Page 1 of Tall, Dark and December (The Rake Review #12)

CHAPTER ONE

WHERE A RAKE RECEIVES A REVIEW

An icy morning on the docks, 1820

H e didn’t like London.

Weston Whitaker tightened the bolt on the engine’s flywheel with more force than necessary, his decision as chilling as the draft racing through a split in the warehouse doors. The whirl of the gears vibrated through his fingertips and down his arms, calming him when the city couldn’t.

The weather was horrendous, the general public entitled, and the food marginal at best. He’d been forced at dinner last night—with a smile because he was pursuing funds for his project and no small amount of it—to eat pudding made of suet and dried fruit. Which sounded passable until he’d come to find suet was a fancy term for the hard fat surrounding a kidney. The seasonal twig of holly atop his generous portion hadn’t improved the taste once this dubious fact was revealed to him.

West drummed the wrench on the flywheel’s metal rim and questioned who in the hell mixed meat and fruit, then called it pudding.

The English, that’s who.

Still, there were benefits. Rocking back on his heels, he wiped his hands on an oilcloth while giving England its fair due. Crumpets smeared with apricot jam had become a breakfast favorite. Too, his rented curricle—what he’d call a shay in Philadelphia—was the speediest rig on this side of the pond.

And the women…

A grin ripped across his face as the image of Lady Pilson popping her head from beneath his counterpane three nights ago frolicked through his mind. Her hair a magnificent color caught somewhere between coal and onyx, the vision begging him to gently twist the tangled strands about his fist and draw her to him. If not for the horribly proper, on the edge of grating pronouncements tripping from her lush lips, he could almost imagine she was an American girl happy enough to be entertained by a self-made man of means.

At home, with the empire he’d built enhanced by the face he’d been born with, he was more than popular.

As it was, every time an English chit, as they called them here, thought to look down on his lack of pedigree, he knew only to kiss them silly. Thus, unlocking the equation. A secure spot, as mathematics was a piece of life he was fucking brilliant at. Women, whether they be duchesses or milkmaids, weren’t so different. They liked a man to focus on them and nothing but for a time, the kind of patience West owned in spades. Truthfully, they seemed as curious about him as he was about them—once they overcame the sad fact there wasn’t a title hanging about.

At least he wasn’t lonely. Or not often. No lonelier than a man could take, in any case. His childhood had prepared him for solitude.

West jammed the rag into his waistband, reminding himself there was no reason to feel an ounce of guilt over his romantic activities.

He and Emelia had decided to wait until his return to America to determine where their brief affair was headed. Maybe it was already over. She didn’t love him, and he was reasonably certain he didn’t love her, but they made sense. Practical, common sense . Her father was an early investor in his design enterprise, and Emelia was embedded so deeply in Philadelphia’s high society she could do nothing but pull him in alongside her. And drown them both.

Although essential elements of the relationship were missing.

West paused as his chest spasmed, the wrench hanging heavily in his hand. When had love been a thing he could count on, anyway? Never in his life. Not once .

He was measuring the flywheel’s alignment when the staid footfalls echoing through the warehouse’s storage bay told him his handler had come to call.

“Sir, if I may be so bold but to intrude?”

The austere tone struck him with the same force as the pop of a ruler across his knuckles. Better that than the leather strap, a practice the orphanage headmaster employed until West grew too tall to be threatened. He held up his hand— one moment —closed his eyes and committed the altered design to memory, where it would remain until he pledged it to paper.

Unlike life, numbers were always reliable.

Bracing his fists on his thighs, he wiped the sweat from his cheek and stood with a pleasurable, groaning stretch. Stepping back to observe the prototype he’d built by hand, he struggled to conceal the joy he received in toying with his manservant. Everything about West—manner of dress, manner of speaking—were signs of the most dreaded of English difficulties.

Trade . Labor. Employment .

West turned to Brixworth to find a gaze as gray and penetrating as a bullet casting judgment. “Call me Weston, I beg of you,” he asked for the hundredth time.

Brixworth dipped his chin in polite refusal. “Sir, I’ve brought your correspondence.”

Holding out his hand, West blew a breath through his teeth and perched his bum on a crate. “What could possibly be important enough to travel to the wilds of the East End, dirtying your boots tromping through sleet and muck?”

Brixworth rolled his top lip between his teeth in the first show of unease West had ever seen in him. “Well, sir, unfortunately, you’ve been reviewed.”

Taking the small stack of letters, one emitting a sugary aroma that meant Emelia had finally decided to write, West tore into the envelope bearing Cambridge University’s shield. He rather liked the elegant design, three open books on a breastplate of some sort. They’d sent him enough requests for him to commit this emblem to memory right alongside his new calculations.

Brixworth smoothed his palm down his lapel, striving for crispness when he was as hard-pressed as a slab of steel. “Another appeal to give a lecture to engineering students, I gather? An impressive feat for a man not of their legacy if I may say so, sir. Cambridge doesn’t generally welcome foreigners into their brethren.”

West grunted and let the note flutter to the floor, barely able to contain his amusement when Brixworth recorded its demise with a sorrowful sigh. “Everyone wants to jump into steam and ride to glory. And make fifty thousand pounds the first year while doing it. I’ve had the young pups ask me how, bold as brass. Versus, and I use your country’s term, the answer being bloody hard work.”

Although West wasn’t much older than the pups, three or four years at most.

The difference was, brutal circumstances forced a man to grow up quickly.

The next letter was from the Royal Society. West had been invited to a roundtable with other industrialists involved in the steam trade. This event he wanted to attend, unlike most dumped upon him. Giving the card a crooked fold and tucking it in his trouser pocket, he ignored Brixworth’s punitive tongue click. “I know valets have rules and regulations for every little thing, attire, appropriate behavior and such. We’ve gone over it to hell and back, Brix, but I’m not made of the same cloth as the gents you’re used to serving. We do it differently across the ocean, thank God.”

Brixworth took a step back and came close to tapping his heels together. “I’m not a valet, sir. I’m the Duke of Mercer’s majordomo, and assisting you in an official capacity is outside my typical responsibilities, but I’ve been with the Tierney family for—”

“I don’t care,” West murmured, governing the faint rush of anger. “A fact you can convey to His Grace when you scurry back to Mayfair.”

Brixworth frowned and fiddled with his cuffs, apparently uncomfortable having to settle strife, even if he had been with the Tierney family for eons. “I hesitate to discuss private matters, but in this case, I will go against code. His Grace didn’t know about you, as I’ve repeatedly stated. Indeed, I was there the day we went through the deceased duke’s papers. If you’d only meet with him, you would understand. He is a family man to his bones. And you, whether you value this or not, are family.”

West shrugged and ripped into the next envelope, though he wasn’t quite as indifferent as he’d like to be, which was his problem and his alone. “I’m not interested in family, not anymore.”

Except, he’d conceivably accepted the invitation to consult with a London engineering firm after he found out about his lineage whilst reading his mother’s diary—not long after a duke discovered the secret buried in his father’s papers. Maybe West had known the close resemblance to his half-brother that his investigator had mentioned would cause a stir. Maybe he’d even been surprised by Tristan Tierney’s response to finding out his father had sired a bastard with an American heiress who fled the country upon learning she was pregnant.

The Duke of Mercer wanted them to be brothers —when a hidden kernel of fear wouldn’t let West grab that familial rope and hang on.

His past simply wouldn’t let him.

Turning back to his mail because West wasn’t going down a gaping chasm in front of a man sent to snoop on him, his breath caught upon reading the next missive. “The Earl of Sutherland has dropped out. He’s pulling his funding.”

West’s valet-cum-spy did another nervous press of his coat. “Your misdeeds have caught up with you. I tried to educate you about the proper standards of society, even for visitors to our fine city. Yet, you failed to listen.”

West crumpled the earl’s rejection into a wad and tossed it to the floor. Sutherland had promised half the backing he needed to get the project for the Philadelphia Mint off the ground. He couldn’t go back to America without a working prototype. England was at the forefront of engine design and production, with steam power currently being used in textiles, mining, and transportation. Even if he loathed the truth of it, the knowledge to move him further along was here . The funds to move him further along were here.

At this rate, the city of his birth would be employing hand-operated screw presses to create coins for another century. Frustrated, West lashed the letters across his knee. Why the earl had withdrawn his support was the question. “When you mentioned I’d been reviewed, Brix old boy, what did you mean?”

With a grimace that dragged the corners of his mouth practically to his chin, Brixworth gestured to the remaining correspondence. “You may want to start with the gossip clipping.”

Wiggling the sheet free, West skimmed a column that had already had enough handling to smear the ink. It was one of those ridiculous chatter rags the English loved so much. He read a few lines before coming to the good part. “Lady P__ was seen leaving the leased Marylebone terrace of Mr. W__W__ in the wee hours of dawn,” he murmured. Skimming the rest in silence, his brief scan bagged the gist. Scandalous. American scoundrel. Moonlit dinners.

The final line included the reveal, as it were: long-lost, disgraced half-brother of a duke.

“‘Tall, Dark, and December’ she’s calling me,” he finished, unable to keep this horrific bit to himself. If there was anyone in England who hadn’t known he was related to the Duke of Mercer, the secret was out now. As for the other, he was no debaucher. Women often—as was the case with Lady P, as this mindless Belle creature was calling her—came to him .

Tall, Dark, and December. Brixworth mouthed the moniker, seemingly pained to his bones if his twitching eyelid was any indication. He’d likely never had to deal with such degradation with his saintly duke.

West strode to the hearth at the far end of the cavernous space and tossed the sheet into the flames. “I’m losing a business partner over something called The Rake Review ? As in, reviewing rakes ? Who gives a damn, might I ask?”

“The woman you dallied with is the earl’s cousin, fourth or fifth removed according to Debrett’s ,” Brixworth stammered as his cheeks stained a rosy hue. “The Belle’s column is extremely popular, and the only saving grace in this debacle is that widows have more societal freedom than most. Lady P might actually benefit from being this month’s entertainment if a week of whispering behind her back doesn’t bother her. Whereas you, an interloper of questionable birthright, will be given no quarter. I assume your connection to His Grace put you in the Belle’s line of sight, and some in Town may not esteem the connection.”

West dusted his hands down his thighs, thinking he didn’t esteem the connection most days. “This Debrett’s whats-it has written about me, too? What did they say?”

Brixworth grimaced, his displeasure almost splitting his cheeks in two. “You most certainly are not listed in Debrett’s . Unofficial children are never mentioned, Mr. Whitaker.”

“Bastards, you mean. Or by-blows. Isn’t that the favored term?”

“Yes, well, those . The volume is the final authority on the aristocracy, as well as a valued reference on etiquette, manners, and social customs for well over a hundred years. You could”—Brixworth slid a disdainful glance down West’s person—“benefit from a passing review of said sections. I shall have a copy sent round to your terrace posthaste with a bookmark noting the relevant chapters.”

“I’m beginning to truly despise this place,” West whispered and pinched the bridge of his nose. A headache was building behind his left eye, and when his vision scattered, he’d be done working, as the pain drove out every calculation. This had been the case since he’d taken a knock to the head from his stepfather’s fist when he was eight years old.

Talk of Mercer and family had his blood churning in time to the uneven clank of his steam engine. Striving for calm, he drew a shot of the one thing he loved about London into his lungs, the rancid bouquet of the Thames. The scent reminded him of honest work and humble beginnings.

“It’s not like you can hide the association, sir, with the two of you looking rather exceptionally like brothers. It’s the eyes,” Brixworth murmured and drew a tight circle around his own. “The Mercer men have been carrying that particular shade for going on two centuries. Like a ripe lime, perhaps. Or a very sour apple.”

West shrugged, wishing for a whisky when he’d sworn off the stuff as a boy—before having the chance as a man to make imbibing a habit. He’d seen what too much drink did.

Felt what too much did.

However, like it or not, the eyes were what got people—even him—the only time he’d seen his brother up close. On the marble steps of one of those suffocating gentlemen’s clubs, another place he’d visited only for business. Fortunately, he’d been on the stair above Mercer, giving him the option of gazing down on a duke—but also allowing for a disconcerting reflection back.

“You might smooth things over with the Earl of Sutherland at your brother’s Yuletide ball in two weeks, sir. You were invited, as we’ve discussed, and it is the event of the season. Another investor or two could be in attendance as well.” Brixworth tapped his jaw with a thin, incredibly pale finger. “The bruise will be gone by then, one hopes.”

West scrubbed his cheek and winced. Still tender. “The race in Hackney Marshes. My highflyer got away from me for a flash on the last turn, though I captured the lead in the end. And Viscount Dudley’s purse in the winning.”

“It’s pronounced VI-count,” the manservant said and issued one of his well-crafted exhalations of dismay. “Granted, the situation could be worse.”

West drilled him with a look that said: How so?

“Another reprobate, Mr. Notorious, pierced a delicate part of his anatomy with a silver garnish of some variety, and this circumstance was printed in black ink for the whole of London to see, the lowest of this year’s Rake Review lows. Possibly due to the kindheartedness Miss Belle feels for this wondrous time of year, your story isn’t the worst by half. Actually, December was quite mild in comparison to some of the others. February was distressing and April not much better.” Brixworth gestured to the hearth and the smoldering column. “It’s filthy gossip, every line, charring just the thing for it.”

Yet, Brixworth had committed the “filthy gossip” to memory, a point West wasn’t about to mention. The old crow probably kept past editions in a cheroot box under his bed.

West crossed to his prototype and crouched before it, the spinning cylinders and pistons as much art to him as the David was to Michelangelo, as this Debrett’s absurdity was to the ton . His world was encased in brass, iron, and steel mechanics, reassuring and rational.

And numbers. Glorious, often sensual (to him) numbers .

He tended to avoid the nasty stew of sentiment involved in everything else.

Debating, he glanced at the duke’s emissary, the infinitesimal glow in his chest over anyone caring enough to send this creaky dodger to check on him the lone thing keeping him from booting the valet out on his rear. West had received little regard in this life outside the consideration of adoring women, and even if it was from a found brother he had no intention of keeping, he figured it was worth something.

West reached for a rag and scrubbed a streak of grease off a valve, needing a place to fasten his gaze while he plotted. He’d been told the piercing look he got when he was conspiring tended to unnerve a person. “I wasn’t planning on attending a ball. I’m not exactly the fancy party type.” Although he’d been to loads of gatherings with Emelia, but Philadelphia didn’t compare to the folly surrounding London.

Apparently unable to stop himself, Brixworth crossed the space to retrieve Cambridge’s request from the floor, where he then did a neat tuck of the card into the depths of his waistcoat. “Might I add, because you aren’t wholly aware, that your connection to His Grace may be startling to some, but in the end, will be very good for business. As this seems to be your prime pursuit.” He yanked his superfine coat into place and straightened his shoulders as if preparing for battle. “Does it matter how you get the funds you seek? Brother of a duke speaks volumes in England. In fact, sir, it shouts .”

West rocked back on his heels, bemused despite himself. Mercer’s majordomo strategized like a general. Impressive, because the way to get to Weston Whitaker was talk of industry and engineering.

Frankly, it was the only way.

West shoved to his feet, thumbing the rag into his waistband and enjoying like hell the fleeting grimace that crossed old Brix’s face. “What’s involved in this gambit? Because I sense it’s not one without payment.”

Brixworth drew an imaginary line from West’s muddied boots to his sweat-streaked hair. “You’ll have to pass muster with society. And for that”—his derisive glance narrowed like he was squinting through a keyhole—“you’ll require assistance.”

West wanted to argue but couldn’t. Emelia had polished off some of his rough edges but not enough. “How?”

Brixworth’s lips lifted in what could almost pass for a smile, and West’s heart gave a little quake. Did his agreement truly matter so much to his brother? “A cousin of our second footman has an aunt who works in the household of a deceased earl’s daughter. She’s on the cusp of society, admittedly hanging by a thread due to a transgression some time ago, but now so proper, she cracks when she walks. She’s prepared multiple young ladies for their debut, and we only can hope, with sufficient fiscal enticement, she’ll agree to prepare you for yours.”

West sighed, the vision of a spinster who smelled of camphor and mothballs flashing in his mind. “Does this cracking proper female have a name?”

Brixworth inclined his head in affirmation. “Lady Penelope Anstruther-Colbrook.”

The pain behind West’s eye began to pulse. Lady Penelope Anstruther-Colbrook. Could the name be any more English?

“My father actually worked for her grandfather as a hall boy at the beginning of his tenure serving aristocratic households. Despite any years-old scandal, the family is respected.”

“Centuries of advantageous association,” West muttered and lifted the scented letter he still held in his hand to his nose. He wished thoughts of Emelia brought comfort when they only brought uncertainty—and the same pang of aloneness he felt while standing in a crowded parlor. “Send the address and time to meet around to my terrace, and I’ll make it happen.”

In accord, Brixworth flashed a set of yellowing teeth—definitely a smile—and exited the warehouse with the same regal stance he’d carried upon entering it.

The ills of his childhood and being judged every second since swirled about West like London’s soupy fog. Still, he could stomach being insulted if the degradation helped build his empire.

What was another slice of disrespect in the overall scheme of things?

Deke, a burly American version of a valet, materialized from the shadows. He flipped a closed silver blade between his hands in time to the engine’s gentle hiss. The docks weren’t a place for a man with means to roam without protection, even a man like West who could take care of himself. “You’re getting yourself a governess. Is that what I heard, Boss? I’ve never seen one of them in this godforsaken country who hadn’t a face like a horse.”

“So it appears,” West whispered, wondering if his time in London was going to coerce him to drink. He glanced at the smoldering hearth, his temper flaring at the trouble this Rake Review foolishness was causing him. Interfering in his work was the final straw.

He tapped Emelia’s note against his hip, his mind clicking. “Have flowers sent in apology to Lady Pilson, and this Brazen Belle female— find her .”