignant friends surrounding her, the only word that came to her mind was “hero.”