The Rake's Handbook (5 page)

After an hour of practice, during which the faces of the inn's patrons turned from pointed curiosity to stifled merriment, he became confident in his control of the steering bar to turn the front wheel in the direction of home.

The return trip to Pinnacles proved more difficult than traveling the paved pathways of town. He feared the deep ruts on the road home made him look less than elegant. Luckily, he would not have this problem when he rode the smooth streets of London.

Minutes later, he suffered a small accident accompanied by a great deal of pain, the type of pain felt only by men. Of course, Mrs. Symthe happened to walk by as he was going to grab—but he refrained and gave her an innocent smile.

Mrs. Symthe quickened her pace toward town.

Once he reached the road along the Blackwell estate, he noticed a tall, unknown gentleman on a dappled gray and decided here was his chance to impress a typical appreciative bystander. No doubt one similar to admirers he might find in London. So he lengthened his stride—to present a clean line from his hip to his toe—and looked up to wave. “Ho-ho.” The wind blew the ends of his cravat over his eyes. Unable to see the road in front of him, he hit a rock. “Ho-ho-up!” he yelled, catapulting over his dandy horse. Both man and machine flew into the air and landed with a heavy thunk.

Early the following morning, Elinor stood before Blackwell's giant front door and repeatedly slammed the brass lion knocker.

The Thornburys' butler, Rowbottom, greeted her, a twinkle in his steel-blue eyes. He then swung the door wide and stepped aside for her to enter.

“Good morning, Rowbottom. How is Berdy today?” After Berdy's accident, Mr. Thornbury had taken him to Blackwell and called the local surgeon. Later that afternoon, he also informed her friend, Dr. Potts, and invited him to visit. The doctor assured her Berdy's injury was nothing more than a bad sprain and perhaps a fracture of a small bone in his foot. But today Elinor worried if Dr. Potts might have been wrong, and Berdy had a more serious injury. What if his injury had festered overnight, and her cherished nephew denied the chance to reach manhood? An active imagination: the bane of all mothers.

Rowbottom took her grass-colored shawl, straw bonnet, and buff kid gloves. “Mr. Deane is well, and you will be delighted to hear he has improved since yesterday. He ate a significant breakfast and is now sleeping. I understand from Mr. Thornbury that Dr. Potts is expected here sometime this morning.”

“Oh, I don't wish to disturb him, but I must take a peek though. Is that all right?”

Rowbottom nodded, a smile of approval crossing his once handsome, aquiline face. He led her upstairs and opened the sickroom door.

Berdy was indeed asleep, and even from across the room, she could see a healthy blush upon his cheeks. Now with Berdy safe and her anxieties lessened, she resolved to find Mr. Thornbury. Yesterday, she lacked the presence of mind to adequately thank him for Berdy's rescue, so today she must give him proper thanks. He saved a young man, fetched the surgeon, then opened his home to strangers. One expected no less from an English gentleman, so she doubted he would repeat his forward behavior again.

Maybe Henry and society had misjudged him? In the excitement of believing the man to be a scoundrel, they failed to give him appropriate credit for his actions that revealed a heroic character. All this famous rake business might be an exaggeration arising from his inherently droll conversation and outrageous charm. Two of her friends had expressed doubts about the mistress rumors, as well. So if the right moment arose—she did not want to offend him—she would ask about the foundry rumor. She even took precautions and wore the snake bracelet today, though she probably would not need its painful pinch. “Is Mr. Thornbury at home, Rowbottom?”

Rowbottom indicated his employer was engaged in pistol practice on the lawn. Walking in the measured slowness appropriate in a good butler, he led her to Blackwell's vast library and swung open the double doors.

Elinor stepped out onto a stone terrace with a commanding view of the Cheshire countryside on a sunny summer's day. White cotton clouds marched overhead in unison with their dark shadows rolling across undulating emerald fields. The faint sounds of cowbells rang in the distance. Her spirits lightened from the stunning prospect before her.

Rowbottom announced her, nodded respectfully, and returned to the house.

Mr. Thornbury held a pistol up, aimed in the direction of a straw target, and turned his head upon her approach. His wine-colored coat, gray wool trousers, and a shirt the color of the richest cream gave him a casual air.

By now she knew him well enough to realize the dark forelock covering one eye was habitual. He probably had no idea that—for some unexplained reason—the sight made her throat dry. “Good day,” she called. “I understand Berdy had a good night?”

He grinned broadly. “Welcome, Mrs. Colton. Yes, you will be pleased with your nephew's improvement. Dr. Potts is expected here sometime soon, so we'll get a report on his condition.”

“I'm delighted to hear that. I also wish to thank you for—”

He fired the pistol.

She leaned sideways to get a clear view but saw no evidence of a hit. “If you had taken the time to aim, you might have hit the target.”

“I think you'll find that shot satisfactory,” he countered in the barely perceptible tone of an affronted male.

Was he boasting? She marched toward the target placed a hundred feet away, and he followed. Once she drew near, she discovered his shot had hit dead center. “Why, you did aim.” She turned to face him. “You have an excellent eye.”

For a brief second his radiant smile appeared. “Yes, and not only for targets.”

The all-too-familiar heat from his rakish innuendo began to simmer on her cheeks. She gulped and found her throat dry.
Heavens.
She told herself she was safe from his palpable charms, because she wore her snake bracelet. Not the best of her ideas, but it was her
only
idea. “May I take a shot?”

“You can shoot? When did pistol practice eclipse singing as a feminine accomplishment?”

“When my father didn't have a son. With no son to teach manly pursuits, he taught me instead. Unfortunately, there are unpleasant consequences of my unique upbringing. I'm very poor at needlework, you see.”

“Regrettable tragedy.” He rubbed his chin. “Explains your fondness for coarse fishing. Although you must possess some of the requisite accomplishments.” He lazily surveyed her. “Can you sing?”

“Ah, a common question.” She flashed him a sly smile. “When you squeeze a frog, I can sing the exact tune.”

He chuckled. “Sounds harmonious. Can you play?”

“After you squeeze the frog, his arms stiffly shoot out—”

“Your technique?”

“Precisely.”

He laughed freely, a happy, rumbling sound.

She laughed too, and they started back to the terrace. The day was warm, calm, and a bird chattered somewhere close. Gazing up at the rear of Blackwell Hall, she delighted in the house's situation. All it needed was a garden to complement the scenery. “I find it strange the back of the house has just a lawn and lacks a garden. Imagine how beautiful a formal rose garden would look. In the evening, you could sit on a willow bench while enjoying the perfume of China roses warmed by the day's sun. Do you know why no formal gardens were planted?”

“No,” he replied, his arms moving in a slight swing as they walked back uphill. “Mother has yet to mention the landscape. She is interested only in new furniture and her tasty weeds.”

“Pardon?” She caught the laughter playing in the corner of his eyes.

“Pineapples. Mother is making use of the pinery glasshouse to grow pineapples.”

“Oh.” Her arms swung in a rhythm matching his, so she clasped her hands behind her back. “Mr. Thornbury, I cannot thank you enough for your hospitality while Berdy recovers at Blackwell.”

He halted too and appeared to be considering his next words.

She faced him directly. “Also, I cannot forget your quick actions immediately after the accident.” She unclasped her hands. “When you rescued Berdy and brought him here, I mean. I'd hate to think of the outcome had I found him by myself.”

“I'm glad he's feeling better. No thanks are necessary.” He paused. “I understand you are rearing your nephew.”

“Yes, ever since my sister's death. She had hopes of him entering the clergy, rather than following in his father's footsteps and becoming a gamester.”

“His father is Mr. Ralph Deane?”

“Yes, are you acquainted with him?”

He stared at his boots. “Not well. A passing acquaintance. I've seen him gaming at Brook's. Still, I'm surprised he's not raising his son.”

“My sister married for love and discovered later that her fortune had more to do with Mr. Deane's reasons to wed. Once she was with child, he abandoned her on a small estate in Yorkshire and returned to his life in London. Before she died, she asked me to care for Berdy. I cannot tell you how surprised I was when Mr. Deane appeared delighted to be spared the trouble of a child about his house. He even called Berdy
baggage
once.”

She leaned over to restore the dandelion she had just trampled to its upright position. “Recently, I rather foolishly agreed Berdy could attend the Season in Town before he settles upon a profession. I hope his notion of being a dandy will tire when he discovers he is not the center of attention. I also fear his father leading him into the ways of a gamester, but thankfully Mr. Deane has shown no interest in him.”

“What does young Deane hope to accomplish in Town?”

“What do all seventeen-year-old gentlemen desire in London? Gain attention? Find a rich wife?”

The beginning of a smile teased his lips. “Let's see…at seventeen, I thought about females and then more females, and I never considered marriage. That's what I wanted at seventeen. It infuriated my father.” He bent sideways to peer directly at her face. “Are you shocked?”

She laughed. “No, although now I understand why people call you a rake.”

He gazed down at his boots again, the smile gone. “Please never repeat that word in my mother's company.”

“Oh,” she cried, brushing her arm. “Something bit me.” She examined the small red spot closely. “I fear the creature may have taken some blood—a flea?” She rubbed her arm vigorously, a gesture that attracted his scrutiny.

“A flea?” he said, his lighthearted tone restored. “Reminds me of a Donne poem of the same name. Do you like poetry? I do, and I find Donne refreshingly honest in a veiled sort of way.” With a mischievous grin, he began to recite aloud in a deep, carrying voice:

Mark but this flea, and mark in this,

How little that which thou deniest me is;

Me it sucked first, and now sucks thee,

And in this flea our two bloods mingled be—

“Oh!” She gaped, heat claiming her cheeks. Only a
bona
fide
rake would know Donne's metaphor of improper relations.

“I see you are familiar with that poem. Your blush gives you away. As neighbors, I hope in the future we can become friends and discuss our favorite poems. I look forward to that.” He grinned, his blue eyes alight.

Her heartbeat started to climb from his all-too-obvious charm, so she needed the snake now. Under the pretext of brushing off another flea, she pushed the bracelet up her arm. Several of the reticulated scales dug into her skin. She glanced at Mr. Thornbury to discover if the snake's painful pinch rendered his rakish charms ineffective and found her wits remained intact.

The bracelet worked.
Thank
heavens.

“Tell me. Why does a respectable lady such as yourself know Donne's wicked poetry?”

“My husband enjoyed Donne and owned a complete collection of his works.”

His devilish grin appeared. “The reverend enjoyed naughty poetry?”

“No—no, of course not.” A blush instantly claimed every inch of her skin. “He told me he read only the sermons—the book was for Donne's sermons—he spoke on Sundays—needed sermons—heavens.” She frowned in irritation, because he accused William of enjoying vulgar poetry any sensible person would ignore.

“That still doesn't explain why
you
know the elegies.”

Her mind blanked. “I—I like to read.” With her wits flown, she glared at the traitorous bracelet. The snake hissed in silent mockery at her defeat.

“Ah, don't we all.” His lazy grin appeared. “However, it's unusual you understand the meaning behind the wicked verse.” He paused, watching her. “Let me immediately apologize for upsetting you. In fact, I also owe you an apology for my behavior at the lake. No disrespect was intended in either case. Please believe me.” He stared at his boots.

Unsure of the reasons that prompted these apologies, she decided not to inquire further. “Um…an apology is not needed. I know you meant no disrespect. Your manners are just open and naturally charming.”

He examined her expression carefully. “Thank you.” He cleared his throat—twice. “Mrs. Colton, may I speak to you about an opportunity that would benefit us both?” His speech quickened. “One of the improvements I plan at Blackwell is to build a foundry for the manufacture of strong-steam engines. To be profitable, my raw material and finished engines must be transported at a low cost. My proposition for you is to grant me a lease to your property on the riverbank, so my engines can travel to market via the river. For the particulars, such as the amount paid to you, my man of business can meet with your man. This plan will be to your benefit by providing a handsome income. What do you say?”

She stood speechless.
The
rumor
was
true.
He thought a foundry would benefit her. “No, I don't want an industrial chimney near my property, nor do I need the income. You are familiar with Manchester. People in the city can go for days without seeing the sun, and the smoke damages everything. Think of my home—my home. I know it sounds silly, but you must have seen the destruction soot can cause. I heard a rumor you planned to build a foundry, but I hoped it was a false one.”

He stepped backward; his brow furrowed. “You're mistaken, madam. The foundry would be only a small one, with a modest number of steam-hammers. The smoke would not resemble Manchester's in any way. Besides, the wind is usually from the north, so I doubt soot would blow anywhere near enough to damage your house.”

“Can't you build your foundry elsewhere?”

“No. The location is the only place on my property close to economical transportation for the raw materials and shipping the engines. Please reconsider.”

“Sir, I must refuse. I fear my home's destruct—”

“No? But we would both profit.”

“Not if I have to sacrifice my home. It is all that remains… I cannot take that chance.”

An uneasy silence ensued. Their stares held until he began to fidget like a teakettle demanding action. “You overestimate the smoke.” He slapped his thigh. “Promise me you will consider it.”