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To Catch a Rake
By Sally Orr Sourcebooks, Inc.
Copyright © 2016 Sally Orr
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4926-0218-7
CHAPTER 1
London, 1825
What manner of ladies would he find on his doorstep today? Wilting Flowers or Happy Goers? Previous experience taught George Drexel that any lady who managed to discover his place of residence must be displeased with her perceived category in his book, The Rake's Handbook: Including Field Guide.
Four years ago, George had agreed to write the field guide on a drunken wager. A friend challenged his reputed successes with the fairer sex, so he wrote the book to prove his greater knowledge of females — and their bedroom behaviors — than the average gentleman's. In his field guide, he created fictional initials to describe each lady's best features and intimate habits. He then grouped these ladies into six representative categories. Of course, he'd never dare use the initials of real names, or he could find himself facing some husband seeking satisfaction.
At the time, the book proved his expertise and turned out to be a monetary success. The extra funds were welcome to a young man-about-town. Then last week the field guide's publisher announced that he planned to print a second edition in three months' time. Upon this news, many of London's older females — widows and married women — started to appear on his doorstep. The ladies called to plead for initials similar to their real names to be included in the next edition.
Sitting at his large desk by the window, he tucked his black hair behind his ears and examined the women on his doorstep. Since the day was a warm one, the ladies wore light muslin walking dresses, so he could easily admire the details of their figures.
The older, gray-haired lady, busy directing the younger one where to stand on his doorstep, likely possessed more experience in bedroom behaviors. She probably paid him a call today to ask him to move her presumptive initials into the higher category of lady termed "Happy Goers," a very popular category in the field guide. The other, possibly younger lady avoided her companion's direct gaze and appeared hesitant in her manners. From previous interviews, she likely suffered from an unhappy marriage. Still, he was able to discern that she possessed a very fine figure, indeed. This aging beauty might have assumed her initials appeared under the category of Wilting Flowers, a great injustice, so she had joined her companion today to complain to the author directly and request an elevated category too.
Much to George's surprise, these female visitors never complained about the impropriety of his book. Instead, every lady requested her position to be elevated to a more notorious category in the next edition. Whether the presumed advantage of a higher category resulted in practical gains, such as additional lovers, or greater bragging rights during card parties, he had no way to determine. But now after numerous interviews, he suspected these older ladies derived their greatest enjoyment from the excitement of believing themselves to be naughty.
Regardless of the ladies' aspirations, George resented this upcoming distraction, since he had an important business deadline to meet. He had been given a month to diagram a new drain for the Thames Tunnel, and with a little over a week remaining, only half of the plans had been completed. Picking up his pencil, he resumed work on his drainage plans.
A predictable thirty seconds after the ladies arrival, his ever-efficient housekeeper, Mrs. Morris, entered the cluttered parlor. "The first of the female callers has arrived today, sir. Shall I show them in?"
"Can I refuse?" George ground his teeth and kept his eyes focused on the detailed drawing in front of him.
Mrs. Morris did not reply. A distant cousin of his mother, she had successfully run the household staff with apparent ease and privately treated him like her own son.
Once aware of her unusual silence, George looked up and noticed her watery gaze. He dropped his pencil on the desk, moved close, and gave her a brief hug.
Her lower lip trembled. "Oh, sir, I am sorry. You worked so hard on that bridge. In my opinion, it's a crime to ask an engineer to work diligently, give him hope, and then crush him by refusing to fund it. All because of some stuff and nonsense about that silly field guide. A book I'd bet not a single one of those Bristol townsfolk would even admit they read." She sniffed. "If there is any justice in the world, those Bristol scoundrels should be arrested and jailed." She pulled out a white handkerchief from her apron pocket and wiped her eyes. "Your iron suspension bridge is beautiful, sir. I know someday another city will be fortunate to have it."
Mrs. Morris's vigorous defense of his latest failure brought him out of his doldrums and fortified his resolve. He'd never give up his dreams and ambitions. Perhaps someday his unique chain bridge would be built elsewhere. He desperately hoped so. Every gentleman knew that the future would be built using iron and steam, and he wanted his chance to contribute. He dreamed of building a grand structure to serve the people of England for centuries. Then, like the Pantheon in Rome, he'd credit himself as the builder by marking his creation front and center: George Drexel Fecit. "Thank you, Mrs. Morris, for your unbiased belief in my abilities." He winked. "But we don't want to keep the ladies waiting. I suggest you remain in the hallway, since this interview will last exactly five minutes."
"You sound like you plan to eat them."
"Right, a happy thought. I'll enter the hallway and growl at them. My brown bear impression should frighten them enough that they will flee the house immediately. Then I can return to my work."
"I doubt that will prove effective." She shook her head, making the gray curls peeking out from under her lace cap bounce. "While in person you appear quite dark and scornful, your habit of spontaneous drollery usually endears you to the more clever ladies within minutes."
"I'll have you know my drollery is excessively planned." He took a deep breath. "Well then, if my growl is insufficient, I'll throw in a snarl or two."
"Any lady in her right mind will realize you pose no threat. These ladies may even like bears."
Mrs. Morris had been the housekeeper since his parents' marriage, so he could rarely fool her with any sort of gammon.
"Besides," she said, "these ladies are always very determined. They would have to be, wouldn't they? They must have a vulgar nature, indeed, to ask for the favors they seek. I would have expected them to be offended and take you to task for penning such a foolish book, but this forward behavior" — she shook her head — "well, that beats everything."
"I'm thankfully ignorant about the subject of ladies' jumbled motivations and wish to remain so. We'll just ask them to leave as soon as possible. Then I can finish my drainage plans on time." He'd rather instantly march them out of the door, but he must try to behave like a gentleman.
Just a month earlier, the youthful mistake of writing his shocking field guide had mostly been forgotten by society. But the news of a possible second edition revived all sorts of tittle-tattle. Today he needed a gentleman's spotless reputation to earn building contracts from local officials. The publication of a second edition might revive the scandal and damage his reputation. His new career as an engineer of public works would be finished before it even had a chance to start.
He chucked Mrs. Morris under the chin. "I also take exception to your evaluation that I pose no threat — I certainly feel like a dark beast. Let's get this interview over with, so I can return to work."
Mrs. Morris headed back to the ladies waiting in the hall, while he took a position in front of the fire with his fists resting on his hips and legs set in a wide stance.
The two ladies stepped into the parlor and froze. Their eyes widened as they glanced around the cluttered room.
George remained silent, waiting for the women to criticize him for the disorder created by the many wooden models of bridges, tunnels, and steam engines covering most of the tables and floor. If a lady smiled after viewing the untidy room, he would show his gratitude by making the interview quick but courteous. However, if the many tossed books, bits of iron, and wooden human models elicited the universally recognized frown of feminine disapproval, then he'd resort to the angry bear to hasten their departure.
The older woman frowned and shook her head. "Oh dear."
A wide-eyed, fixed stare graced the other lady's features. "So deplorable."
Right, time to open the cage door.
"Ladies, please take a seat." He motioned to a pair of ivory tub chairs directly in front of him. "I'm honored you've called upon me today. However, it is an inopportune moment. So speak up."
Both ladies stiffened. The older lady, perhaps fifty, held her lace handkerchief to her mouth and cleared her throat. "Well, I ... I don't know how to begin." She continued to glance around the disordered room. "We ... we heard a rumor that a second edition ... Such horrid conditions," said the older lady. "You obviously lack a wife."
The prettier lady, not much younger, slouched in her chair.
He flashed his most wicked grin. "Are you applying for the position? As head of the household the position of wife is, of course, under me."
"Well, I never —" The older woman balled a fist.
"I doubt ..." He paused and mentally kicked himself in the arse. For the sake of what remained of his gentlemanly reputation, he should at least try to adhere to his resolution not to offend them. "Let me be of assistance. Even though you fully understand my book is fiction ... you ladies do understand the field guide is satire?"
The other lady quickly glanced at her companion.
Her friend patted her knee and gave him an affirmative nod.
Regardless of the lady's nod, most of them rarely believed that.
"But, sir, all of our friends gather so much pleasure from the assumption that you just altered real names," the older lady said.
The prettier lady turned to her friend. "Yes, trying to match his initials with real people is a very amusing game. But do you know, I'm not sure what satire is. Is it —?"
"I know my friend Mrs. Wittle — Mrs. Smith — is confused, but even though you say the names are fictional, surely they must be based on real females. Correct, Mr. Drexel?"
"Loosely based, madam, more exaggeration than fact." For some reason — he attributed it to the mysterious, unfathomable female mind — most women chose to believe that the initials in the field guide represented real people. Thankfully, none of the ladies sought satisfaction or felt ill-used, although one widow had brazenly volunteered to be "tested" for the next edition.
Time to deliver his well-practiced speech to quicken their departure. "At this moment, you're unsatisfied with the placement of your perceived initials in the book The Rake's Handbook: Including Field Guide. With some effort, you have learned that I penned the field guide. With my address in hand, you tracked me down like a hound on the scent. So you are here to request a favor — for reasons you wish to remain private." He gave them both a respectful, deep bow.
They tittered.
"Right. Your presence here is to request that your initials be moved to the heading describing a higher, or rather, more notorious category of lady. It goes without saying that you realize this cannot be done immediately. However, you would be deeply appreciative if I make the change before the next edition is printed." He inhaled deeply and wistfully glanced at his drainage plans resting on the enormous desk by the bay window. "As a result of my granting your request, I will enjoy your utmost gratitude for years and years to come."
This time both ladies giggled loudly.
"I see you have been solicited before," said the older female wearing an indelicate, inappropriate grin rarely seen on a lady of quality. "Just how many ladies have made a similar request?"
"Including you, twenty-two."
"Oh." The other lady widened her eyes before dropping her gaze to the fine mesh reticule resting on her lap.
With a great deal of effort, he stifled a growl. "Now, ladies, if you will excuse me, I have work to finish." He grabbed two paper cards from a stack on the mantel. "Please write your initials on these cards — your privacy will be assured — and the appropriate heading you desire in the next edition of the field guide." He handed each lady a white card and pencil.
The two women exchanged glances, and the older lady nodded several times. They wrote their initials as instructed and handed him the cards.
"Thank you." He read their requests. "Wise choice."
Both ladies beamed.
"Now leave."
"But, sir," the older one said, wearing an indelicate leer. "Can you tell us the details? Will our initials be included in the next edition?"
The other lady whispered to her friend. "Do you really think we can trust someone like him to do our bidding?"
Her companion nodded. "Granted he is a" — she moved to whisper in her friend's ear — "scoundrel." Her voice returned to normal. "But even they must have a code of justice."
He ground his teeth. Misjudged in his own parlor; it was time to release the bear. He strode directly up to them and growled, "My housekeeper will show you out."
As if on cue, his housekeeper opened the parlor door, and both ladies fled the room.
"Ah, Mrs. Morris, please show these ladies to the door," he said with regained gallantry. Without waiting for a reply, he spun and returned to his drawing on his desk.
Seconds later he heard the front door close.
Mrs. Morris came into the room to retrieve the cards thrown haphazardly on the desk. "Oh, sir, I hate to give expectations that another edition will be published. It seems such a deception. Can't you rule it out forever?"
He gazed out of the large window at the ladies scurrying down the street. "You're a female, Mrs. Morris. Why do you think these women risk scandal to appear on my doorstep?"
She sighed. "When we get older, attention from gentlemen can be a lovely experience." Following a pause, she added, "Regardless of age, every female harbors a secret wish to find love."
"Love? What's the use?" He gathered up the wooden figurines. "But to answer your question, the decision to publish again is not mine. My friend Lord Parker's brother owns the rights. He controls whether or not a second edition will be printed. He even hinted he might add new names, so we owe these ladies' company to that piece of promotional gossip, the scoundrel." George had requested Lord Parker to plead with his brother to stop the publication. All he could do now was wait for an answer. If his friend proved successful, then this regrettable example of his youthful transgressions would be entirely forgotten.
"I've been keeping these ladies' initials, just in case they are needed." She headed for the door and paused. "You might let these interviews last awhile longer."
He failed to reply.
She ignored his reticence. "If you spend more time in conversation with these ladies, you might discover a suitable wife. After all, most of these woman are likely available. A respectable marriage would go a long way to lessen any tittle-tattle arising from that book."
"Mrs. Morris" — he looked up — "I'm shocked. You have never suggested a leg shackle for me before." He waved his hand. "I thought you believed in romantic love and all of that faradiddle."
She blushed. "Of course I do, but I know you better. Others have had their hearts broken at sixteen, and they all recover. I've seen many ladies in your life, yet you have never fallen in love. So I realize you're a hopeless case when it comes to romantic love. It's just that when you are as old as your parents, I don't want you to find yourself alone in life without a partner to share it with."
George glanced upward. In the bedroom above him, his father was reading a book to his mother or, more likely, just holding her hand. After her stroke, Michael Drexel had refused to spend any significant time away from his wife's side.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from To Catch a Rake by Sally Orr. Copyright © 2016 Sally Orr. Excerpted by permission of Sourcebooks, Inc..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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