When a Rake Falls (12 page)

“Lydia, please, I must know. Did your servants find the
Results
book?”

Lydia dropped her hands and went to stare out the small, leaded window.

Her silence surprised Eve, since she had never seen her hostess reticent and still. “His lordship mentioned you might have the book. And we saw your servants searching the woods.” Eve stopped speaking, unsure if Lydia heard a single word. While she waited for the other woman to speak, she let herself stroke the fine fabric of an emerald silk gown.

The mantel clock with two Blanc de Chine cherubs holding up the dial ticked away.

“I envy you,” Lydia said, with a soft voice and possibly watery eyes. “While I'd be too frightened to meddle about in a balloon. You have a busy life, friends, good society composed of successful people. Everyone listens to you.” She stopped speaking to focus on arranging her Indian shawl. “I will be very appreciative if you could use your influence to sway dear Boyce to stay at the priory, a month at the very least. You are young and cannot understand the comforting presence of having a gentleman in the house—not only for protection, but for the lively conversation and generous praise unique to gentlemen.”

Lydia's voice remained steady, but Eve heard something else too—a tiny plea for acceptance or perhaps the fear of loneliness that caused her forward behavior in the stables. Eve knew Parker was a seductive gentleman, and he had mentioned several women of his acquaintance before, so she understood why Lydia desired his company. She strode over to her hostess, still standing by the window, and took both of her hands. “Ma'am, I cannot thank you enough for your kindness to me. Your servants handled my balloon with great care, and I know they have done their best to recover my instruments as well. I admire you and will do all I can to please you, but I have no influence over his lordship—”

“Yes, this is the very gown.” Lydia pulled her hands away and swooped up a glorious amethyst silk gown with a sheer overdress. Holding it up to Eve's shoulders, she urged her to look in the tall looking glass. “This bright color will do wonders for your skin. So attractive. I've noticed dear Boyce look at you too, my dear. I know that with a little effort, you'll find it rather easy to persuade him to stay. He feels such terrible guilt about the crash of your balloon, I am positive he will agree to any of your requests.”

Eve blushed and couldn't find the right words. Could she influence Parker?

“Moreover,” Lydia continued, “I really do not believe he intends to complete this race. What do you think? He must be in his late twenties and has not succumbed to any lures cast by the young ladies of his acquaintance, so he must not want to marry this Lady Sarah, not really—not in his heart.”

Eve considered Parker's motives as she never had before. Was marriage to the earl's daughter or his father's forgiveness his goal in the race? During their flight, she recalled that he had rarely mentioned Lady Sarah, an odd incident. Winning the race, both the intelligence and courage challenges, seemed foremost in his mind.

Eve smothered a sigh. Standing in front of the looking glass, she saw a lady she did not recognize. She chuckled and turned to take in her side view. “Perhaps marriage is not his goal, but whatever his reasons, I know he wants to complete this race. He is quite determined to win these challenges.” Since hearing Lydia call him Piglet Parker, Eve hoped to learn from her the story behind his unfortunate nickname. “Fame and public recognition is the only way he believes he can wipe away any memories of
Piglet
Parker
.”

“Oh, what nonsense. Everyone has forgotten that youthful escapade.”

“I've never heard that name until you said it. What happened? Why is he called that terrible nickname?”

“It could be worse. Consider Poodle Byng.”

Eve bit her lower lip. “Imagine the horror of having to choose between Piglet and Poodle.”

“The word
piglet
is such an injustice. Dear Boyce is so amusing, so kind, not nasty and full of squeals at all. From what I understand from my friend Fanny, he planned a piglet race in the park to amuse several of his favorite lady friends. Quite a few, if I heard rightly. All those brothers of his and their wives attending—it must have been a happy crowd. I'm sorry I missed it. My friend dear George was there. I wonder why he didn't ask me to join him. He must have known I would have enjoyed it so.”

“How can a piglet race go amiss?”

“It was years ago, so I don't know the details, but it was very bad. The talk of the town even.” Lydia widened her eyes, her pupils dark. “Dear Boyce's father, you know, the Marquess of Sutcliffe, the politician? He was not pleased about his youngest making a mockery of the family name. Then all the other fellows in his club started calling him Piglet Parker—in front of his female friends too, poor boy. Gentlemen can be so cruel, don't you think so? Surely everyone has forgotten that incident by now.”

Eve laid the purple gown on the coverlet, then casually stroked the lovely skirt. “I do not think his lordship has forgotten it. In some ways, perhaps men take mockery more to heart than women do. An embarrassing nickname does stay in one's mind and—”

“Oh, poop.” Lydia moved to stand in front of the looking glass. “I am quite familiar with Boyce's reputation, my dear, and I can say not a lady in London thinks the worse of him for a silly nickname. His charm has endeared him to many, and now I can include myself.”

“But gentlemen need to appear successful in front of other gentlemen.”

“Oh, yes, I truly believe that is the heart of the matter. The general tittle-tattle is that after the publication of
The
Rake's Handbook: Including Field Guide
”—Lydia leaned close—“his father was so angry over his son publishing a scandalous book, he gave Boyce the cut direct. In front of everyone too. Shocked all of London.” She clapped her hands. “Let's try the rose-colored satin, shall we?”

Eve nodded, not really wanting to refuse. When would she ever get the chance to even dream of gowns like these? “I still believe he is earnest about joining the race and will not stay just because I request it.”

“He'll stay if you ask him in the appropriate manner. Look at all the effort he made to find that book. And he has not rejoined the earl's race now, has he?” Lydia caught Eve's glance in the looking glass. “You must try to make him stay.” The brightest of smiles shone from her face. “I am sure once dear Boyce announces he will stay a month, your book will likely be recovered. Women know ways to make a gentleman do what they want, don't they?”

Eve wanted to point out that Lydia had not been too successful herself in trying to make Parker stay, but if she mentioned that point, Lydia would realize Eve had been listening to the conversation in the stables.

“Female persuasion is harmless really,” Lydia continued. “As a lady intent upon the study of science, you should understand that wearing this lovely gown, you will achieve results. Think about it, my dear.”

“Yes, yes, I found you.” Boyce had searched all afternoon for Eve, but she wasn't in the stables or down by the small stream. Even though she had promised to rest after her ordeal, he knew that intelligent brain of hers planned the next search of the woods. He found her in a large round room used as the priory's library. Tall oak bookcases stretched up to small windows set at least twenty feet off the floor. In this part of the priory, the Saxon stone walls and floor remained exposed, without plaster walls or fancy carpets. “What exactly are you doing?”

Eve sat at the center of the table, surrounded by books and an instrument with gleaming brass numbers set in white enamel. She seemed to search behind him. “Considering the possible loss of the book, I've spent my day trying to remember all of the details of the parhelia we observed. I think, with a little effort, even if the book remains lost, we still might be able to send a letter describing its discovery to a learned institution. So if you would forgive me, I escaped in here to hide…be alone.”

“But you don't want to hide from me. I saw the sun dogs too and might be of help. Besides, I've searched for hours for you, even completed the walking circuit. Nice place this, don't you think? I mean it's Sussex and this county is universally recognized as pretty close to heaven.” His boots clicked on the stone floor as he strode over to sit beside her. “Who are you hiding from?”

She frowned, and wrinkles appeared on the top of her nose. “Earlier, my father and Charles Henry headed in this direction, so I ducked into the nearest room and found this delightful library. I-I was not quite prepared to meet with either of them this morning. I have no new plans to find the whereabouts of the book, and for today at least, I left the recovery efforts in their hands. Besides, I'm tired and a little unsettled today. I really do wish for some privacy.”

This information did not surprise him. Her father appeared to have a talent for suppressing her good spirits. “Yes, yes, I'll just stay for a minute or two.” Boyce sat close and laid his arm over her shoulders, on top of the pretty purple gown she must have borrowed from Lydia. “I hope your father has not blamed you for the loss of the book. If so, tell him it's my fault.”

“No, the loss was just an accident, but that is only part of my troubles.”

“Tell me your troubles. I can help. I hope it has nothing to do with Lydia's, well”—he cleared his throat—“friendly behavior.”

She let his warm arm remain comfortably draped over her shoulders and pushed an open book in his direction. “Have you seen Mr. Howard's book on the modification of clouds? It's one of my favorites. He gave definitive names to each type of cloud—”

“Eve, Lydia can't help but flirt. She enjoys it. She is used to being surrounded by gentlemen who adore her. It's a game—the suggestive speech, a stolen kiss or two. I'm surprised she gave it all up for Buxton. Must be true love then. These days, her attentions are harmless, like a kitten rubbing against your leg.”

With their faces just a foot away, she surprised him by looking directly into his eyes. “Are you a rake?”

“No, no.” Lifting his arm off her shoulders, he straightened. “True rakes are vile creatures who prey on innocents or women without protection. However, it's not unusual for a gentleman to receive that title for behavior that is nothing more than public flirtation. I'm merely a young man in my twenties…and a few consenting widows have given me the honor of being my…” He failed to think of a suitable word to describe his amorous widows. Now he was in trouble.

Boyce turned away from her wide-eyed astonishment and cleared his throat again—twice. What word could he use that would not offend a young lady but would clearly allude to the nature of his friendship with the widows? Also, a term that a young virgin might not consider vulgar. “Hmm.” She waited patiently, so he flashed her a smile.

She raised a brow. “Of being your…?”

Like
a
dog
with
a
beef
bone
. He reviewed several words commonly used by his friends to describe an amorous female who is by no means a prostitute that might be suitable. The
purest-pure
? No, too ironic, and the term
dirtiest-dirt
came to mind first. Right, how about his father's old slang
frigot
well
rigged
, hmm? That phrase didn't quite explain the, ah, friendship. Besides, it might make Eve think of boats or ropes—both unsuitable.

She tilted her head in inquiry, like a small bird.

Right, he had written numerous songs, several stories; he was good with words, so he should be able to find one.
Ladybird
? No, no, that word included some very unladylike ladies, indeed.
Rum
Doxy
? No, no, that expression had two meanings, too confusing.

She knit her brows.

Right, he must find a word.
Ace
of
Spades
? Did Eve play cards? Doubtful, so that phrase was out.
Conveniency
? No, no, even when his friends used that word he thought of privies.

She laughed indelicately enough to cover those plump, apple lips with her hands. Clearly, she enjoyed watching him struggle.

“Mistress,” he said with a small sideways nod and a Sunday parson's soothing tone.

She rocked back in her chair, whoops of laughter filled the round room. “You should have seen your face. I'd love to know what you were thinking about. Oh. Maybe I do.” She laughed again.

He threw his arms around her; they laughed until whoops became snickers.

Her gaiety abruptly ended; then she kissed him square on the lips.

“What did I do to deserve that?”

“How do you know I'm not just a kitten rubbing your leg?”

“Everyone likes kittens.” He moved his lips within inches, hovering over those prized lips, anticipating his pleasure upon the touch of her soft flesh.

The door opened. “Oh, there you are.”

He recognized Lydia's voice but tried to disguise the proximity of his and Eve's lips by merely turning his head, so he'd appear to be reading the book before him on the table. “Come see this amazing book on clouds Miss Mountfloy has just brought to my attention.” Did he fool her?

Eve played along. “Yes, do come see this, Lydia. There are a number of cloud illustrations I think you will find very pretty.”

“Naughty, naughty, both of you. Dear Eve, you look lovely in that gown. I'm delighted you're following my advice. However, it's time to dress for dinner, so I'll see both of you in thirty minutes.” After a toss of curls, she swept out of the room.

“She's right. You do look very pretty in that gown.”

“Do I?” She seemed to search his face.

“Yes, you are an extremely pretty woman. And since you are logical, you know that already.”

She stroked the skirt of her gown. “Do you want to stay here awhile?”

“No, look at me.” He glanced at his chest. “If I must dress for dinner, I'll have to borrow one of Buxton's coats. Is there a good reason for me to stay?”

“No, never mind.”

He winked and headed out to dress for dinner.

Twenty minutes later, having borrowed what must have been one of Buxton's finest coats, shirts, and cravats, he checked himself in the giant pier mirror in the hallway. Never fond of a slight brocade, he thought it looked too old-fashioned, but he had to admit the discreet gold swirls suited his style. He checked his side view, nodded with approval, and then entered the drawing room.

“As it must be obvious to you ladies,” Mr. Thomas Mountfloy was saying, standing before the fire in the drawing room. “Independently funded gentlemen in the pursuit of scientific facts are the most intelligent gentlemen in Britain today.” Miss Mountfloy's father and his assistant had joined the ladies before dinner. The famous aeronaut had easily spotted a potential donor in Lady Buxton and now regaled her with stories of his discoveries. He had received permission to smoke, so the room smelled like heavy tobacco, and a white veil of acrid smoke hovered in the air.

Lady Buxton sat by the fire stroking a white cat with the longest fur Boyce had ever seen. He nodded to Eve, strode over to Lady Buxton, kissed her hand, and sat next to her.

“Yes,” Mr. Mountfloy pontificated to the entire assembly, “most of our aristocrats own the land and lead our government, but it's men of science who will lead us into our future and the new age of steam machines.”

“Perhaps one day, ladies of science will lead us into our future too,” Eve said, a smile gracing her full lips.

Mr. Mountfloy scowled. “No, my dear, do not get above yourself in the presence of such elevated company. I've explained this before. It is a general fact that females lack the dedication and rigor of mind for such studies.”

“What!” The room spun around Boyce's head. “Your daughter, sir, is the most capable person I've ever met. Well, at least as capable as my brother, Richard. I mean she got us across Britain. She even landed the balloon all by herself.” He glanced over to Lady Buxton. “I was wrestling with a boot-grabbing tree at the time, you understand.”

The older woman's eyes gleamed.

With absolute conviction in his heart, Boyce said, “Yes, yes, I really must introduce her to my father, because she's capable enough to run the entire country. No doubts whatsoever on that score.”

Eve startled to chuckle.

“Eve!” Mr. Mountfloy admonished. “Mind you, don't let his lordship's fustian go to your head.”

Several times during their flight, Boyce had watched Eve struggle to contain her mirth. Now he knew exactly the reason why—or, more to the point, the identity of the suppressor.

“Mr. Mountfloy,” Lady Buxton said with the vocal projection of a Roman senator, “I insist you end this discussion immediately. Your daughter is a remarkable woman. I am not alone in my belief that you should celebrate her achievements more than you have shown. A generosity of spirit is what is required here, sir.”

Boyce nodded his head several times.
Hear, hear, Lady B
.

Tut opened the door and announced dinner was ready. The assembled company moved into the dining room, where they became overwhelmed and delighted with the smell of roast pheasant.

Once everyone was seated, Boyce struggled to reclaim his good opinion of the aeronaut, similar to his first impression when he hired the balloon, but serious doubts arose that he would ever call Eve's father a friend. Earlier in the evening, he had treated his daughter like a female footman, bidding her to sit here and fetch that. Then he had reacted to her comments by ignoring her, giving her a set-down, or belittling her ideas. Decidedly, his patience for Mr. Mountfloy's company had worn thin.

Mr. Mountfloy became temporarily tongue-tied. “Your ladyship, I would like to clarify one point. Surely even you do not suggest that females have the capability to succeed in the sciences?”

“What a silly thing to say,” Lady Buxton said, with a wave of her fork. “As a man of science, I suggest you recall the efforts of Miss Caroline Herschel, sir. You'd be a very fortunate man, indeed, if you were to rise to her level of accomplishments.”

“Yes,” Mr. Mountfloy said, a blush appearing above the line of his whiskers. “I am aware of the achievements of Miss Herschel, but we shall never fully understand how much of her success was dependent upon her brother.”

Lady Buxton held her quizzing glass up in Mr. Mountfloy's direction, probably trying to discern if the aeronaut's insult of one of the world's greatest astronomers was said in earnest. “Stuff and nonsense,” she said, her tone sharp.

Mr. Mountfloy stood, glaring at her ladyship. “I object.”

Boyce stood, glaring at Mr. Mountfloy. “Apologize, sir.”

Mr. Henry stood, glaring at Boyce. “You must apologize.”

Lady Buxton dropped her quizzing glass on her ample bosom. “Gentlemen, please, you remind me of being in a room full of jack-in-the-boxes.”

Boyce remained standing while the two other men took their seats, somewhat guilty expressions appearing on both of their faces.

Mr. Mountfloy seemed to recall the presence of a possible donor and started to apologize to his hostesses. He then included everyone—including his daughter—in a general apology, so Boyce sat down.

Minutes later, any good impression Mr. Mountfloy had made vanished when he—without the consent of the priory's ladies—planned to monopolize their staff for the next day's search party.

Mr. Henry leaned over to pat Eve's hand. “Do not worry. I'll find the book for you.”

“Thank you.”

Boyce failed to understand why she didn't pull her hand away. Moreover, he continued to struggle with a burning desire to give her father a facer, an unseemly and unusual thought for him. His stomach ached, and his legs felt restless. So when the meal ended, he took his leave, bowed to each lady, and strode out of the room.

After an hour of cooling off outside on the terrace, Boyce headed upstairs to his room for the night.

At the top of the stairs, his candlelight revealed Lady Buxton's elderly maid. The servant scurried down the hall in front of him and vanished behind the door at the end of the hallway.

Seconds later, when he grabbed the cool brass doorknob of his room, he heard a noise.

“Boyce, dear.”

He turned to see Lady Buxton tiptoeing in his direction wearing a claret-colored velvet robe and lawn nightcap. “Shh, keep your voice low. Now follow me.” She walked down to a double-oak door along the far side of the corridor and slipped inside the room.

He silently followed her, stealth the unspoken name of the game.

“We only have minutes,” she said. “I have sent all the housemaids downstairs to tidy up, so we must bustle.” They stepped into a large apartment decorated in blue satin. The occupant was clearly a female, since no man on earth would put up with the number of little white cupid thingamabobs decorating everything from the furniture to the oil lamps.