My Fake Rake

by Eva Leigh

  “I still don’t have a walking stick,” he said, “and grabbing a branch from one of these plane trees is likely considered gauche.”

  “Do your best. And good luck.”

  She walked quickly toward the bench, barely aware of the pleasant spring afternoon, or the sounds of construction, or indeed much of anything at all except nervous anticipation. It wasn’t unlike directing a play, and watching the performance from the wings. There was nothing she could do but watch, and hope.

  Their afternoon efforts had been . . . not quite what she’d anticipated. But everything had to have a beginning, and a rocky start was to be expected. Again, he tried so hard. She couldn’t help but be touched by how earnestly he was working, and the way in which he threw himself fully into the project. For all his easygoing manner, Sebastian had a core of determination and perseverance. He didn’t give up.

  And if she was being honest with herself, it wasn’t entirely difficult to look at him. She’d known it years ago and she most decisively knew it to be so now. True, he hadn’t quite mastered the dashing air of a rake, but she hadn’t been able to stop herself from observing the pull of fabric across his shoulders and legs. As if beneath his clothing, gentle and thoughtful Sebastian Holloway possessed the body of an athlete, lean and taut with muscle.

  Come to think of it, in the past, he’d mentioned football and cricket matches and other physical endeavors. She’d never fully understood how such activities could reap such delightful benefits. Now she knew.

  Certainly, her more primal self had taken notice. And liked what it saw.

  He’s your friend. Don’t be rude.

  Grace lowered herself onto the bench. Katie sat at the other end of the bench, her nose buried in her novel. From her reticule, Grace produced a slim treatise on the reproductive behavior of lobsters—which wasn’t precisely in her area of study, but she had heard very good things about the treatise’s author, a fellow female naturalist.

  Despite the quality of the writing, Grace barely saw the words marching across the page. Instead, her focus honed in on Sebastian, who seemed to be preparing to enter a pugilism bout as he stood at the head of a path.

  He tipped his head from side to side and swung his arms in wide arcs before shaking out his hands, and jumping up and down, landing lightly on the balls of his feet.

  A passing nanny with a pram gave him wide berth, and a bewhiskered gentleman immediately turned and walked hurriedly in the opposite direction.

  Sebastian appeared not to notice. But after a few moments of this, he seemed as though he had properly loosened his muscles. And then he began to walk.

  He moved in the deliberate, stylized way that the guide had instructed. His feet were pointed, his shoulders back, while each movement carried a purposeful elegance. His motion verged on languid, precisely how the book had instructed. A dancing master would have been proud, had Sebastian been his student.

  He executed a flawlessly elaborate bow to a trio of gentlemen, and a glow of satisfaction spread through her.

  All the work they had done earlier in the afternoon came to fruition. He was doing exactly what he was supposed to do.

  Except . . .

  Anxiety chewed on Grace’s insides, banishing her sense of ease. Everyone who espied Sebastian looked at him as though he’d recently fled from Bedlam. People skirted around him or walked to other paths so that they didn’t have to encounter him.

  Was something wrong with the book we used? Was our approach flawed?

  Oh, God. No.

  Sebastian stopped in front of a young lady, also accompanied by her maid, and proceeded to bow so low his nose nearly scraped the gravel. He was near enough to Grace that she could hear him.

  “A most beauteous afternoon to you, lady fair,” he said in a strange, nasal voice. “Indeed, mine eyes consider themselves blessed to look upon your countenance.”

  The lady’s eyes went wide. She clutched her shawl tightly around herself, as if for protection. A strangled laugh escaped her maid before the servant said, “Come along, miss.”

  She herded her charge away like two lambs narrowly escaping the butcher’s knife.

  The crushed look on Sebastian’s face struck deep in Grace’s heart. His shoulders bowed and he shook his head slowly in what appeared to be weary resignation.

  Grace leapt up from her bench intending to go to him, but before she could, a man of exceptionally striking features strode forward. The newcomer was nearly as tall as Sebastian, but the quality of his clothing was much finer. There was something vaguely familiar about him.

  “What the deuce was that, Holloway?” the man demanded.

  Sebastian groaned. “You saw that?”

  “Most of it. Thought I was going to have to shove a stick between your teeth to keep you from biting off your own tongue.”

  “Here, now,” Grace said hotly, coming to stand in front of the two men. She set her hands on her hips. “No need to be insulting—whoever you are.”

  Hot indignation pulsed along her veins. It mattered little that the man in question was clearly a wealthy gentleman, or the possessor of startling good looks. He couldn’t mock Sebastian.

  “Rotherby,” Sebastian said on an exhale, “I mean, Your Grace, may I present Lady Grace Wyatt? Grace, this is the Duke of Rotherby.”

  The Duke? Oh, dear.

  No wonder he looked familiar. She’d been introduced to him years ago during her come out, and occasionally crossed his path at various social functions her parents forced her to attend.

  She dipped into a curtsy. Perhaps manners could salvage the situation. “Your Grace.”

  “Lady Grace.” The duke nodded. “I’d say it’s a pleasure, but I’m rather alarmed by the state of my friend’s health. We may need to call for a leech.”

  “No need.” Looking spent, Sebastian dragged himself away to lean against a plane tree. “There’s nothing wrong with my physical health. But my mental state has taken a drubbing. Especially my pride.”

  Both Grace and the duke moved toward Sebastian.

  “I’m sure we only need more practice,” she said.

  “Practice doing what?” Rotherby demanded. “Terrifying the local populace? If that was your intent, you’ve done a brilliant job.”

  Sebastian gazed at her cautiously. “Should I tell him?”

  “Do you trust him?” she asked.

  “Is he standing right here so there’s no need to speak of him in the third person?” the duke added.

  Ignoring him, Sebastian said, “He’s one of my oldest friends. Kept me safe from the worst bullies at Eton. He’s trustworthy.”

  Well—she couldn’t take issue with anyone who had protected young Sebastian from harassment. “I have faith in your judgment.”

  Concisely, Sebastian explained to Rotherby what he and Grace attempted. She fought to keep from wincing when Sebastian came to the part about her lack of cachet in Society . . . but then, the duke was part of that world, and already knew what a nonentity she was within its confines.

  No wonder she liked it so much better in the field. No one judged her. No one expected her to be someone she was not, or change to fit an ideal she didn’t value. There was only dispassionate Nature, who didn’t give a fig about things like ladies’ accomplishments.

  “Fredericks, the naturalist?” Rotherby asked.

  “The same, Your Grace,” she said.

  “Not a bad fellow,” the duke mused. “So that . . . display I just witnessed . . . that’s what you’ve determined a Society gentleman and rake does?”

  “We found it in a book,” Sebastian said.

  “Was it by chance the Domesday Book?”

  “It belonged to my father when he was making his entrée into Society,” Grace replied curtly. “Given the wear on its pages, it appears that he’d made good use of it. Surely manners cannot change so much in that time.”

  “Forty years in London Society is a millennium. But neither of you understand that.” Rotherby looked back and
forth between her and Sebastian, an expression of disbelief writ plainly on his face. “It’s the blind leading the bespectacled.”

  “We can find other books,” Sebastian said, a hint of impatience in his voice. “Recent ones. Surely McKinnon’s has an ample stock. All we need to do is a bit more research.”

  Grace nodded in agreement. “Research solves everything.”

  The duke pinched the bridge of his nose as he squeezed his eyes shut. “Good. God.” He exhaled jaggedly before lowering his hand and opening his eyes. “I’ll just have to clear my schedule. That way we can get to work as soon as possible. Time’s slipping away.”

  Grace shot Sebastian a befuddled look. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but what do you mean by ‘We can get to work’?”

  “It’s patently obvious,” Rotherby said with deliberate patience. “You both are extremely intelligent when it comes to scholarly knowledge, but utter naïfs when it comes to navigating the treacherous London social scene. You need a guide. Someone who knows every twist and turn of the labyrinth.”

  “You, Rotherby?” Sebastian’s mouth opened in shock. “That’s not necessary.”

  “It most assuredly is necessary. You’re my friend, and like hell will I let you founder and drown.” Rotherby looked at Sebastian with wry fondness, before pulling a timepiece from his waistcoat pocket. “I’m due home to meet with my men of business. But I shall see you both tomorrow at two o’clock. Bond Street, outside Walton’s tobacconist shop.”

  He said this as a command, not a request. Not much of a surprise, given his lofty status.

  “Certain about this, Rotherby?” Sebastian asked.

  “We’re asking quite a lot of you,” Grace noted.

  “If what I witnessed today is any indicator of your trajectory,” the duke said grimly, “then it’s not a matter of certainty. It’s necessity.”

  Chapter 6

  As Seb approached Walton’s tobacconist shop on Bond Street, a small gathering of gentlemen and a couple of women had collected around a single individual standing outside. They all wore what they likely hoped were ingratiating smiles, all their attention focused on one man in particular.

  Rotherby.

  His friend gazed coolly over the heads of the people encircling him, but when he caught sight of Seb, his look brightened.

  “Here now,” Rotherby said dismissively to the crowd, “find somewhere else to be.”

  “Of course, Your Grace.”

  “Another time, Your Grace.” And so forth, as the group thinned, until only Seb and Rotherby remained in front of the shop’s window.

  “Poor blighter.” Seb shook Rotherby’s hand. “If it wasn’t for your blinding good looks, colossal political influence, and inestimable wealth, I might pity you.”

  “Complaining sounds churlish,” his friend said and exhaled. “But, God, what a massive pain in the arse. Ah, Lady Grace.”

  The duke bowed as Grace emerged from the crowds thronging the street. Her maid trailed behind her, and Grace actually had to guide the servant down the sidewalk, since the maid walked with her nose buried in a book.

  “Your Grace.” She curtsied. “Sebastian.” She spoke his name with a gratifying amount of warmth. He smiled in response.

  “Do call me Rotherby, Lady Grace,” the duke said. “It’s what my friends do.”

  “Of course, Rotherby.” She looked pleased by the lack of formality between them. Glancing sympathetically at Seb, she asked, “Are you very weary from yesterday’s debacle?”

  Seb snorted. “I’ve faced greater indignities.” He shot a glance at Rotherby. “Do not tell her any tales about me at Eton.”

  “I remain silent as a ghost.” Rotherby held up his hands. “But there was this one time when I’d dared Holloway to steal everyone’s spoons before breakfast and he—”

  “Enough.” Seb clapped his hand over Rotherby’s mouth. “We’re here for a lesson, not to recount my youthful foibles.”

  “But there were so many,” his friend said, his words muffled by Seb’s palm.

  “Because you and the others goaded me into them. Otherwise, I would have been a model student.”

  Grace’s eyes sparkled as she looked back and forth between Seb and Rotherby. “We needn’t have a lesson. You two are much more fascinating than a dull shopping street.”

  “It’s something we—I—must do.” Seb made a show of reluctantly pulling his hand away from silencing Rotherby. “How do we proceed?”

  “Follow me.” The duke held out his arm for Grace, and as she took it, a tiny sizzle of something hot and barbed worked its way along Seb’s spine.

  The deuce?

  It was entirely illogical for Seb to feel anything that resembled jealousy. First of all, Rotherby’s gesture had been one of politeness, devoid of any romantic intention. Secondly, and this was most important, if Grace did fancy the duke even a fraction, she could do whatever she pleased with her feelings.

  Shaking his head at his own irrational emotions, Seb followed Rotherby and Grace across the street to a crowded tearoom. Elegant gentlemen and ladies packed the establishment, filling the tables and standing wherever they could find room.

  “No room at the inn,” Seb said, narrowly avoiding an elbow in the stomach from one of the patrons.

  Rotherby merely donned that slightly superior look he sometimes sported. No sooner did he take three steps into the shop than a tall East Indian man in pristinely tailored clothing appeared.

  “Your Grace,” the man said, bowing, “welcome to my shop. I am Rohit Mohan. Your table awaits.”

  He gestured to an empty table by the window, perfectly situated for anyone to watch the fashionable multitudes passing by. A small handwritten sign atop the table proudly declared that it was reserved for His Grace, the Duke of Rotherby, and anyone who had the temerity to try to sit there would be summarily escorted from the premises, never to be permitted entry again.

  God—how different Rotherby was from Seb. How charmed his life seemed. But Seb knew the price his friend paid for such attention. Better to dwell in relative obscurity than carry the burdens of prestige and popularity.

  Rotherby led them to the table, and Seb hurried forward to pull out Grace’s chair. He wasn’t entirely hopeless when it came to proper behavior.

  Once they had all been seated—with Grace’s maid wedged in at a nearby table—Mr. Mohan took their orders. Seb pulled a notebook and pencil from his pocket.

  “Ever the good scholar,” Rotherby noted wryly.

  “You broker deals in Parliament without batting an eyelash,” Seb answered, “but studying . . . that’s my métier.”

  “He isn’t the only one who came prepared.” Grace produced a small, leather-covered journal from her reticule.

  She and Seb shared a smile, and he tried not to notice how the curve of her lips made little curlicues of pleasure dance through him.

  “What you two did yesterday.” Rotherby shook his head. “Even when that book was published, it wouldn’t have served your purpose. You cannot learn the proper methods for being a rake from anything written.”

  “Because it’s a secret,” Seb guessed.

  “Because it comes from here.” Rotherby tapped his hand on his stomach.

  “Instinct,” Grace said. “Like a tortoise retreats into its shell when threatened. No one tells it what to do. It just knows.”

  The duke nodded. “The moment you try to quantify it, it slips away.”

  Seb slapped his hands on the table as frustration bubbled. “So our task’s impossible.”

  “Not so.” Rotherby held up a finger. “There’s observation, too. Surprised you didn’t think of that—man of the sciences that you are. And lady of the sciences,” he added with an inclination of his head toward Grace.

  Seb exhaled, loosening the grip of his vexation. His friend was right—there were things one learned only through nonverbal, unrecorded cues. Numerous cultures possessed rudimentary written systems, and in some cases there were societies that had
no written language at all. And yet they all functioned. They all thrived.

  And, if Seb didn’t clamp down on his impatience, he’d fail not only himself but Grace, as well. It would be gratifying to have a book published—but her happiness was as stake.

  “Enlighten us, Wise Old Rotherby.” He picked up his pencil and held it ready.

  His friend bristled. “Old? We’re both four and thirty, for God’s sake.”

  “But you’ve been walking this road for a long, long time.” Seb shook his head sadly. “And it shows.”

  “You rotter,” Rotherby growled. “I ought to shove a teapot up your—”

  “Children,” Grace said with the timeless voice of a woman who must, yet again, control unruly boys. “Can we focus, please?”

  All three of them looked out the window, watching the passing traffic. Here and there were servants or laborers, but for the most part, the crowd consisted of finely garbed men and women making their way leisurely up and down the sidewalks.

  “We’re early enough in the day that women are not looked at askance for being on Bond Street,” Rotherby said.

  “Because of the prostitutes,” Grace said solemnly.

  Mr. Mohan coughed in surprise as he approached the table. The teapot and cups on the tray he carried rattled, and he just managed to keep a grip on the bamboo handles. He managed to pour them all cups of steaming tea before retreating to someplace where, most likely, genteel young women didn’t openly discuss harlots.

  “How do you know about that?” Seb asked. He couldn’t quite find it in himself to feel appalled. Sexuality was discussed much more frankly in countless cultures. It didn’t make sense why, in England especially, raising women to be completely ignorant about sex was something to be desired.

  Still, his cheeks did feel a bit hot to hear her blithely discussing prostitutes.

  “Overheard Charlie,” she said with a shrug, “talking with one of his friends, back when my brother was unmarried and something of a buck. It’s quite interesting what men discuss when they believe themselves to be alone.”

  Rotherby himself looked a trifle unsettled. “We needn’t concern ourselves with the demimondaines and sporting hotels—”