Stroke of Genius

by Marlowe Mia

  Very few.

  Pity she was so gullible. So kissable. So swive-able.

  When they reached the fashionable part of the park, she stopped and shifted her weight from one foot to the other, peering this way and that. She stood tiptoe a few paces ahead of him, trying to see over the heads of the crowd. Even though Grace was tall for a woman, the sea of top hats and the even more outlandish feminine headgear blocked her view.

  Crispin was tall enough to locate Grace’s mother without straining. Minerva Makepeace was seated in one of the best-placed supper boxes. He assumed the bewhiskered gentleman next to her was Grace’s father.

  “I believe your parents are over there to the right,” he said pleasantly from behind Grace.

  She startled and then turned around to face him. “I didn’t know you were following me.”

  “Following you? Nonsense,” he said.

  “Then you must be here to rub shoulders with your betters.”

  “If such exist,” he said with a slight inclination of his head. “My status as an acknowledged genius makes it hard to find even my equal.”

  She gave a decidedly unladylike snort. “I’ve heard rumors that your origins are humble, Mr. Hawke. Pity it didn’t take root in your character.”

  “Humility is impossible when brilliance is hung about my neck by others at every turn.” He was delighted she’d decided to play. A verbal joust was no fun if the other party refused to pick up the thrown gauntlet. “But even we salt-of-the-earth types like to crawl out from our hovels from time to time to see how the upper crust lives.”

  “Well, I suppose it’s to be expected. You did warn me Vauxhall admits all manner of riffraff.”

  He chuckled and put a hand to his chest. “Touché, mademoiselle.”

  “I think I’ve heard enough French from you for one night,” she said irritably.

  Clearly, she was still smarting from being called ‘Miss Cow.’ He wondered if he could turn it into an endearment of some sort. Ma petite vache, perhaps.

  That should curdle her cream good and proper.

  “I can’t see anything in this crush.” She turned away from him, gave a little hop, but landed with a disappointed squeak. “My parents, do you see anyone with them?”

  When he didn’t answer right away, she turned back to face him again.

  He glanced toward the supper box. “A lady in a green gown and ridiculous feathered turban.”

  “That’ll be my mother’s cousin.” She shrugged. “My cousin too, I suppose, another time removed. But I seriously doubt Miss Mary Washburn would wear anything that could be termed ridiculous.”

  “Wait till you’ve seen it before you defend it, Grace. I do believe some poor peacock must be running around naked,” he said.

  Since swiving Grace was not a viable option, irritating the fool out her was the next best thing he could think of to keep his mind off the pain in his thigh. He had to up the ante in their game.

  “Come. Let us not keep your aristocratic cousin or her formidable plumage waiting.”

  She shook her head at him. “I don’t recall sending you an invitation to sup with us.”

  “My dear Grace, Vauxhall is a place for folk to meet and become better acquainted without all that social folderol.” Crispin shot her a wicked grin. “After all, there were five fellows on the Dark Walk who seemed quite anxious to make your closer acquaintance.”

  “Can we please dismiss that unfortunate incident? I believe I thanked you already.” Her tone was brittle as blown glass.

  “No, you only offered to thank me with a kiss, but I declined for your own good.” The gas light diffused around them bright enough for him to see a livid blush heat her cheeks. “However, a little Vauxhall ham should settle your debt nicely.”

  She glared at him. “You rank my virtue low indeed.”

  “On the contrary, my dear Grace,” he said with a parody of a courtly bow. “You’ve obviously never had Vauxhall’s ham.”

  He thought he detected a wisp of steam escaping her ears. How delicious. It was time to unleash his big gun.

  “Your mother will think me rude if I don’t at least say hello.”

  “All right, but not until I find my other cousin.” She lifted her chin and gave an injured sniff. “He’s a baron, you know.”

  “Which explains why he’s lost,” Crispin shot back. “Most noblemen haven’t sense enough to come in from the rain.”

  “He’s not lost.” Her teeth were clenched so firmly, her jaw looked permanently locked. “I meant to say I just haven’t met up with him yet.”

  Crispin snapped his fingers. “So that’s what you were doing on the Dark Walk. Looking for your cousin the baron. Well, that shows intelligence,” he said with an arched brow. Then he leaned down to whisper in her ear. “I daresay most of the fellows grunting in the bushes were earls at the very least.”

  “Must you be so vulgar?”

  “Usually,” he admitted, raising his gaze over her head, presumably scanning the crowd for the missing fellow. “What does your cousin the baron look like?”

  “Will you stop saying that?”

  “Stop saying what, Grace?

  “‘Your cousin the baron.’” She dropped the pitch of her voice in a fair imitation of him.

  “Suit yourself,” he said, pleased that she’d decided to take another swipe at him. It would make the game last longer if they both continued to play. “You’re the one so taken with titles. I thought you’d appreciate that I’d taken such careful note of his. So, how will you know your cousin the—I mean, how will you know him?”

  “I’ve never actually met Lord Washburn,” she stressed his name and title, “though we corresponded a few times. We share a passion for mythology.”

  “My faith in human nature is restored. Contrary to popular belief, Bostonians are capable of passion.”

  “From an Englishman, that’s scarcely a low blow.”

  “There’s a myth I can happily debunk,” he said, taking one of her hands between both of his. “Let me assure you, Grace, some Englishmen are very passionate.”

  He’d meant to awe her, to catch her in his gaze like an adder does a hare. He intended to watch her squirm uncomfortably in his heat. More than one of his past amours had told him his intense gaze was like a lover’s hands on her body. But Grace didn’t seem to feel a thing.

  Instead, a strange thing happened.

  When her mild amber eyes widened, he was the one who was caught.

  Her lips parted softly and the wicked fantasy he’d concocted about her that morning rushed back into him. Now that he’d actually felt her ripe bottom, imagining her with it tipped up to him was even more potent.

  If he flipped her over, her sweet little mound would be slick and glistening. She’d smell like some exotic flower, spicy and pungent and the scent of her arousal would go straight to his cock. Grace would make a little helpless sound while she waited for him to claim her and then he’d—

  “Bloody hell,” he whispered.

  She gave a little choking cough.

  “There’s no need for profanity,” she said, breaking off their intense gaze. “I’m sure we’ll find my cousin if we keep looking. I can’t say what he looks like, but he’s wearing a red boutonnière.”

  “How very imaginative of him,” Crispin said dragging in a deep breath to shake off the effects of his fantasy. Half the men milling around them sported a sprig of something red on their lapels.

  Next to the pavilion decorated with murals depicting fauns and satyrs, Crispin noticed a boutonnière-wearing chap trying to hold the attention of an exquisite woman whose use of paint accentuated already phenomenal features. Not all courtesans were so beautiful, but this high flyer truly belonged to the top tier. While she laughed musically at whatever the man was saying, she flirted with her fan, but her gaze darted away, flicking over the crowd.

  A predator on the prowl for the fattest antelope, Crispin decided. The fellow was presentable enough, but unless the g
ent had exceedingly deep pockets, he was destined for disappointment.

  And if he’s Grace’s cousin the baron, Crispin thought with a grin, he won’t appreciate an interruption from his American relations right now.

  Grace loosed an exasperated sigh. “Oh, I give up. My cousin the—” She clamped her lips tight for a moment. “Lord Washburn can find his own way to our table.”

  She grasped his arm and began threading her way through the crowd.

  “Our table,” Crispin repeated with amusement. “I’m delighted you’ve come round to my way of thinking.”

  “I’m only inviting you to supper because you’d invite yourself if I didn’t,” she said over her shoulder as she squeezed between two knots of revelers. “Then I will consider my obligation to thank you for your assistance this night fulfilled.”

  “You know, I’ve never been to Boston.” He pulled her up short. “Do men there appreciate being dragged about by their women?”

  “I thought you wanted to sup with us.”

  “I do, but I also want to render assistance to one in desperate need of it,” he said. “I know you’re an American, but if you don’t wish to be thought hopelessly bumptious, you might want to take your cue from the ladies around you.”

  Grace frowned. “So now I can’t even walk across a courtyard in a manner that pleases you?”

  He smiled down at her. “Unless I’m mistaken, pleasing me is not your goal. You walk enthusiastically and personally I like enthusiasm in my women.”

  “I’m not at all enthusiastic about your likes or dislikes.”

  “Good. If there’s anything Polite Society disdains, it’s enthusiasm. One must seem not to be enjoying oneself in the slightest if one wants to be considered sophisticated.” He tucked her hand neatly in the crook of his arm. “Now, let your fingers rest gently without grasping at my sleeve as if you hoped to dislocate my shoulder.”

  “I did no such thing.”

  “Perhaps not consciously. I will allow that I can be trying at times and you didn’t truly mean to yank me along like a recalcitrant poodle.”

  She laughed and eyed the dark curls that brushed his shoulder. “If you were a poodle, you’d be in serious need of a trim.”

  “Yes, well. See to it you don’t do it again.” He patted her hand at his elbow as if that might keep it in the proper place. “Now if you would be seen for a lady of fashion, you must wait and allow a gentleman to part the crowd for you.”

  “I see,” she said with a wicked glint in her eyes. “But where ever shall we find a gentleman?”

  Crispin grimaced at her. She was getting too good at this game for his comfort. “That is a bit of problem, but perhaps I can serve in that capacity for the length of this short lesson.”

  He threw the tip of his walking stick ahead of him with each jaunty stride and, as usual, the crowds parted. Some moved aside because they recognized him and admired his talent.

  Some moved because the stick wasn’t just a fashionable accessory.

  “And here we are, Grace,” he said, stopping a few yards from the supper box. “I’ve delivered you safe and sound to the bosom of your family.”

  “So you have.” She turned and laid a hand on his forearm. “I do wish you thank you, in all seriousness. Heaven only knows what might have happened to me on the Dark Walk without your assistance.”

  “I doubt they teach that sort of thing in heaven, but I, however, have a pretty good idea.” He brought her knuckles to his lips and gave them a soft kiss.

  She pulled her hand away and gave his chest a swat. “Must you make light of everything?”

  “Indeed I must,” he said. “I’ve seen the dark side of life, Grace. I want no part of it for you.”

  She studied his face for a moment and he realized he’d said more than he ought. It wasn’t like him to let his guard down so.

  Then she cocked her head. “Very well, let us banish the dark for the next few hours. Come. I’ll introduce you to my father and Cousin Mary.”

  “And don’t forget your cousin the baron,” he said as he followed her toward the Makepeace box. “Mustn’t deny the riffraff the fun of mingling with the high-in-the-instep crowd.”

  Chapter 9

  From whence does genius come? Is the ability to create a fluke of nature or a gift from the gods?

  Pygmalion would have said it was merely a matter of survival.

  Twenty-two years earlier

  Peel’s Abbey, a Cheapside House of Pleasure

  The garret was an icebox in winter and a furnace in summer, but it was his. The air was musty and the ratter was long overdue, but when Crispin retreated to the garret, it was as if he escaped into a castle of his own and drew up the drawbridge. He made a pallet for himself among the old trunks and dressmakers dummies and stashed his few treasures in one of Madame’s old cigar boxes.

  He opened the box now to assure himself it was all still there. The broken Horn book he’d taught himself to read with. A scrap of chalk, a few sheaves of precious paper, the finished black king and queen from the chess set he was carving from a length of discarded teak he’d found down on the wharves. He’d talked the butcher on the next block over into saving him bone scraps. That should do for the white pieces when he got to them.

  Everything he made had a purpose, but there was no reason it couldn’t also be beautiful. In the squalor of Cheapside, beauty was his refuge, his sanctuary. And since he could find so little of it, he was forced to create it every chance he could.

  His black king had a fierce scowl on his royal face, terrible to behold. He thought the black queen looked a little like the sad woman he barely remembered. The one he’d called mother.

  There was one more thing in his cigar box. He rarely took it out, but he did so now, carefully unfolding the bit of fine linen. It was all he had left of his mother and it didn’t even really belong to her.

  It belonged to that nameless Him.

  Crispin spread the handkerchief across his thigh and traced the faded monogram. The gold threads were starting the fray, but he could still clearly make out the CRS. The R was much larger than the other two, so he knew it stood for the family name of the man to whom it had once belonged.

  But since Crispin didn’t know what that name was, he’d gotten into the habit of reading the letters in order and thinking of the unknown ‘gentleman’ as “Cris.”

  So close to his own name. Crispin. Cris. Close as two sides of the same penny.

  But there was no question as to which side of the coin had landed face down in the dirt.

  Chapter 10

  Pygmalion spent most of his time by himself, but it never occurred to him to be lonely.

  Unless he was in the company of others.

  “What the devil is this?” Homer Makepeace demanded, forking up a paper-thin slice of meat and eyeing it with suspicion.

  “Ham,” Lord Jasper Washburn informed him loftily. It was bad enough he’d been seated by the husband of his American cousin. Did the man have to display new depths of uncouth manners at every turn?

  “How can you tell?” Makepeace pinched off a bite and wolfed it down. “Can’t hardly taste it. Why, it’s so thin, I could read a newspaper through this thing!”

  “Homer, dear, that’s the point,” Cousin Minerva said, beside him. “Imagine the skill it takes to carve ham that thin. Vauxhall is positively famous for it.”

  She and her husband debated the respective merits of beefsteak versus a crock of beans for “filling a body up” while Jasper glared down the table at the spot that should have been his, right between his sister and Cousin Minerva’s surprisingly comely daughter. He wasn’t that late in arriving for this interminable supper. They ought to have saved him the choicest place in deference to his title at the least.

  Instead, the plum seat was occupied by a big hulking commoner, a Mr. Hawke.

  Jasper shouldn’t have been surprised. Like calls to like.

  “So, since we’re new to each other,” Mr. Makepeace sa
id between bites. “A little about me. I started working in cotton as lad, learned a bit about the fabric game. Then I got to tinkering with a mechanical spinner one day, and damn me, if the output didn’t increase out of all knowing with the changes I made in the thingamajig. Now I own three factories all cranking out cotton thread by the bale. We’ll branch into weaving the fabric next spring. Now, tell me, Washburn, what do you do?”

  Jasper dabbed at the corners of his mouth with his napkin. It wasn’t worth the effort to show he was affronted by the American calling him by Washburn, a name reserved only for his intimates. The man ought to call him ‘my lord’ or Lord Washburn at the least. But haughty disdain was lost on this fellow.

  “Actually, my good sir, breeding is everything,” Jasper said. “In this country, a man is defined not by what he does, but by who he is. Suffice it to say, I am an English lord.”

  That should over-awe the bumpkin.

  “All right,” Makepeace said affably, “what does an English lord do?”

  How the man missed the point!

  “I have a large country estate and various business interests.” Neither of which were terrible healthy at the moment, but that was none of this American’s affair.

  “That must take some managing, I’d expect,” Makepeace said as he crammed another bite in his mouth.

  For someone who complained about the Vauxhall ham, Homer Makepeace was consuming quite a lot of it.

  “Actually, I have a staff and an agent who handles the day to day running of the estate and a man of business to see to my financial affairs.”

  What little there is of them.

  But that would soon change. All he need do was marry well. Jasper took a sip of the excellent vintage. At least the American knew how to choose a good French wine. He glanced down the table at the young Miss Makepeace. If her father was truly the captain of the cotton industry he claimed to be, the chit would come to the altar with a sizeable dowry.

  “Trade is considered tawdry here,” Jasper went on to explain. “A gentleman does not work with his hands.”