My Fake Rake

by Eva Leigh

  Feet heavy, Grace moved to the fireplace and looked down at the captive flames. Disappointment weighted her like a leaden cloak. Only in the certainty of not seeing Sebastian did she realize how much she’d been looking forward to doing exactly that.

  She had several worthwhile books to read, and her own thoughts about habitat encroachment to write down, and honestly, so many other things to do and contemplate that she shouldn’t mind not meeting up with Sebastian tonight. She didn’t need to spend more time pondering anything related to him.

  But as she stared dispiritedly into the fire, she had a terrible premonition that she’d spend the next twenty-four hours preoccupied by Sebastian, and only Sebastian.

  “This is what you do every night?” Seb asked in the carriage hours later. “Dining and billiards at Brooks’s, followed by wasting extravagant amounts of money at gaming hells?”

  His own evenings were, by comparison, exceedingly quiet. A solitary meal at a chophouse, then home to read.

  “Not every night.” Sitting opposite Seb, Rotherby swayed with the vehicle’s movement. “Occasionally, I go to pugilism matches, or visit any number of brothels—”

  “Truly?” Seb demanded.

  “Not truly.” McCameron, seated beside Rotherby, shooed the notion away with a wave of his hand. “Rotherby believes this line of discourse is amusing, so he persists in it.”

  “Never say I’m not amusing,” Rotherby fired back.

  “Faced with that choice,” McCameron said drily, “I shall remain silent.”

  Seb leaned forward, bracing his forearms on his knees. “Is it true, Rotherby?”

  “It isn’t.” Rotherby let out a sigh. “When I was a younger man, yes, I did partake in such amusements. Because I had wealth and power and prestige, and back then, it pleased me to see just what such privileges I could afford. But now . . .” He glanced out the window to the passing streets, illuminated by lamps and the storefronts of shops that catered to late-night customers. “It pleases me no longer.”

  Seb had seen it—the way men gathered around Rotherby wherever they went, laughing too loudly at his quips, nodding like marionettes whenever Rotherby ventured an opinion, pressing him for private meetings. Exhaustion tugged at Seb to merely observe it, let alone be the focus of so much obsequiousness.

  Small wonder that Rotherby seldom ventured forth in public. Yet he did so now, for Seb’s sake. Gratitude expanded warmly through Seb’s chest to consider the expansive limits of Rotherby’s friendship.

  “We needn’t persist in this evening’s escapade,” Seb said.

  Rotherby smirked. “Oh, no. I’ll gladly endure a few sycophants’ attempts to win my favor to ensure your status as a rake of consequence.”

  “Doesn’t hurt that, wherever you deign to visit, pretty ladies drape themselves over you like Spanish moss,” McCameron noted with a quirked eyebrow.

  “That, too, is something I must tolerate.” But Rotherby’s grin undercut his doleful words. “There are advantages to having a place in the world.”

  “I’m beginning to see that,” Seb said. Already in the course of the evening, he’d shaken more hands with people of consequence than in the summation of his life. At Brooks’s, he’d received no fewer than seven invitations to dine with titled men. They’d looked at him with respect. For no other reason than he was seen in Rotherby’s company, and because Seb worked to carry himself as though he was worthy of that respect.

  He still struggled to speak a bit when talking with strangers, but when those awkward pauses fell, he’d focus on his breathing, calming himself enough to ask a question, which prompted the other person to launch into a speech—and afforded Seb time to collect himself and become immersed in the moment, rather than his own thoughts.

  At the gaming hell, a queue of London’s elite had stood outside the unnamed establishment’s doors, and Seb had prepared himself to join their ranks waiting to get inside. But the large man attending the door had sized Seb up with a practiced mien, and permitted him, Rotherby, and McCameron immediate entrance.

  Once they’d gone inside, the elegant blonde woman managing the gaming hell had extended him a line of credit that nearly made Seb choke in disbelief. How he was to pay for any debts he accrued was a mystery, but Rotherby had insisted that more than half the guests in the establishment failed to pay their debts.

  Gambling was not a custom unique to English aristocrats—many cultures had games of chance. But Seb had never understood the appeal of wagering significant amounts of currency with the hope of increasing that amount. Judging by the glittering gems and pristine evening clothes worn by the gaming hell’s patrons, no one was precisely hurting for funds.

  It had occurred to him then that what everyone sought wasn’t money. It was excitement. Something to break through the ennui that lurked behind the guests’ eyes. The people at the gaming hell had their every material consideration satisfied. They wanted for nothing. And that satiety left them empty, desperately in need of something, anything, to make them feel alive.

  He wanted to discuss it with Grace. Get her thoughts on the idiosyncrasies of the British elite. Of a certain, she’d have rare and incisive insight on the topic.

  Seb glanced out the window, but without his spectacles, and at this late hour, he couldn’t recognize the street. “Where are we venturing now?”

  “A place of pure pageant,” Rotherby said. “Where the object is to ensure that you observe everyone, and that everyone observes you.”

  “He means the theater,” McCameron added.

  “Ah!” Seb straightened. Visiting the gaming hell had been intriguing but, other than the bizarre process of staking money on abstract concepts, didn’t stimulate him on an intellectual level. “Excellent. I’ve heard there’s some fine theatrical works.”

  “Didn’t you hear me?” Rotherby rolled his eyes. “No one goes to the theater to watch the performances.”

  “How very dispiriting for the performers,” Seb said.

  “But good for the theater’s ticket sales.” McCameron flicked at his cuff, though his clothing was, as always, spotless. “Although I have heard that the audience actually remains silent for the Viscountess Marwood’s burlettas.”

  “Is that what we’re seeing tonight?” Seb asked, brightening. Exciting to see a work written by a celebrated playwright, and a female one, at that. Books and treatises were quite satisfactory, but every now and again, a truly gripping tale could prove transformative.

  “Alas, no,” Rotherby said. “But I’ve a private box at the Imperial Theatre, so you’re welcome to make use of it whenever you please. Though,” he added with a pointed finger, “you are forbidden to keep a book in your pocket to read in case the performance is dull.”

  A slender volume on the marriage customs of the Outer Hebrides rested comfortably in Seb’s pocket at that very moment. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  The carriage came to a stop, and a footman opened the door shortly thereafter. Seb followed Rotherby and McCameron as they climbed down and joined a throng of people standing outside a large, colonnaded building. A fancifully painted sign proclaimed the building to be the Imperial Theatre.

  Intriguingly, the attendees seemed drawn from every class, the high and low mingling together, silk and velvet beside coarse hopsack. Perhaps that was one of the appeals of the theater—it was a space where the class distinctions blurred. Gauging the abundance of the crowd, the actual performances had yet to begin.

  Rotherby led the way, the crowd parting as he strode through the multitude. Seb and McCameron took advantage of their friend’s status, moving briskly in Rotherby’s wake. Heads turned in their direction, people’s regard moving from the duke to the men accompanying him. But rather than returning focus to Rotherby, approving gazes lingered on Seb.

  Despite the fact that Seb had been out all evening, it still unsettled him, to be amongst so many people.

  “Everything all right?” McCameron murmured beside him as they breached the theater�
�s lobby. “Looking tight in the mouth.”

  Naturally, a born tactician like McCameron could see the minutest detail amidst swirling chaos. Seb felt a flare of gratitude for his friend’s concern.

  He took a deep breath, and then another one. “Learning how to navigate new territory.”

  “I know this isn’t comfortable for you,” McCameron said.

  “It isn’t,” Seb agreed. “It might not ever be.”

  “And that’s all right.” Cameron clapped his hand on Seb’s shoulder. “You’re managing, and that’s enough.”

  Small wonder that Seb had formed such strong ties with the other members of the Union of the Rakes. They had an instinct for saying what he needed to hear.

  “A crush, wouldn’t you say, Holloway?” A prosperous gentleman of middle years appeared and nudged Seb with his elbow. Seb had no idea who the gentleman was or how he came to know Seb’s name, but he beamed at Seb as though they shared a delightful secret.

  For a moment, Seb couldn’t think of a single word to say in response. And then his silence unnerved him. But he stroked the glove in his pocket, and his worry receded enough for him to say, “Come to the theater often?”

  The gentleman chuckled. “Often enough to know that tonight’s a fine night for sampling the evening’s pleasures. Do stop by my box later. We’re hosting a bevy of the finest female company money can secure and you’re free to sample them.”

  Rather than answer, Seb inclined his head, and the gentleman’s smile widened before he disappeared into the mass of bodies.

  “What a genial way to invite me to have sex with a prostitute,” Seb muttered to McCameron. They neared the stairs that led, presumably, to the private boxes.

  “You’re now part of the London rakes’ world.” McCameron nudged him, and when Seb followed his friend’s gaze, he discovered a blonde woman sending him a gaze of such blatant carnal interest, it was a wonder that Seb’s garments and smallclothes didn’t combust. “And there’s the welcome committee.”

  Panic crept up his back at the prospect of speaking to the woman. But in all likelihood she wasn’t looking for conversation. A handful of words would likely suffice to suggest they retire somewhere private. But he didn’t know her at all. Nor did she know him. And while that might hold some appeal, it was minimal compared to sharing erotic pleasure with someone who fully understood who he was—all the parts of him—just as he would understand who she truly was.

  Like Grace.

  His mind recoiled from the thought. His body, however, had other ideas. Yes, it growled. Shut up, he snarled in response.

  He gave the blonde woman a smile but did not head in her direction, instead continuing up the stairs to the next floor with McCameron and Rotherby.

  They reached the landing and proceeded down the corridor. Curtains hung in the doorways of the private boxes, and finely dressed men and women lingered in the hallway and in the boxes themselves. They shone with wealth and abundance, their skin and garments lustrous.

  The theater was essentially just as stratified as the world beyond its walls.

  Rotherby addressed everyone by name, while Seb nodded and murmured noncommittal greetings to people who seemed to know him. Wherever he looked, he was met with smiles and admiring looks.

  It was surprisingly . . . not unpleasant.

  Rotherby stopped abruptly as two men stepped into his path. One was thickly muscled, a contrast to his finely tailored clothing, while his facial expression verged on insolent. The other possessed a lean, wiry frame and a pair of shrewd eyes so pale blue they were nearly white.

  Happiness swept through Seb. It had been too long since all five of them were together.

  “The meeting of the Union of the Rakes shall now commence,” the wiry man said. “I nominate Curtis here to record the minutes.”

  “My writing looks like someone swallowed a bottle of ink and then vomited the contents onto the page,” Curtis replied.

  “That’s a kind comparison.” Rotherby smirked. He stuck out his hand. “Rowe, Curtis.”

  “The devil with your handshakes.” Curtis batted Rotherby’s hand away before thumping him squarely in the chest with the side of his fist—the old greeting, created two decades ago in an Eton library.

  Rowe glanced at Seb. “Judging by your rags, someone’s been thumbing through the pages of Ackerman’s Repository.”

  “‘Thereby hangs a tale,’” Seb quoted.

  “But you are no motley fool,” Rowe said. “The Bond Street Loungers would soil themselves in envy were they to see you.”

  “An unfortunate—and messy—response,” McCameron noted drily.

  “Join us in my box,” Rotherby declared. “We’ll give you a complete accounting.”

  “What do you say, Curtis?” Rowe asked. “Can you behave like a tame bear for a few minutes?”

  “Only somewhat tame,” Curtis said. He waved in the direction Rotherby, McCameron, and Seb had been heading. “Lead on.”

  The five of them moved down the corridor, with Rotherby, as usual, in the lead. They fell into comfortable conversation, bypassing formalities, and just then, Seb felt lingering tension leave his body. These four men had been the salvation of his youth, and the backbone of his adulthood. For all that they were, on the surface, wildly dissimilar, they shared the kind of bond that only struggle could create.

  His thoughts drifted ahead to the next few hours, spent in the company of the men he cared for most. While he would have enjoyed seeing Grace tonight, he was grateful McCameron and Rotherby had dragged him out this evening, or else he would have missed this opportunity. It was going to be a fine night.

  A man stepped forward, blocking Seb’s path.

  Seb drew up short, and found himself looking at Mason Fredericks.

  Chapter 16

  Seb’s mind blanked, but not from anxiousness. Instead, he was mystified. What was one supposed to say to the man one attempted to turn into a suitor for the woman that he . . . he what? Cared for? Held deep feelings in regard to? Or was it something more than what he felt for a dear friend? Something like—

  “Holloway,” Fredericks said with a nod.

  Yes, of course, when standing in someone’s presence, he should make actual conversation with them instead of being mired in his own labyrinthine thoughts.

  “Evening, Fredericks.” Seb mentally reached for the persona he’d been cultivating these past weeks, setting Thinking Seb on the shelf and donning the identity of Rake Sebastian. He made himself smile easily at Fredericks. “Always a wonderful time to be had at the theater.”

  Seb decided not to mention that the last time he’d attended a theatrical performance had been fifteen years ago, when he and the other members of the Union of the Rakes had attended a bawdy pantomime performed in an Oxford public house. Seb did recall that throughout the entertainment his face had flamed hot as a Yule log and he’d kept his hands cupped in front of his stiffening cock.

  “True,” Fredericks said with an affable nod, “though my attendance at the theater isn’t as frequent as I’d like. Always fielding invitations to dinners.” He grimaced. “People like to have me at their tables in order to impress the other guests with the breadth of their cultivation.”

  “But you get a meal, gratis.”

  “True, yet I’m fortunate enough to know where my next meal is coming from. Not every man of science can say the same. At many events, I’ve seen men with bountiful coffers seem perfectly healthy one moment, yet when the possibility of funding research comes up, the same men of means are suddenly and tragically overcome with consumption and cannot stop coughing.”

  Seb fought a chuckle. Was Fredericks actually likable? Damn. “Temporary consumption.”

  “Oh, they are cured within minutes.” Fredericks paused, then said in a tone of forced nonchalance, “I haven’t seen Lady Grace tonight.”

  Seb concentrated on the feel of his feet in his shoes. If he didn’t, surely he’d snarl at Fredericks or at least scowl ferociously.r />
  “Nor I,” he answered.

  “Pity.” Another pause from Fredericks. “You appear to hold her in high regard.”

  The man of science in Seb appreciated the subtle, coded language he and Fredericks were employing—all hallmarks of highly complex societal structures. The instinct-guided man in Seb wanted to ram his fist into Fredericks’s square jaw.

  But Grace had warned him from appearing too possessive, too proprietary. And he couldn’t ignore this prime opportunity to praise her to Fredericks.

  “An extraordinary person.” Seb fought to make his tone strike the balance between admiration and insouciance. Yet he couldn’t stop himself from adding, “It shocks me that she’s yet to find a gentleman who can fully appreciate her. Every aspect of her.”

  He narrowed his eyes, uncaring if he made Fredericks uncomfortable. Hell, the naturalist should feel uncomfortable for ignoring Grace.

  “It’s shocking.” Fredericks’s mouth turned down in what appeared, to Seb’s dismay, to be genuine regret. “And I was one of the blind fools who lacked the sagacity to value her as both a colleague and a woman.”

  Hell—there Fredericks went again, being decent.

  “But,” the naturalist continued, brightening, “I hope to remedy that. Unless,” he went on, “I’m treading in territory that has already been claimed.” He looked pointedly at Seb.

  Yes, Seb wanted to bark, she’s mine.

  He choked down a coarse oath as understanding struck him.

  Seb didn’t think of Grace as his friend. Not anymore. He had . . . feelings for her. Feelings that went beyond platonic. Ever since they’d kissed, he’d been unable to banish the taste of her from his mouth, sweet and delicious.

  Only this morning, he’d awakened from dreaming of her. It had been a sensual dream where he sensed her warm breath against his bare chest and shivered beneath her touch as he sank into her and they created endless pleasure together.