The Rake's Handbook

by Sally Orr

  Copyright © 2014 by Sally Orr

  Cover and internal design © 2014 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover art by Judy York

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

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  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  My heartfelt gratitude to the intelligent and funny ladies of the message board. Special thanks to Rosy Thornton, who asked me if I ever considered writing a novel. Thank you, ladies.

  One

  Cheshire, England, 1821

  “Did you escape the crowd just to peek under that man’s fig leaf?”

  “No!” Elinor Colton jumped back from the statue of Apollo Belvedere standing in the vestibule of the Macclesfield Assembly Rooms. A green elm leaf had been tied with a rope to cover the replica’s private parts, and she had reached out to straighten it. “No, I would never…” Turning in the direction of the deep voice, she saw a tall stranger with a soft gleam in his eyes.

  He tilted his head and grinned.

  Elinor had escaped to the empty vestibule after the orchestra played the first notes of her late husband’s favorite Scottish reel. Perhaps the tall stranger noticed tears shimmering in her eyes when she passed him on the assembly’s floor. Then, with good intentions, he followed her and asked his impertinent question to shock her out of her melancholy. She pointed to the bright green leaf tied around Apollo’s hips. “It’s crooked, so I just tried to straighten it. Any woman would naturally straighten a crooked leaf.”

  The stranger bent his broad shoulders forward to examine the statue. “Seems Apollo’s leaf is not a fig. An embarrassing situation for any fellow.” He turned to address her. “Did you give him the wrong leaf?”

  She managed a small smile. “Apollo wore a stone fig leaf when we chose him from the catalog. But after his arrival, he appeared to be an exact replica of the fifteenth-century statue. No stone leaf, and a broken…” She gulped. “It’s an elm because there are no figs in Cheshire—no trees in Cheshire—no fig trees in Cheshire.”

  “No fig leaves, eh?” The soft gleam in his eyes transformed into a wholly mischievous one. “Even though he’s missing most of his gentleman’s area, the elm is not big enough to cover what little remains. Do you think it’s big enough?”

  She instantly gaped. Under no circumstances would she answer that question. As a widow recently out of mourning, she should have replied to his outrageous question with a proper set-down. Instead, she stood fixed in place with her mouth open. No doubt similar to the comical expression observed on people’s faces earlier that evening at the statue’s reveal. When seconds after the drop of Apollo’s shroud, the entire town had resembled a school of openmouthed trout.

  The tall stranger ignored her silence and peered through the vestibule’s open doors into the dark night. “I seem to remember a splendid tree next to this very building. Perhaps a larger leaf can be found?”

  “That tree is a pine.”

  “No, you are right. A pine needle would be too small.”

  She laughed—couldn’t help it—then realized it was her first laughter since her husband’s death. For the last month, she had eagerly anticipated tonight’s assembly, but despite her best efforts to enjoy herself, she repeatedly became overwhelmed by grief in public. Tears pooled in her eyes, and she found herself sad in the middle of a happy crowd. Nothing could be worse. Now able to laugh again, the iron cloak of mourning began to lift from her shoulders. She flashed the stranger a grateful smile before leaning over to finally straighten Apollo’s troublesome leaf.

  He reached out at the same time, and his hand lightly covered hers.

  She froze, conscious only of his warm palm.

  With a soft chuckle, he squeezed her hand.

  “Oh!” Glancing upward, she saw a sable forelock hanging over his forehead in a charming manner that for one second lured her with the tender thought of gently sweeping it back. The boisterous noise from the dance floor seemed to fade, and she heard herself gulp. Not wanting to be observed touching a stranger, she yanked her hand away.

  “Allow me.” Wearing a wry grin, he adjusted the statue’s leaf to the left before a slight correction to the right. “Apollo doesn’t really need a leaf. A long time ago he probably fell forward, and his…part broke off. Someone found it and…” He nodded several times. “We still need a leaf, though, but I can’t think of a single leaf that would do the job properly. Tragic our British leaves are unsuitable.”

  She laughed, then bit her tongue to stop an improper exuberant reply.

  He laughed too, until something over her shoulder caught his attention. “I beg your pardon. Please excuse me. I’ve an appointment to keep, but I’ll be sure to ask the Master of Ceremonies for a proper introduction later.” He stepped closer. “I promise. The delightful sound of your laughter is even more desirable than a fig tree in Cheshire.” He bowed gracefully and strode toward the dancers visible in the main assembly room. His broad back soon disappeared into the merry crowd.

  Elinor lifted her face to the brisk wind blowing through the vestibule’s open doors, hoping to cool the heat sweeping across her cheeks. Heavens, what an impertinent man. Once her blush faded, it dawned on her that he had initiated their silly conversation on purpose. He knew his leaf nonsense would banish her tears and make her laugh. In an instant, her opinion of him changed. No longer an impertinent stranger, he was a gentleman she must find again to convey her gratitude for lightening her spirits and saving her evening.

  She returned to the overheated assembly rooms to observe the large number of couples twirling in a country dance. The gentlemen’s dark coats complemented the ladies’ light-colored gowns. The shimmering skirts worn by many of her friends spun in beautiful, fluttering waves that left her unconscionably giddy and sparked a sudden desire to dance with every gentleman in the room. She then spent a delightful hour standing up with several gentlemen of her acquaintance.

  When exhausted and needing to catch her breath, she rested against the wall and noticed her late husband’s cousin, Henry Browne, approach.

  Henry strode to her side, then held his arm out toward a group of oak chairs. They s
at as far away from the noisy crowd as possible. “Are you enjoying this first foray out into society now that your mourning has ended?”

  “Yes, everyone has been very kind.” She held out her arms to emphasize her gown, a dark overdress of plum-colored silk. “Even though I’m dressed like a veritable dowd.”

  “I speak for many when I say you’re as lovely as ever.” A handsome blond attorney, Henry rarely sought the joys of society, but when he did, he purchased expensive attire to reflect his consequence. Except the numerous concerns of his clients took precedence over his tailor’s desire for proper fittings. Therefore, his new garments always possessed some fault. Tonight his shirtsleeves were several inches longer than his coat, resulting in a furtive tug on each coat sleeve to cover his shirt’s giant cuffs.

  Since Henry’s assistance had proved invaluable in settling her late husband’s affairs, she sympathized with his sartorial misadventures and even considered them endearing.

  Henry moved his chair closer to hers. “I am delighted to find you at last. I have important news to communicate. Evidently a fox has come amongst the chickens.”

  “Pardon?”

  “It seems your new neighbor, Mr. Ross Thornbury, has finally joined his mother to reside at Blackwell Hall.”

  “Wonderful!” She glanced around the assembly. “There are so many gentlemen that are unknown to me. Is Mr. Thornbury in the room now or lost in the crush of people here tonight?”

  “I’m not acquainted with the man, nor have I ever seen him in person. As your closest relative, I must insist you speak to Mr. Thornbury only in my presence.”

  “Why?”

  “The man is an ugly customer.”

  “Pardon?”

  “A man about town.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Henry waited until the elderly couple standing near them strolled over to join a reel before he spoke. “I apologize. I do not wish to sully your ears, but I must mention a vulgar fact. The circumstances demand it. The man is a well-known London profligate, a libertine—a rake!”

  She pursed her lips to smother a grin.

  He peered left, then right, probably to determine if anyone was listening. “Haven’t you heard about the infamous Rake Thornbury?”

  “No. His mother told me he is a respectable, dutiful son. In fact, it was his concern for her welfare that he purchased Blackwell Hall. He knew it would make her happy, you see.”

  “That might be true, but”—Henry leaned toward her and whispered—“rumor says he’s a Swell of the First Stare, and beautiful women swarm around him to gain his attentions. I don’t comprehend why, since I understand from Dr. Potts that he is not out of the common way.” He lowered his voice. “I gather he’s usually observed in the company of…mistresses.” His eyes widened from the shock of his own words. “Dozens of them. I wonder if he brought a mistress here into the country. Now that would be truly scandalous.”

  She grinned. The presence of a notorious rake might bring additional liveliness into the local society. She would enjoy watching him charm a lady or two. “How many female admirers do you need to earn the honor of being a rake?”

  Henry huffed. “Being a rake is not an honor. One or one hundred mistresses would not make any difference. A rake to one lady is a rake to all ladies.” He yanked on his right coat sleeve. “There are scores of scandalous stories about him circulating since his arrival. I even heard about a Mrs. M. who pounded on his door and handed him a baby…or a cabbage…my informant was not clear.”

  “Not a baby or a cabbage. It must have been a baby from a carriage. Unless Mr. Thornbury is fond of cabbages.”

  “The point is,” he continued evenly, “this event preceded Mrs. M.’s ruin and forced isolation in Devon, and that’s just one story too. I wonder how many women this vile seducer has ruined.”

  She doubted any man—even a rake—could be so charming that sensible women would risk censure for the excitement of a few masculine charms. “Surely the ladies bear some responsibility for their ruin.”

  “Not when the man is an expert at seducing ladies into forgetting their obligations. This Thornbury also wrote the very book on the subject of female persuasion, The Rake’s Handbook.”

  “Have you read it?”

  “Of course not. I doubt our lending library acquires such villainous, profane books.”

  “Is the handbook popular with gentlemen? Is it fiction or a true handbook? Since he will be my neighbor, I might like to read a copy.”

  He sighed. “I’ll wager the Portico in Manchester is the only library within a hundred miles with a copy of such a vulgar book.” Henry leaned close to whisper. “I also heard Thornbury caused his brother’s death. I don’t know the details, but it’s obvious the man is a rogue. I’m worried about you, since his estate borders yours.”

  “Pray, what could happen if I encountered Mr. Thornbury alone?”

  He tugged his right sleeve. “If you are surprised by him, you might be forced into repelling his advances.”

  She spoke in a low, conspiratorial tone. “When I first meet him, even with proper introductions, do you believe he will consider—ravishment?”

  “Please.” He yanked his coat sleeve again, resulting in the sound of ripping cloth followed by an ungentlemanly grunt. “As a consequence of being a man, I understand the true nature of rakes.”

  “You do?”

  A beet-red blush climbed from under his high collar to the top of his cheeks. “Listen to me. My status as your nearest relative means I am the proper person to be your advisor. You must trust me as you would a husband. It is unsafe for you to be seen in this man’s company. Indeed, I am confident any lady observed in his presence will be shunned by decent society.”

  The thought of any lady isolated from Polite Society because they were discovered in one man’s company seemed unnecessarily heartless. “I defer to your innate manly wisdom then, but I refuse to believe he had anything to do with his brother’s death. If he did, why would his mother agree to live with him? What nonsense. I also cannot believe he is hiding a mistress. The countryside is not like London. So he can’t set her up in the neighborhood discreetly, nor could he keep her at Blackwell with his mother in residence. In my opinion, this rake rumor is nothing but twaddle, and the magnitude of Mr. Thornbury’s transgressions probably increases the farther one travels from London.”

  Henry hesitated. “I don’t know about that, but London rakes are still dangerous. Besides, maybe his mistress is well hidden.”

  She lost her fragile restraint and openly laughed.

  He slapped his thigh. “You must stop this levity. I had hoped we’d seen the last of your improper high spirits. You can no longer behave as you did when William was alive. Society demands widows to be staid in their behavior and exhibit deference in regard to their loss.”

  A group of older ladies stopped their conversation and stared after her outburst. The candlelight from the wall sconces fell upon their faces and exaggerated their masklike frowns. Some of the matrons gestured toward her, while the elderly dowager, Mrs. Harbottle, lifted her nose.

  Elinor sat unmoving, acutely aware the matrons would consider her outburst of laughter indelicate. Because she was a young widow living in a small village, she could no longer give free rein to her high spirits in public. She must do her best not to burst into either riotous laughter or spontaneous tears. Otherwise, social invitations might be withheld—her worst nightmare. If only the matrons realized she was trying to behave like a dignified widow. She had to, not only for her sake, but for the sake of William’s good name. Except the dowagers demanded society’s widows to present solemn manners, like an aloof cat, while hers had always been more like a friendly hound.

  Henry grabbed her arm and appeared to say something, but the orchestra’s boisterous music overcame his words. Seconds later, the orchestra stopped playing,
leaving his raised voice to boom across the hall. “I see you have made several conquests tonight.” A brief hush claimed the room, and more than one head spun in their direction.

  “Please, I’m not seeking conquests,” she said in a whisper. “You know I have counted the days until this evening. And despite what everyone says, I still fail to understand why mourning requires forced seclusion. Vibrant society and the company of my friends is what I need to survive my loss.”

  “Yes, but standing up with Dr. Potts three times. You also danced twice with Mr. Mabbs and twice with Mr. Burton, then you—”

  “I’ve simply enjoyed an hour or two dancing with several of my neighbors. Since you and I have waltzed, you must approve of dancing.”

  “Yes, but your repeated dancing may create public expectations.”

  “I’m sure nobody but you counted. All of my friends know of my everlasting commitment to William, so no expectations of a future marriage will arise.” Once again after the mention of William’s name, unshed tears pooled in her eyes. The liquid transformed her silk gown’s iridescent shine into a dancing rainbow. Her husband’s loss was one catastrophe, but the isolation expected of first mourning became another blow. For the past year, she felt like a cloistered prisoner in a dark closet, unable to breathe, forced to listen to happy conversation just outside the door. She needed to hear laughter again, not only from her nephew or the housemaids. It sounded silly and unimportant, but laughter and good company banished her grief for a moment. Today that transient reprieve meant everything to her. Recalling the lively conversation with the impertinent stranger, she wiped her tears away and glanced around the room.

  She discovered him standing on the opposite side of the floor, lounging against a marble mantelpiece and speaking to a group of gentlemen unknown to her. Dressed predominantly in black, he wore a white stock of small pleats instead of a knotted cravat. The sole embellishments to this otherwise stark attire were garnet waistcoat buttons that caught the candlelight and twinkled from across the room. After this first clear glimpse of him, she dismissed his dark garments as too simple. But upon reflection, she couldn’t find a single feature not to her taste. His elegant evening wear was so flawlessly cut and hugged every inch to such perfection, the other gentlemen around him appeared disheveled, like their tailors had been the worse for wine.